"One, two, three, up!"

Bobby pulled on her hands, hauling Brigitte up from the couch.

"I can get up on my own," she groused, hating that getting up and walking was easier with his support. I can't wait until Papa gets back with my crutches. The accident had happened the day before yesterday and although her head was feeling better, her ankle actually felt worse. She'd spent all day laid up on the couch, using her mother or father as a crutch when she needed to get up, since jumping or putting weight on the foot were still out of the question. Her father had gone out after he closed the shop to get her a crutch or a cane… something so that she would be free again.

At just after five in the evening, Bobby had arrived, still in his work clothes and eager to help. His words broke into her thoughts: "It is faster if I help you. Your mama said it is dinner time and I am hungry!"

Maria called out from the kitchen. "I said it's almost dinner time. Clean your ears."

Brigitte laughed. "Yeah, Bobby. Maybe I should get you a cotton swab."

"Ha, ha," Bobby mocked. "You group against me! I cannot wait for Monsieur Bernard to come home. Maybe he will defend me. Since we are both men."

"Monsieur Bernard values his life. He will not side against me," Maria joked in return.

Brigitte laughed as Bobby helped her into one of the chairs around the kitchen table. "Can I set the table for you?" Bobby asked Maria.

"Yes, here, let me show you where everything is." After being set up properly, Bobby started to place the dishes. Although he had been around formal dining his whole life, he realized that he'd never actually set a table for dinner himself. Typically it was already done for him… or it was so casual as to not matter. He desperately searched in his head, trying to remember what the table had looked like the other night when Brigitte had done it.

"What's wrong?" Brigitte asked.

Chagrinned, Bobby considered coming up with an excuse. Well, might as well show her that having too much money can actually leave you deficient. "I have never done this. Is there a special way?"

Brigitte laughed. "Here, bring them over to me. It is nothing special." She set her place, and Bobby realized that it was probably how he would have done it, if he had guessed.

He studied it again, to make sure he got it right. "So, the knife is turned out rather than in?"

Brigitte looked down at the knife. "I don't know. I just put it however it lands."

Bobby nodded. "I see. This is less complicated than when my parents have dinner. There are sometimes twenty different… um… things on the table." He saw Brigitte give him a look, so he clarified. "I like this better. I can understand it." He finished setting the other places and looked to Brigitte. "Do you want a drink?"

"Just put a bottle of water and a bottle of wine on the table. Those there," she said pointing.

Bobby did as he was told, but when he set the wine down, he said, "Remember, the doctor said not to have, um, alcohol with the medicine."

"You're like a mother," Brigitte moaned, pouring herself a glass of water.

Setting the salad down on the table, Maria commented, "You are like his baby duck."

Bobby then said in English, "That explains why you quack me up."

While Bobby was laughing at his own joke, Maria and Brigitte exchanged confused looks. "I didn't understand that one either," Brigitte confessed.

Bobby sighed. "You must come visit me in the States. Then your English will improve and I can make…" he sighed. "I do not know the word. It is when you say a word that sounds like another for a joke?"

Brigitte and Maria looked at each other again. "I don't know what you are talking about. My dictionary is in my room if you want to look it up."

"Okay, where is it?"

Brigitte bit her lip. "I'm not exactly sure. Help me in there and I will look."

Getting her up from the chair again, Bobby and Brigitte hobbled off to her room. As they entered, Bobby looked around. It was the first time he had been in her room and his first thought was that it was pretty messy. For how organized Brigitte was in every other aspect of her life, Bobby had expected her room to be equally ordered. But the room was full of stacks and stacks of books and other things. There were several pieces of stray clothing strewn about the room, on the back of a chair or on the bed. Setting Brigitte down, some weird impulse caused Bobby to start randomly folding the errant clothes.

While he folded, Brigitte slithered down to the floor, near a stack of books. She seemed to be scanning them until she found the one she was looking for. "Ah! Here it is." She gently pulled out the book in question and handed it to Bobby before using the bed to pull herself back up. He sat on the bed next to her to look up the word.

A moment later, he read aloud, "A pun, wordplay."

"Oh, okay. That takes pretty advanced language skills."

