by Chloé Duval
This story is for all the knitters throughout the world
who have yet to meet their Prince Charming . . . and
for those lucky enough to have found him.
Stolen Time
Chloé Duval
Translated from the French by
Domitille Vimal du Monteil
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Le Temps Volé by Chloé Duval © Bragelonne 2015 Translated from French by Domitille Vimal du Monteil © Bragelonne 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: June 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0088-0
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0088-3
ISBN: 978-1-5161-0088-0
Dear Reader,
First of all, I want to thank you for buying this book, Stolen Time. The story and its characters have a special place in my heart, and I can’t tell you how glad I am to be able to share them with you. I hope you’ll love them as much as I do.
Now, as this book takes place in France, I thought I’d fill you in on a few details about the French school system, the Compagnons, and a few other things.
In this book, you will meet Flavie Richalet. In her spare time, Flavie is a romance novelist and a knitter, but her first job is to teach history and geography in a public middle school. Let me tell you a bit about how the French school system works: In most French primary, middle, and high schools, pupils go to school all day on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and in the morning on Wednesday and Saturday. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons and weekday evenings are devoted to homework and extracurricular activities like sports. Clubs don’t meet on Sunday, so the pupils stay home to study or spend time with their families.
Contrary to the American system, class appellations work backward from the last high school year, which is called terminale (equivalent to the twelfth grade). So after primary school, the first year of middle school is called sixième (which means sixth and is equivalent to sixth grade), the second year is cinquième (fifth, equivalent to seventh grade), and so on till you reach the seconde (second, equivalent to tenth grade), the première (first, equivalent to eleventh grade) and the terminale (twelfth grade). Flavie teaches pupils from sixth to ninth grades, so from the sixième to the troisième in the French system. Secondary education establishments are divided into middle schools and high schools. Middle school goes from sixième to troisième (four years) and high school from seconde to terminale (three years). Most cities and towns have primary schools and middle schools, but in the country, pupils often have to go to the nearest town to go to high school. When you reach the terminale (last year of high school), you graduate with a high school diploma called baccalauréat , which allows you to go to university. But that’s another story.
Another important and lesser known aspect of French culture that my book introduces is the Compagnons du Devoir, a century-old institution that stems from the guilds of the Middle Ages. Its main goal is to train young people to become master craftsmen, such as stonemasons (like my hero), or bakers, landscapers, locksmiths, blacksmiths, etc. The compagnonnage is much more than just training for a trade. It’s also a way of life. As they train and work, Compagnons live together in a kind of boarding house, administered by a housemother. The Compagnon way of life is one that fosters values like generosity, cooperation, and the pursuit of knowledge. You will learn more about this way of life and how it shaped my hero’s character.
Last, but not least, a few key events of my story take place on the famous Bastille Day, the fourteenth of July. On this holiday, every city in France celebrates the Storming of the Bastille, which took place on July 14, 1789—an event that would lead to the French Revolution, and the end of centuries of absolute monarchy and the divine right of kings. On that day, nobody works (except hospitals, firefighters, and all emergency services, of course). Shops and malls, offices and factories are all closed, and cities and towns commemorate the Storming of the Bastille with fireworks and, in many cities, with open-air dances too, sometimes called the firefighters’ ball. In Paris, military troops march down the Champs-Elysées to demonstrate the country’s fighting power. The air force puts on a beautiful show with blue-white-red smoke. The whole show is broadcast on TV, so many people enjoy watching it from the comfort of their homes.
Some fireworks are truly spectacular and very famous throughout the country, like the ones in La Baule or Nice, displayed on the beach, above the sea, or the one in Paris, displayed on the Champ de Mars, next to the Eiffel Tower.
Contrary to what the Fourth of July represents to the American people, the true meaning of Bastille Day seems to have dimmed in the last decades—even though the celebrations are still very popular and well attended. Nowadays, people enjoy the day off from work, and use the time to do fun activities with the children, or visit with friends, just like they do on any other national holiday.
I hope those few facts will allow you to better delve into the story, and understand the ins and outs of the choices each character has made. Thank you again for reading Stolen Time. Don’t hesitate to let me know what you thought about the book! I’d love to hear from you!
Happy reading!
Chloé
Prologue
Karouac, Brittany
September 4, 1975
It was the most important day of her life.
She’d been waiting and preparing for this day for weeks, and she should have been deliriously happy. She should have been lighthearted and smiling.
