“You bet. But we don’t gotta worry too much about no language barrier. Margi took a French language course at the Senior Center what’s s’posed to help all of us muddle our way through the country.”
“Wow. Good for Margi.” I was embarrassed to admit that my main preparation for the trip had been to have a French manicure.
“She can ask directions and introduce folks real good. I’m dyin’ for her to ask someone where the public potty is, but she can’t do it right now on account of I can see it from here.”
I could see it, too—a light brick building with a decorative roof extending over the two entry doors. A dozen women were already lined up outside the ladies’ room door, but what caught my attention were the four at the head of the queue.
Jackie and the three blondes? What in the world were they doing together? Well, other than yanking tissues out of their shoulder bags, fussing over Krystal’s snakeskin top, and schmoozing with each other as if they were the best of friends again. They’d obviously undergone some serious attitude adjustment since breakfast, but if this had been Jackie’s idea, one thing was painfully clear.
She didn’t know squat about revenge.
“Did you get the number, Emily?” Osmond was suddenly standing in front of me, his little head perched on his cervical collar like a six-minute egg on an egg cup.
“I’ve set the wheels in motion, so the minute I hear something, I’ll let you know. Okay?”
He flashed a goofy smile, looking deliriously happy despite being unable to bend, nod, or swivel.
“Osmond, do you need to see a doctor?”
“For what?”
I flicked my finger toward his collar. “Your neck?”
“This?” He chuckled as he patted the Velcro strips that secured the heavy foam brace. “Shoot, I don’t need this thing. It’s just decorative. But I didn’t wanna see the look on Margi’s face if I told her I didn’t wanna wear it. She would’ve been crushed.” He shrugged. “I’m kinda hoping I twist my ankle sometime though, ’cuz I wouldn’t mind trying out the collapsible crutches she brought with her.”
Oh, God. “Just a suggestion, but could you possibly take them for a test run without twisting your ankle first?”
He rubbed his forehead in thought. “Why would I need to take them for a test run if there’s nothing wrong with my ankle?”
“Okey-dokey. You have me there.” I’d come to realize that arguing logic with a post-octogenarian was about as effective as trying to eat Jell-O with chopsticks. “But promise me if you’re still having problems tomorrow, you’ll let me know so we can get you in to see a professional.”
“You bet.” He dashed off as fast as his spindly legs would take him, catching up to the gang as they trooped down a street that was posted with a red and white one-way sign. I paused a moment to get my bearings, found the La Mer sign, and followed my nose toward the smell of salt water and french fries.
Étretat appeared to be a typical seaside resort town that catered to tourists with an appetite for two-star hotels, T-shirts, postcards, outdoor cafés, novelty flags, and pizza. Shops were densely packed together and boasted three stories, dormered roofs, window boxes, and striped canopies overhanging sidewalk displays of must-have souvenirs. Half-timbered structures hunkered between brick buildings that flaunted a cake frosting façade of cream-colored stone embedded with flint. Cafés overran the sidewalks and spilled into the street where they were cordoned off like jury boxes behind wooden barriers and flower pots. Neon signs glowed in red and blue, advertising the specialties of the house: Crêperie. Bar. Brasserie. Moule Frites. Pizzeria. Kebabs.