Collectors. Paul Griner

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      THE CHURCH BELLS STRUCK THREE for the hour, then began ringing in celebration, so loudly that at first it was impossible to talk, and outside the church it was hot and windy. Dust blew down the street and over all their heads, the women’s dresses clung to their bodies, Claudia’s veil was billowing. It whipped in her face, distracting her, and then her cousin Jean appeared in the line, looking collected and cool despite the wind and the midday heat, wearing a sleeveless mint-green dress and heels. Under her arm was an elegant bag. Claudia clasped her to herself briefly, intrigued but not surprised to detect the scent of Fracas—her own perfume—and then passed Jean on to Boyd, her new husband.

      “And this is my cousin Jean,” she said, her hand on Jean’s bare shoulder.

      Boyd had been talking to the blond in front of Jean, flirting really, and now he turned to Jean and tilted his large head to the side. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t catch your name.” Smiling, he took Jean’s offered hand in both of his.

      He was beefy and broad, but his touch lacked force, and even at his full height, Jean guessed, he wouldn’t be as tall as she. She straightened and felt Claudia’s fingers leaving her skin one after the other, like a string of pearls being plucked from wax, and forced herself to speak.

      “Jean,” she said. “Jean Duprez.”

      Boyd had already glanced beyond her. She watched him prepare his vague smile for the next person in line and noted that the mention of her full name did not spark his interest. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—a raised eyebrow, a look askance, mock horror, a wink—something, she supposed, that would indicate Claudia had spoken to him about her, but he gave her hand a pallid squeeze and she moved on.

      Bland, bland. How could her cousin have married him? Well, it had been years since they’d spent time together; perhaps Claudia was vastly different from the fierce girl she remembered. Her heel caught and she glanced down at the gray cobbles, the rivers of crimson rose petals running between them. Children had been placed across from the bride and groom in a shaft of sunlight, throwing the petals at all the well-wishers; a few blew around her ankles and one clung to her calf.

      Someone was standing beside her, waiting for her to go on. A man, she noticed, tall and dark-haired; he seemed to be staring.

      The church bells were still ringing, passersby in cars were waving and calling out their congratulations; a flock of pigeons flew low overhead, cooing, their wings beating with a sound like fluttering fabric, and Jean watched them, the way their iridescent necks shone in the sun, until she lost them as they arced around the steeple.

      Ahead was the minister, tomato-faced and smiling, and beyond him Sally, Claudia’s mother—Jean’s aunt. Happiness had the odd effect of making her ugly, it seemed; her face was tear-stained and swollen. She busied herself with a bow at the side of her fussy dress as Jean approached, and Jean thought Sally planned to snub her, but at the last moment Sally turned and gave her a quick, false smile.

      “Jean,” she said. “So Claudia did invite you.” Her voice was full of the old Gallic chilliness, but even aimed at her, Jean found its familiarity oddly reassuring.

      “Yes. So nice of her to remember, wasn’t it?”

      “What beautiful shoes,” Sally said, looking down.

      “Thank you.” Jean lifted one foot and tilted the shoe into sunlight. “Unusual, don’t you think? And amazingly comfortable.”

      “And so last year,” Sally said. “I can tell by the straps.” Jean swiftly reached the end of the line.