Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  “What are you going to do with it?” Bérénice asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve started digging a little, to try to see if I can find something out about either of these people.”

  “Have you?”

  “Not yet, but I do have a few leads.”

  I summarized my conversation with the elementary school’s principal and outlined my plan to visit the town archives if the school teacher could not or would not help me.

  “I’ll decide on the next step then. If I can figure out E’s full name, I could make some inquiries with the Compagnons du Devoir. He seems to have been one. The clerk at the city hall couldn’t give me details about that either. She barely knew what I was talking about, so I don’t have enough information yet, but maybe later . . .”

  “Please refresh my memory, Flavie. The Compagnons . . . That’s the guild-like organization that dates back to the Middle Ages and trains craftsmen by having them travel all over France to work in different places?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s still a thing?”

  “It is! And to my great surprise, it’s actually thriving.”

  “Well, that’s always one lead you can come back to. You don’t have a lot of information, which makes asking the Compagnons a bit premature for now.” Cécile was ever the pragmatic one. “You need to find out more about him.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  “What do you think happened between Amélie and E?” Bérénice wondered. “Do you think they found each other again?”

  “I don’t think so.” Vic’s tone was unequivocal. “He probably kept waiting, and waiting, hoping she’d come back.”

  “ ‘Baby come back,’” Cécile sang under her breath, teasing.

  “Or,” Bérénice went on, her imagination stirring, “he was madly in love and he went back to get her. They eloped together and they now live in a sunny little southern town. And that’s where we’ll find them.”

  “I think it was a long and tortuous tale,” I chimed in, amused by our what-if game. “They found and lost each other several times, they ended up married to different people, but both marriages were unhappy, and ten years later they had a quiet wedding in a little church. The only people present were their best friends serving as best man and maid of honor. They had triplets who brought about their own little happily-ever-after . . .”

  “Hey, I have an idea!” Cécile interjected. “We should bet on it!”

  “Bet?” Flavie asked.

  “Yeah! Whoever gets closest to what really happened wins.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Why not? It’d be fun! We each write our theories on a piece of paper, sign it and put it in a box, and once Flavie has ferreted out the truth—and knowing her, I have no doubt that she will—we open the box and find out who was closest. Whoever is furthest from the truth gets a penalty.” Cécile was on a roll.

  “What about the winner?” Angélique wondered.

  “I don’t know . . . She can choose something!” said Vic enthusiastically.

  “We need an impartial observer,” Angélique said, starting to plan out the game.

  “My father could referee,” Flavie offered.

  “Good idea!” Angélique agreed.

  “You willing?” Cécile asked, when Bérénice remained silent.

  “I don’t know . . .” Bérénice said.

  “Well, count me in!” Vic chimed in.

  “Come on, Bérénice, it’ll be fun!” Cécile said, trying to win her over.

  “Okay, okay, I’m in.”

  “Yessss!”

  Snugly settled in his baby seat, Olivier watched us with round eyes, probably wondering who these crazy people were, getting so excited over a dumb game.

  We clinked our cupcakes together as though they were champagne glasses to seal the deal, and Olivier’s giggling provided our very own soundtrack.

  * * *

  The principal, Christophe, called me back on Saturday morning. I was elbow-deep in marking my students’ tests.

  He didn’t waste any time telling me that Chantale Dumas was willing to meet and would wait for me in her classroom after school next Monday, if that suited me. It did, and I accepted at once. Come Monday afternoon, I rushed my last class just a tiny bit so I could join her as quickly as possible. I was impatient to learn anything Chantale knew about Amélie.

  Chantale Dumas was somewhere between fifty and sixty, and silver-haired. She had warm blue eyes and a mellow voice that was slightly hoarse. Her face, her smile, the kindness I could see in her gaze set me at ease immediately. I would have loved to have learned math from her instead of the old shrew that had been my own teacher when I was in primary school. Maybe I’d have been good at numbers instead of barely hanging on.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said softly when I entered the classroom.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Ms. Dumas. I’m very grateful.” I sat opposite her in one of the children’s chairs. “Your classroom is wonderful,” I added as I looked around.

  Like most classrooms, a huge map of the world was pinned on one of the walls. I smiled as I remembered that my own classroom held the same one. At the very top of the walls, just under the ceiling, a hand-drawn frieze related major historical events. It looked as though the children had drawn it themselves. Everything on the teacher’s desk was neatly organized, and the green chalkboard still bore traces of the last lesson. Conjugating verbs, apparently.

  It smelled like happy childhood.

  “Thank you.”

  “This brings back so many memories,” I murmured.

  She frowned. “I don’t think I remember you. Were you in my class?”

  “No, I grew up with my father in Lannion, and I went to school there. But there’s a certain atmosphere in classrooms that you find in every school, don’t you agree?”

  “I most certainly do. Tell me, Ms. Richalet, how can I help you?”

  “Please call me Flavie. Did the principal tell you what I am looking for?”