Bobby leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Then you will have to come see me often."

Brigitte smiled. "Maybe I will." Brigitte kissed him in return. This time the kiss lasted longer and Bobby found himself desperately wanting to lay her down on the bed and continue down this path.

However, at that moment the front door slammed shut, causing Bobby to jump. "Brigitte! I have your crutch!" Philippe's voice rang through the house.

"Oh, thank God. Here, help me up." Bobby stood and pulled her up, assisting her back out into the living room.

Philippe was handing the mail to Maria when the two reentered the room. "So, what was the word?" Maria asked, only half paying attention as she went through the mail.

"Pun," Brigitte responded, reaching out for the crutches her father held in his hands.

"Ah," Maria responded.

"Hello Bobby," Philippe said, passing Brigitte the crutches. "Are you ready to no longer be her crutch?"

"I do not mind," Bobby replied.

"Well, I'll be glad to no longer be using a person as a crutch!" Brigitte retorted, fitting the crutches onto her forearms.

"Oh, Bobby," Philippe began. "I got most of the car repaired, but I have to wait on some parts. I hope it will be done by Wednesday, Friday at the latest. But you really did a number on that front axle."

Bobby merely nodded as Philippe moved away to the table to pour himself a glass of wine.

Bobby thought back to when he had brought Brigitte, hobbling and with stiches in her head, home on Saturday. Her mother had immediately jumped up and ushered Brigitte, who was looking quite woozy, to bed, leaving Bobby alone with her father. Bobby explained what had happened… and Philippe had merely nodded while Bobby spoke.

After Bobby had done all the explaining he could think to do, Brigitte's father finally spoke. "I think you should go home now. Come back tomorrow and we can talk."

Bobby turned and left, not even daring to ask to say goodnight to Brigitte. Philippe's tone had made it quite clear that Bobby was dismissed.

The next day, Bobby returned to Brigitte's. The car had been towed to the Bernard's garage earlier that morning, and Bobby found Philippe inspecting the damaged vehicle.

Bobby had stood there, unsure of what to do or say. Thankfully, Brigitte's father finally spoke. "I can't help but feel a bit let down, Bobby," he said, his focus still on the car. "That isn't to say I don't like you, or think you aren't a good person. But you hurt my daughter. I know accidents happen…" he trailed off. After a moment, he turned to face Bobby. "The thing is, I let her ride around in your car. I let her go out alone with you, unchaperoned…." Another pause. Bobby wasn't sure what to say. 'I'm sorry?' 'It was an accident?'

Philippe resumed speaking. "And you've made me question if I made the right choice. I don't know what distracted you or why you drove off the road, but you could have killed her. I don't say this to be mean, I say this so you understand. When she's with you, her life is in your hands." He approached Bobby and clasped his shoulder, hard. "Do you understand me? Can I trust you with my daughter's life?"

Bobby was unsure how to react. This was so different than his own father's lectures. He took a deep breath. "Monsieur… I can only apologize. And try to never let you, or her, down again. I promise to be more careful."

Brigitte's dad suddenly slapped Bobby on the back. "Good, then it is settled. Now go inside the house, Brigitte has been asking when you would be here."

Bobby had walked away, unsure of what had just transpired. But the matter did seem settled. After 'the talk' both her parents seemed comfortable around him, accepting his offers of help in the daily chores.

And now he was standing in their living room, watching Brigitte tool around on her crutches, smiling at her newfound freedom. Bobby turned, and noticed that Maria was opening one of the letters that had come in the mail. He was about to ask if he could be any more help with dinner when she muttered, "Dios mío…"

"What is it?" Philippe asked.

"A letter from Lucía."

Another moment of silence passed. "Well, open it!" Brigitte finally burst out.

Slowly, Maria opened it and began to read it out loud in Spanish. Bobby sat quietly, trying to figure out from the reactions of the other three in the room what the situation was. Finally, Maria set down the letter and walked to the back of the house, slamming her bedroom door. Philippe was gone in a flash, following after his wife.

Bobby turned to Brigitte, who looked pale. "What happened? Who is Lucía?"

