Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  The hinges squeaked as Alex unwound the heavy metal links and pushed through the gate. Natalie quailed as her sister’s keen gaze swept across the disheveled yard: a dusty jumble of lath and plaster, an old wooden window frame defeated by years of exposure to salt and wind, a stack of slate shingles to repair the roof—and one ridiculously fluffy hen strutting about.

  And Natalie herself, drinking in the middle of the afternoon, as though there was no work to be done. Shame washed over her. Just like that, Natalie was a kid again, caught reading instead of packing her bug-out bag.

  The front step creaked loudly as Alex stepped up to the terrace, shrugged her heavy backpack off her shoulders, and leaned it against the stone wall of the house.

  Natalie stood, and the sisters shared an awkward hug. Natalie’s nostrils flared. Her sister smelled of hard travel with a hint of something worse.

  “Rough crossing?” Natalie guessed.

  Alex nodded. “You’ve got to hand it to kids: They throw up really easily. Probably an evolutionary advantage in there, somewhere.”

  “And you stepped in to help clean up.”

  “Somebody had to.”

  As they took seats at the outdoor table, Alex’s gaze landed on the conch-shell ashtray with Natalie’s hastily stubbed-out cigarette.

  “Since when did you take up smoking?” Alex asked.

  “Since I started making my own decisions,” Natalie said. In fact, she had taken up smoking in a last-ditch attempt to keep the weight off, French-style. Not that it was working. “What are you doing here, Alex? How did you even find me?”

  “It was easy enough to find you. You’re not exactly off the grid.”

  A long moment of awkward silence followed.

  Alex fidgeted with the scattered collection of sea glass and shells on the table, running thin, callused fingers along the edges of the glass pieces, their once-sharp edges smoothed and mellowed by decades of being tossed by waves and ground against the sand.

  Along with the eyeglasses, the hesitation was new. Alex always knew what she was doing. Always. Natalie had been the dreamy one, the one with her head in the clouds, rarely answering a question directly because her mind was always somewhere else.

  “I was wondering . . .” Alex paused and cleared her throat. “That is, I was hoping . . . Could I stay here for a while?” Her voice was strained, and her dark eyes remained fixed on the tabletop display of gifts from the sea.

  Natalie blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Alex repeated, more slowly this time, “Could. I. Stay. Here.”

  “Here? On the island? With me?”

  “Here. On the island. With you.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure.” Alex lifted her gaze and Natalie noted the dark circles under her sister’s eyes, read the tension in her gaze. “For a bit.”

  “Um . . . of course,” Natalie replied. “Are you okay?”

  Alex nodded.

  Natalie considered pressing Alex about what was going on, why her ever-so-capable and oh-so-self-confident older sister, the sister who never needed anything from anyone, especially from Nat-the-Gnat, had come all the way here to ask for a place to stay. But there would be no point. When they were kids, Alex had excelled at their father’s many “training exercises,” including the one he called Withstanding Interrogation.

  “The place could use a little fixing up,” Alex said, her gaze sweeping over the yard. “You have tools?”

  Natalie nodded. “In the shed.”

  “Then I should get to work.”

  “You just arrived. Let me show you your room so you can put your stuff away, at least,” Natalie said, then downed the last of her pastis and led the way through the guesthouse’s chalky green front door.

  Accustomed to living amid the chaos of renovation, Natalie had learned to turn a blind eye to the mess. But now she cringed inwardly as they picked their way through the sawdust and wood curls and chunks of plaster that littered the plank floors, with piles of lumber and random tools and equipment seemingly left where workmen had dropped them.

  To the right of the large tiled foyer was a roomy parlor lined with built-in cabinets and bookcases and, at one end, a huge stone fireplace. The window seat of a small nook held a stack of mildewy cardboard boxes.

  To the left a huge dining room ran the length of the house, but currently the space was being used to store construction tools and supplies. The only decoration on the stained plaster walls was a framed article from the local newsletter declaring the island’s own fils natif (native son) François-Xavier Olivier and célèbre auteur Américain (famous American author) Natalie Morgen had arrived to rescue the Bag-Noz guesthouse from its many years of neglect. There was a photograph of the two of them standing arm in arm on the front terrace, squinting into the sunshine, their smiles full of hope and excitement.

  I should burn that damned picture, Natalie thought.

  “Nice place,” said Alex, craning her neck to look around.

  Natalie glanced at her sister, wondering whether she was being sarcastic.

  “Is your man here?” Alex asked. “What’s his name again?”

  “François-Xavier. He’s in Paris at the moment. So, this house was built for a large extended family, and later it functioned as a guesthouse. Primarily for sailors seeking refuge from storms, but also for a few unfortunate shipwreck victims.” Natalie gestured down the hall. “In the back is the kitchen and a small office where I write. My—our—bedroom’s there, too.”

  She and François-Xavier had planned to move into a large master bedroom with its own bath on the second floor, but until the construction work was done—and while she was alone—she preferred the simple but cozy room beyond the kitchen.