  “He just said you were researching something and wanted to talk to someone who lived in Karouac in the seventies.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Well, you came to the right place. I was born in Karouac and I’ve lived here all my life. So what do you want to know?”

  I could hardly believe my ears. All her life? Six decades in Karouac? This was even better than I’d dared to hope.

  “Actually, I’m looking for information on the people who used to live in the former principal’s house.”

  “In the seventies?” Her brow furrowed, and she cocked her head to one side, eyes half shut, paying very close attention all of a sudden.

  “Yes. As I told the principal, I found a document from 1971 mentioning a name and linking it back to the house. I was intrigued and wanted to know more.”

  “In 1971 . . . What was the name?”

  There was a strange light in Ms. Dumas’s eyes.

  “Amélie, Amélie Lacombe.”

  I held my breath. Please let her know the name, please let her know the name . . .

  A smile stretched across her wrinkled face. “Amélie . . . Of course . . . Who else?”

  My heart leapt. “You . . . you know her?”

  She nodded. “I know her quite well. She’s my older sister’s best friend.”

  Chapter 4

  “Your sister’s best friend?” I exclaimed.

  Even in my wildest dreams, I hadn’t expected to find one of Amélie’s acquaintances so fast. And not just any acquaintance—her best friend’s younger sister! Things were looking up. Maybe I’d learn that the lovebirds had reunited, and would discover who the mysterious E was!

  Then something she said sunk in.

  Something beyond the fact that she knew Amélie.

  “Wait. You know her? Present tense? As in, you’re still in touch with her?”

  “I’m not, but my sister still exchanges Christmas and birthday
cards with her. I hear a few things now and then, just like when I was a child.”

  This was getting better and better. I felt like I’d just won the lottery.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  Ms. Dumas smiled, a touch of nostalgia on her face. “So much, and so little . . . She was lovely. I suppose she still is. She had the kind of beauty that time has no effect on. Unlike me.”

  I was about to protest, but she waved my reply away.

  “No need to pretend, I know the years haven’t been exactly kind to me. But Amélie was something else.”

  “What was she like?”

  “She was tall, a redhead. She had the most beautiful green eyes. She was a lively woman, very active, constantly sketching. Her dream was to become a fashion designer, and Coco Chanel was her role model. But I know her parents disagreed. They wanted her to become a doctor. They had several arguments about it the summer before she left for university in Paris. I think it might be the year of the document you found . . . Yes, it was. I was thirteen, so it was in 1971.”

  “How old was she?”

  “She’s my sister’s age and we’re five years apart, so she’d have been eighteen.”

  Eighteen . . . So young.

  “Did she win the argument? Did she become a designer?”

  “She did. She was accepted in a Paris university and she begged her parents to let her go. In the end, they relented, even though they were disappointed she didn’t pursue the brilliant medical career they’d envisioned for her. But she wanted to become a designer and she did. I think she even created her own clothing line with a catchy little name . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue . . . Lili K! That’s the one.”

  Lili . . . The nickname the mysterious E had given her . . .

  Did that mean they were still together? I tried to keep a tight rein on my imagination before it swept me away.

  Facts, Flavie. Focus on the facts. Forget about being a writer and creating stories from the smallest tidbits. Today, you’re here as a historian, and a historian only.

  Easier said than done.

  “In any case, I’m impressed you can remember that, forty-five years later!”

  “I have a very good memory. Too good, on occasion. I still remember entire conversations from when I was young, and trust me, I’d rather forget all about them.”

  “It’s still very impressive.”

  “It was also the last summer we spent together, which makes it easier to remember.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Life happened. She and my sister moved to Paris to go to university. They stuck to each other like glue. Amélie rarely came back to Karouac. She got married and went to live in the south of France, where her husband’s family lived. I didn’t hear from her very often after that. Sometimes my sister would pass on some news, though it’s been a long time since she last told me anything.”

  My heart missed a beat.

  “You said she got married . . . Do you remember her husband’s name?”

  “Panivello. Paul Panivello. They got divorced a few years later, if I remember well. They had two children, girls I think.”

  Paul. Not a name that started with an E. Disappointment welled up inside me. The story was not unraveling the way I’d pictured. And none of this gave me a clue as to who E was, or what had happened to him if he hadn’t been the one to marry Amélie.

  His Lili . . .

  Who was he?

  “During that summer... in 1971,” I finally ventured. “Do you know if something happened? If she . . . met someone? A boy, maybe?”

  Ms. Dumas pondered this for a minute, deep in thought. “Now that you mention it . . . There was a young man. My sister and Amélie were often whispering together. They’d stop whenever I came near them, but I recall that there was a boy she danced with all evening at the Bastille Day party. I never saw him again, but I remember thinking he was quite handsome.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “I don’t think I ever knew. I’m not sure . . . I seem to recall Amélie saying he was part of the team restoring the old church, but she might have been talking about someone else. I was eavesdropping, so I didn’t hear everything clearly,” she admitted, looking sheepish.

