Her golden hair was neatly bobbed and styled. She wore an elegant green sundress with black rubber boots similar to Oscar's – though decidedly more fashionable.

She followed my gaze and smiled again: "You could use some boots too, young man, if you value those shoes. It's easy to get stuck in this mud."

"Already learning that the hard way," I sighed, shaking another clump of dirt from my sole.

"Come inside. We'll talk in more civilized surroundings."

The woman marched toward the house, and we wordlessly trailed after her. Oscar continued looking in all directions, as if waiting to be "taken out" by a sniper.

The interior of the farmhouse was exceptionally cozy. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows made the already spacious living room appear even more expansive, flooding it with light. We could clearly see the path we'd taken just minutes earlier.

"We were never going to approach unnoticed," I thought.

"These are portes-fenêtres. From French, it means 'door-windows'," the woman said as she set the table with appetizing homemade cheeses and pickles, pouring us cherry compote that disappeared into our stomachs instantly. She discreetly refilled our glasses from a crystal pitcher.

"I love the feeling of freedom and the option to leave, even through a window," she remarked, carefully returning the pitcher to the table. "So, you were looking for me. To what purpose?"

"How should we address you?" I asked, settling into a rattan chair beside Oscar.

The hostess took her place on a two-seater rattan sofa with cream cushions. She placed one behind her lower back and laid the other across her lap, covering it protectively with her hand.

Her manner was so refined that her very presence made one recall all rules of etiquette. Even Oscar dabbed his mouth with a napkin after each sip, as if afraid of accidentally staining the furniture. His "armor" had been kindly washed and placed on the drying rack by our hostess.

"Justina," the woman inclined her head in greeting, and we followed suit. "I know Oscar – his grandfather is wonderful. I've also heard about your arrival, young man. Your name is Constantin, if I'm not mistaken?"

"That's what they call me," I replied.

"Now you may proceed to business," Justina gestured permission for questions. "I dislike dancing around bonfires."

"Where is your husband?" the boy asked cautiously.

"He's at the far end of the ranch, near the horse stables. Marila – our fast girl – recently gave birth to the most adorable foal. Now Vance spends entire days there."

"It seemed to me the woman said this with melancholy, but I wasn't sure. One doesn't get jealous of pets, that's what I always thought, but then I remembered how hard it is for women to accept that for men they're not the first priority, but represent only a certain percentage of time that men are willing to devote to them. And here it's just a matter of luck. The particularly unlucky ones get pennies in the form of thirty percent and assurances that this should be enough. Hence, ultimately, so many women who keep their hundred percent to themselves, betting on loneliness."

"We won't take much of your time, Justina," I said hurriedly, banishing these vexing thoughts. "Tell me, are you familiar with a man named Frank?"

The woman barely stirred, but my gaze didn't miss how quickly she squeezed the cushion and let go.

"Wouldn't this be about my ex-husband, by any chance?"

"That's how he introduced himself," I nodded in agreement.

"And what has that sly one done this time?"

"The thing is, he and Glenn staged an entire performance for us, posing as mechanics. And stole our motorcycle which we left with them, expecting the men to fix it."