The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  When I get back to the house Jane is sitting in the parlor, reading. She smiles when she sees me and puts her book down on the coffee table. “Did you have fun exploring?”

  “I don’t think I could ever tire of walking around the town,” I say, placing my bags on the floor. It’s only as I walk further into the room that I notice a man sitting on an adjacent sofa.

  “You must be Charlotte,” he says in a deep, friendly British accent as he stands, his hand extended.

  I step forward and shake it. “Yes, I am.”

  He’s tall, at least six feet. His hair is dark and wavy with a speckling of white, which makes me think he’s in his late fifties or early sixties. The blue chinos and white polo shirt he wears gives him an air of sophistication, but there’s something playful in his blue eyes. A youthfulness similar to Jane’s.

  “I’m Steve,” he says, releasing my hand. “Jane’s better half.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you.” I return his easy smile. “Your home is incredible.”

  “That’s my wife’s doing. I’ve never had much of an eye for decorating.”

  Jane laughs in good humor. “That’s probably because you’re colorblind.”

  “I only confuse the reds and greens,” he defends.

  “And browns, and oranges, and blues, and purples,” she adds.

  Steve looks at his wife with a mischievous grin. “I guess that’s why I married a blonde.”

  She gasps in mock offense and touches a hand to her red hair. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome.”

  “That I am,” he replies without an ounce of ego.

  I can tell, even with only these few moments to go off of, that I’m going to like Jane and Steve. “Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?”

  “All you need to do is show up,” Jane says.

  “I bought some wine. From the shop down the road.”

  Steve sighs jovially. “Wine is my favorite fruit.”

  “Mine too.” I laugh, picking up my bags. “Well I’m going to head up to my room to have a shower and get changed. I’ll come back down right after.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Jane says.

  Half an hour later, I return downstairs and find Jane and Steve in the kitchen. Queen plays through the speakers, the energetic beats filling the room. I’ve hardly taken two steps in when Steve sees me and hands me a glass of wine.

  “Thank you,” I say, exchanging the glass for the bottles I bought.

  “Calvados?” Steve’s face lights up. “Have you had this before?”

  “No, but the man at the shop assured me that it’s very good.”

  He hums eagerly in agreement.

  I offer to help Jane with a plate of cheese and follow her outside to the garden table. It’s already been set with plates and glasses, as well as a vase of sunflowers. Jane places the basket of bread down, and I put the cheese plate next to it before taking a seat. Steve follows behind with a casserole dish. A delicious savory smell wafts over the table.

  “This,” he says, putting it down, “is a family specialty.”

  “Steve’s mother was Italian,” Jane explains. “She taught him to make the most amazing lasagna.”

  From the smell alone, I don’t doubt it. “Thank you so much for inviting me for dinner.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Jane says, handing me the salad bowl. “We always like to eat with our guests as much as we can.”

  “So, what brings you to Bayeux?” Steve asks, taking some bread from the basket.

  I finish heaping a spoonful of salad onto my plate and pass it back to Jane. “I wanted to visit and see the area where my grandpa landed in the war.” I’m not sure why I omit my main reason for coming. Perhaps it’s that I’m barely able to admit it to myself, let alone to people I’ve just met.

  “He was American?” Steve asks.

  “A paratrooper. His regiment came in close to Utah. I’m going to do some day trips around that area. But I also want to visit the other beaches and museums, too. To learn as much as I can.”

  “Omaha is the closest beach to us,” Jane explains, cutting up the lasagna. She reaches for my plate and gives me a sizeable portion. “There’s a memorial museum there.”

  “I was thinking of going there tomorrow, actually,” I say, and thank her as I take the plate back.

  Steve tops up everyone’s wine and lifts his. “Well, welcome to Bayeux, Charlotte. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

  We all clink glasses and dig into the delicious food. Over the course of the meal I learn more about my fascinating hosts. They’re both from outside of London. Jane was an interior decorator and Steve a property developer. Five years ago, they decided to retire to Bayeux after visiting one summer and falling in love with the place. Since then, they’ve turned what was a rundown manor into a successful business.

  “And what do you do back home in the States?” Jane asks, after finishing her last bite.

  I set my cutlery down. “I teach music at Saint Anne’s. It’s a university in Seattle.”

  “Music?” Steve’s brow lifts with intrigue. “What type of music?”

  “Piano. I am, that is, I was, a pianist.”

  Jane and Steve exchange a look. “You’ll have to show her,” Jane tells him.

  “Show me what?”

  Jane waves her hand. “Go, I’ll take care of these dishes.”

  I watch, confused, as she gets up, collects the plates, and heads into the kitchen. Steve also stands, but instead of following his wife back into the house, starts down the garden path.

  “It’s this way,” he says, and I get up to follow.

  He leads me around the side of the house to a stone barn, just off the driveway, hidden behind a hedgerow and a large, sprawling tree. Steve walks up to the double wooden doors. Pushing them open, he disappears inside, flicking on the light. With a few tentative steps, I follow and stare in surprise.