  The treads creaked underfoot as they climbed the stairs. Electricians and plumbers had opened up parts of walls to fish for wires and to inspect the pipes, leaving gaping holes in the old plaster, as though an inebriated visitor had repeatedly punched his hand through the walls in a rage. Plaster dust coated the floors and the banister in a liberal sprinkling of white chalk, Pompeii-like.

  Alex remained mute as they reached the second-floor landing, but Natalie heard reproach in her very silence. She tried to shake it off.

  “There are four bedrooms on this level, but the bathrooms aren’t functional yet, so I’ll put you up on the third story.”

  “That’s fine,” said Alex.

  On the third floor were three small chambers tucked under the eaves, with a bathroom and a WC at the end of the hall. François-Xavier and Natalie had discussed trying to reconfigure the space for en suite baths, since modern tourists were often put off at the thought of sharing with strangers, but any improvements remained on their far-too-long to-do list.

  “What’s with the door?” Alex asked, gesturing toward a paneled door leaning uselessly against the wall.

  “It’s for the attic stairs. We couldn’t find the key, so we took it off its hinges.”

  “Was there anything fun up in the attic?”

  “Not really. We brought a few boxes of books down to the parlor, but that was about it.”

  “Too bad,” said Alex. “I always imagine finding some sort of treasure in old buildings like this one.”

  “I think over the years family members must have taken anything of value. So,” Natalie said as she turned into the first bedroom on the right, “things are a little dusty, but at least it’s all functional.”

  A new mattress leaned against the wall, still encased in plastic. In one corner of the room were the pieces of an old iron bed frame that had come with the building. Natalie hadn’t managed to get to the mainland to order lighting fixtures, so electrical wires dangling bare bulbs hung down from the ceiling and walls. But at least they worked. The walls had been patched and primed, resulting in large white polka-dots against the beige paint. St
ill, the quirky angles of the steep ceiling were charming, and two deep-set casement windows looked out to the little quay, the island’s harbor, and the ocean beyond.

  “Nice view,” said Alex.

  Natalie barely noticed it anymore, busy as she was fretting about fraying electrical wires and rusting pipes. But now she thought back to the first time she had walked into this room, pushed open those windows, and leaned onto the deep sill. She had taken a big breath of the fresh, brine-laden sea air and fallen in love with the whole place—even the old stained lace curtains. She remembered how François-Xavier had wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned back against him with a contented sigh, feeling wanted and useful and sexy. Her childhood of deprivation was a million miles away, and she had at last found where she was meant to be. Swept away by the romance of the moment, Natalie had decided that her life was, indeed, fabulous.

  Just like it appeared on social media.

  And then—plot twist!—François-Xavier left, the guesthouse renovations ground to a halt, and now her sister had intruded upon her fantasy world, resurrecting memories of Natalie’s incompetent, useless former self. Like an unwelcome spirit crossing the veil that divides this world from the next, Alex had braved an ocean to invade Natalie’s life on this isolated island.

  Natalie studied her sister’s profile as Alex gazed out the window: the subtle lines at the corners of her eyes, the stubborn set of her chin. Alex had always been an enigma to her. Theirs were two very different personalities linked only by the circumstances of birth.

  “Why don’t you unwrap the mattress while I run downstairs for sheets and pillows?” suggested Natalie. “Then, between the two of us, I’m sure we can manage to put the frame together.”

  By the time Natalie returned from the linen closet, Alex had already assembled the iron bed frame and topped it with the mattress.

  “Oh, great, you figured it out,” Natalie said. Duh, she thought. Alex could fix the nuclear grid, given a couple of days and a socket wrench. “I’ll help you make the bed.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I know you can. But it’s easier with two.”

  Alex let out a little snort, but acquiesced. As Natalie billowed the bottom sheet onto the mattress, she noted with satisfaction that she had gotten one thing right, at least: The linens smelled like fresh air and lavender. She had hung them out to dry on the heavy-duty clothesline that extended across the entire yard and was accessed through one of the second-story bedrooms, the roomy “master” suite that was supposed to be readied, one day, for François-Xavier and Natalie.

  But it was one thing to air-dry sheets for herself, and now for her sister. How am I supposed to run a guesthouse without a clothes dryer?

  This was the sort of question that sent Natalie not into a flurry of action but into paralysis, as she contemplated everything that needed to be done before she could open the doors for paying guests. When she and François-Xavier had confessed to the family that the renovations wouldn’t be finished in time for the summer tourist season, they had agreed to delay the opening for the Festival of the Gallizenae in October. Just six weeks from now.

  But now that François-Xavier was gone . . . maybe none of it mattered anymore.

  “The sheets smell like lavender,” Alex said with a small smile. “That seems so very French, somehow.”

  François-Xavier had teased Natalie when she proclaimed that since she was in France, by God, she would pack her ample linen closet full of lavender sachets even if she had to import them from Provence. Which she did. That reminded her: She should order some more. Could she justify the cost?

  Just about everything on the island had to be brought in by boat: the mail, groceries, socks. Light fixtures and building supplies, even garden materials, had to be ordered from stores in Audierne or Quimper. Like most islanders, Natalie and François-Xavier kept a car parked at the ferry dock on the mainland to run errands. Natalie wondered if François-Xavier had taken it when he left; she hadn’t yet brought herself to check.

