by Chloé Duval
I was being unfair. She was within her rights not to tell me. She didn’t know me, after all.
“I understand,” I told her, unable to hide my disappointment.
I’d been so close!
“But if you like, I could give him your phone number and ask him to call you back.”
“Oh! Er . . .”
That had brought me up short. I’d never expected not to be the one to initiate contact. I wanted to be ready when I spoke to him.
But I also knew this could be my only chance to find Erwan.
I leapt at it. “Okay. Here’s my number.”
I gave her my cell phone number. She wrote it down and promised Erwan would call me back. I thanked her and almost hung up before I thought of asking the one question that had been bothering me for so long.
“Do you know if he’s married?”
* * *
“So is he?” Bérénice asked.
We’d gathered for our weekly knitting circle, and as had become my habit since the beginning of all this, I’d updated them on what I had found so far, to a backdrop of clicking needles.
“Not as far as she knew. And she didn’t think he’d ever been married, either. Do you think maybe he never forgot Amélie?”
My phone rang before Angélique could do anything more than open her mouth to answer. I set my knitting aside and picked up.
“Can I speak to Ms. Richalet, please?”
The voice was deep, a little rasping.
“That’s me.”
“Good evening, I apologize for the inconvenience. This is Erwan Kermarrec.”
“Oh. Oh! OH!”
I sat up and waved my arms haphazardly to catch my friends’ attention, eyes wide, mouthing Girls! It’s him! It’s Erwan! They immediately froze and focused on me.
“Good evening, Mr. Kermarrec!”
I tried my best to sound cool and detached, which was not easy. I felt like a teenager with a crush, who’d just received a text from the boy of her dreams. I called upon my teaching experience to don the calm and serious expression I showed my students, before I went on.
“I’m so glad you called! It wasn’t easy getting ahold of you.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was. Laurence, the woman you talked to when you called, told me you found a document mentioning my name?”
A straightforward kind of guy. No time to lose.
And I had a thousand questions to ask him, and just as many scenarios that I wanted to run by him . . . “In a way, yes. It’s actually a letter. One you wrote.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. When he spoke, I could tell from his voice that I had his full attention.
“I haven’t written many letters over the course of my life.”
“This one . . . This one never reached its intended recipient. I was the one who received it.”
I explained that I lived in Karouac in the former principal’s house.
I felt him hesitate.
“How old is this letter?”
“It was written in 1971.”
I held my breath. I heard him sigh, and he was silent for a long time.
“Mr. Kermarrec, are you there?”
“I am. It was a letter to Amélie, wasn’t it?”
It hadn’t taken him very long to understand what I was talking about. Did that mean that forty-five years later, he still thought of her?
“Yes,” I answered eagerly.
“How . . . how did my letter fall into your hands?”
I briefly outlined what had happened: how the letter had arrived among a heap of bills and I had opened it, curious; how I’d tried to understand what had happened; how I’d retraced their steps and decided to find him. Find both of them.
Erwan listened in silence. Once I was finished, there was a slight quaver to his voice when he asked, “Both of us . . . Did you find Amélie too?”
“I did.”
I’d even done one better. I hadn’t told anyone yet, but just before I left home to head over to Le Fil d’Ariane, Chantale had called with Amélie’s phone number and address.
My quest was nearly at its end.
“Have you spoken to her?” Erwan asked.
“Not yet. I haven’t had the time. So she doesn’t know about the letter.”
“Very well. I know I don’t really have the right to ask this of you, but is there any chance you’d be willing to return the letter to me without mentioning it to her?”
“Oh. Er . . . Sure,” I said, somewhat taken aback.
I hadn’t exactly planned for things to go this way, but it was his letter. I supposed he was entitled to have it back. “If you give me your address, I can mail it to you tomorrow.”
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Wait a minute . . .”
I dug into my purse and extracted my notebook and pen. “I’m listening.”
He spelled out an address in the Finistère and a phone number.
“All right, I’ll post it tomorrow.”
“Now that I think of it . . . I know this is asking a lot, but would you come and give it to me in person? I would hate to lose that letter again. Or I could come and get it, if you prefer. I know the place . . .”
“Oh! Oh. Er. No, it’s fine, I can drive over and bring it along. It’s not a problem.”
I flicked through a mental calendar. Classes, end-of-year exams, grading . . . That would take me to early July, easy. Then there would be my father’s birthday, his wedding anniversary, and the shop inventory that I’d promised to help out with, but I had a week-long gap before I had to tackle those. And I had to admit, nothing would please me more than spending a few days in the Finistère, like my father and I used to do when I was a little girl. Images of those days once again came back to me. The raw beauty of the region, where the sea crashed on the rocky cliffs, where little gray-stone houses bravely faced the winds and the sometimes violent tides, where lighthouses stood proud on rocks that looked like small islands, sending out their lights to guide ships safely to the shore. There, the sea reached so far to the horizon that it felt like the end of the world. And actually, it was in a sense, Brittany being the western-most region of France.
No, I thought to myself, I really wouldn’t mind going back there, even if it is only for a few days.
