“What’s the matter?” Fiona asks, her eyes scanning behind the camera for something. “Hang on a sec, Char. Zoe, have you seen the pacifier?”
I watch them both look around before Zoe leans over the phone, finding it somewhere I can’t see. She gives it to Kayla, who immediately starts sucking on it.
“Sorry.” Fiona looks down at the camera. “What was it you were going to say?”
“Nothing,” I tell them, not wanting to sound pessimistic.
“So how are you going to get to all those places?” Zoe asks.
I almost don’t want to tell them. “Jonah.”
“Jonah?” Zoe and Fiona exchange glances.
“Isn’t that the guy who left you in the rain?” Fiona doesn’t try to hide her skepticism.
“Yes, but he said it wasn’t deliberate and apologized.”
“Wait. Who is this guy?”
“He’s the son of the owners of the place Char is staying,” Fiona explains.
“Is he hot?”
“Really?” I ask her. “That’s what you want to know?”
“Hell yeah. Where’s your phone, Fi?”
“It’s there next to the breast pump.”
Zoe reaches behind her phone, returning with Fiona’s.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Because I want to know what kind of man he is.”
Fiona laughs. “She wants to know what kind of man he is.” The suggestion in her tone is not subtle.
“Name?”
I sigh, knowing it’s a fight I won’t win. “Jonah. Jonah Emmerson.”
Zoe does a search, her lips pursed. “What’s his profession? I need to narrow it down.”
“He owns a bar, but he also does web design.”
“He’ll have a website for sure then.” Zoe types something. “Yep, here it is.”
Fiona leans over to look at the phone. “Is there a photo?”
I see them both staring at the screen. “And?” I press.
“Char.” Zoe looks back at the camera and turns her phone around to show me. “Is this the man who’s going to drive you around the French countryside?”
The photo is recent, Jonah’s charming smile staring back at me. He’s wearing a blue shirt, bringing out the azure in his eyes. His dark hair is a little longer, curling slightly around his ears. The image cuts off at his waist, but there’s enough to show the lines of his sculptured frame.
I clear my throat. “Yep, that’s him.”
Fiona opens her mouth. “He’s um ... well, he’s...”
“Fucking hot,” Zoe finishes for her. “That there is a specimen.”
“Zoe,” I chide. “Aren’t we supposed to be above objectifying the male form?”
She scoffs. “Maybe you are, but not me.”
“I mean, he is handsome,” Fiona says.
“Shame on you,” I tease. “You’re married women.”
“Yes, but we have eyes.” Zoe sighs. “Please tells me he’s single.”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly.
They both glare at me through the camera.
“You need to find out,” Zoe demands.
“No,” I tell her, not enjoying this sudden change of focus. “Anyways, I’m not looking for anything right now. I’m here for one reason only.”
They don’t seem convinced.
There’s a knock at my door, saving me from any more scrutiny. “I have to go, guys. Someone’s at my door.”
Zoe’s eyes widen. “Maybe it’s him coming to ravish you.”
“Oh god, I’ll talk to you later. Love you both.”
I hang up the call and go to the door. With an eerie sense of déjà vu, I find Jonah leaning against the doorframe. The smile he gives me is identical to the one in the photo. My eyes go fleetingly to his hands.
I’m instantly disappointed in myself for it.
“You’re back from Paris,” I say, needing to gain control over my thoughts.
“I am.” He reaches over and retrieves two bottles of beer from a side table. “I thought you might like one.”
Suddenly nervous, I move out of the way so that he can come in. He hands me one of the bottles as he passes, our fingers touching for the briefest of moments. That deceptive fluttering returns with abandon.
“So,” he says, going to the bedroom and looking out the window and into the garden. “How was your day?”
There’s something so casual in the way he asks it, as though it’s something we’ve done a thousand times. Him standing in my room, talking about my day.
“It was quiet. I hung out in the village for a bit, and then did some reading this afternoon. How about you? How was Paris?”
He turns to me, a flicker of something I can’t name crossing his features. Then all at once it’s gone. “Paris was its usual, charming self.”
Something happened. I have no idea what, but his energy is different, burdened somehow. I drop my gaze, not wanting to stare, twist the cap the off my beer, and take a sip. Jonah moves away from the window and sits on the edge of my bed.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow then?” he asks. Though his tone is engaged, his expression is still shadowed, laden with whatever it is that’s on his mind.
“I made a list of places to visit.”
“Can I see it?”
I feel embarrassed at the lack of detail I’ve come up with. “It’s just a list of every village in the search area.” I show him the page in the notebook. “I know it’s vague.”
He scans the names. “What are you basing this search area off of?”
“The landing zones for my grandpa’s battalion.” I grab my iPad from the bedside table and bring up the file that shows where they landed. “I figured if he missed the drop zone, then he could be anywhere around this area.”
Jonah pulls the iPad closer, examining the image. “But this is just the drop zone for the 502nd.” He looks at me as though I’m supposed to follow his meaning. “That’s only one of the regiments that landed around there.”
