Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  “They handed in the homework I assigned,” I said, my mouth full.

  “So far, so good,” Bérénice responded.

  “I skimmed through it before coming over here, just to get an idea of what to expect. Guess what?”

  “They cheated?” Vic guessed.

  “And the winner is . . .” I said with a flourish. “They copied the Wikipedia page. Did they seriously think if they added a couple of spelling mistakes I wouldn’t notice?”

  “All of them?” Bérénice asked, shocked.

  “No, but at least three. And you know what annoys me most?”

  “I’m guessing we’re about to find out,” Vic said with a smile.

  “Among the three, there’s a very smart girl who is perfectly capable of handing in excellent homework! She doesn’t need to cheat. The other two are full of big ideas, and they are more of a challenge. But I don’t know. I kinda feel like a failure, since I didn’t succeed in teaching them the values they’re going to need in life.”

  “Wow, hold your horses, there!” Cécile interjected. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself? There have always been cheaters. It doesn’t mean you’re not a good teacher . . . This one isn’t on you.”

  I sighed again. “I don’t know, Cess. Sometimes I wonder whether I make a real difference. I feel like I’m not helping them.”

  “Don’t let it get to you, though.” Vic was always the most pragmatic of us all. “You can’t save the world, you can only teach history and geography. Don’t tie yourself into knots. Here, have another cookie.” She slid the tin toward me. “Everything looks better with a little sugar in your system.”

  “Vic’s right. Not just about the sugar,” Bérénice added with a smile as I selected the largest cookie. Sugar was a way of life for Bérénice. Her cookies, pastries, and cupcakes were the best for miles around. She had her own pastry shop, Les Délices de Bérénice. “You shouldn’t take it to heart. You’re doing your best, and that’s what matters.”

  “My best isn’t enough, unfortunately.”

  “You’re not a social worker. It’s not your job to save them.” Cécile was emphatic. “Leave the superheroing to people who get paid for it. When I show someone a house, I don’t tell them how they should decorate. That’s not part of my job.”

  When she wasn’t knitting (for herself, for us, or for the homeless), Cécile was a real estate agent, and had been for years. Some people help you find your soul mate, she liked to say, I help you find a home. She’d been the one to find the location for Le Fil d’Ariane and Les Délices de Bérénice, as well as my own house. I’d been a fresh-faced graduate when I’d come to Karouac a few years ago, ready to save the world one student at a time, and Cécile had helped me buy the lovely little cottage I lived in today.

  “My job,” she continued, “is to help people find the home of their dreams. What they do with it is not my concern. Being a teacher is the same. Your role is to give your students the keys to understanding the world so they can make their own decisions. You can’t decide for them and solve all their problems.”

  I wanted to tell Cécile that she might be right—a common occurrence—but it still bothered me that my kids would prefer to waste their brain cells copying from the internet rather than think for themselves. I viewed it as a personal failure.

  The doorbell interrupted me, however, and Angélique’s entrance meant the conversation would go in another direction, which suited me just fine. For once, I didn’t entirely agree with my friends on how far I should be involved in my students’ lives, but I was too exhausted to think about it anymore. For now, at least.

  The rest of the conversation would have to wait for my brain to reboot.

  “Hi, everyone, sorry I’m late!” Angélique apologized as she rushed in.

  Angélique was the only member of the circle to be officially “off the market.” She had an adorable son, Olivier, whom she occasionally brought with her so we could coo at him with all our might, something we had no trouble doing.

  “Hey, Angel.” I smiled warmly at her. “What’s up? No baby today?”

  She sat down and took out her own knitting. “His father’s looking after him. How ’bout you? Oh, cookies. Did you make them, Flavie?” I nodded, and she helped herself to one. “You’re fabulous, and they are delicious! You really need to give me the recipe. And Bérénice too. You might want to start selling fancy cookies,” she added, turning to Bérénice.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing!” Bérénice answered.