Brigitte hobbled over to the couch and plopped down. Bobby followed, sitting next to her. "She's my aunt, my mother's sister. And what happened…" She took a deep breath. "In the coup, last week, there were bombings of the government buildings. The Nationalists took the city and started executing anyone they think is a Republican sympathizer. She says she thinks maybe five hundred to one thousand people have been killed just in Córdoba alone."

"Is your family okay?"

Brigitte turned to look at him. "My grandparents and aunts and uncles are fine. But my Aunt says that several of my mama's cousins have died already and she is fearful that there are more executions coming. And if the Republicans try to retake Córdoba… you see…" Brigitte paused. "Do you know the geography of Spain?"

"Um, generally?"

Brigitte held out her left fist, so that the back of her hand faced them. "This is the Iberian Peninsula." Drawing a curved line in lower left, she said, "This is Portugal."

"Sure." He knew that much.

Pointing directly in the middle, she said, "This is Madrid. And Barcelona is here," she pointed hear her thumb. "In the south," she circled the area near her wrist, "is Andalucía. That is where my family lives. Córdoba is about here." She pointed a bit up from her wrist. "The Nationalists right now hold most of the west, Galicia, Castile y León, and parts of Extremadura and Andalucía." She drew a shape that encompassed most of the northwest of Spain and then narrowed to avoid Madrid, but then widened a bit to capture more of the south. "The problem is, Córdoba is on this front. So my aunt is afraid of more fighting on top of the executions. And she says she is also afraid of reprisal executions if the Republicans do retake the city."

"That is…" Bobby had no words. "It is horrible. I am sorry."

Brigitte shrugged. "There's nothing we can do. I mostly feel bad for my mama. I mean, I've only been to Spain twice. I hardly know these people. Of course I feel terrible about anyone, even strangers, having to go through this…" she trailed off.

"I understand."

"But… I couldn't even imagine my mama and papa being in danger like that. And to be far away from them when it happened? I couldn't bear it."

Bobby wrapped his arm around her. "Do not worry about such terrible things happening."

Brigitte leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you ever worry about Germany?"

Bobby paused. They really weren't that far from the German border and this portion of France had been a war zone during the Great War. If Germany were to ever invade again… "Yes and no? I mean, in America I do not worry. But if I lived here, maybe I would."

"I worry sometimes. They've started rearming, and just earlier this year they moved their military back into the Rhineland. That's just across the border!" Brigitte paused. "I worry… I worry because sometimes my parents talk about the Great War. My papa lost a lot of family in that war, and sometimes I think-" Brigitte voice caught, and she ceased speaking.

"Brigitte, nothing bad is going to happen to you or your parents or your family." He ran his hand through her hair, trying to comfort her.

"How do you know that?" Brigitte questioned.

"I mean, I do not know that… But you cannot worry over things like that. You will make a hole in your stomach."

Suddenly Bobby smelled something burning. Jumping up, he went to the kitchen, Brigitte hobbling after him. Smoke was rising out of the oven, and Bobby pulled out the now overcooked roast. Brigitte was fumbling to open up the windows to air out the house as Bobby set the roast on the counter.

"Well, I don't think we are going to eat that anymore…" Brigitte said, looking at the hunk of meat.

"Maybe we should go and get… um… get food? For us and your parents?" Bobby asked.

Brigitte smiled. "Yes, let's go around the corner. And now that I have crutches, your hands are free to carry back all the food."

Wednesday was not going well.

Bobby knew his father would be back on the first train from Paris that morning and Robert would go directly to the office, where he would inevitably be greeted with the news that Bobby had wrecked the car and injured Brigitte.

So he was hardly surprised when he found himself being called to his father's office just before lunch.

"You totaled the car? I was gone for three days. Three days, Bobby! And you managed to total the car and create a bunch of medical bills?"

Bobby felt his defensiveness rise up inside him, but he tried to push it down. "Well, it's not totaled. Only the front end was damaged. Monsieur Bernard-"

Robert cut Bobby off. "Monsieur Bernard?"

"Yeah… the mechanic. Brigitte's father."

Robert threw his hands up in the air. "Her father?! What, it's not enough that I pay for the doctor? Now he'll probably gouge me to fix the car."