But instead, she felt strange and uncomfortable. As though she was forgetting something important. As though she was about to make a mistake.
It’s just apprehension, she told herself. The usual jitters all women feel before they commit for life.
But did all women think of their first love on their wedding day?
Amélie closed her eyes, and Erwan’s beautiful face appeared in her mind. She pictured his irresistible smile, his gray-blue gaze, his unruly hair, always too wild to lie flat. She felt his rough hands on her skin, his lips on hers, as though it were only yesterday that they had lain together on the beach.
She shook her head, willing herself to dismiss the memory. It was foolish to think of him, especially right before her wedding. It had been so long ago . . . four years, almost to the day. He’d obviously forg
otten her, moved on with his life. He’d never written to her, never phoned her, never gotten in touch with her. She’d waited weeks, months even, for him to reach out to her, before she’d accepted the truth. It had only been a summer fling. So she’d grieved, but then looked to the future. She’d thrown herself into her studies in fashion-design school to forget. Forget all about him.
And now she was finally happy. She’d finished school and gotten the job of her dreams with a small fashion company that appreciated her style and her slightly extravagant ideas. It was almost more than she’d ever expected. Moreover, she was about to marry a wonderful man, one who loved her more than anyone and whom she loved very much. She knew they’d have a great life together.
So why? Why was she thinking of the past, of a painful, best-forgotten period of her life, on the day she was going to marry Paul, for better or for worse?
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart, her nerves, her mind. She patted her veil, smoothed a few nonexistent creases in her satin and lace wedding dress. She’d designed it herself, and it was stunning, even if she said so herself. It was the dress of her dreams.
Again, Erwan appeared in her mind’s eye.
“For God’s sake!” she swore, cutting herself off immediately.
Someone knocked on the door and her mother peered in. “Are you ready, sweetheart?” Viviane Lacombe asked, beaming.
Amélie cast a last glance into the mirror, took a deep breath, and nodded. “I am.”
It was no longer time to wonder about the past.
So, she left her home, the home where she grew up, and, lifting the hem of her dress in one hand, her father at her side, her mother in front of her, beaming much more than her daughter was, Amélie slowly walked the short distance to the beautiful church of Karouac, where her parents had been married. Paul was waiting for her there. Her family was waiting for her. The minister, and all their friends, were gathered here today to celebrate her wedding to the love of her life. She couldn’t wait to go in and marry Paul, the man who had always been there for her. Who loved her more than anything else. She couldn’t wait to start her life. The life she had chosen for herself.
Yet before she walked into the church, she couldn’t help stopping to gaze around, searching for a face, a smile. She shook her head and cursed the damn memories trying to spoil the happiest day of her life. She turned back and smiled at her father, took hold of his proffered arm, and waited for her cue.
* * *
Hidden in the shade of a porch, unseen, Erwan watched as the love of his life walked into the church on her father’s arm to marry another man.
He’d been too late, and he’d lost her once again—forever.
He tamped down the urge to enter the church and beg Amélie, on his knees if need be, to come with him, repeating what he’d written in that unanswered letter four years ago, and walked away, his heart breaking, leaving Karouac behind him.
Once again, and forever.
Chapter 1
Karouac, Brittany
May 2016
The letter came on a Tuesday.
That sentence alone would make a great title for a novel, although my editor would want it shortened. But I thought it was catchy, to the point, and mysterious. It sparked my imagination. What was in the letter? What was so special about it? Why would someone write a novel about that particular letter?
People write millions of letters every day; well, maybe only thousands now that the digital era has pretty much killed traditional mail. So why the fuss?
Because it wasn’t just any other letter.
This one was special. It wasn’t an advertisement for the latest shop, it wasn’t another annoying scam asking for money. It wasn’t a bill either—which is a good thing, because I hate bills as much as I hate phone surveys.
It wasn’t any of the above. It was a handwritten letter from one real person to another. From a man to a woman. A man who—
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?
* * *
So the letter came on a Tuesday.
Barring a few details, that day started like any other.
The morning sun shone brightly for the first time after weeks and weeks of endless rain that everyone in Brittany was fed up with. It was May, and to my delight, I’d finally slipped into the first sundress of the year. At long last, spring had arrived, bringing with it a fresh breeze of optimism and happiness.
As was—and still is, actually—so often the case, I’d woken up in front of my computer, bleary-eyed from the lack of sleep, still halfway into my characters’ minds.
