Speaking of mental space . . . Natalie had a phone appointment with her agent. She sat at her desk, looked out at the garden, and steeled herself.
“Sorry, Natalie,” said Sandy, “but the market’s been flooded with cookbooks. Unless you’re a celebrity chef or some kind of Food Network personality, they’re just not selling.”
“But people love cookbooks.”
“They do, but not from you. I mean, just how many fish pies do you think your average American is interested in reading about? Unless you can make it a diet cookbook. Any way you can do that?”
“The Île de Feme diet cookbook?” Natalie said, irked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, it’s fish,” Sandy said. “That’s good for diets, right?”
“Not when it’s cooked in a pie.”
“True. Now, the salted caramel topping, that’s great stuff. I love that stuff. But it won’t sell books all by itself.”
“But what about all the island color? The stories from the elderly islanders, the legends, the photos . . . ?”
“They don’t want a travelogue, either. Natalie, your readers want love, romance, adventure. Excitement. Frankly, this thing reads flat. I mean, I’m sure I could find a place for it, maybe get your publisher to issue it alongside the real book. But I need the one they contracted for.”
One of the things Natalie used to like about Sandy was that she didn’t mince words. If her agent didn’t like something, she said so, which was the sort of in-your-face directness Natalie had grown up with. At the moment, though, Natalie would not have minded a little kid-glove treatment. She already felt raw and vulnerable, and Sandy’s bluntness wasn’t helping.
“Listen, don’t take it so hard. This is what happens when your debut book is a breakout success,” Sandy continued, her tone a bit gentler. “There’s nowhere to go but down. I’ve seen it play out a hundred times. Nothing personal, but we need more . . . inspiration. You’re an inspirational author, after all. That’s your brand.” There was a pause. “So, how’s François-Xavier?”
“He’s fine.” Did Sandy know? Should Natalie tell her?
“Good. Keep your eye on the ball, Natalie. The cookbook’s a cute side dish, but it’s not the main course.”
* * *
• • •
Trying to process this latest news from her agent, Natalie walked out to the cove, kicked off her shoes, and let her feet sink into the sand, then spent a good half an hour poking around and collecting shells and sea glass. She thought of the costumes in the trunk in the parlor, and of the outlandish tale Ambroisine had told them about the one-night-only spectacle at the Abri du Marin. Funny that the building now housed the island’s museum. She made a mental note to speak to the museum’s director about donating the two robes noires and jibilinnen, plus the cabaret costumes. But maybe she should first get Ambroisine’s permission to share the Circe story. No need to flirt with any more curses.
As she strolled along the seawall toward the Bag-Noz, Natalie noticed a clutch of half a dozen young women lingering outside the gates, taking selfies.
Damn it. It was too late to duck into the passageway and enter through the garden gate. She had already been spotted.
“Wait. You’re her, right?” asked one pretty young woman who looked like she was in her early twenties. Her eyes flickered over Natalie’s windblown hair, casual dress, all the way down to her sandy feet. “You’re Natalie Morgen the author?”
Natalie considered trying to deny it, but figured it would only make things worse. So she straightened her shoulders, pasted on a smile, and waded into the fray.
“I am, yes!” she said. “Where are you all from?”
“We’re on a study abroad in Paris, but we’ve read your book.”
“Oh, isn’t that lovely?” said Natalie. She noticed none of them carried the book with them, so she assumed they had not come in search of her autograph. So why were they there?
“So, where’s François-Xavier?” one of them asked.
“He’s in Paris at the moment,” said Natalie.
One of the girls giggled and asked if she could get a selfie with Natalie, and Natalie agreed. Then they all joined in, and started posting from their phones, giggling more.
“The thing is, Natalie, we just took these in Paris,” said one of them, showing her a selfie with François-Xavier and Celeste Peyroux. “They said they’re opening a restaurant together there. Don’t they look cute together?”
Natalie felt her face flame, and wondered how obvious it was in bright daylight. I should have seen this coming, she thought, feeling like not only a fraud but a fool. She looked longingly at the front door of the Bag-Noz.
“So we were wondering,” said another young woman. “What’s going on? Are you two still together?”
“I gotta say,” said still another, “he doesn’t sound like a man who’s coming back here. He said he wouldn’t live anyplace but Paris.”
“Big words for a guy without a nickel in his pocket,” said Alex, who was suddenly standing at the gate, no doubt attracted by the hubbub. The gate squeaked as she opened it. “I keep forgetting to fix that,” she muttered, then turned to the crowd.
“The next time you see François-Xavier”—Alex practically spat his name—“be sure to ask him how he can afford to live in Paris and open a restaurant, considering he hasn’t had a job since his last position as a line cook more than a year ago. Could it be he’s now mooching off his rich new girlfriend?”
The young women looked surprised.
“He’s super hot,” one said.
“You think so?” Alex asked, her tone skeptical. “Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want a man who can be bought. When it comes to love, you get what you pay for.”
“What do you know about love?” one said tartly.