“I can come over right before the fourteenth of July,” I offered. “Can you wait until then? I’m afraid I won’t be free before that.”
“What are a few short weeks after forty-five years? Thank you for being willing to do this for me.”
“You’re very welcome. Could you recommend a hotel or bed-and-breakfast somewhere nearby? I think I’ll make a holiday of it.”
“I know just the place. I’ll call and book for you.”
“No need to go so out of your way.”
“I insist. I am the one asking you to come this far, it seems like the least I can do. Don’t worry, my nephew is the owner. It won’t take but a minute.”
“If you insist.”
“Marvelous. Please give me a call when you know exactly what day you’ll be coming, and I’ll handle everything.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll phone you back as soon as possible.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Richalet.”
“Flavie,” I said, on autopilot. “Goodbye, Mr. Kermarrec.”
“Please call me Erwan, then.”
“All right, Erwan. Goodbye.”
I hung up, slightly dizzy from the speed at which everything had fallen into place. My friends had followed the conversation eagerly. Well—what they could hear of it.
“Girls, I think I’ve found Erwan at last.”
Karouac, Brittany
August 31, 1971
It was his last evening in Karouac.
They met on the beach, at the same place they’d met every night for the past seven weeks. The surrounding rocks cut the small creek off from the rest of the world.
It had been here that they had danced by moonlight, here that t
hey had spent hours talking about everything and nothing, their projects, their dreams, here that they had kissed for the first time . . .
She was gazing at the ocean while she waited for him. The sky was clear, and pale moonlight pooled over the sand.
He drew closer and wordlessly closed his arms around her, hugging her to him, so tight it was as though he wanted her to sink through his skin and nestle in his heart forever.
After what seemed like a lifetime, he stepped away and their eyes met.
“Amélie, I—”
“Shh,” she interrupted, her finger on his lips. “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t want you to promise me anything. I love you, Erwan, too much to try to pin you down with promises you may not be able to keep.”
“I love you, Amélie. More than anything else in this world.”
Sadness crept into her eyes when he said this. “Then write to me whenever you can, if you will. Come back when you can, when you’re able to. Don’t forget me.”
“Never. I’d never forget you, Amélie. My precious Lili.”
There were tears in her eyes, but she did not blink. She gazed at him for several long seconds, before she leaned forward and kissed him lightly, sweetly. There were tear tracks on her face and he could feel a tang of salt on her lips. His heart broke and shattered into a thousand pieces. He clung to her, his hands coming up to frame her face and hold her near.
He didn’t want to go. Not anymore.
When he felt her draw back he opened his eyes. She unbuttoned her shirt, and shimmied out of her skirt, letting it fall onto the sand, her eyes never leaving his. Only then did Erwan notice the picnic blanket she’d spread out at their feet. His gaze traveled up her naked legs, sliding over her underwear, her flat belly, her breasts still hidden by the bra she was unclasping. Her pale skin was bathed in moonlight, and she looked unreal, like some otherworldly goddess. His goddess.
His heart was beating fit to burst. Somehow, it still found a way to speed up when Amélie lowered her bra, stepped out of her underwear. Utterly naked, she came to him and started to unbutton his shirt.
She never looked away.
* * *
Erwan left at dawn the next day with a heavy heart. The sun was barely out and most birds were still asleep.
He’d arrived on September first and he was leaving again exactly one year later. But he wasn’t the same man anymore. He had completely changed. Amélie had changed him.
Amélie, whom he’d left on the beach just moments before, the taste of her tearstained farewell kiss still on his lips. He’d asked her not to go with him to the bus stop. He’d rather keep the memory of her on the beach, her hair loose and a blanket wrapped around her naked body. That would be easier.
Or so he’d thought.
The bus doors swung open. Erwan got to his feet and hefted his bag up. Then he turned and looked over his shoulder toward the town, toward the beach. Toward her.
“Are you coming?” the bus driver griped. “I haven’t got all day!”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
With one last look, one last whisper of a goodbye, he got on the bus and let it take him away to the next part of his life.
La Rochelle.
Chapter 7
I drove into Port-l’Abbé on July eleventh under a blazing sun.
The trip from Karouac had been quite easy, thanks to the GPS Cécile had loaned me. I left home early in the morning, the sun already high in the sky, driving with all the windows open, singing loudly with the radio. Because I had time, instead of the shorter, faster, but less interesting route, I chose to take the long way around, the one that would take me through miles and miles of agricultural fields and through many a cute little country village, complete with cobbled streets, pointy churches, and half-timbered or gray-stone houses that were typical of Brittany—and through the wonderful and magical Armorique natural park. I’ve always loved that place, regretting that it was a bit too far from home to be able to go there to write my books. I always felt inspired there. Maybe it was because of the legends that filled the air, maybe it was the quiet, the calm, the serenity that oozes from every tree, every leaf, every breath of the wind. Or maybe because it has some kind of magical feeling to it, like you could almost feel the fairies flying around you, hear the korrigans—Breton fairy sorceresses—laugh under the rocks.