  “Angel, you can’t even manage pasta,” Cécile reminded her, unable to resist teasing Angélique. “Forget about the cookies.”

  “I wouldn’t bake them—Hervé would!”

  “I’d been wondering . . .”

  “I gave up cooking a long time ago. To be honest, my husband is so sexy working in the kitchen, I don’t try very hard. I’d much rather sit with a glass of wine and watch him.”

  “Never underestimate the appeal of a man with an apron and flour on his hands,” Vic intoned solemnly.

  “Amen!” Cécile bit into another cookie and turned toward me with an excited expression on her face. “Speaking of men and appeal . . . Flavie, I’ve been dying to hear the rest of your book. Are Liam and Clarissa together now? Did they speak to each other? Did he tell her who the blonde girl from the other night was? Did they sleep together? Because it’s all well and good, but there are priorities in life!”

  Liam and Clarissa were the two main characters of the novel I was working on—and the cause for the bags under my eyes.

  Bérénice joined in. “Me too. I’ve been thinking about them all week!”

  “Well . . . They talked to each other.”

  I summarized the latest events, fresh from that morning. They gave me feedback, talking over each other. I loved the moments when we talked about my characters. It was as though they came alive outside my mind and my computer. We talked about them as though they were real people—and most of the time, I almost expected them to step into the shop and take part in the conversation.

  “Which is why I’ve been running on so little sleep,” I concluded. “Liam kept me awake all night . . .”

  “What happens next? Is it the end?”

  “No, I have a lot more planned.”

  For the next two hours, we switched subjects several times, as we always did, from my novels to our knitting projects, to men, cookies, the latest books we’d read, laughing all the time. We didn’t talk about my students again.

  Like every Tuesday, time flew by, and after the meeting, we went out for crêpes at one of our favorite haunts. The crêpes were delicious. The owner had a really cute smile and he liked us; he almost always gave us a treat on the house. Who could resist a man like that? Not us, that was for sure, and we almost always stopped by after our meetings.

  The sun had set by the time we all left, and I decided to walk home by the beach. Over the five years I’d spent in Karouac, I’d grown to love the seaside. Hidden at the very top of the Pink Granite Coast, Karouac was my own little slice of sand and sea. I’d formed a lot of memories here. The beach was always overcrowded in summer but nearly empty the rest of the year, and I would walk long hours, barefoot, just to feel the sand between my toes, the wind on my face, the salty taste of the sea on my lips and tongue. It was during one of those walks that I had found what would become my favorite spot, a tiny, isolated creek accessible only at low tide. I liked to walk there, to sit and write, or just think about my characters while listening to the sea. It was soothing. Quiet and soothing. The pier, a long arm going into the sea, was another spot where I liked to spend time, sitting on a bench with a travel mug of tea and either my notebook or my knitting, and watch the sun set, seagulls screaming over my head.

  Until I graduated from high school, I’d lived all my life in Lannion, which is situated a few kilometers from here; but Karouac, with its five thousand inhabitants, its rural charm and its flower gardens, stole my hear
t. After five years, I couldn’t imagine living elsewhere. It was home.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I opened the gate to my garden and stopped for a few moments, as I always did, to admire my home in the dusk, pride welling up in my heart.

  I’d fallen in love at first sight with the adorable cottage. It was built of gray stone, with blue shutters, and it was a few hundred yards from the beach. Locals called it the principal’s house. For a long time, it had belonged to the elementary school close by, and housed the principal. When the school was closed in favor of a newer, safer one, the house had been sold, but the name had remained.

  I hadn’t planned on buying a house when I’d moved to Karouac. But I’d fallen so deeply in love with the cottage that I couldn’t imagine someone else owning it. So I’d gone to the bank and managed to convince the officials of my ability to cover the mortgage. A few weeks later, Cécile handed me the keys, and I moved in.

  I still congratulated myself on the decision every day. I loved the cottage, and I really think it loved me too.

