He flipped up the collar, for the wind that shivered through the November night was cold. His polished black boots echoed dully on the wet pavement. It had just rained, for the scent was still in the air. Looking to his left, Daniel knew the words of the stranger were true.
Cotignac, Provence. Plane trees cast shade over the bubbling fountain “Les Quatres Saisons” and the tables that spill onto the pavement from the restaurants and cafés, like the ever popular café du Cours, and the benches where locals sit and watch the world go by.