by Chloé Duval
He set to his duties with zeal. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asked.
“I did, thank you. No aliens, no serial killers. No farmers’ protest either, so I guess it falls under the heading of a good trip. I even stopped for a bit of sightseeing.”
Romaric laughed and I melted inside.
Even the sound of his laughter was sexy. Dear God.
“Never miss an opportunity for sightseeing.”
“My thoughts exactly!”
“Erwan told me you’re from Karouac. I don’t know where that is.”
“In the Côtes-d’Armor, next to Lannion. It’s a charming little town, or at least that’s what the entrance sign would have you believe. Five thousand inhabitants, little stone houses, flower-filled gardens. It is a lovely rural Breton town. I’m sure you can visualize what I’m talking about.”
“Indeed I can.” He grinned.
“It’s a beautiful town,” I went on, “and I fell in love with it as soon as I moved there.”
He smiled, and it felt like the sun was shining on me. “Most towns in Brittany are that way. You come, you get attached, you stay . . .”
“You’re right. That’s the beauty of it.”
We just looked at each other for a few moments, little smiles on both our faces, before Romaric glanced away.
“And, er, what do you do in this ‘charming little town’?” He jabbed air quotes with his fingers.
“For a living, you mean?”
He nodded.
“I teach history and geography in Lannion.”
I braced myself for the You must have lots of holidays! that people often say. To my great surprise, he simply nodded.
“I admire people who make a career out of teaching, like you. I don’t think I’d have the patience.”
“It’s not a question of patience so much as love.”
“Love?”
“Love of history, of the past, a willingness to hand that legacy down to future generations. Or at least”—I laughed self-consciously—“that’s the way I see it. But it feels like kids are growing wilder by the year, and utterly uninterested in history. I try my best to make it feel real to them, but sometimes . . . it’s just not enough. And occasionally they have their own problems, and they have other concerns which trump their studies, and I can’t do anything about that.”
“That must be hard.”
“It is, kind of. But let’s not be depressing on a beautiful day.” I deliberately switched to a more cheerful tone. “Let’s talk about something else. You run a bed-and-breakfast?”
“A few minutes’ drive away. You probably passed it on your way here. I do rent out rooms and also lead horseback rides around Port-l’Abbé.”
“You mean that gorgeous cottage with a huge garden where I saw two magnificent horses munching away on the lawn?”
He laughed again. “That’s the one!”
“Well, I seem to have lucked out! That looks pretty cozy.”
Over the next few minutes, Romaric told me about the bed-and-breakfast and how he’d opened it with his younger sister a few years back. He explained how it worked, how they hosted riders and their horses, and organized their own horseback rides. Usually his sister, Gwenn, led those, but from time to time he got into the saddle.
“I’ve only gone riding a couple of times in my life,” I admitted. “And that was a long time ago, but I’m sure it must be great to go for a ride in the woods or on the beach.”
“You could take Flavie, Rom,” Erwan suggested, and I jumped, startled.
Chapter 8
We’d been so deep in conversation that I hadn’t heard Ewan approach. I wondered how long he’d been listening.
“Oh please, I don’t want to be any more of a bother than I already am,” I protested feebly, even though hearing Romaric talk about his horses had given me an irresistible urge to learn how to ride.
“If you’d like to, it’s easy enough to work out,” Romaric said at once. “Just say the word, and we can find a time to do it.”
“Well . . . If you’re sure it isn’t too much trouble, I’d love to!”
“That’s settled, then. Gwenn’s pretty busy these days, so you’ll probably have to ride with me, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not!” Oh boy, I don’t mind at all. I blushed.
Romaric’s only answer was to give me one of those brilliant smiles, and I almost felt the earth shake beneath my feet.
How peculiar.
Erwan sat next to me, and Romaric poured him a glass of juice.
“You ride too?” I asked Erwan.
“Not as much as I used to, but I was a decent rider back in the day.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“I do, but these old bones wouldn’t stand for it anymore.”
“Erwan, you’re still young,” I said.
“It’s nice of you to say so, even if it’s patently untrue.”
We made some small talk for a few more minutes. Then I took advantage of a lull in the conversation to draw the letter from my purse and hand it to Erwan.
“Here. You’ve waited long enough. You must be eager to get it back.”
Something strange welled up inside me when I let go of the letter, relinquishing it to its true owner. A mix of excitement from my search coming to its end and regret at having to give it back. It felt like a chapter in my life was closing. For weeks, I’d been a part of Erwan and Amélie’s story, trying to find out what had happened, to connect the pieces I’d unearthed. And now here I was, returning the letter to its sender. It had never reached the addressee, and I still didn’t know exactly what had happened.
I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to convince Erwan to tell me his story.
It was like turning the last page of a book and finding the author had left the ending unfinished.
But even though I was returning the letter to its true owner, I wasn’t turning over a new leaf just yet. Before I’d slipped the letter into my purse the day before, I copied it down in my notebook next to the two articles I’d taped there and all the notes I’d jotted down over the course of the last few weeks. I knew I didn’t need it—each word, each comma had been branded into my memory—but I couldn’t stand the idea of not having it with me any longer. I’d even managed to convince myself that it was purely for the sake of research for my future novel that I was copying it down. I’d always been quite good at telling myself what I wanted to hear. But the truth was that it was a way of keeping a piece of their story with me, of not saying goodbye just yet.
I used to hate goodbyes. I still do, but I’m better at them these days.