Bobby couldn't take it. "He said that he would just charge for the parts, no labor. He's actually giving you a deal."

"No, I'll pay for it all. I don't want him thinking I owe him a damn thing."

Bobby let out a wry laugh. "So this is how you treat people who try to do something nice for you?"

Robert sneered. "These kind of people only want one thing: money. I bet they're socialists, trying to redistribute my wealth to themselves."

"Dad! They could not care less about our money!"

"Everyone cares about money, Bobby." Robert paused, shaking his head. "I know I warned you before, but Bobby, you need to be careful. If you get a woman like that pregnant you'll never get rid of her."

"I don't want to get rid of her! I…" he paused, knowing the last part was going to sound lame, no matter how he put it. But it needed to be said. His father had to understand. "Dad, I love her."

"Oh, Bobby, for God's sake, you barely know the woman!" Bobby's hands clenched at his father's words, dripping with derision. "We have work to do Bobby, and I'm sick and tired of having your focus be elsewhere." He riffled through the papers on his desk, eyes landing on another bill. "Bobby! What the hell is this? Earrings?"

Bobby tried to stand tall, as his father continued to yell. "This is what I'm talking about, Bobby. You can't spend this kind of money on some mechanic's daughter, no matter how pretty you think she is." Bobby started to open his mouth, but his father continued, having worked himself into another lecture. "I turned a blind eye on the little stuff. The swimsuit, books, cafes. But you can't go buying expensive gifts for every girl that catches your eye. When you are in charge one day, God help us, you get to make the decisions about how to spend your money. If you want to spend it seducing women, I won't be able to stop you anymore. But listen to me now, Bobby. That's not how I made my money. That sort of wasteful spending will never get you ahead."

Robert fell silent and Bobby didn't respond. He knew there was nothing that would satisfy his father now. Better to just listen and move on.

Finally Robert sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So what's the damage to the car?"

"The axle was broken. It's at the garage, just waiting for the part. It should be fixed by Friday, at the latest."

"I should have known giving you that car would be more trouble than it was worth." Robert shook his head and waved his hand at his son. "You can go now, Bobby. I just don't want to have to have this conversation with you again."

Bobby didn't move immediately. "Brigitte's okay, by the way."

Robert looked up at his son, confused. "What?"

"You didn't ask how she was doing. She got a concussion and a sprained ankle in the accident. But she'll be okay." And with that, he left his father's office.

Brigitte was sprawled on the bed, her foot perched on a stack of pillows. Today, almost a week since the accident, she had been trying to help her father in the garage. He had finally gotten in the parts to finish up the work on Bobby's car, and Brigitte had wanted to help. She was especially interested in what the drive train looked like torn apart.

But now, she was paying for it. Her ankle was swollen and the throbbing refused to abate, despite the pain pills. So she was now lying on her bed, trying to read the English version of From the Earth to the Moon.

"Are you feeling better?" Bobby's voice called in French, breaking her English train of thought as she read.

"Eh," she replied, setting the book down. Bobby was dressed in coveralls, having spent the last hour helping her father put the car back together. She wasn't totally sure how much help Bobby actually was, but he was at least a second pair of hands to help with lifting and the like. "Is the car done?" she asked.

"Yes. And your mama says dinner is in one hour."

As Bobby started through the door, he reached for the handle to shut it when Brigitte stopped him. "We have to keep it open, remember?"

Bobby froze. "Oh, right." Then he switched to English. "Because that's really going to stop us from fooling around if we want to."

Brigitte laughed. "Well, at least we do not do it…" Brigitte paused, searching for the right words. With a sigh, she switched to French. "… under her nose. Come, sit with me."

Bobby stripped off his coveralls and was soon sitting on the edge of the bed. Brigitte scooted over to make room for him and, after readjusting her foot pillows, Bobby kicked his legs up onto the bed and wrapped his arm around her.

"I'm glad you're here." She settled against his chest and felt a wave of contentment wash over her. "Do you have any idea how dull it is to lay in bed all day? I'm so bored."

"Maybe I can tell you a story? So you are not bored?"

She looked up at him. "A story about what?"

Bobby shrugged. "I do not know. What do you want?"

