The next day, Kes stood guard by the entrance of the town’s medieval church as a group of men on white stallions carried Sara la Kali’s doll-like statue out and raised her high above their heads. His father was among them. Like the rest of the horsemen, he wore a black hat and carried a lance.

Saint Sara was dressed in so many layers of colorful robes that she almost disappeared under them. Only the top of her dark-skinned face peeked through her frilly collars.

Kes couldn’t help but smile. Staturewise, Sara la Kali was the opposite of Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the Redeemer, in both literal and figurative senses. The Vatican tolerated but didn’t officially recognize the Gypsies’ Black Madonna. Not that anyone in Kes’s fervently Catholic community gave a hoot.

She was their patron saint, their mother, and their protector. They flocked to this sleepy town in Camargue—a marshland south of Arles known for its pink flamingos—for the privilege of seeing and touching Sara la Kali.

The crowd chanted, “Vive Sainte Sara!” as they followed the statue down to the sea.

Kes and his fellow “shepherds” stayed on the fringes of the procession. They guided the masses, rounding up those who went astray and watching the teens whose eyes were on the tourists’ backpacks instead of Saint Sara.

As the horsemen reached the beach, they rode into the Mediterranean waters, holding the statue high. The crowd followed. Soon, the shallow coastal strip and the beach were black with ecstatic worshippers. Most of them asked Saint Sara for forgiveness or for help. Many thanked her for her kindness, and all found comfort in their communion with her.

As a child, Kes, too, had prayed and chanted all the way from the church to the sea. Then at sixteen, he stopped voicing his feelings for Saint Sara. It was the age when he began cultivating his devil-may-care persona who didn’t let anything too close to his heart. He shocked his family by declaring that treating an inanimate object as if it had a mind and godlike powers was irrational.

He never took those words back, no matter how many head slaps his irreverence earned him.

And yet, every year on May 24, the urge to talk to the Black Madonna overwhelmed him. Watching the little effigy float into the sea compelled him to tell her his secrets and ask for advice.

Should I seek the gadji out, or should I try harder to forget her?

As if it were easy to forget that particular gadji.

It had been three weeks since the memorable weekend with Amanda in Deauville. Having gone through her purse while she showered, he knew her real name and her address. What he also knew—right from the horse’s mouth—was that she didn’t wish to go out with him. And yet, when he recalled how she looked at him, when he remembered the passion with which she kissed him, he knew she wanted him.

He’d also gathered enough from her social media accounts to know she wasn’t married or in a serious relationship. What if her rejection boiled down to dumb prejudice? If he could break through it, they’d have great fun together before he went off to Las Vegas in July.

He needed a sign, and Saint Sara was famous for providing those.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

He stared at the statue then at the sky. When he looked at Sara la Kali again, she didn’t move or even blink.

What did you expect, idiot?

An hour later, Saint Sara safely reentered the church’s crypt, and the crowd broke into small groups that played music and danced on every corner of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

Gitan men played their fiery guitars, and women danced flamenco puro. Hungarian Roma fiddled soul-wrenching tunes. But it was the crazy energy of the Balkan Gypsy brass bands that drew the biggest audiences.

Kes was listening to trumpeters from Serbia when a familiar female voice asked, “Hungry?”

He turned to face his elder sister. “Starving.”

“Follow me.”

Rosanna led him to the improvised table that was nothing more than boards and packing cases. On the table, yummy-smelling pots and a delicious-looking assortment of Spanish sausages and French cheeses were laid out.

Rosanna motioned to a folding chair. “Sit.”

“Where are the others?” Kes asked.

“Some are cleaning up the church; others, talking to the mayor. But I figured you’d faint if you went without food for another hour.”

He laughed. “I can handle myself. But since you’re offering so kindly . . .”

She put a paper plate and plastic tableware in front of him.

He picked up the plate and gave her a quizzical look.

