and he looked at the ground as he walked. I knew at once that it was Léon Descoteaux. His gait had the same overarticulated precision as his tennis game. I put down my book and stood. He smiled when he got close. “You must be Daniel,” he said, surprising me. “We have been looking forward to your visit. I am Léon Descoteaux, but please call me Léo.” We shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I was a big fan of yours on the court.” He didn’t respond, but I saw his jaw clench once and I followed his gaze to the pond and orchard, the hills behind them. “It’s a magnificent place you have here.” “And we shall explore it,” he said. “But now, come with me to the garden, please. I need to pick the lettuce and herbs for dinner.” Léo was on his hands and knees in the dirt when Vicky spotted us and came running over. “Léo!” she said. “Victoria,” he said, rising and kissing her cheeks. “We’re delighted you came. You look even more beautiful than I remember.” “So you two have met,” Vicky said, blushing. “Daniel and I are in the early stages of a promising friendship.” I gave Vicky a baffled look. “I’m so glad,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed and I guessed the women had opened a second bottle. “Marion told me not to bring up tennis, but I hope you’ll at least hit around with us while we’re here.” “No,” Léo said pleasantly enough. “No, I won’t.” He smiled. “Smell these herbs. They’re for our dinner.” First Vicky, then I, smelled the sharp, earthy thyme Léo had bunched in his hand. I helped Léo with dinner while the women set the table. We roasted a chicken with potatoes and leeks. I assembled a salad from the garden foraging. Léo put on a Joaquín Rodrigo album and we busied ourselves in near silence. Occasionally he would ask a question or show me how he wanted something cut.
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