Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “They might come back to you as they get older,” said Natalie, thinking how she had grown to appreciate her mother with age. Not so The Commander . . . at least not yet. “It can happen.”

  Jean-Luc nodded and discarded a jack of diamonds, which Natalie immediately picked up.

  “So, what happened to Dossier?” asked Alex softly.

  “She lived to be seventeen, but near the end, she was sick, in pain, and I had to let her go.” His voice was strained, and a sheen of tears sparkled in the light of the fire. “It was that night, after coming home from the veterinarian’s office, I fixed myself a drink, and a bowl of ice cream, and turned on the television. There was a special about the Île de Feme and I was overcome by the notion of visiting. I loved the look of the place, and the lives of those living out on such a seemingly foreboding rock. And the whole story about the men leaving during World War Two, of course.”

  “But you didn’t simply come for a visit,” said Alex. “It sounds as though you’re planning on staying.”

  “I suppose I lost my head a bit,” he chuckled softly. “You should have seen my boss’s face when I told him I had decided to take an early pension and left with no plan more detailed than ‘going off to the Île de Feme to see what happens.’ I do not know who was more shocked, him or me, or Odile, for that matter.”

  “That was one influential cat,” said Natalie. She couldn’t stop glancing over at the cookbook they had found.

  Jean-Luc nodded. “She was a great cat.”

  “Buddy was a great dog.” Alex and Jean-Luc shared a sad smile.

  Natalie noticed their lingering look. Interesting. Maybe this island was more romantic than she thought.

  “You know what?” said Natalie, setting down her cards after Jean-Luc won another round. “I think I’m going to try to write a little more tonight. I wish you both a bonne soirée.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Alex

  Rain spattered hard against the shutters, which shook and rattled.

  “Don’t shutters make you feel claustrophobic?” asked Alex.

  “Would you prefer I open them?” Jean-Luc asked. “These old windows are not likely to withstand the wind, so it might make it a bit cold in here.”

  “No, you’re right. We should leave them closed,” said Alex.

  “Would you like a little more wine?” asked Jean-Luc, holding the bottle over her glass, poised to pour but waiting for permission. “I don’t suppose I will be able to sleep with this racket, anyway.”

  “Sure,” Alex said.

  Alex wasn’t much of a drinker, and the wine had made her pleasantly mellow. Usually Alex preferred her own company to being with others, but Jean-Luc was surprisingly easy to be around. And that voice . . . Maybe she should ask him to read for her. She remembered their mother reading aloud to them on special occasions, when they were warm and contented. It was such a relaxing, luscious feeling to be read to.

  Jean-Luc grabbed his phone and turned on a playlist.

  “Do you know this song?” he asked as a warbling, old-fashioned voice started singing. “It is called ‘I Have Two Loves, My Country and Paris.’ It’s from one of your people, the American Josephine Baker.”

  “An oldie but a goodie.”

  “This is a phrase?”

  She nodded. “This is.”

  “I like it. A ‘goodie.’ Have you been to Paris, Alex?”

  She shook her head. “I mean, my plane landed at the airport there, but I came straight here. Well, not straight here, exactly. I got on a bus, and then a train, and then another bus, and then a ferry. . . .”

  He smiled. “You really should visit Paris one day.”

  Not likely, she thought. “Maybe. One day.”

  “It would be my pleasure to act as your tour guide.”

  “I thought you were moving here to the island.”

  “I grew up in Paris and lived my entire life there; I imagine I will visit often. It is a marvelous city,” said Jean-Luc as he dealt the cards again. The candle cast a mellow glow on his features, softening their ordinariness. “In her song, Baker sings, ‘Ce qui m’ensorcelle c’est Paris . . . doucement, je dis, emporte-moi.’”

  “What is she saying?”

  “‘Ensorcelle’ is . . . I don’t know the word in English, but when you are under the power of a sorcerer . . .”

  “Bewitched?”

  “Yes, this is the word. To be witched.”

  “It’s one word, actually. ‘Bewitched’”

  “Ah. Goodie. She says she is bewitched by Paris, and she asks, sweetly—doucement—to be taken there.”

  “It sounds better when you don’t know what the words mean.”

  He smiled. “I would love to hear more about your childhood.”

  “Obviously it was unusual, but of course we didn’t realize it at the time. It was all we knew. And . . . I know it sounded awful in Nat’s book, but it really wasn’t all bad.”

  “What was a good part?”

  “I liked learning new skills, and knowing I could take care of myself,” said Alex, arranging the cards in her hand. “I’m still shocked at how little most people know how to do.”

  “I suppose most of us have never needed to hunt for our dinners.”

  Alex looked at her cards: She had two pairs, and discarded an unmatched king. Jean-Luc’s eyes lit up as he snatched it up. Not exactly a poker face.

  Note to self: Hold on to the kings.

  “Hey, Jean-Luc,” said Alex. “You don’t have any plans for the next week or so, do you?”

  He shook his head. “As I have said, the mayor’s assistant is helping me to find longer-term lodging. I am also interested in an organization here that is attempting to address the sea-level rise. I have an appointment with them next week, but nothing else in particular.”