Brigitte thought about it a moment. "Well, as long as it is not about a girl who hurt her foot and is stuck in bed, it will be more interesting than my life."

Bobby hugged her tight, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. "I have an idea. Can I say it in English?"

"Sure," Brigitte replied in Bobby's native tongue.

"Okay," Bobby began. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. Now, this princess loved being outside. Running, jumping, climbing trees; these where the things she enjoyed the most. However, one day, she jumped down from a tree that was too high, and sprained her ankle."

Brigitte interrupted, "You tell me a story about this? A girl with a hurt foot?"

"Yes," Bobby replied, slightly sheepish. "Look, once you said it, I couldn't get it out of my head. But you'll like it."

Brigitte huffed a bit, but allowed him to continue.

"So the princess was forced to rest in bed for weeks on end. She was so bored that she would have done anything to just get up and move around. That is when a fairy appeared. The fairy said to her, "I have heard your wishes. You said you were willing to give anything to move around again. I collect toenails. If you allow me to pull out all your toenails, I will give you wings so you can fly around-"

Brigitte gasped. "Toenails? These?" she said pointing at her feet.

"Yes, those." Bobby replied.

"But… that is… painful." Brigitte grimaced.

"Well, yes. And will you let me finish?" Bobby said, poking her lightly in the ribs. "You're like a five year old."

"Fine, do this thing to the poor princess."

"She's my character, I can torture her if I like. Anyway, the princess thinks, 'Well, toenails grow back. This will get me up and moving quicker.' So she agrees to the fairy's terms. The fairy draws up a contract and the princess signs it.

"The fairy proceeds to slowly remove all ten toenails, slowly, causing the princess to scream and cry in agony. Finally, the job is done and the princess gets her wings. However she is in so much pain that it was at least a day before she can even enjoy them.

"She goes flying around the castle, but no one knows what to make of a princess with wings. So while she can fly, all of her old friends are a bit afraid of her.

"Finally, after a couple weeks, her ankle has recovered and her friends have gotten used to the change. But the princess is ready to get rid of her wings. So she is pleased when she sees the fairy reappear. 'Oh, you're here to take back the wings,' she says.

"'No, I'm here for your toenails,' the fairy responds.

"'What? I already gave them to you!' the princess shouts.

"'Did you not read the contract? I get your toenails for as long as you live."

"And the moral of the story? Just be patient and always read the fine print."

There was a moment of silence before Bobby turned to Brigitte and asked in French, "What did you think?"

"You just made it up?" she asked.

"Yes."

Brigitte let out a short laugh. "So you just made up a fairy tale where a princess gets her toenails pulled out… I didn't realize your last name was Grimm."

Bobby crossed his arms, slightly defensive. "Well, did you like it or not?"

"You have a very vivid imagination. That's for sure."

"That's not an answer," Bobby chided.

"Well, it had a bit too much talk of toenail removal for my taste."

"Oh, so would you prefer a story about a witch who builds a house of candy and then tries to eat small children?" Bobby asked.

Brigitte made a face. "Of course not! I prefer stories about frogs who are actually princes." Suddenly she grabbed his face, kissing him hard. Pulling back, she looked at him with mock disappointment. "Oh, just my luck, still a frog."

Bobby let out a laugh. "You are lucky your foot is hurt. Or I would…" he trailed off before sighing. "I do not know how it is called. Like this." He reached out and lightly drew his finger across the bottom of her uninjured foot.

Brigitte immediately retracted her foot. "'Tickle' is the word you are looking for," she said, lightly whacking him.

Bobby smiled. "Anyway, I would tickle you if you were not hurt. For calling me a frog. But since I am a gentleman, I will not."

"Oh, maybe my kiss did turn you into a prince! You're so kind!" Brigitte pretended to swoon.

Bobby laughed again. "Maybe. Okay, I will tell another. Something you will like. About a boy who meets a girl-"

"She best not be a girl-frog named Brigitte," Brigitte interjected.

"Oh, thanks. Now that is all I can think of."

"Okay, Bobby, the dinner is in the icebox. Just put it in the oven and turn it on like this, about an hour before you want to eat," Maria instructed. "We will be back around eleven or midnight."

