by Chloé Duval
“Would you like to dance?”
The voice behind her jolted her out of her thoughts and the dangerous path they’d taken, and she jumped. One hand over her heart, she turned around and found herself facing the man she’d been thinking about a few seconds earlier.
His gray eyes met hers.
She barely took the time to think before answering. “Yes.”
Throwing an apologetic glance at France, who was coming back with the drinks, Chantale in tow, Amélie took his hand and followed him onto the dance floor. His hands were strong and calloused, workers’ hands. She wondered what he did for a living. She’d never seen him before, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She boarded at a totally boring private school a few dozen kilometers away, and only came home to Karouac during the holidays. Fortunately, she could count on her best friend for company; she and France always had fun.
They stepped onto the dance floor, and the young man turned toward her. He smiled and wordlessly led her into a series of dance steps to the rhythm of the music, his gaze fixed on hers.
When the music stopped, he did not release her; neither did he move away, thank her, or escort her back to her friends. Instead, he looked at her.
“Would you—”
“Yes,” she said, her breath short.
They danced again. And again. And again. After a couple of lively songs, the band launched into a slower piece. The young man did not ask, but laid a hand on her waist, shy and bold at the same time, seized her right hand with his left, and pulled her toward him. Amélie did not resist.
It was exactly what she wanted—for him to hold her.
“Erwan,” he whispered into her ear after a few seconds’ silence. “My name is Erwan.”
“I’m Amélie.”
“A pleasure, Amélie.” He bowed his head ever so slightly.
She smiled and did the same. “Likewise.”
Chapter 2
Karouac, Brittany
May 2016
The following Saturday, I decided to visit my father’s antiques shop in Lannion. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the letter. I needed to tell someone about it, and my father was the obvious choice. For as long as I could remember, he had been my number-one confidant. He’d always been the person I turned to when I wanted advice or felt the need to talk with someone. He and the members of the knitting circle were my closest friends.
By midafternoon, I had finished marking essays—my own version of a never-ending hell—and drove into Lannion.
* * *
The delightfully old-fashioned little bell that hung over the door rang when I entered the shop, some fifteen minutes later, and I immediately felt as though I had stepped back in time. I was a little girl once again, it was Saturday afternoon, and I was rummaging through the many odds and ends in my father’s little shop.
I slowly walked up the aisles I had known all my life. In the back of the shop, my father called out, “I’ll be with you right away!”
“One day, someone will walk out with all your stuff if you keep leaving it unattended like this,” I told him when he emerged from the back a few moments later. I kissed him on the cheek.
“My favorite daughter!”
“Papa, I’m your only daughter.”
“Which does not preclude your being my favorite, Flavie. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Better than good. I’ve just received a truly stunning piece of work! Here, have a look.”
He stepped around the counter to fetch his “stunning piece of work.” It was indeed beautiful—a weathered mahogany jewelry box, probably from the late nineteenth century, with several drawers, including a hidden one my father eagerly pulled out for me to see.
“I found the drawer while I was cleaning it.”
“Is there anything inside?” I asked, curious.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“What do you think it could have held? Love letters? A shopping list?”
“A winning lottery ticket, tucked away by the owner, who didn’t want anybody to know about her gambling, until she forgot all about it?”
“And nobody ever claimed the money . . .”
“What a great story!”
It was a game we used to play when I was a little girl. On Saturday afternoons, I would do my homework in the back of his shop, sitting in my father’s massive, velvet-covered armchair. I felt like a grownup with my books spread over his dark oak desk. I would hurry through my homework, eager to join my father in the next room and make up stories with him.
Papa always checked my homework. He would go over my math, and listen to me stuttering my times tables. And once we were done, he would choose an object from his shop, and for the next few hours, we would amuse ourselves by inventing outlandish, extravagant, romantic, or melodramatic stories about it. The one who came up with the best story would get to choose what we’d have for dinner. Funnily enough, it was usually me . . . at the time, I really thought I was very creative.
These days, when I think about all the hours we spent wondering about some object’s past, tracing the path of a famous historical figure’s adventures on an old map of the world, I credit my father for inspiring me to be a writer. Stories had opened up my mind to a world of imagination, and my father’s tales had been just as much, if not more, of a factor than our bedtime stories. I loved listening to his voice unraveling the chapters of history, of great men and strangers alike. From time to time, I still ask him to tell me a story, purely for the sake of feeling as though I am ten years old again.
I smiled as the memories rushed into my mind. “I love it when we do that,” I said.
“Yes, like in the good old days,” Papa said with a glint of nostalgia in his eyes.
“Indeed.”
He set the jewelry box down and met my gaze. “Now, what’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“Do I need a reason to visit my father and his marvelous shop?”
