unt Carole sold the farm, just as she had said she would, and two weeks later she moved to the home in Boone. Marie-Ange helped her pack her things, and she couldn’t help thinking of Carole’s cruelty when she had taken Marie-Ange’s suitcases to the Goodwill and left them there with nearly everything she’d brought with her. But this time, Marie-Ange packed all her little mementos and favorite belongings for her. And when they reached the home, the old woman turned to her, and looked at her long and hard, and said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try not to,” Marie-Ange smiled, wanting to feel more for her than she did, but she just didn’t. Aunt Carole had never allowed it. Marie-Ange couldn’t even tell her that she’d miss her. They both knew she wouldn’t. “I’ll write to you, and tell you where I am,” she said politely.

“You don’t have to. I don’t like to write. I can call the bank, if I need to find you.” After ten years of living together, it was a dry, unemotional departure. Carole was simply not capable of more than that, and never had been. And after Marie-Ange left her, she felt sad, for all that had never happened between them. Emotionally at least, except for Billy, it had been ten years wasted.

She went back to the house and packed her things. Tom and his wife were already gone, and the house seemed strange and empty. Marie-Ange had her ticket and her passport, and her bags were packed. She was leaving in the morning, back the way she had come, first to Chicago, and then to Paris. She was going to stay there for a few days, and maybe look into classes at the Sorbonne, and then she was going to rent a car and drive to Marmouton, just to see it. And she was going to find out what had happened to Sophie. She assumed that she had died, but maybe someone could tell her how or when it had happened. Marie-Ange suspected she had died of a broken heart, but whatever had happened to her, she wanted to know it. She knew that if Sophie had been alive, she’d have written to her, and she hadn’t. Not a single letter in answer to her own, or since then.

She ate dinner with Billy and his family that night. Everyone in the area was still talking about his new Porsche, and he drove it every chance he got. His father had teased him that he spent more time in it than on the tractor. And his girlfriend Debbi was in love with it. But it meant the most to Billy because Marie-Ange had given it to him. He had finally stopped arguing with her about it, and agreed to accept it, although he said he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. It was his dream car, and her thank-you for getting her to college in the Chevy.

“I’ll call you from Paris, when I can,” she promised him that night when he took her home. She had left the Chevy with him, and asked him to store it for her, in case she came back to finish college. She didn’t want to sell it, it meant too much to her. It was the only thing she wanted to keep from her years with Aunt Carole. There were no other happy memories for her, only sad ones, except those that involved Billy.

Billy promised to pick her up in the morning and drive her to the airport. And as she wandered the house alone, thinking of the ten years she had spent there, it seemed eerie and agonizingly lonely. She wondered how her great-aunt was at the home, but Carole had told her not to bother calling, so she didn’t.

She slept fitfully that night, and did no chores when she got up, for the first time in more than ten years. And it was strangest of all to realize that soon she would be in Paris, and then back at Marmouton. She couldn’t even imagine what she would find there.

Billy picked her up promptly at nine, and put her one small bag in the car. She had almost nothing to take with her. She had no souvenirs, no photographs, except of him, no mementos, except the things he had made her over the years, for her birthdays and at Christmas. The only other things that meant anything to her were the photographs of her parents and Robert, and the locket she still wore and treasured.

They were both quiet in the car, on the way to the airport. There was so much to say, and no way to say it. They had said it to each other over the years, and been there for each other, as they still were now. But they both knew that with five thousand miles between them, it couldn’t help but be different.

“Call me if you need me,” he said, as they waited for her plane to Chicago to board. She hadn’t been on a plane since she had come here, and she remembered how terrified she had been, how heartbroken, and how lonely. He had been her only friend for all these years, her only source of strength and comfort. Her great-aunt had provided room and board, but there had never been any love between them. Billy was her family far more than Aunt Carole had ever been, and as she boarded the plane finally, Marie-Ange held him tight for a long moment as tears streamed down both their faces.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she cried. It was like leaving Robert again, and she was afraid now that she would never see Billy again, just as she had lost her brother. But he sensed her thoughts without her needing to put words to them, and he quietly reassured her.

“It’ll be okay. You’ll probably hate France and be back here in no time.” But he didn’t believe that.

“Take care of yourself,” she said softly to him, and they kissed and hugged for a last time, and she looked up at him, wanting to engrave his freckled face on her mind forever. “I love you, Billy.”

“I love you too, Marie-Ange,” he said, wishing she could stay in Iowa forever. But it wouldn’t have been fair to her, and he knew that. She had a chance for so much more now.

He stood and waved at the plane until it was a speck in the sky, and then she was gone. And he drove slowly back to the farm in his new red car, crying for all that she had been to him, and never would be.