Bobby nodded. "I actually have to be home by ten, so I will say goodbye now."

Maria was grabbing her bag and a jacket as she spoke. "Okay. And don't let her be up too much. She has been walking around on that foot all day."

"First, I can hear you. Second, it feels better and I could do all of this myself," Brigitte called from the couch, where her foot was yet again propped up.

Maria shot Brigitte a look. "Your ankle is twice the size of normal. Keep it elevated!"

Bobby chose not to get involved, and hung back as Maria and Philippe shuffled out the door. Closing it behind them, Bobby turned to Brigitte. "So, what do you want to do?"

"I want to get off this lumpy couch," Brigitte said as she reached for her crutches.

"Um, your mother just said to not get up." Bobby watched as, undeterred, Brigitte swung her legs to the floor.

"I would just rather lay on the bed. We can talk or listen to the radio from there."

"Okay…" Bobby trailed off as he watched her hobble off to her room. Walking over to the radio in the living room, he switched it on and dialed through the channels. Finally finding a drama and turning it up loud enough that they could hear it in her room, he followed Brigitte.

She had situated herself on her bed and gestured for him to join her. Bobby swallowed, somewhat nervous. He had spent a lot of time with Brigitte in bed that week… but there had always been other people around to stop any 'funny business'. And the last time he had gotten handsy with Brigitte, it had upset her… although he was pretty sure that had all been cleared up.

As he settled on the bed next to her, his eyes were drawn to her ankle. It really was quite swollen again. And while the stitches had been removed the other day, the gash on her head was still evident and bruised. There is no way she wants anything physical, right? He wrapped his arm around her and, like always, she snuggled against him. Well, this is pretty nice too, he thought as he turned his attention back to the radio.

Brigitte was growing restless. She'd spent a significant portion of the last week curled up in bed next to Bobby, with little more than affectionate kisses. Granted, for most of the week, she wanted nothing more than that… but this evening was different. She was feeling good, her parents weren't home, and they were in bed.

She had tried subtle hints, but he didn't seem to be catching her drift. Well, to hell with this, she thought. Turning his face towards her, she pressed her lips on his, hard. He got the idea and returned the kiss in kind, running his hands through her hair and pulling her close.

Careful of her ankle, she rotated to straddle him, but he grabbed her hips, stopping her. "Brigitte, what are you doing? Your ankle—"

"You worry too much," she responded, finishing her maneuver and kissing him again.

Bobby was a little shocked by this turn of events. Brigitte was on top of him, moving against him and kissing him rather passionately. His mind told him to take it slow, but his hands were quickly under her shirt, running up and down her back. He noted that her hands had left his shoulders and were now fumbling around his chest.

She was unbuttoning his shirt. Bobby grabbed her hand. "Brigitte, maybe we should talk first."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "About what?"

"About… about how far you want to go. I do not want to… offend you again."

Brigitte paused and sat back. How far did she want to take this? "No sex," she said decisively.

"Okay, this is fine with me." He looked down at his half undone shirt. "Is it okay if I take off your clothes?"

Brigitte leaned forward and laid kisses down along his neck. "Yes," she replied.

As Bobby began to remove her shirt, he asked, "How many?"

It only took her a moment to decide. In a husky voice, she whispered in his ear, "All of them."

Bobby didn't have to be told twice.

Bobby couldn't take his eyes off Brigitte.

The day was absolutely perfect. A light breeze blew and the sun glinted off the calm waters of the nearby river. It seemed like nearly the whole town was in the park that lined the river, celebrating the Assumption of Mary.

He watched as Brigitte sat on a blanket in the grass with a younger cousin, who couldn't have been more than seven years old. They were playing a clapping game that seemed intricate to Bobby. With each round, Brigitte would complicate the pattern, until one of the two messed it up. Then they would laugh and start again.

"Bobby, do you want to play?"

At the sound of the voice, he finally looked away from Brigitte. Jean was standing there, soccer ball in hand. Bobby was about to accept when Brigitte called out from the blanket. "If you play, don't play on Jean's team. He's terrible."

"I am not, Brigitte," Jean said, good-heartedly taking the bait.

