In May, Yves insists that his uncle accompany them to Normandy, first to Trouville and then to a village near etretat, a quiet place they have visited several times in the past and loved. It is Papa's idea to return with his brother, but Yves puts his own force behind it. Beatrice demurs; why should it not be just the three of them, as before? She can look after Papa by herself, and the house Yves always rents has only one small room for guests, with no parlor for Uncle Olivier if Papa stays in his usual quarters. If they move Papa, he will not be able to find anything, or might fall down the stairs in the night. It is hard enough for Papa to travel at all, although he is patience itself and relishes the feeling of the Channel sun and breeze on his face. She begs Yves to reconsider.

But Yves is firm. He may be called away on business in the midst of the vacation, so she will at least have Olivier to assist her. Strange -- Olivier is even older than Papa, but he seems fifteen years Papa's junior in health and agility. Olivier's hair was not white before the death of his wife, Yves told her once, but that occurred a couple of years before she met the family. Olivier is strong, vibrant for his age; he can be helpful. Insisting that Olivier accompany them is the closest Yves ever comes to complaining about having the care of Papa on their shoulders.

She protests again--feebly this time--and three weeks later they are on a train moving slowly out of the Gare Saint-Lazare, Yves tucking a lap robe over Papa's legs and Olivier reading aloud the art news in the paper. He seems to avoid Beatrice's eye. She is grateful, since his presence fills the small space until she wishes she could sit in another car. He appears to have grown younger in the months since their correspondence began; his face looks tanned even before they reach the coast. His beard is thick silver, neatly trimmed. He tells them he has been painting in the For¨ºt de Fontainebleau, and she wonders if he thought about her as he walked along those paths with his easel or stood in glades she will probably never see. For a moment she envies the trees that gathered around him, the grass that probably lay under his long frame when he rested, and she turns her mind at once to other thoughts. Is she merely jealous of his ability to travel and paint at will, his constant freedom?

Outside the train window, cinders blow by between her and the newly green fields, the glimpses of winding water. Yves keeps the window shut against the coal smoke and the dust, although the compartment grows too warm. She watches cows under a grove of trees, the dusting of red poppies, white and yellow daisies across a field. She has removed her gloves, her hat, and its matching jacket, since they are alone, all family, and the curtains are drawn between them and the corridor. When she leans back and closes her eyes, she senses Olivier's gaze and hopes her husband will not notice. But what is there to notice? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and that is the way she will keep it--nothing between her and this white-haired man Yves has known since birth, now her own relative.

The steam whistle blows far ahead, at the front of the train, a sound as hollow as she feels. Life is going to be long, for her at least. Is that not a good thing? Hasn't she always felt time stretching ahead of her in a lovely expanse? What if--she opens her eyes and keeps them resolutely on a distant village, a pale smudge, a church tower far away in the fields--what if that expanse contains neither children nor Olivier? What if it contains no more of Olivier's letters, his hand on her hair--she looks directly at him now, while Yves opens a second newspaper, and is gratified to see she has startled him. He turns his handsome head toward the window, picks up his book. There is so little time. He will die decades before she does. What if that in itself were enough to compromise her resistance?