  The interior of the barn has been renovated, the inside more modern than the exterior lets on. The wooden floors are polished and stained in mahogany, as are the walls. There’s a fireplace at one end of the living room, surrounded by a mantel of brick. I see a small modern kitchen in the farthest corner and stairs leading up to a loft. What’s most surprising, however, is the grand piano in the corner opposite the stairs.

  “Well, that’s unexpected,” I say with a laugh.

  “This used to be a working farm,” Steve explains. “When we moved in, someone suggested tearing down the barn, but Jane refused. She said it had potential. So, we refurbished it, added the kitchen, a bathroom, even a bedroom upstairs. We want to do some entertaining. The idea is to add seating and have some evenings with music and drinks. This door over here slides open to a view of the garden.”

  “It’s amazing.” I say, looking around. There’s a medieval chandelier hanging in the center of the tall ceiling. The windows all have wooden shutters painted teal green. I walk up to the piano and touch the black veneer, surprised at the markings. “This is a Steinway.”

  “It was my father’s. He was a concert pianist. I couldn’t leave it in London, so I had it brought over.”

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Christian Emmerson.”

  I stare at him in shock. “Emmerson? I saw him play when I was a little girl. My grandpa took me on a trip to New York, and he was playing at Carnegie Hall.”

  Steve’s smile broadens. “That’s incredible. What a small world this is.”

  “He was astonishing. He played so confidently, but with such poise.” I run my hands over the keys. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  Taking a seat at the stool, I play a few chords. The sound echoes around. “There are good acoustics in here.”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?”

  “I remember that concert in Carnegie Hall so clearly. It was one of those first moments where I knew that I wanted to be a pianist.” With my fingers at the ready, I play one of the songs I heard that night. Schum
ann’s Kinderszenen. Scenes from Childhood.

  Steve lets out a low exhale when I finish playing. “I haven’t heard anyone play that since my father passed,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you. My grandpa always loved that song.” I feel my own memories pulling at my heart. “It’s a beautiful instrument.”

  “Please play it whenever you’d like. My father would want it to be used.”

  I close the fallboard, the surreal sense lingering. It’s all too uncanny to shrug it off as happenstance. To be in another country, playing the piano of a man I once saw play back in America. I can’t help but feel like my Grandpa is watching this all, laughing in that way of his, the sound bouncing off the walls. I smile at the thought. Thousands of miles away from home, and yet somehow, even here I can find him.

  * * *

  After a quick Skype call with Fiona and Zoe, I fall asleep and don’t wake for ten hours. The jetlag knocks me out so much so that when I open my eyes the curtains are still open, and the sun is streaming in, the day well and truly underway. A glance at my phone tells me it’s just after ten o’clock.

  I take my time getting ready, enjoying a long, hot shower. The weather promises to stay fine, so I put on a pair of jeans and a white tank top. I figure I can throw a cardigan in my bag in case the temperature drops.

  Making my way downstairs, I go to the kitchen and see a plate of pastries sitting on the table, with a note telling me to help myself. I select a croissant and pour myself a cup of coffee, taking them out into the garden.

  It’s there, basking in the morning sun, that Jane finds me fifteen minutes later. “Oh good, you saw the breakfast. There’s also cereal and fruit if you’d like. Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a brick. I don’t think I woke at all.”

  “It’s a long journey you took to get here. It always takes a couple of days to adjust.”

  I notice that she has her handbag and a large sunhat. “Are you heading out?”

  “I have a brunch to go to, and Steve had to go to the market, so I was wondering if I could ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “We have a guest coming within the hour. He was supposed to be here by now, but he missed his train, so unfortunately neither Steve nor I can be here to meet him. Do you think you could give him his key?”

  “Sure. I wasn’t planning on heading out until around lunch.”

  Relief crosses her face. “Thank you so much. There’s nothing you need to do. He’s stayed with us before, so he knows the place. I’ve left his key on the table in the foyer. It’s the same room he’s stayed in. All you have to do is give him the key.”

  “I can definitely do that.”

  “You are a gem, Charlotte. I’ll be back by noon, and if you’re around for lunch we’ll make some sandwiches.”

  After she leaves, I refill my coffee and grab my notebook from my room. Picking a spot on the sofa in the parlor, I try to figure out how I’m going to get to Omaha. I find a bus that will take me, but it only operates twice a day, and I’ve already missed the first one. The next is in just under two hours.

  I open the notebook and take out my grandpa’s letter. Reading over it, I feel the urgency of my mission more keenly. The questions I have far outweigh any answers, but I know, somehow, that this is the only chance I have of finding out who she was. Here. Somewhere in this land where they met.

  Grabbing my phone, I do a search for Omaha, and start planning where I want to visit this afternoon. I find a website for the museum and am halfway through reading about the collection when the front door opens. I look up and see a man walk into the foyer.

  When Jane had said that a male guest was coming to stay, for some weird reason I’d assumed that he’d be her age. The man in the foyer, however, couldn’t be more than thirty-five. He’s tall, with dark brown wavy hair, and, god help me, one of the handsomest faces I’ve ever seen.