  “Eavesdropping? A fine hobby for a teacher!” I laughed.

  “I wasn’t a teacher at the time,” she argued back, smiling. “I was thirteen and I had an older sister who was rarely pleased to have me clinging to her skirts. She never told me anything, so I had to be sneaky if I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. I often eavesdropped on her and Amélie. I couldn’t help it—I was fascinated by Amélie. I wanted to be like her: beautiful, smart, and determined. All young girls need a hero, and Amélie was mine.”

  That was true. Mine had been my mother, until the day she’d packed up and left without looking back. My father had become my hero after that.

  He still is.

  “Well, in any case, thank you for speaking with me.”

  “I hope that was helpful. What are you going to do now? Write a novel about it?”

  She was joking, but the idea immediately seized hold of me. Dug its way into my mind.

  Write a novel. Tell this story. Correct the mistakes of the past through my writing.

  Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Now that the idea was spinning in my head, it seemed so obvious. It was the perfect outline for a story full of emotion and tearful reunions. Because in my story, they would find their way back to each other. That was nonnegotiable. Whatever had happened in real life, as long as I was the writer, my heroine would spend the rest of her days with the love of her life.

  They were made for each other, of that I was utterly convinced. Why would Amélie have divorced otherwise? My mind immediately started coming up with a thousand alternatives, but I batted them aside.

  In my own version, E was the man of Amélie’s dreams, and they would end up together. End of story.

  E and his Lili . . . In my mind, I could already see how this was going to end.

  “Flavie?”

  Ms. Dumas’s question brought me back to reality. Once again, I’d let my imagination run away with me. “Sorry, I was already outlining the story in my head. In the beginning, I was just trying to find some answers, but you’re right—it would be a great idea to write this story. I’ll think about it.”

  Chantale smiled, and I hesitated.

  “Would you, by any chance, have Amélie’s address or phone number?”

  “Unfortunately not, but I can ask my sister. She’s in Canada right now with her husband, but I can call her when they get back.”

  “Thank you, I’d really appreciate that.”

  “It’s a plan, then. I’ll let you know.”

  She hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course!”

  “I’m a little curious . . . What kind of document did you find that mentioned Amélie?”

  I only hesitated for a moment before I answered. I owed her that much—she’d practically offered up everything I wanted to know on a silver platter. And deep down, I knew I could trust her.

  “It was a letter.”

  Chapter 5

  Over the next two weeks, I spent all my free time—which was getting scarce as the end of the school year grew near—surfing the internet to try to find out more about Amélie-Lili and E and all that had happened that summer. I was determined to turn this story into a novel and I needed to know everything.

  I used all the combinations of keywords I could think of, but despite my efforts, the results were meager. It had been easy to find Lili K on the internet, and her collection of vintage clothing with its modern accents and a touch of seventies style had instantly won me over.

  After that, I had read all the articles I could unearth on her—and there were very few—as well as all the information that was provided on the website of the store that sold her brand. That’s how I discovered that though she had worked as an independent designer f
or much of her life, about ten years ago she decided to sell Lili K—which was apparently the name of her brand as well as the name Amelie used professionally—to a retail chain that offered her a more important outreach. There were a few shops scattered throughout the country, but unfortunately none nearby. I jotted down the addresses anyway, made notes of everything that could be useful for my novel, and many other things that weren’t.

  But the one thing I couldn’t find was the one thing that I needed most: her contact information. Neither the retail store website nor the online phone directory, where I searched Amelie’s married and maiden names, offered me a number to call or an email address to which I could write. For one moment, I envisioned contacting the human resources department of the retail chain, but I doubted that they would divulge her contact information to a stranger. In the end, my best shot was probably waiting for Chantale to give me her address or phone number so I could reach out to her . . . And maybe find some answers. Like information concerning the K that intrigued me so much.

  Much to my regret, I had no more luck in uncovering the mysterious E’s identity. Based on what Chantale had told me, I’d pulled up the Karouac city website and gone through the town history tab. The only thing I’d been able to confirm had been that part of the church had burnt down in 1970 and that restoration work had lasted over a year. No Compagnons had been mentioned. I was starting to despair that I’d ever discover E’s identity. Maybe I’d have to ask Amélie when I finally tracked her down. But would she be willing to tell me?

  I was aware that I was digging into the private lives of people who had no connection to me, blood or otherwise. The only link between us was the letter. Hopefully they were both still alive. I knew very well that I had gone well beyond the boundaries of simple curiosity and that what I was doing could hardly be called “historical research.” But I had gone too far to stop now.

  I needed to know.

  I needed to find them. Both of them.

  * * *

  After two weeks, I still hadn’t heard back from Chantale. I didn’t dare call her, fearing that would be too presumptuous, so I laid out all the information I had and asked my father’s and my friends’ advice. In the end, I decided to go through the local newspaper’s archives in the hope of finding something about the restoration work, maybe even a few names, before I went to speak with the current priest in Karouac.