There was a place in this park, a belvedere at the top of a hill, where you could see the most wonderful panorama of the region, with all its diversity and its beauty: forest, country, rivers, all the colors mixing to create the most beautiful landscape. Some days, when the weather was clear, you could even get a glimpse of the sea, where the horizon met the sky.
That day, I could.
In anticipation, I had bought a small picnic at a nice bakery just before driving through the park. After parking my car, I hiked up the hill with my sandwich and cookie, and ate in silence, sitting on a rock, my eyes to the west, on the forest and the sea far beyond, remembering the stories and legends my father told me the first time we came, as we watched the clouds cast shadows and play with the colors of the forest, the fields, and the river surrounding the hill.
And I listened closely, like he told me that time.
And when I left the place an hour later, I had a smile on my face: I had felt the fairies whisper their secrets in my ears.
That smile didn’t leave me the rest of the short trip to my destination.
* * *
Port-l’Abbé was a typical Breton sea-facing town, quite similar to Karouac, actually, though much smaller, with a narrow main street and even narrower secondary ones, all cobbled at the center of the village, and two-story half-timbered buildings with colorful windows that rapidly gave way to family houses with flower gardens. It was only a matter of moments before I pulled up to a cottage surrounded by a rather large garden and a high hedge just by the sea, a few miles out of town.
I parked in front and gave my father a quick call to tell him I’d arrived safely, with no accidents or serial-killer hitchhikers along the way. I typed a brief e-mail to the knitting circle to tell them more or less the same thing, then I stepped out of the car and, shouldering my purse, I went up to the garden gate. I rang and waited for Erwan to open, my heart beating double time.
Nothing.
I rang again. Still nothing.
Damn. Was I too early? Maybe I should have called ahead and told him precisely what time I was coming. I grimaced. Over the phone, I had only told him the day I would arrive, but not the time. What was I going to do if he wasn’t home? I didn’t even know where his nephew’s bed-and-breakfast was, so I couldn’t drop off my bags in the meantime . . . I could always go for a walk on the beach, I thought as I rang a third time.
To no effect. What now?
The gate was unlatched. I hesitated for a moment, then I let myself in and went around to the back of the house, thinking maybe Erwan was in the garden and had failed to hear the bell.
There was indeed someone in the backyard. Or rather, two someones. Two wide-shouldered, muscular silhouettes, one of them leaning over a magnificent rosebush and the other pulling up a few weeds bold enough to try to grow between two glorious rhododendrons.
I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder, fluffed my hair, and cleared my throat.
“Mr. Kermarrec? Erwan?”
Both of them turned around as one. Their resemblance struck me immediately. They were both impressively tall and broad-shouldered, they had the same square jaw, the same wild hair, though one’s was salt-and-pepper and the other’s was jet black, down to the same expression on their faces. Even their eyes were almost identical. Erwan’s—for it had to be him—were a clear gray, while the other man’s—I could only guess he was the nephew Erwan had mentioned—were a cerulean blue so deep and intense they were almost mesmerizing.
I tried to control the fluttering of my heart, which definitely sped up when I met Erwan’s nephew’s gaze. He was almost too good-looking, his eyes stunning
.
I diverted my eyes, focusing on his uncle instead. He hadn’t changed much from the photo I’d found, even though forty-five years had gone by. Time had left its mark on him, that much was undeniable, but his eyes belonged to the young man in the photograph. His face still had a shy, warm, and kind expression. There was no doubt about it. This was the man I had spent so many weeks looking for.
“That’s me,” he confirmed.
The words made me dizzy with glee. It felt as though I’d met Santa Claus in the flesh, along with the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, and the king of Candy Land. My quest was finally at its end. I had found Erwan, and he was exactly as I’d pictured him.
A huge smile made its way across my face, and before I realized what I was doing, I threw myself at him and hugged him with all the strength in my body.
“I’m so glad to finally meet you in the flesh. You cannot imagine how long I’ve been thinking about you!”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting quite so enthusiastic a greeting.” Erwan laughed, looking slightly embarrassed. “But it is kind of you.”
I stepped back immediately, my face burning. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what came over me. I’ve been picturing this meeting for such a long time I kind of lost touch with reality. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s been a while since a beautiful woman embraced me. Except for my niece, of course. When you’re my age, you don’t get women flinging themselves at you every day.”
I smiled when he tried to downplay my embarrassing greeting. He was still slightly uncomfortable, I could tell. He was a gentleman, and he tried not to make a big deal of it so things wouldn’t get too awkward. I didn’t think there were many men these days who’d be so thoughtful toward a perfect stranger.
That was when his nephew stepped forward and met my gaze. His voice was low and warm, and it made me shiver all over.
“Hi, I’m Romaric. Can I offer you a drink?”
In a matter of moments, I was sitting under a tree, chatting with Romaric—who not only was devastatingly handsome, but also had a very sexy name. Once we’d been introduced, Erwan suggested I sit on the terrace while he put his gardening tools away. Romaric had been given the task of entertaining me in the meantime.