  I realize I’m staring and quickly avert my gaze as I get up off the sofa. He looks at me as I approach, a curious intensity in his blue eyes that makes me feel suddenly awkward. When he turns to close the door, I see the curve of his bicep showing beneath his white t-shirt.

  Stop staring.

  He says something to me in French, a question it seems, by the way he looks at me, waiting.

  I rummage through my brain for any high school French that might have stuck around. “Je suis Charlotte. Je...” Oh god, how to you conjugate verbs? I can’t remember any of it. What I wouldn’t do for that phrasebook sitting on the bedside table upstairs.

  Would it be weird if I just ran and got it? What is the French word for key? Shit, he’s still staring at me, anticipating a response.

  “Cle!” I practically yell out the word when my brain dislodges it. “J’ai une cle.” I’m somewhat certain that translates to I have a key.

  He asks something else in French, waiting for my reply, and my awkwardness escalates. I go to the table and pick up the key. “Cle,” I say, holding it up. How the hell am I going to explain this? “Jane...” I point to the door. “Retourn.” I think I just mixed up English and French. “Cle pour vous.”

  He looks at me, then at the key, then back at me, smiling. It only makes him more handsome. Dammit Charlotte, stop staring.

  I don’t think I can remember the last time I felt so embarrassed. Fuck it. “I’m sorry,” I say in the only language I know. “I don’t speak French.”

  He laughs and takes the key from me. “No you don’t, do you?”

  I glare at him. Not only is his English perfect, it’s also spoken in a perfect British accent. I have no time to question it, though. The door opens again, and a short middle-aged man steps through, rebalancing his glasses as he puts his suitcase down with a thud. Wiping a hand over his bald head, he glances between us and says something in French.

  I open my mouth to attempt a response, but Mr. England swoops in. The two men have a brief conversation as I focus on my other problem. Jane only mentioned one guest arriving, and I’m not sure which of them she intended the key for.

  I’m midway through my internal panic when the men leave suddenly for upstairs. Confused, I watch as they go to the second floor and disappear down the hall. Unsure what to do, I stand in the foyer, feeling like an idiot.

  The sound of footsteps approaches not long after, and I feel those blue eyes on me once again as he descends the stairs. When he reaches the bottom, he laughs lightly, and I can’t help but get the feeling that it’s at my expense.

  I try not to take it personally. “I was only given the one key, so you’ll have to wait for the owners to return.”

  “It’s alright,” he says, heading towards the kitchen.

  I follow behind, my confusion mounting. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  He stops and looks at me. “I’m Jonah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Charlotte.” I expect the conversation to follow some sort of natural progression, but instead, he turns down the hall and goes into the kitchen.

  Alone, I stare at the spot where he just was, wondering what the hell that was about. Who the heck is this guy? The first word that comes to mind is jerk. He knew right away that I couldn’t speak French and just toyed with me for his own amusement.

  Asshole.

  I return to the parlor, frustrated, and collect my notebook. Through the window I see a black Audi pull into the driveway. Steve gets out, grabbing some shopping bags from the trunk. I open the front door for him.

  “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  “The guest arrived,” I tell him as I follow him into the kitchen. I expect Mr. English to be there, but there’s no sign of him.

  Steve places the bags on the counter. “Ah, Francois. Did he get his key?”

  “Yeah, he’s upstairs. And someone else arrived at the same time. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Steve looks at me quizzically. “Jane said there was only one guest arriving today.”

  “He said his nam
e was—”

  “Jonah!” Steve yells, staring in surprise at the doorway where the man himself has reappeared. “I thought you were arriving tomorrow.”

  “Decided to come earlier,” Jonah says.

  Steve walks over to him and pulls him into a hug. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. How about you? You’re looking well. Have you lost some weight?”

  With a few pats of his stomach Steve grins proudly. “I’ve dropped a stone since you last saw me.”

  Jonah squeezes Steve’s shoulder and then looks at me as though only just noticing me there.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve tells me. “Charlotte, this is my son Jonah.”

  Son.

  Well, I guess that explains why he walked in like he owned the place. “We’ve met,” I say, finding myself still frustrated at how that went down.

  “Where’s Mum?” Jonah asks, dropping his gaze from mine.

  “She was at one of her brunches.” Steve goes to the counter and starts pulling items from the bags. “She just texted to say she’s on her way. Are you hungry? I’m going to make sandwiches.”

  “I could eat.” Jonah goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “You want one?”

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me. “Ah, sure,” I say.

  He twists the cap off and hands me the bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 and then takes another out for Steve. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’m going to slice the bread, there’s some charcuterie in the fridge, and we need to cut up the cheese.”

  “I can do that,” I offer, moving around to the other side of the counter. Steve hands me a knife and a cutting board.

  “How’s the business going?” Steve asks his son.

  As I work on my task, I listen to the men talk, gathering a little more information about Jonah Emmerson. From their conversation, I learn that he lives in London and owns a pub there. As Steve asks questions, I notice a hint of something beneath the surface, a strain in his voice that makes me think he’s not entirely happy with his son’s career choices.