“I know, but that’s the one my grandpa was in. 502nd, 3rd battalion.”
“Right, but you can’t rule the others out.” He brings up a search engine and starts scrolling. “Both the 101st and the 82nd Airborne divisions landed in that area. Here, look at this.”
I move closer and see two different maps of Utah. One is for the drop pattern of the 101st, the other for the 82nd. The images show little circles scattered all over the land.
“We know your grandfather landed alone, injured in a field. The first person to find him was a local woman, your grandmother.”
“That’s right.”
“If you look at these maps, each dot represents one stick. That means a plane load of paratroopers.” He looks at me like a teacher would a student, making sure they’re following. “Each map has the three landing zones of each division, but only the landings pertaining to the specific division.” He brings the one for the 82nd up. “All these dots are the sticks of the 82nd Airborne. And you can see their three drop zones were close to Gourbesville, Picauville and Sainte-Mère-Église.”
I study it closely, seeing the faint outline of the towns.
“For the most part they landed around those areas, but some went as north as Volognes, and as south as Carentan.” He pulls up the map for the 101st. “You see how it’s the same except the dots are now only for the 101st, and if you look at the two maps together it paints an idea of how many men landed in different areas.”
“And that helps us?”
“Yeah, I think so. Look at the one for the 101st. You can see that your grandfather’s regiment, the 502nd, are all the blue dots. They were aiming for drop zone A according to the legend, which is close to Saint-Martin-de-Varreville. You can see that they scattered, but a lot of them landed around Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.”
“Sorry,” I say, struggling to understand. “I’m just seeing a lot of dots and I’m not sure how they connect to helping with the
search.”
“The planes took a lot of heavy fire. Some of them veered quite a bit off course. I think your grandfather’s plane was one of those.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The maps. I know it seems like dots on paper, but we’re talking about thousands of men, and if you look at the drop zones of both divisions, there’s a lot of overlap in certain areas. The chances of him landing there and not finding a fellow soldier are significantly less than if he’d landed further out. And there’s also the case of your grandmother.”
“What about her?”
“She found him in a field. Which means she must have seen something or heard something that made her go out to look. It was in the dead of night, and the country was under curfew with German patrols. She wouldn’t have taken the risk for nothing.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I think your grandfather landed in a field where your grandmother lived.”
I think about that and see the logic behind it. Though there’s still so much uncertainty, I can’t help but find comfort in his confidence. “So where should we be looking then?”
“The area doesn’t get smaller, I’m afraid, but we move it further up, hitting everything north of Ravenoville, south of Morsalines, and east of Saint-Joseph. Those are the outskirts of where the men of 3rd battalion landed.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “That’s a lot of haystacks.”
“Small haystacks,” he says by way of consolation. “Most of these towns have a population of less than two hundred. Do you have a pen?”
I reach for the one by the lamp and hand it to him.
“I want you to read out every town that’s in that area, and I’ll write them down.”
Butchering each and every name, I read them all out loud as he writes them properly, somehow making sense of my terrible pronunciation. A few minutes later, I look at his list and count.
“That’s twenty-eight towns,” I say, horrified.
“We could probably visit at least ten a day. Some of them are really close to one another.”
Looking at the list, I have no idea how we’d go about it. “Do we start north and make our way down?”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer. “Tomorrow we can visit all the ones closest to the coast, starting in Saint-Marcouf, and working up to Morsalines.”
“But then we’d have to drive all the way back to Bayeux, only to go back that way the day after.”
“That’s why we’ll stay out there.”
I stare at him. “Stay?”
“There are plenty of places, hotels and the like. I think about three days should be enough.”
Three days on the road together.
“Are you sure you want to give up that much time?”
“I said I’d help you, Charlotte, and I mean to.” He hands me the list and stands from the bed. “Get some rest. We’ll head out early, before breakfast.”
He stops before he reaches the door and turns back, opening his mouth to say something before quickly reconsidering. Without another word, he leaves, the unspoken thought lingering in the wake of his departure.
I’m not sure why, but I get the feeling that whatever it was he was going to say might have shone some light on what happened in Paris. Though it makes no sense, I can’t shake the thought that it’s something to do with this trip we’re about to take.
That it’s something to do with me.
11
I drop my bags in the foyer and am immediately confused by the smell of sausage and eggs wafting down the hall from the kitchen. It’s early, just after six, the sun is barely up, and the house is still in slumber mode. Following the scent like a hungry dog, I find Steve at the stove, humming to himself as he flips an egg in the pan.
“Good morning,” he says bright and cheerily, seeing me at the door. “Can I interest you in some breakfast?”
My stomach rumbles in answer. “I would love to, but Jonah wanted to head out early.”
He gives me a curious look. “Where are you two off to at such an early hour?”
“Jonah’s offered to help me search for where my grandpa landed.”
Steve’s confusion is plain. “Isn’t that ... generous.”
I’m not fond of the way he lets that word hang. “Jonah mentioned that you and Jane are off to London soon.”