“Of course not.” There was something both paternal and infinitely sweet in his face. “But Flavie, my dear, you forget I know you better than anyone else. And there’s something behind today’s visit.”
I’d never been able to hide anything from him. “You’re right. There is something I’d like to show you.”
I’d slipped the letter in a plastic baggie to protect it before tucking it into my purse. I unfolded it and handed it to my father, who adjusted his glasses and examined the letter carefully. After reading it, he looked at me, his gaze speculative.
I knew that look. I’d been wearing the same one ever since I’d opened the envelope.
“What are you going to do?”
I hesitated. “What do you think I should do?”
“If I were you . . . I think I’d try to find out more. Just to appease my nagging curiosity.”
I smiled, unsurprised. The apple never falls far from the tree. “You’ll be happy to hear that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do.”
He smiled back at me. “I never doubted it. You probably already have a battle plan all thought out.”
“You really do know me too well.”
“I’ve been your father for the last twenty-nine years. I have some practice!”
“That does help,” I conceded.
“Tell me everything.”
I did exactly that. I told him about all the plans I’d made, all the stories I’d imagined.
I was ten years old again, and we were making up extravagant and elaborate tales. Except this time, I fully intended to put my ideas into action. My inner historian had awoken from her slumber and was ready and raring to go on an adventure to explore the past.
I was determined to unravel this mystery.
* * *
I wasted no time in executing the plan my father and I had drawn up. On Monday morning, as soon as I had a break between classes, I called the elementary school to set up a meeting with the principal.
I had very little information on the person who had se
nt the letter—a mere initial at the bottom of the page, and the fact that he had been a Compagnon at the time. I had therefore decided to start my investigation with Amélie and the principal’s house. There ought to be at least one person who could help me find out who had lived there in the past, and that was surely the current principal. And even if they didn’t know, they would have access to the school archives, if there were any.
In any case, I had to start somewhere, and the school seemed the safest bet.
Unfortunately, the only meeting time available was Tuesday evening. I would have to skip knit night . . . but I needed this interview, so I accepted anyway, and texted everyone an apology, promising to tell them everything as soon as possible.
* * *
The principal of Karouac’s elementary school was an athletic, fairly attractive man in his midthirties, with a charming smile. If he’d taught middle school, like I did, he would have been very popular with the ladies of all ages.
“How can I help you, Ms. Richalet?” he asked after we shook hands and I had politely declined his offer of coffee.
“Please call me Flavie. I’m only Ms. Richalet to my students.”
“Are you a teacher, then?”
“I am, but my students are a bit older than yours. I teach history and geography at the Lannion middle school.”
“How can I help, then, Flavie?”
I’d thought long and hard about this. How much should I tell people in order to explain my questions? Should I mention the letter and its contents, or go with something vaguer? What if they didn’t understand my curiosity? What if they thought I was foolish? In the end, I’d decided to tread the middle path.
“I recently found an old letter dating back to 1971 mentioning a name, as well as the old principal’s house, and I grew curious about it. I decided to investigate a little, see if I could find out anything more. You know us historians—we only need the slightest pretext to start rummaging around archives to try to unearth old stories.”
Then I added, “I know that the house used to be part of the school, and I was hoping there would be some archives around here that I could have a look at, maybe a place to start.”
“I see. I don’t think I’m going to be much help, unfortunately. There was a flood a few years back and all of the archives from earlier than 1986 were lost.” He seemed regretful. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”
Drat! I was off to a bad start. I had really hoped to find something here. Okay, this isn’t the end of it. I still have a few leads to follow. There should be someone, somewhere, who lived in Karouac in the seventies who can help me. I just need to . . . find that person.
I stood up. “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll rethink my approach and have a look somewhere else. I’m sorry I wasted your time,” I added with a slight grimace.
“Don’t worry about it. I wish I could have been more help.”
“Before I leave, maybe you know someone who could help me?”
“Let me think about it . . . I don’t believe so . . . Wait a minute! There’s Chantale Dumas. I bet she could help.”
“Chantale?”
“She’s one of our teachers. She’s been a part of our staff for a long time, I actually think she’s spent her entire career here. Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll ask her tomorrow if she’d be willing to speak to you.”
My disappointment vanished instantly, just as my hopes soared. “I would love to meet her, if she’d agree.” I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. “Thank you so much, sir. I’m very grateful for your help.”
“Please call me Christophe. I’m only sir to my students.”
“Very well.” I was amused at the nod to our earlier exchange. “Christophe.”
“I’ll speak with Ms. Dumas and get back to you.”