  “I’ve been coming up with a to-do list to help Nat finish up the renovations. If it’s okay with Nat for you to stay here for a little while longer, would you be willing to keep helping me for a bit? I need another set of hands.”

  “I’m not certain my hands are very . . . What’s the word? Able to fix things?”

  “Handy.”

  “That is a word? Handy?” He looked delighted as he picked up another card Alex discarded. “I do love your language.”

  She smiled. “You know, being handy is something a person can get better at with practice, just like learning a language. And after all, you have those snazzy new jeans.”

  “Snazzy?”

  “Fancy.”

  “Well, yes, I do feel rather fancy.”

  “Let’s put them to work.”

  “I might disappoint you,” said Jean-Luc. “My wife always said that I was nothing but a fonctionnaire.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

  “I do not think she meant it nicely.”

  “Well, you were a fonctionnaire, but that’s in your past, right?”

  “You are right. I very much like to be handy. I have always liked to be useful. I have a funny story about this.”

  “I love funny stories.” Alex put down her cards. “Let’s hear it.”

  “When I was a child my mother was called in for a meeting with the teacher. We had an assignment in class to say what we would like to be. Most of the children said lions or birds or a sports star, that sort of thing. I said I wanted to be a washcloth.”

  “A . . . washcloth?”

  “Yes, is that not the word? A flannel? The kind of towel used for washing up.”

  “That’s the word. Why did you want to be a washcloth?”

  “That is what the teacher wanted to know. It was because a washcloth is so useful, and everyone needs one.”

  Alex sat back and smiled. “That’s really very sweet.”

  “Do you think so? They all thought it
was odd.”

  “It is odd, but it’s also sweet.”

  He smiled and ducked his head slightly. “And then when I grew a bit older, I decided I wanted to be a butler.”

  “From washcloth to butler?” she asked with a laugh. “You don’t often see that kind of career trajectory.”

  “I did not know what a butler was, exactly. But after I realized that my dreams of becoming a washcloth were not realistic, I switched to soccer star or butler. Those were my two choices.”

  “Soccer star I get. But why butler?”

  “I like big old houses, and I like taking care of people. And it is also possible that I read too many British novels.” He put his cards down with a flourish. “Gin.”

  “What, already? No!”

  He grinned. “I have always been gifted at this game.”

  Alex laid her own cards out on the table—she was missing only one card to claim gin herself. The oil lamp and candles bathed everything in a soft light. The muffled popping and spitting of the fire, Jean-Luc’s hands shuffling the cards with surprising grace. Wind rattled the shutters, making it easy to imagine what it would be like to be out in a storm like this, exposed to the rain and the cold, yearning for the warmth signaled by the golden glow from within the house.

  I like it here, Alex thought suddenly. She liked the Bag-Noz, the old stone walls, the briny air, even the occasionally rank fish smell. She felt . . . at home. Warmed by the fire and mellowed by the wine, Alex thought of how lucky she was, ultimately, in this very moment.

  She could almost forget about that one thing lurking over her, that one thing she hadn’t prepared for.

  “Another round?” Jean-Luc asked, shuffling the cards.

  She shook her head. “You’ve won all my matchsticks.”

  “More where those came from.”

  “Rain check?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How about we play tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Let me tend to the fire, and then, may I walk you to your door?”

  He arranged the remaining wood in the fireplace so that the flames would die out, and carefully positioned the metal screen to guard against flying embers.

  “That should do it,” he said quietly, as much to himself as to her.

  As they headed toward the stairwell, Jean-Luc carried the oil lamp and she had a flashlight, but the rest of the house was pitch-black.

  Alex misjudged the height of the first stair and stumbled.

  Jean-Luc reached out for her, and as before, she pulled away.

  “Pardon,” he said. “I did not wish you to fall.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. I—I think I had a little too much wine, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I’m a clumsy sort myself. You sure you want me holding ladders for you? The two of us will make quite the pair.”

  “I’m willing to risk it if you are,” she said with a forced laugh, focusing on negotiating the rest of the stairs without tripping.

  When they reached the third-floor landing they paused in the dim hallway.

  “Anyway,” said Jean-Luc, “I will honored to be your extra set of handy hands.”

  “Thanks, Jean-Luc,” said Alex. “Bonne nuit, is it? Or bonne soirée?”

  “Bonne nuit.” He nodded. “Well done. Très bien fait.”

  They hesitated a moment, as if there was more to say. Then Jean-Luc leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks, French style. The slight rasp of his whiskers against her cheek, the scent of wine on his breath . . . Remember this, Alex.

  “Dors bien, Alex. Sleep well.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Natalie

  As she had as a child, Natalie climbed into bed with her flashlight and started looking through the old cookbook.

  Recipes dominated the pages, mostly for seafood: huîtres gratinées, moules sauce moutarde, moules panées, gratin de moules aux poireaux, moules farcies. It was hardly surprising that a cookbook by fishing villagers would focus on different types of fish and shellfish. There were also plenty of recipes for haricots de mer, literally “green beans of the sea,” by which they meant the goémon. Her eyes alighted on dessert aux algues, a dessert made with seaweed.