  The sisters worked together quickly and efficiently, making the bed with tight hospital corners the way their mother had trained them to do. As they held the pillows under their chins to pull on the cases, Natalie thought of the million unacknowledged traditions that were passed down from one woman to the next, generation to generation. Natalie once told François-Xavier that his method of folding socks was unnatural; he claimed her way stretched them out. They had laughed in mock outrage, and wound up making love on a pile of freshly laundered clothes.

  What am I going to do?

  “Every time I make a bed, I think of Mom,” said Alex as she tossed the pillow onto the bed.

  “I was just thinking that myself,” said Natalie.

  “I miss her.”

  “Me, too. She was such a sweet soul.”

  “And so depressed.”

  Natalie stilled. “You think so?”

  “I do,” said Alex with a nod. “I mean, I didn’t think it at the time, but now, looking back . . .”

  “I suppose life wasn’t much fun for her.”

  Natalie tried to swallow, tamping down the grief and regret that rose, unbidden, whenever she thought of their mother. Her strongest memory of Carla was how she would take inventory in their basement storeroom, laboriously ticking off items on her clipboard, a permanent crease of worry between her eyebrows. Forever preparing, yet always feeling unprepared. It had taken the sisters too long, far too long, to realize she was sick; Carla never complained, and she always sounded so down that her faraway, quailing voice on the other end of the telephone line hadn’t been alarming.

  “She sure loved us kids,” said Alex.

  “That, she did.” Natalie cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Hey, I’m sorry it’s so dusty up here. Like I said, I’m living in something of a construction zone. I’ll sweep up.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Alex. “It’s not a problem. Nat, I really appreciate you letting me stay.”

  “Of course. And sorry you have to climb all the way up here, but at least there’s a functioning bathroom,” Natalie said, leading the way down the hall. “The toilet is separate from the room with the bath.”

  “Nice,” said Alex, poking her head in. The toilet room was large enough just for the commode; the bathroom was more spacious, with a window that looked over the backyard, to the west.

  Natalie saw the rooms through her sister’s eyes: the old claw-foot tub so heavy that Natalie wondered how the former owners had managed to get it to the island, much less wrangle it up two flights of stairs. The graceful white porcelain pedestal sink, the antique brass fixtures, the lace curtains. François-Xavier and she had picked out new tiles and waited eagerly for the ferry to arrive with their supplies. Natalie had posted to her social media a photograph of them at the pier: François-Xavier holding up a sample of the tile and grinning, one arm looped around her shoulders. Her hair was blowing in her face, and they both looked so happy. It was perfect.

  Their photos were perfect.

  The bathroom was the first—and last—project they completed before François-Xavier lost interest and suggested they contract out the rest of the renovations.

  “So, I’ll just stow my things, and then I can get to work,” said Alex.

  “Why don’t you relax?” Natalie suggested. “It’s late afternoon; while I would appreciate anything you can do, there’s no rush.”

  Alex gave her a look that reminded Natalie of their father: a look that said of course everything must be done right now, right this instant. Waste your time, waste your life.

  Natalie felt her jaw tighten and reminded herself: Alex was the one asking for a favor. Alex was the one who needed a place to stay, not the other way around. “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug.

  Still, as she made her way back down the stairs, Natalie felt five years old again.


  A disappointment.

  Again.

  * * *

  • • •

  Natalie was never a good fit for a survivalist family. She was scared of bugs and squealed when bathing in the icy creek behind the cabin. Natalie fantasized about taking hot showers and attending regular schools with libraries full of books and buying food in the grocery store—ready-made, what a concept! She wondered about things their home-school curriculum couldn’t answer, asked questions her parents didn’t want to answer.

  The five Morgen girls took turns providing and preparing dinner, and when it was Natalie’s turn, the family went hungry. The shame instilled by her family’s growling stomachs and plaintive gazes was supposed to motivate her to get better at hunting and trapping, or at the very least to learn to read the signs that would help her forage for edible mushrooms and roots, nuts and fruits, wild bird eggs.

  But instead the only thing Natalie read was books. With each failure at mastering the survivalist lifestyle, she retreated further into her stories.

  Once a month or so the Morgen children were permitted to visit the library in town, a humble portable unit parked alongside the Presbyterian church. Romance novels were forbidden, as was anything else even hinting at sex, which meant most mainstream novels were also off-limits. Natalie had once talked her mother into allowing her to check out Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein on the grounds that it was a classic, but when The Commander caught sight of it, he had tossed the book into the pit toilet, proclaiming that that was where filth belonged.

  On one visit, fed up with the lack of acceptable choices and worried about getting her mother in trouble, Natalie checked out Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

  When they returned to the compound, her father just grunted and said, “At least cooking’s useful.”

  Which just went to show that even committed survivalists like her parents lacked imagination. Natalie could never even dream of preparing any of the dishes—for some reason, Julia Child did not include recipes for dandelion greens or squirrel—but the cookbook opened a window to a different world: one of long, languid meals, of sensual delights, of variety and plenty. A world where a chef could single-handedly create magical transformations.