"Then how did I score on you four times the last time there was a game?" Brigitte asked, turning her attention away from the clapping game.

"If I'd had decent defenders, it would have been a different story."

"Hey, I was one of those defenders!" Simone called out, hands on her hips. "And it's not my fault that Brigitte plays dirty. She tripped me to get the ball!"

"It's not tripping if you're going for the ball…" Brigitte reminded.

Simone let out a derisive laugh. "Oh, I didn't realize the ball was halfway up my shin!"

"Well, you're just both lucky I still can't run on this ankle."

Bobby laughed as he watched the cousins banter. In only two weeks, he would be getting on a train, leaving Sainte Claire, and Brigitte, until next summer. As much as he tried to push that out of his head, he could never fully escape the sense of impending doom it gave him.

Returning to the States… it all seemed so bleak and dreary compared to France. If only I could make the summer last forever, he thought as Brigitte deftly caught the soccer ball that Jean launched at her, after she yet again questioned his skills.

The three weeks that had passed since the car accident flashed in Bobby's mind. He'd spent nearly all his time, while he wasn't at work, with Brigitte. At first it was mostly at her house, typically on her bed listening to the radio, reading, dozing, or just talking for hours on end. As her ankle healed and she became more mobile, they started going out more, to the park or a café, or out to the countryside to lie under the stars, exploring each other's bodies in the privacy of the darkness. Learning what Brigitte liked, what excited her, how she wanted to be touched. It sent a thrill through him like nothing he had ever experienced.

Memories of Brigitte's naked flesh under his fingers slowly gave way, however, to bigger thoughts. Thoughts about his life. His future. He realized that this was what he wanted. He wanted to live in a small house in France, eat good food and have fun with friends and family. His large, sterile house back home seemed so much more unwelcoming than it ever had before. And the thought of working in that damn mill, and others just like it, just so he could have a giant, sterile house of his own one day… it just seemed oppressive.

Bobby was brought back to the moment as an older man stopped by and began speaking to Brigitte. "Your father is so proud of your high honors on the bac that he is practically telling strangers on the street!"

Brigitte gave the man an embarrassed smile. "I know, it's a bit embarrassing. I mean, maybe if I had scored highest honors…"

The older man shook his head. "No, it's still something to be proud of! So congratulations, Brigitte! And your father says you still have your heart set on École Polytechnique Féminine?" When Brigitte nodded, the man continued, "When do you leave?"

"Well, classes begin on the seventh of September, but we haven't made all the plans yet. But sometime after the first." There was a moment of awkward silence as both parties tried to think of the next thing to say.

The man broke the silence. "Your father also says there is a man in your life…"

"Oh, yes." Brigitte gestured in Bobby's direction. "Uncle René, this is Bobby. Uncle René is just here for the weekend to visit. He lives up near Calais."

Bobby immediately rose, extending his hand. "I see. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Bobby, eh? Short for Robert?" The man said his name in the French style, which Bobby was unused to. He had never gone by Robert, so it felt unfamiliar when someone used his full name. But said in the French way… he could almost get used to that.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Well, it's nice to meet the man who has finally stolen our Brigitte's heart!" René leaned in, conspiratorially. "I for one wondered if she would ever get married. Always so busy tinkering with this and that… I'm glad she is finally settling down a bit."

Married?! Bobby was really unsure how to respond to that, but fortunately Brigitte saved him. "Bobby and I have to go meet up with some friends. We will see you later this weekend?"

"Yes, I think your Aunt Juliette is planning to have everyone over for dinner tomorrow. You two will be there?"

Brigitte nodded. "Yes, I think so. But we really have to get going." After the two exchanged quick hugs and kisses, Brigitte grasped Bobby's hand.

They quickly walked along the river, dodging crowds of merrymakers. In the midst of the revelry, however, Bobby was focused. Fourteen days. That's all he had left. He turned and looked at the woman next to him. She turned her head slowly and smiled, making his heart skip a beat. He still marveled at the way his body and mind reacted to her, and how despite spending almost every free moment with her over the last three weeks, he still wanted more.

Squeezing her hand, he followed her deeper into the crowd.