and he went upstairs and showered instead, dropping his clothes in the hamper for the cleaning help. The villa had been rented with two women to work for them. Both were named Vera, which made for challenges. Greg had named them Veracook and Veraclean.
Pulling on his jeans, Ned went down and into the kitchen. He got a Coke from the fridge. Veracook, clad in black, grey hair pulled tightly in a bun, was there. She had baked some kind of hard biscuits. He took one. From by the stove, she smiled approval.
Greg was on his cellphone in front of the computer in the dining room, so the house line was free. Ned went back upstairs and into his father’s bedroom and dialed the mobile number Kate Wenger had given him.
“Bonjour?”
“Um, hi, I’m looking for Marie-Chantal.”
“Screw you, Ned.” But she laughed. “Miss me already? How sweet.”
He felt himself flush, was glad she couldn’t see it. “I just came in from a run. Um, I realized something.”
“That you did miss me? I’m flattered.” She was sassy on the phone, he thought. He wondered how she was on IM or texting. Everyone got looser online.
“No, listen. Um, it’s April thirtieth on Thursday. Then May Day.”
Kate was silent. He was wondering if he’d have to explain, then heard her say, “Jeez, Ned. Beltaine? That’s a major deal. Ghosts and souls, like Hallowe’en. How do you know this? You a closet nerd?”
“My mom’s family’s from Wales. My grandmother told me some of this stuff. We used to go on a picnic sometimes, on the first of May.”
“Want to go on a picnic?”
“If you bring Marie-Chantal.” He hesitated. “Kate, where were the Celts around here? Were they here?”
“Yeah, they were. I can find out where.”
“I can, too, I guess.”
“No, you leave the heavy lifting to me, Grasshopper. You just keep running and hopping. See you tomorrow after school?”
“See you.” He hung up, grinning in spite of himself. It was nice, he thought, to meet a girl in a situation where he didn’t have to explain her, or what was going down, to the other guys. Privacy, that was the thing. You didn’t get a lot of it back home.
they had dinner at the villa, French time: after eight o’clock. The clear understanding, Melanie explained seriously, was that they had to eat here every so often or Veracook would get insulted and depressed (“Veradepressed!” Greg said) and start burning their food and stuff like that.
Before they ate, Ned’s father took a vodka and tonic out on the terrace while the others went into the pool. Melanie, tiny as she was, looked pretty good in a bathing suit, Ned decided. She made a big deal about the water being freezing cold (it was) but got herself in. Steve was a swimmer, had the long arms and legs. He was methodically doing laps, or trying to—the pool wasn’t really big enough.
As Ned and his father sat watching them, Greg suddenly burst through the terrace doors, sprang down the wide stone steps, across the grass, and cannonballed into the water, wearing the baggiest, most worn-out bathing suit Ned had ever seen.
Edward Marriner, laughing, offered an immediate pay bonus if Greg promised to use their next coffee break to buy a new swimsuit in town and spare them the sight of this one again. Melanie shouted a suggestion that Greg could skinny-dip if he wanted to save the money. Greg, splashing and whooping in the frigid water, threatened to take her up on it.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said.
“And why not?”
Melanie laughed. “Shrinkage in cold water. Male pride. End of story.”
“You have,” Greg said after a moment, “a point.” Steve, who had stopped his laps, laughed aloud.
Up on the terrace, Ned looked at his father and they exchanged a smile.
“You okay so far?” his dad asked.
“I’m good.”
A small hesitation. “Mom’ll call tomorrow.”
“I know.”
They looked at the others in the water. “Veracook will have decided they are insane,” Edward Marriner said.
“She’d have figured it out eventually,” said Ned.
They left it at that. They didn’t talk a whole lot these days. Ned had overheard a couple of his parents’ conversations at night about “fifteen years old” and “mood swings.” It had made him think about being totally affectionate for a couple of weeks, just to mess with their heads, but it felt like too much work.
Ned didn’t mind his father, though. It got old after a while watching people go drop-jawed, the way Kate Wenger had, when they learned who he was, but that wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Mountains and Gods was one of the best-selling photography books of the past ten years, and Passageways, though less flashy (it didn’t have the Himalayas, his dad used to say), had won awards all over the place. His father was one of the few people who took pictures for both Vanity Fair and National Geographic. You had to admit that was cool, if only to yourself.
When the others came shivering out of the pool to dry off, Melanie said, “Hold it a sec. Forgot something.”
“What? You? Forget?” Steve said. His yellow hair was standing up in all directions. “No possible way!”
She stuck out her tongue at him, and disappeared inside. Her room was the only bedroom on the main floor. She came dripping back out, still wrapped in her towel, with another one around her hair now. She was holding a bag that said “France Telecom.” She dropped it on the table in front of Ned.
“In case Ground Control needs to reach Major Tom,” she said.
She’d gotten him a cellphone. It was, Ned decided, easy to be irritated with tiny Melanie and her hyper-efficiency, but it was kind of hard not to appreciate her.
“Thanks,” he said. “Really.”
Melanie handed him another of her index cards, with his new phone number written out in green on it, above another smiley face. “It has a camera, too. The package is open,” she added, as he pulled out the box and the fliptop phone. “I programmed all our numbers for you.”
Ned sighed. It was too easy to be irritated with her, he amended, inwardly. “I could have done that,” he said mildly. “I actually passed cellphone programming last year.”
“I did it in the cab coming back up here,” she said. “I have fast fingers.” She winked.
“Oh, ho!” said Greg, chortling.
“Be silent, baggy suit,” Melanie said to him. “Unless you are going to tell me that Arles is up and running.”
“Up and run your fast fingers over my baggy suit and I’ll tell you.”
Ned’s father shook his head and sipped his drink. “You’re making me feel old,” he said. “Stop it.”
“The house line is 1, your dad’s 2, I’m 3, Steven’s 4. Greg is star-pound key-star-865-star-pound-7,” Melanie said sweetly.
Ned had to laugh. Even Greg did. Melanie grinned triumphantly, and went back in to shower and change. Greg and Steve stayed out for a beer, drying off in the mild evening light. Greg said it was warmer on the terrace than in the pool.
It wasn’t even May yet, Ned’s father pointed out. The French didn’t start swimming until June, usually. There was water in the villa’s pool only as a courtesy to their idiocy. The sun was west, over the city. There was a shining to the air; the trees were brilliant.
A moment later, the