Who is Maud Dixon?(52)

“Hi,” she said. She was chewing on her lower lip, which was chapped and swollen.

Florence just looked at her.

“Sorry, I know this is annoying, but would you mind putting some sun lotion on my back?”

Florence stared at her for another beat. “How did you know I spoke English?”

“Your book.”

Florence glanced at the incriminating evidence. “Oh.”

“Do you mind?” The girl brandished a greasy-looking bottle of sunscreen in front of her.

Florence pushed herself up a little, wincing. She took in the girl’s dark roots, the loose flesh on her stomach, the pimples mottling her chest. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

The girl let out a small, unsure laugh. “What?”

“I don’t want to put lotion on your back.”

“Oh.” Her smile faltered but prevailed. “Okay.” She started to turn away, but then her roving eyes found the bruises on Florence’s torso.

“Whoa. What happened?” The girl squatted down and reached out her fingertips toward the purple skin. She held them inches away, fluttering lightly.

Florence frowned. Her injuries had upended the balance of power. It was like something primordial—she was a wounded animal, therefore no threat at all. For this girl, the injuries were an invitation, a physical weakness that rendered irrelevant social niceties and abstract hierarchies.

“I was in a car accident,” Florence said curtly.

The girl widened her eyes. “That was you?”

“What do you mean? You heard about it?”

“A car going off Rue Badr? Yeah, everyone heard about it. Was it super scary?”

Florence couldn’t help but laugh. Super scary? “I don’t even remember it,” she said.

“I know most of the expats around here—it’s a pretty small town and I’ve been here for a while now—but nobody had ever heard of you. We figured you must have just gotten here. Helen something, right?”

Florence paused. Well, she had to begin somewhere. “That’s right,” she said. “Helen. Helen Wilcox.”

“I’m Meg. Did you just get here?”

Florence nodded.

“Well, welcome! If you have any questions or anything just let me know because I’m like an honorary local, that’s what everyone says.”

Meg, who was still squatting, thumped down heavily at the foot of Florence’s small towel.

“So you’re on vacation?”

“Sort of. A working vacation.”

“How so?”

“I’m doing research. For a novel.”

“Wait, really? You’re a writer? That is so cool. I love reading. I was obsessed with Harry Potter when I was a kid. Like, obsessed. I had the scarf, the glasses, everything.” She watched Florence, waiting for a reaction. “The wand,” she added significantly.

“Cool,” Florence finally offered.

Meg nodded enthusiastically. Then without warning she heaved herself up with great violence and much sand displacement. “Hey, do you smoke?”

“Yes,” Florence said emphatically. She had put a pack of Helen’s cigarettes in her bag that morning. The thought of actually smoking one in this heat made her sick, but it had seemed like a helpful talisman, the way actors use a cane or a pipe to channel their characters.

Meg bounded over to her own towel a few paces down the beach and began rustling in a dirty tote bag. She returned holding out a joint triumphantly.

“Oh,” said Florence. She had never smoked pot before, an embarrassing emblem of her social status in high school and lack of friends in college. Nonetheless, she took the joint from Meg and held it delicately between her thumb and forefinger. Why not? Bonjour l’aventure.

Meg held out a lighter. Florence put one end of the joint into the flame and sucked long and hard on the other, as she’d seen it done in movies. She was immediately wracked with coughs. She handed the joint back to Meg, eyes streaming.

“Yeah, the kif here is kinda evil,” Meg said, laughing.

“Kif?”

“The hash.”

“Yeah, I guess this isn’t exactly what I’m used to.”

“You probably get, like, Harry Potter weed.”

Florence laughed. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” She lay back on her towel and covered her face with her arm. She felt Meg thud down at her feet again.

“So where are you from?” Meg asked.

“New York.” Then she added, “But originally Mississippi.”

“Really? You don’t have much of an accent.”

“I left a long time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Where are you from?”

“Toledo. Ohio.”

There seemed to be no obvious response to this. The sand was swaying beneath Florence’s body like a hammock. She was lulled into a pleasant state of relaxation. She felt looser than she had in months.

A bird called out repeatedly from somewhere in the distance.

“I love those birds that sound like owls,” Meg said dreamily.

“You mean—owls?”

Meg started laughing loudly and recklessly. “Is that what they are? They’re actually owls?”