“Yes. We have a wedding to visit. It’s a pompous event if I don’t say so myself. The bride is the daughter of a friend of ours and you’d balk if you saw the money being spent. Alas, we couldn’t say no. We leave on Sunday.” He sprinkles some salt over the eggs. “Jonah’s going to be taking care of the place while we’re gone, so you’ll be in good hands.”
I feel my cheeks warm at the mention of Jonah’s hands. That damn dream is still haunting me.
“Will you two be back before dinner? I was thinking of making a curry.”
“Dinner in three days’ time?” I ask.
Steve turns to me, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean by three days’ time?”
“Oh, sorry. I thought Jonah would have told you.” It’s clear by Steve’s bewilderment that he didn’t. Well, this is awkward. “We’re going to be gone for a few days, searching up around the Cotentin peninsula.”
He lowers his gaze, but I can see his thoughts are burdened. “You’ll be back by Saturday though?” There’s the subtlest hint of urgency in his voice, but I catch it all the same.
“I’m not sure. We can be though, if you need Jonah back by then.”
Steve gives me a small smile. The usual sparkle in his eyes is gone, however.
“You ready to go?”
I turn and see Jonah behind me. “My bag is in the foyer,” I say.
“So.” Steve turns, moving the pan off the burner. “Charlotte tells me you’re going for a road trip.”
There’s unmistakable tension in the air.
“We’ll only be gone a few days,” Jonah says. “I’ll be back before you leave.”
Steve murmurs in consideration. “All went well in Paris yesterday? Catriona doing well?”
The tension strains significantly.
“Call if you need me,” Jonah says.
“And what about Saturday?” Steve asks, causing Jonah to stop in his tracks. “Are you intending to be here?”
I look between the two men, realizing I shouldn’t be present for whatever this conversation is. With Jonah blocking the path to the hallway, however, I have no choice but to stay where I am.
“Do you really want me here?” Jonah’s question falls heavy on Steve’s face.
“It would mean a lot to your mother.”
Jonah scoffs. “You know, I doubt that, Dad.”
I feel him move away but keep my eyes on Steve. “I’ll make sure we’re back by Saturday,” I say, having no idea what I’m promising.
He looks at me, his eyes softening. “Thank you, Charlotte. Good luck with your search.”
* * *
The tension from the house follows us to the car. Of the many questions running rampant through my brain, there are two that persist. Why is Saturday important to the Emmersons, and what did Steve mean by his comment about Catriona?
I remember her name. She was the Irish woman who called the other day when Jonah drove me to Omaha. The conversation had been brief, but a history between them was clear.
So, she was the reason he went to Paris.
Was she also the reason he came back upset?
I don’t ask Jonah any of this. In fact, I don’t say anything to him until we reach the outskirts of town. We stop outside a café, and the second he cuts the ignition, I can’t take another moment of the silence.
“Jonah,” I say cautiously. “Is everything okay?”
For the briefest second there’s a look in his eyes that has me thinking he might tell me the truth, but it’s fleeting.
“Come on,” he says, opening his door. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
Five minutes la
ter, we return to the car with coffee and an assortment of pastries. Since it’s obvious Jonah doesn’t want to talk about what happened this morning, I try a different route. “How exactly are we going to go about searching for my grandmother in each town?”
Jonah takes a bite of his apple turnover. “We’ll ask.”
“What, like knock on doors?” Surely he doesn’t mean that.
“If we have to.”
I tear off a piece of croissant and mull it over. Twenty-eight towns. That’s a hell of a lot of doors. “Any specific ones we should try first?”
“Any one that opens.”
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
He shrugs and pulls out of the parking lot. “Most of these places have churches. Our best bet is to start there.”
I’d never considered a church before, but it makes sense. Since I’ve been in Normandy, I’ve seen countless churches in each of the villages I’ve passed through. Most of them appear to be older than the towns themselves. A perfect place to check for records.
“Did you grow up religious?” I ask as we merge onto the highway heading west.
“Not overtly.” He checks his blind spot and changes lanes. “It was present, in school, but my parents never forced it.”
I think about my own experiences with religion. “My grandpa said music was as close as you could get to God. He told me that a life spent at the piano was better than a life spent at an altar.”
Jonah shifts gears and picks up his coffee. “Sounds like he was a smart man.” He blows gently over the lid and takes a sip. “What kind of music did you grow up with?”
“Everything. Grandpa taught piano, so there was a lot of classical played in the house, but he loved all types of music so long as it was played well.”
“Did he teach you to play?”
“Yeah.” I tear off another piece of croissant. “He started teaching me when I was four.”
Jonah glances at me. “You learned to play at four?”
“I started learning at four. I didn’t become proficient until I was around ten.”
He doesn’t hide his skepticism. “You were proficient by ten?”
“More or less.”
A sudden thought lands on his face. “Wait a second, are you telling me you were some kind of child prodigy?”
The Sea of Lost Things Page 10