  On my way in, I absentmindedly picked up the mail. There were a few envelopes, advertisements, nothing out of the ordinary. I left them on the table next to my computer and headed into the kitchen to brew some tea. I was half asleep, but I still wanted to write a few paragraphs, just to finish the current chapter.

  Holding a steaming cup of tea, I switched on my computer. While it hummed and came alive, I scanned the mail. Bill, bill, bill. Advertisement. I was about to set everything down when I caught sight of a yellowed envelope addressed to an Amélie Lacombe. There was a post office label stuck to it:

  We apologize for the late delivery.

  That was it. No other explanation.

  I frowned. Amélie Lacombe . . . As far as I knew, the house had been empty for years before I bought it. I couldn’t remember the name of the previous occupants, but I didn’t think it was Lacombe.

  Intrigued, I looked at the date on the stamp: 1971.

  The letter had been sent in 1971. Over forty-five years later, it had finally reached its destination, decades after the addressee had moved out. Talk about late delivery . . .

  I suddenly remembered an article I’d read a few months earlier, about a postcard that had arrived fifteen years after being mailed. It had traveled across the country, following the addressee, who had moved away. I found the story funny, and thought it would make a good novel.

  And here I was, in the same situation.

  I didn’t need anything more to spark my imagination. I flipped the envelope over, looking for the name of the sender, but the back was blank. Damn.

  I looked at the front again, examining the careful handwriting. Should I open it? Maybe I could find a clue about the person who’d written it . . . My conscience pricked at me. It was private.

  And over forty-five years old.

  Did privacy have an expiration date?

  I debated internally for a few more seconds before I made a decision. I would open the letter, and if the content was worth it, I would do my best to send it along to the person it was meant for.

  It was easier than I thought to open the envelope without damaging it. The glue had dried over time, and with a little nudge and a paper knife, the flap gave way. I delicately extracted a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. The name of an inn from La Rochelle figured in the top right corner. L’Auberge du Voyageur. Given the name of the street it was located on, rue du Port, no doubt it was an inn where people stopped before leaving by sea. I wondered if the author of the letter took a boat to somewhere. I scanned the rest of the letter. A few paragraphs sprawled in the center of the page, the handwriting bold and assertive.

  La Rochelle, September 21, 1971

  My darling, my love,

  It has been three weeks now since I last saw you. Three weeks during which only the memory of your perfume, of your voice whispering loving words in my ear, of the softness of your skin beneath my hands, of the taste of your kisses, have stopped me from going mad. Every hour, every second away from you is a torment. I miss you, my Amélie, my angel, my sweetheart. I miss you more than I can express, more than anything. I cannot, will not live without you.

  Please come join me, Lili. Join me and marry me. I will leave the Compagnons and follow you wherever you go, to the end of the world if need be. I know enough now to do anything, anywhere. As long as you are with me, it doesn’t matter where I am or what I do . . . I need only you. Nothing else matters.

  Please, Lili, write to me, come and find me at the address above. The owner is a friend, she’ll let me know. I will wait for you there, or for a word from you, every evening, as long as I can, for two, three weeks, a month if I have to. Write to me, I beg you, tell me you will come . . .

  I love you.

  E.

  I don’t know how many times I reread the letter. Five, six, ten? After ten minutes, I could recite every word from memory.

  I had never read anything like it. I could feel the desperation, the love the sender had for Amélie. With a pang, I suddenly realized she had never received the letter.

  She had never known E was waiting for her.

  A million questions whirled through my mind.

  Had the sender waited for her for days, weeks, months, as promised, only to be disappointed each day? Had he written another letter? Had Amélie known that her lover waited for her in La Rochelle? What had happened next? Had he gone on without her, or had he gone back to find her?

  The mysterious letter captured both my professional curiosity as a historian and my imagination as a writer. Several theories and scenarios were already taking form in my mind. Had they found each other again? Or had fate and the whim of the post office kept them apart ever since?