“Not a lot, but more than you apparently. Just think about it. In any case, don’t you have your own lives to lead? Run along now, pretty ones. Go break some shallow hearts. That’s it, shoo.”
The young women laughed a little uncertainly and sauntered off. Alex wrapped her arm protectively around Natalie and led her inside.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked as soon as she closed the front door behind them.
“I wish you hadn’t said that about the money. It makes me look like an even bigger fool than I already am. Also, give the devil his due: François-Xavier’s a really good cook.”
“And a rotten human being. My conscience is clear.”
“Alex, you are looking at a so-called ‘inspirational’ author who has no manuscript, no boyfriend, no money, and is fresh out of ideas.”
“I take it the call with your agent didn’t go well?”
“You could say that. And you heard those people out there—it’s going to be all over social media, and all over this island. What am I going to do?”
“This is just a shot in the dark, Nat,” said Alex, “but have you thought about just telling the truth?”
Natalie made a snorting noise, and Alex handed her a tissue.
“I don’t know anything about maintaining a platform or a social media presence,” said Alex, “much less writing a whole book. I can barely manage to compose a grocery list. But it feels like it’s time for you to embrace who you really are, however trite that might sound.”
Natalie sniffed. “I was thinking maybe I could post some photos of me with Milo.”
“Seriously?” Alex gave her a scathing look.
“Hey, it’s better than nothing.”
“You’re missing the point, Nat. I mean, do you even want Milo or François-Xavier? Imagine there was no one following you on social media and no one on the Île de Feme even knew who you were. Would you still want to be with either of them?”
No. The answer popped into Natalie’s heart before her brain could formulate a response. Slowly, she shook her h
ead.
“Well, then?” asked Alex.
“Then what’s my next step?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
* * *
• • •
Natalie grabbed a big floppy hat and a pair of huge sunglasses, hoping not to be recognized and waylaid again, and started walking as long and hard as a person could on the Île de Feme. It was only about a mile and a half, but she figured scrambling over the rocks counted as extra. At last she reached the lighthouse, climbed the tower steps, and stepped out onto the catwalk.
The wind immediately caught her hat, and as she grabbed for it, she knocked off her sunglasses, which fell to the rocks below. Natalie watched as the straw hat wafted on the breeze, headed out to sea.
So much for disguises.
Natalie gazed down upon the little stone chapel and thought of the Gallizenae stirring up the winds with their magical charms, transforming into mermaids as they pleased, and forbidding men from entering their sacred groves or perching on their rocky ledges.
Could the Gallizenae be sending Natalie a not-so-subtle sign?
She thought once more of what James Baldwin wrote, that true joy comes alongside the knowledge that we will die one day. In this way, if no other, The Commander had it right: Tomorrow was not promised to any of us, and if it did come, it would almost certainly not arrive in the form one desired or anticipated.
Where their father erred, though, was in insisting that if one prepared well enough, tomorrow wouldn’t defeat you.
Which wasn’t to say that a person in California shouldn’t have an earthquake kit, or that a Féman dealing with sea-level rise shouldn’t know how to navigate a boat. But perhaps it was precisely the ever-present threat of those disasters that helped people to embrace their authentic lives, to live fully in the here and now.
Because no one sees the lighthouse beacon until it’s dark, and it’s never more welcome than during a storm.
Natalie wasn’t even sure what that meant, but the words came to her with such force that she quickly descended the winding steps of the tower and marched the length of the island back to the Bag-Noz, went straight into her study, and sat down at her computer.
She wrote: “I’ve been living a lie.”
And then she hesitated.
Way to start, Nat, she told herself. Don’t stop now.
She took a deep breath, and plunged in, the words flowing out of her. She would have to revise and polish, and she honestly had no idea if anyone would want to read any of it. But it was her truth and she was not about to staunch the flow. Never deny the muse, she always told prospective writers. Maybe it was about time she took her own advice.
I moved to Paris and fell in love, and then my Prince Charming and I moved to an island off the Wild Coast of Brittany, and I thought I was living a dream. I was invited into a beautiful old stone home that needed fixing up, given a promise of running a guesthouse and restaurant, and even welcomed into an extended family.
But here’s the truth: I’ve been lying. To my friends, to my family, and—perhaps least forgivable of all—to my readers, to the people who believed in me and supported my dream all these years.
And needless to say, I’ve been lying to myself.
I moved to the Île de Feme with a man I loved, and who I thought loved me. And it was beautiful—for a while. And then the whole affair took on the rank odor of a fish left out too long in the sun.
I moved to the Île de Feme, and my life fell apart.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Violette
While most of the island’s women were busy in our sewing circles, another team of women and children decorated the Abri du Marin. As with the costumes, the decorating team was constrained by a lack of resources, but they made do: Noëlle came up with a series of colorful posters in the style of Toulouse-Lautrec that brightened up the Abri’s dark wood walls, and the children made long garlands from seaweed studded with feathers that were strewn from beam to beam. Every household on the Île de Feme, it seemed, had contributed something—tablecloths and candles, dishes and silverware—to make the setting inviting. Heirloom vases held wildflower nosegays; prized silver candlesticks glittered in the lamplight.