  Sounds scrumptious, Natalie thought. I wonder if François-Xavier will include that on his fancy new restaurant’s menu.

  Flipping through the pages, Natalie felt the link to women from another time. In the margins were charming drawings, featuring dresses and shoes. A few photos had been cut out from newspapers and magazines and pasted onto the cookbooks’ pages. Names and dates followed many of the entries: Madame Spinec, 14 Juin 1934. Madame LeRoux, 21 Décembre 1941.

  The last dated entries were from 1945. The end of World War II.

  The recipes didn’t stop at food. There were also instructions for concocting salves and mustard plasters, various types of teas for treating fevers and abdominal distress, and tinctures for pain and swelling. Some names had numbers listed next to them: Lazarette, 85x64x93 entrejambe 78; Irmine 97x76x104. “Circe” was mentioned several times as well. Were these names of islanders?

  There were also several miscellaneous notes and letters, and weather forecasts predicting rain. Lots of references to rain and rainwater, as a matter of fact.

  This was much more than a cookbook. Could it be some sort of almanac?

  Her eyes growing weary from reading by candle and flashlight, Natalie set the cookbook aside, and turned off the light, willing sleep to overtake her.

  Having Alex here with her was easier than she would have imagined—and Jean-Luc as well. It was a relief not to feel like she was facing so much all alone. And now that there was some decent money on the horizon, she didn’t have to fret about her financial situation.

  But she still hadn’t figured out what she was going to do. Should she stay on at the Bag-Noz? How would she tell everyone what was going on with François-Xavier? What would she do about her currently nonexistent follow-up to her memoir?

  Natalie remembered when she started to write Pourquoi Pas? after François-Xavier invited her to move into his tiny Parisian garret. She began without really intending to, merely jotting down a few memories of her stark childhood, which posed such a contrast to her new life, so full of love and adventure and food. Word by word, paragraph by paragraph, she began to dissect and to come to terms with her childhood and how it had, oddly enough, led her to where she was now: living in Paris with a beautiful man, learning the fine art of French cuisine.

  But just as her literary career began to take off, François-Xavier’s cooking career began to stall. Frustrated by his slow rise through the strict French restaurant hierarchy, he began to get into arguments with the chef, arguments he would inevitably lose. He started drinking too much wine at their nightly parties and calling in sick the next day because he did not feel like working. Natalie believed him when François-Xavier told her he was a true artist whose talents were not being respected or appreciated. He was on the verge of being fired when his family got in touch and begged him to come back to the Île de Feme and make something of the Bag-Noz.

  She and François-Xavier had visited the island once, and she had seen it through the eyes of a tourist: the charming stone-and-stucco houses lined up in a sweeping curve along the quay, the children playing on the beach, swimmers in wet suits diving off the point, the pétanque games and the folks sitting at café tables and along the seawall, drinking cider. The lighthouse and the strangely twisted rock formations. The gulls and gannets and other seabirds gliding along on the air currents, buffeted by ocean breezes. The sheer romance of living on an island.

  Natalie had posted to social media about that trip, shared some of the photographs she had taken of the two of them exploring the island. Her followers loved it all and clamored for more.

  So when François-Xavier came home early one day and announced he had quit the restaurant
and wanted to accept his family’s offer, it was as if fate had intervened. They would leave Paris, move to the island and renovate the historic family guesthouse to include a restaurant where François-Xavier would finally be the chef. It could not have been a more perfect ending for Pourquoi Pas?

  The thing was . . . it was easy to end a book on a high note. Real life rarely cooperated.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, as Natalie was pulling on her shorts and tank top, her eyes alit on the cookbook.

  Overnight, an idea had begun to take shape in Natalie’s mind. Instead of writing the follow-up memoir—the one that was now nothing but a litany of blatant lies about her romantic bliss on the Île de Feme—what if she used this cookbook as a guide, instead? She could fall back on what had sustained her in childhood, and what had brought her fame and fortune and love in adulthood (never mind that she had lost those last two), and she would go back to her roots: the yearning for good food, for the finer things in life. She could follow the recipes in the book, track down the descendants of the women who had contributed to it, write up family stories and vignettes of island life, and add plenty of “food porn” pics.

  That sounded good, right? That would sell. Wouldn’t it?

  On the heels of a surge of excitement over this new idea came self-doubt, low and slinky as a feral cat.

  Natalie was less and less sure of what made sense anymore, as if everything she thought she knew and understood had started to fade, melting into something she couldn’t comprehend, a watercolor left in the rain. She had not felt this lost since she’d first escaped the compound, hitching a ride to the bustle of San Francisco, and was dropped off on Mission Street, adrift in a foreign land surrounded by sounds and people and a culture she didn’t understand. Her knowledge of the world had been sketchy and random, having been gleaned from whatever books she could lay her hands on over the years. She had known so much more than other people about weird topics like butchery, but nothing about things like public transportation or modern conveniences.