Fleur De Lies by Maddy Hunter Page B

advanced funeral planning. Specifically, Woody’s.
    “Two breakfast specials.” The waiter slid the plates onto the table and paused a bit breathlessly to ogle Krystal. “ Bon appétit. ”
    “Did y’all see the way he looked at me?” she whispered when he’d departed. “I get those looks all the time. It’s so annoying.”
    I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and pushed away from the table.
    “Of course you get those looks,” Woody allowed. “I mean, a fella would have to be blind not to stare. Isn’t that right, Emily?”
    “Absolutely.” I stood up. “I’m off. See you guys on the bus. And a word of warning to the faint of tongue: go easy on the horseradish sauce. It’s got a kick.”
    “The hotter the better!” boomed Woody as I grabbed my shoulder bag. “So tell me, little lady,” he asked Krystal, “where was I in my narrative? Had I reached V-E Day yet?”
    As I made my escape, I heard Krystal’s voice cut through the rising din. “Can we save that for another time, darlin’? I’m just dyin’ for y’all to tell me what kind of advanced funeral plannin’ you’ve done for yourself.”

eight
    “Those of you who are art enthusiasts will notice something very familiar about our next destination.”
    We’d been riding in the bus for about an hour, paralleling the Seine on a river road that ran arrow straight through a broad flood plain. Barges and small cargo vessels plied the waters to our left, while to our right, a forest of young hardwoods marched to the base of a ridge of limestone cliffs. As we veered inland, the landscape grew wilder and more lush, the roads narrower and more corkscrewed, turning the trip into a sightseer’s dream, but a carsick sufferer’s nightmare. I wasn’t sure where Krystal and Woody were sitting, but I sure hoped Krystal’s supplements were working, because unlike cruise ships or airplanes, buses furnished no motion sickness bags in their seat-back pockets.
    We drove through tiny French villages where the houses were com pletely flush with the road, save for a narrow strip of pavement that wasn’t even wide enough to wheel a pram. We passed fields that were leaf-green with ripening crops, meadows whose grass rippled toward gently rolling hills, ramshackle barns whose crooked clapboards were held together with spit and bailing wire, and formidable embankments that were surmounted by an impenetrable tangle of hedgerows and trees. Country lanes boasted no shoulders, but on more traveled roads, fences abounded—stubby posts with chicken wire between, split-rail fences that looked hand-hewn, fieldstone fences with decorative gates, industrial steel guardrails, white picket fences, livestock fences, and high stone walls overhung with a riot of shrubbery and foliage that closed in on the road like the walls of a tunnel.
    Norway had fjords.
    Holland had canals.
    France had fences.
    “What if art’s not our thing?” Dick Teig called out. “Are we still gonna notice something familiar about this place … whatever it’s called?”
    “Étretat,” replied our tour director, a slightly built, middle-aged expatriate from Idaho whose name was Rob. “If you can’t figure out what the main attraction is, you’ll find information plaques on the promenade that’ll give you a hint. But I’ll provide you with your first clue: beware of elephants.”
    “Where’s the promenade?” asked Dick Stolee.
    “It fronts the beach. Just follow the signposts that say La Mer and they’ll lead you right to it. For those of you who enjoy invigorating hikes, I recommend you follow the paths at either end of the beach. Have your cameras ready, because the views from the hiking trails are spectacular. There’s a good reason why the French call this the Alabaster Coast. We’ll be here for three hours, which should give you plenty of time to shop, eat, hike, or try your luck at the casino, which you’ll find by following the signposts that say Casino d’Étretat.”
    Nana’s