Meanwhile, Madame Thérèse and Ambroisine concocted a very special elixir. Madame Thérèse refused to share her recipe, leaving us no choice but to trust that she knew what she was doing.
She handed me a jar along with instructions, saying: “This must be measured out very carefully. Too little and they won’t sleep. Too much and we will have hundreds of dead soldiers on our hands, and the vengeful wrath of the Nazis will descend upon the Île de Feme.”
On the night of the spectacle, my hands shook as I measured the liquid precisely, adding it drop by drop to the barrels of cider that the German soldiers themselves had contributed from their supplies.
Still wearing my robe noire and jibilinnen, I lingered behind the barrels and watched as the soldiers began to arrive at the Abri, in high spirits at the prospect of the evening’s entertainment. They joked with one another, nudging and winking. I could not understand their words, but was again struck by their youth. Most were mere boys, far from home. I doubted they understood why they were here, on this island off the coast of Brittany, any more than we did.
I prayed I had applied the sleeping potion properly. I prayed my actions would not harm anyone.
“Halt! This is a crime,” a harsh voice barked.
I froze and slowly turned around.
“I thought it was you,” said Hans, his pale eyes sweeping over my robe noire and jibilinnen. “I was anticipating seeing you bedecked in the gifts of the sea, a veritable Venus rising from a clamshell, guesthouse girl.”
Hans knew my name. He just refused to use it.
He continued: “Is Rainer the only one to see what lies beneath those black skirts?”
I forced myself to remain calm, to play along. “He wouldn’t let me dress up,” I said with a pout. “Rainer has promised to marry me now that my husband has perished.”
“Ha!” Hans scoffed. “I must say, my respect for Rainer has grown. I have underestimated him. Still, it is a shame. I was looking forward to the view.”
Noëlle walked up and looped her arm through his. “There is plenty to see, mein Herr. Allow me to show you.”
I watched, speechless, as my old friend flirted with the despised enemy. Her ink-stained hands were hidden by long white gloves that reached past her elbows, a high feathered headdress adorned her dark hair, and a beaked mask hid her eyes. But the rest of her was exposed in such a manner that I felt myself blushing. Shells and feathers had been sewn onto a skillfully crafted patchwork of silk and muslin that clung to her breasts and waist, ending in a short skirt made of a fringe of shells that clacked when she moved.
The island women were typically modest, even amongst other women. I had not seen Noëlle’s legs since we were children, much less the outline of her breasts. And the way she was posing now, her chest thrust out, leaning into Hans . . . she could well have been Circe herself, taming a lion or bewitching one of Odysseus’s men.
When Hans spoke his voice was husky. “Now that’s more like it, madamoiselle.”
The Abri was filling quickly with men in neat but drab army uniforms. In contrast, the feathered island creatures flitted this way and that, like fantastical beings. They had transformed into Circe’s sirens, whirling and swooping, feathers swaying and shells shaking.
The men’s slack-jawed expressions, from officers to the youngest soldier, reflected fascination and desire. Or perhaps the elixir was already having an effect. Part of me yearned to stay and watch the island women cast their spell over these soldiers, these invaders. But we each had our role to play and mine was elsewhere.
It was now or never.
While Noëlle mesmerized Hans, I slipped out of the Abri du M
arin. There was no one to stop me; even the soldiers assigned to guard the shore had been invited to the spectacle. Nothing ever happened on the island, and the officers could hardly deny the men a single evening of fun and frolic.
So no one noticed as two black-clad figures hurried along the path toward the lighthouse.
As we had planned, Rainer veered off in the direction of the Chapel of Saint Corentin and was soon swallowed by the dark night.
A lone soldier stood watch at the base of the lighthouse. He was very young, and I recognized him as one who was kind to the elderly and was often seen giving the island cats tidbits from his own meals.
“Halt! Was machst du hier?” he demanded as I approached.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte,” I said, before reverting to French. I held up my offerings and hoped he would understand my meaning. “I come from the festivities. I bring you a slice of gâteau Breton and a little beer.”
“Das kann ich nicht akzeptieren, fräulein,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Pourquoi pas?” I asked, gazing at him through my lashes. “They left you all alone, didn’t let you have fun with the others. It’s just me. . . . What could happen?”
We didn’t speak each other’s language, but I got my point across.
I sat with him and listened while he spoke in German for what felt like a very long time, refilling his mug of beer until finally Madame Thérèse’s elixir put the young soldier to sleep. Rainer joined me then and together we tied him up, and I stayed with the unconscious man as Rainer went into the lighthouse and up the stairs, his steps ringing out loudly on the metal treads, the sound reverberating in the tower. If all went to plan, Henri Thomas would be waiting for him at the top to help with the signal.
The young soldier was sleeping and bound with strong rope, so I went to stand by the chapel to see what was happening. I closed my eyes for a moment, praying. After what seemed like hours, the tower beacon started flashing, long and then short, in code.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 36