“Thank you, Christophe. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
* * *
I nearly skipped on my way home. I couldn’t stop smiling. If Ms. Dumas had taught here all her life, there was a good chance she knew a lot of things about the town. Maybe she’d even known the principal in the seventies!
Over the last week, I’d done a fair amount of thinking about the mysterious Amélie’s identity. My mystery man called her “Lili.” A quick Google search hadn’t yielded anything yet, though with essays to mark and lessons to prepare, I hadn’t been able to give it much time. In any case, I had so few clues that finding anything from a time before the internet was like searching for a needle in a haystack. I didn’t even know if Amélie had lived in my house, or if she’d been there as a visitor. Was she perhaps related to the principal? I needed to know more about her if I wanted to figure out the mystery of the lost letter.
While I was waiting for news from Christophe, I took advantage of the fact there was no school on Wednesday afternoon, as is customary in primary and secondary schools, to visit the town hall and search for clues, meager though they might be.
The secretary at the desk behind the counter smiled politely as I came in.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I’m looking for information on the people who lived in the principal’s house in the seventies. In 1971, to be precise.”
“May I ask why?”
I told her the same thing I’d told Christophe, about finding a letter and trying to find out more.
She frowned. “All right. But what do you need from me?”
“Well, the house used to belong to the town. I thought maybe you would have a list of the former tenants. Maybe you could tell me who used to live there, or the name of the principal at the time. That would be really helpful.”
She hesitated. “We probably have the information somewhere, but I’m not sure if I can give it to you without some sort of legal authorization. You’d have to go to the town archives and ask someone there for help.”
“Oh, sorry! I thought maybe you could help me.”
“Sorry, miss, but that’s not really part of my job. I’m pretty sure the only place someone could assist you in your search is at the archives. At the very least, they can probably answer your questions.”
Well, that was another dead end. I’d suspected it wasn’t the kind of information they just handed out to anyone, but I’d been willing to take a chance. I certainly wasn’t going to neglect any leads, so the archives would be my next stop.
As soon as my various professional obligations would allow me to, anyway—essays to grade, teachers’ conferences to prepare for, field trips to organize . . . The usual stuff that popped up around this time of the year.
“Thanks, I will. Could you repeat the address for me?”
Karouac, Brittany
July 14, 1971
“You should get back to your friends, they might be worried,” Erwan whispered, more out of a sense of duty than any kind of inclination. He didn’t want the evening to end. Nor did he want to leave. Not yet.
The fireworks had long since fizzled out, and the crowd had slowly left the beach, until they were the only two left. The only sounds now were the low rush of waves and the faint notes of music from the party, still in full swing.
They’d danced together all evening, never separating, gazing into each other’s eyes. When the fireworks had raced up into the sky, their hands had brushed, almost as if by accident. Even as their gazes had been fixed on the colorful lights in the night sky, the touch of her hand had thrilled him, and unaccustomed emotions welled up inside him. He felt as though he could soar. King of the world!
He most certainly did not want their evening to end. He wished it could go on forever, that tomorrow would never come, that all their obligations could vanish as though by magic, that the only possible future was on this beach, by her side. He wanted to drown in her eyes and never come up for air.
He looked down into her eyes, shyly, waiting for her answer with bated breath.
“No,” she said quietly, as though she had guessed what was on his mind. “Not yet. I . . . I don’t
want to go back yet. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”
Relieved, Erwan smiled, then stood up and extended a hand to her.
“In that case, my lady, would you honor me with another dance?”
Chapter 3
“Okay, spill. Why’d you skip the knitting circle on Tuesday? And you better have a solid excuse. I’m talking I-met-Prince-Charming type of excuse.”
I swallowed a mouthful of cupcake before I answered. After I missed our meeting, my friends’ curiosity had rocketed straight up to somewhere around the level of their weekly sugar intake. Hence the reason we were having an impromptu Thursday meeting, after school/visiting/closing hours, so I could tell them all the juicy details. We had gathered in the kitchen of Bérénice’s shop, greedily swallowing the day’s leftover pastries.
“Trust me, it’s close enough!”
“You met someone?” The cry rang out from all directions at once. “Tell us everything!”
“I didn’t meet someone, exactly. Not face-to-face, in any case.”
I wiped my hand carefully before I extracted the letter from my purse and read it out loud. For the next few moments, the only sound to be heard was Olivier, Angélique’s baby, gurgling happily.
“How’d you come across it?” Bérénice finally asked.
“It was in my mail when I came home on Tuesday, last week. Apparently it was lost somewhere in a post office drawer and its delivery was ‘slightly delayed,’” I said, jabbing air quotes with my fingers.
“Forty-five years is one hell of a delay, if you ask me,” Vic retorted.
“Better late than never,” I said.
“Except in this case it has not reached its intended recipient.”