I write love stories—romantic love stories, erotic love stories, and everything in between. I write the books for myself first, because serious teacher though I may be, I still have a soft heart, and I love romantic and emotionally moving stories that come with a happily-ever-after; for my friends second, because it’s fun sharing my stories over a couple of rows of moss- or rib stitches; and thirdly for my fans and the readers of the world, because a little romance never killed anyone—and neither did a lot of romance—and our lives are serious enough as they are.
That day, I’d spent most of the night writing—the last four hours, to be precise, which meant my total amount of sleep was much too little for comfort and especially short of the “beauty sleep” mark. But I didn’t have anyone to look good for, so who cares?
Still half asleep, I’d headed to the middle school where I taught history and geography. Some light makeup and a business-casual outfit had hidden most of my sleep deprivation, but my brain had had a hard time picking up the pieces. I’d need all my wits and a large amount of tea not to get all my lessons confused.
Because even though they may be adorable (most of the time) and understanding (more or less), there is nothing in the world a student likes better than to be able to tell a teacher she’s wrong. And I’d rather avoid that, thank you very much.
* * *
So, after a mildly difficult day—I’d taught four classes and marked a heap of homework in my trademark purple pen, the one extravagance I allowed to disrupt my sensible, well-behaved teacher image—I dashed home just long enough to grab my knitting, some cookies I’d baked the day before, and the notebook I always kept in my purse, and headed toward the center of Karouac, the charming little Breton town—complete with narrow cobblestoned streets and half-timbered or gray-stone houses—where I had been living for the last few years. Vic and the others were probably already waiting for me at her shop, Le Fil d’Ariane.
Though infrequent at first, our Tuesday evening knitting meetings had quickly become a regular fixture in my busy week—and something I needed as much as writing or breathing. It was my way of relaxing, of turning off my overwrought brain and imagination. Some people do yoga or martial arts. I knit, and once a week, in rain, shine, or snow—rare though that may be around here—I grabbed my needles and met up with my friends in Karouac’s only knitting and sewing shop.
Victoire, the owner, was the “mom” of our group. The shop was her baby, her creation, the symbol of the new life she’d built in spite of the obstacles in her path. She’d opened nearly ten years ago, upon inheriting a tidy sum from her late grandmother. Thirty-two years old and married to a notoriously unfaithful man, Vic had followed her grandmother’s advice and reclaimed both her freedom and her maiden name before starting again from scratch. After some difficult times (the joys of living in a small town with some quite busy busybodies), her shop had prospered, becoming the lively, colorful image of its owner, and one we cheerfully invaded every week.
The knitting circle—my preferred nickname for our group—had started with Victoire and Cécile, the oldest member and my first friend in Karouac. For some months after the shop opened, while Vic struggled with bills and a lack of customers, the circle had numbered only two. Vic likes to say that without Cécile’s unwavering support, she would probably have given up. It was Cécile who had not only suggested a knitting
circle, but also had brought Bérénice and Angélique into the fold, and later myself, once I’d moved to Karouac.
I’ll probably be grateful to her for the rest of my life.
The knitting circle is more than friends—it’s family. After five years in their company, I couldn’t imagine life without them, without their jokes and their advice, and especially not without their unconditional friendship.
* * *
They were nearly all there when I breezed in, somewhat disheveled by the unrelenting Breton sea wind—why did I decide to walk here, again?
“Hi, everyone!” I said as the door tinkled shut.
Vic, Cécile, and Bérénice immediately smiled and greeted me. Only Angélique was missing.
“Hi, Flavie!”
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hi,” I repeated. “How’re you all doing?”
“Fine, fine!” replied Vic.
“Me too. So, what’s up?” asked Cécile.
I dropped into my chair and sighed deeply. “Ladies, the situation is critical. I’m pretty sure my students think I’m an idiot.”
As I spoke, I opened the tin of cookies and set it on the table. “Help yourselves. I’ve brought the dessert.”
I took the lead and bit into one of the cookies, trying not to moan with delight. I’d baked Kinder chocolate cookies, which, in my eyes, are the closest you can get to heaven on earth. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they’ve been banned in some place or other.
“Flavie, you’re the best!” Vic exclaimed.
“Great!” Cécile said. “I’m starving.”
“So,” Bérénice asked in a soft voice while munching on a cookie, “what did your students do this time?”