Rosanna’s face contorted into a grimace that was half pity and half apology. “The elders have decided you’re too polluted to eat from the ceramic plates that the rest of the family uses. I’m sorry, Kes, but you’re to eat from disposables.”

“What the hell?”

“You’ve lived among the gadje for too long. You can’t be considered clean anymore.”

“Is that the real reason the others aren’t here to eat with me?”

“No! Really—no.”

His stomach clenched. “So the elders think I’m soiled. And I may be contagious, right?”

She smiled weakly.

“Do you think I’m contagious?” he asked.

“No. Well . . . I don’t know. The gadje don’t observe strict cleanliness rules, and you . . . you spend too much time with them.”

“Rosanna.” He paused, frustration pooling into a tight ball in his chest. “You’re thirty-five and the mother of three. You went to school for ten years—on and off, but still. You can’t seriously believe in this stuff.”

“She doesn’t,” a tattooed young man said, sitting down next to him.

Marco, thank God.

Kes smiled, relieved to see his first cousin, partner in childhood pranks, and best friend. Marco was the only person in the clan who got him. Even though his cousin’s own choices had always been more conformist than Kes’s—except maybe the tattoos—Marco always took his side and defended him tooth and nail.

“You may not believe it”—Marco gave him a wink—“but Rosanna’s recently made a gadji friend.”

Kes looked at his sister. “Is it true?”

She shrugged. “Well, yes. But it’s different. She’s a specialized nurse. She’s been coming over daily to help us heal the baby, and we sort of . . . became chummy.”

Kes tilted his head to the side. “And the Furies are OK with it?”

Rosanna looked around. “Please don’t call the Puri Council that. They might overhear, and then we’ll all be in trouble.”

“OK, OK.” Kes chuckled. “Let me rephrase my question: Is the Senior Gossip Squad fine with you having a gadji friend?”

“She’s very polite. She admires our music and our culture.” Rosanna placed a ceramic plate and silverware in front of Marco. “And she helped us make the baby stronger.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“He can hold his head up now, and his colic is gone. The Puri know it’s thanks to Charlotte.” Rosanna smiled. “We’ll baptize him in a few weeks, and you’ll finally be able to see your new nephew.”

“Good.” Kes winked at her. “I was beginning to wonder if he was real.”

“It’s to protect him from evil spirits, you idiot!” Rosanna’s heavy hand connected with the back of his head.

“Ouch. I hope you go easier on your kids, woman.” Kes rubbed his nape and smiled. “I was just kidding with you. Anyway, back to your chum. I can’t believe the Puri approve of your friendship.”

“They’re totally OK with it.”

“They’re more than OK,” Marco said. “They’re close to adopting her into the clan. I’ve heard them talk about proclaiming her some sort of honorary Gitane.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Rosanna sat down next to Kes and grabbed his hand. “Joseph will be back next week. You should stay for his homecoming party.”

Her eyes were bright with the joy of her husband’s imminent return from a seasonal job in neighboring Spain.

“He was gone for less than two months,” Kes said. “What’s the big deal?”

“It’s the first time we’ve been apart in fourteen years,” Rosanna said. “It’s been super hard for both of us and the kids. So the next time those Spanish farmers want his help, it’s either the whole family—or even better, the whole clan—or nada.”

Kes shook his head in wonder. “You guys are still as taken with each other as when you eloped all those years ago.”

“I guess.” Rosanna grinned. “I went with my gut feeling at the time, even if Tata and Mama thought I deserved ‘better’ than Joseph.”

“Do you think I should do the same?” Kes surprised himself by asking. “Go with my gut feeling?”

“Is this about a girl?”

He nodded.

She grinned. “Absolutely, little bro.”

Well, if Rosanna’s words weren’t a sign from Saint Sara that he should pursue Amanda, then he didn’t know what was. If this entire conversation wasn’t a message from the Black Madonna, then she was no more than an oversize doll, and he, a superstitious halfwit.

Which he was not.

Therefore, it was a sign.