  Slowly, with great care, I folded the letter again, slipped it into the envelope, and put it away in a drawer. Then I switched off my computer without even opening my document file.

  I knew there was no point trying to write tonight. My mind was elsewhere.

  With Lili and the mysterious E.

  Karouac, Brittany

  July 14, 1971

  The party was going strong.

  It was le quatorze juillet, a day of celebration, the anniversary of the Storming of the Bastille, which started the French Revolution some 182 years before. Nowadays, cities and towns were still celebrating the event, each in their own way. In Paris, there was a huge parade, broadcast on TV, where the army marched down the avenue des Champs-Elysées; but most towns, like Karouac, celebrated with an open-air dance, and later, around midnight, fireworks.

  Sitting at the bar, Erwan was chatting with a few friends as he absentmindedly watched people cut across the dance floor, or what passed for one, to the sound of the drums and guitar played by a local rock band. A stage had been set up for the young musicians, and a few chairs and tables were available, where the dancers could rest between numbers.

  Erwan sipped at his drink. He had to admit the cider wasn’t very good, nor was the band, really, but he didn’t care. The atmosphere of the party was carefree and fun, and that was exactly what he was looking for.

  A few weeks from now, his contract in Karouac would end, and he would pack his bags and move on to the next mission. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to see new places, discover new things, travel as far as he could. It felt as if he’d learned everything he could here, and now he longed for new challenges, and new people.

  He’d arrived in Karouac nearly a year ago, as a brand-new aspiring Compagnon, to hone his skills as a stonemason with the Compagnons du Devoir. It was his first assignment, and he was exhilarated. The residents had welcomed him with hospitality and warmth, just like any other stranger passing through. And he had soon realized that he would never be anything more than that. He could tell from the look in their eyes, their handshakes, their politeness. He was, and always would remain, a stranger. Which, in the end, was just as well, really—it would be easier to leave when the time came.

  Movement
on his left caught his eye, and . . . he saw her. She was with another girl her age—seventeen-ish—and a younger one. All three stood back from the dance floor, watching the dancers. Her A-line dress was red, sleeveless, with a large white belt that sat low on her hips, and she wore a white headband in her red hair. Erwan swallowed, and his heart beat faster in his chest. She was gorgeous.

  Her friend said something and she laughed. From where he was, Erwan could not hear her, but he could see every expression on her face, and he was utterly fascinated.

  The girl’s gaze swept over the crowd and caught his. She stared at him for a few moments, and he grew bold enough to smile at her. She smiled back, and it was as though fireworks had started just above his head. She nodded, still holding his gaze.

  They maintained eye contact until a young man came up to her and asked her to dance. Casting a last glance at Erwan, the girl accepted and moved onto the dance floor.

  * * *

  “I’ll get us drinks,” France said when they sat down, later on. “Come on, Chantale, you can help carry the drinks.”

  “I’d rather stay with Amélie!”

  “How am I going to carry all the glasses, then? It’s her birthday, we can’t make her work. Up you get!”

  “Fine, I’m coming.”

  Amused, Amélie watched the teenager drag her feet as she followed her older sister. Her best friend liked to remind her baby sister who was the boss, as compensation for the fact that their parents made her take Chantale with her everywhere.

  She watched as they moved toward the bar, then she scanned the dance floor, searching for one particular face she could not find. She heaved an inward sigh. She’d hoped the young man who’d caught her eye earlier would ask her to dance. Her heart beat slightly faster as she remembered the way he’d looked at her—he’d been too far away for her to be able to distinguish the color of his eyes—the way he’d smiled, how his brown, slightly unruly hair had seemed to refuse to lie completely flat. He’d been sitting, so she hadn’t been able to tell for sure, but she thought he was tall and broad-shouldered. Barely older than she was—eighteen, as of today. One more step toward her majority, and the ability to make her own decisions without her parents’ approval. The upcoming discussion filled her with apprehension—she would need their signature and God knew conversation with them has never been easy . . .