Wordlessly, Erwan grasped the letter very lightly, as though he was afraid he’d damage it.
“Thank you,” he said, lifting it up and turning it over, but making no move to unfold it.
Romaric turned to me. “You received this in the mail, is that it?”
“Yes. Incredible as it seems, it was in some drawer for the last forty-five years. And when it finally arrived, I was the one who received it instead of the intended person.”
“That’s unbelievable!”
“But true . . .”
“And with just a letter, you were able to find Erwan?” Romaric asked.
“Trust me, it was no easy task!” I outlined my search, omitting the leads that hadn’t panned out. I explained about Chantale and the newspaper articles, and how I’d met with Father François—“He wants to hear from you,” I told Erwan—and how I’d phoned the Compagnons’ lodge in Brest.
“So you haven’t spoken to Amélie?”
“No.”
I’d been dying to, but I hadn’t dared call her once I’d agreed to give the letter back to Erwan. What could I tell her? Hi, I’ve received a letter addressed to you, a wedding proposal that never found its way to you, but I’m about to give it back to your old flame, so I guess you still won’t be reading it today! Bye!
There was no way I could do that. So I hadn’t reached out to he
r, though it broke my heart.
“But you have her number,” Romaric said.
“I do.” I turned to Erwan. “Do you want it?”
There was a flash of pain in his eyes, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have offered.
He stared at me for a long while, and I could see the indecision in his face. Then he shook his head and looked back down at the letter, still in its envelope.
“It’s too late. She’s married, anyway.”
“She got divorced,” I couldn’t help but add before I bit my lip.
One day, my recklessness would be the ruin of me. Or it would hurt someone else, which would be worse.
Erwan’s head snapped up, and for a second, I thought he’d changed his mind. But in the end, he just shook his head again. “It was such a long time ago. It’s too late now.”
“Erwan—” Romaric began, but his phone rang at the same moment, and he looked at the screen. “It’s Gwenn. Excuse me.”
He moved away, and I leaned forward and touched Erwan’s shoulder, unable to resist a final plea. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be happy to give you her phone number.”
I saw in his face then how tempted he was, how much he wanted to say yes. But resignation replaced it so fast I doubted what I’d seen.
“Thank you, Flavie, but . . .”
“But?”
“Never mind. Thank you for coming all this way to bring this letter. It means a lot to me.”
“You’re welcome,” I said softly. “I’m glad I could help.”
“I’m sorry, Gwenn needs me at the bed-and-breakfast,” Romaric said as he came back toward us. “Do you want to come and check in, Flavie?”
“That would be great, thanks.” I stood up. “Erwan, can I come back later? There’s something I’d like to talk about with you.”
“In that case, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“I can’t think of anything that would please me more.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“It’s a date, then!”
* * *
Once Flavie had left, Erwan went back to the terrace and sat down, still holding the letter.
Amélie had never received it.
Amélie, his Lili . . .
That explained so much. Her absence. Her silence.
What had she thought when she’d received nothing for weeks? Had she believed he’d forgotten her, forgotten what they’d promised each other that day on the beach?
How many times, over the past forty-five years, had he wondered why she’d never written back? Why had he not thought that his letter had gone astray? That she might never have received it? He’d thought of every possibility except that one.
Except that one . . .
Why had he been so stupid? He should have gone to Paris when he’d learned she’d left Karouac. He should have told her mother how important Amélie was to him, and that he hoped she would give her daughter the message that he’d called. He should have looked beyond his wounded pride and convinced her to give him Amélie’s number. He should have done all that was in his power to prove to Amélie how much he loved her, that he was good enough for her, that she was the one for him.
He should never have waited.
That had been his greatest mistake, one he’d regretted ever since he’d learned the letter had never made its way to her.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, reliving the memory of that phone call for the thousandth time.
La Rochelle
October 1971
In the small inn by the port, Erwan listened as the phone rang, his heart beating with a mixture of anxiety, uncertainty, and impatience.
Five weeks. Five weeks he’d been waiting patiently, every evening, for a sign that she had come to find him. At first he hadn’t worried. He’d expected some delay in which she’d receive the letter and write back, maybe a week. But a fortnight had passed, then three weeks, four, five, and he’d grown worried. He didn’t know what her silence meant. So he’d decided to call.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice. Erwan took a deep breath.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Lacombe?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Can I speak to Amélie, please?”
His heart was beating double time, and his hands shook. He’d never spoken to her parents before.
“I’m sorry, Amélie isn’t here. Who is this?”
“I’m . . . I’m a friend of hers.”
“A friend?”
“Yes, a friend. My name’s Erwan. Do you know when she’ll be home?”
“Home? She’s living in Paris now, she’s studying there.”
It was like being hit in the face. In Paris? What . . . How . . . Why hadn’t she told him on their last day together that she’d managed to convince her parents to let her go to Paris? He didn’t understand. He needed to speak to her.
“Do you have a phone number I could call?”
“Young man, you seem like a nice person, but I don’t know you, and I’m certainly not going to hand out my daughter’s phone number to a stranger.”
Erwan closed his eyes as pain lanced through him. Of course. Her mother wouldn’t know him. Amélie had never mentioned him.
“All right. I understand. Could you . . . Could you tell her I called, next time you speak to her? Can I give you my address?”
“Let me grab a pen. Okay, I’m listening.”
He rattled off his name and the address of the inn he’d given in his letter, the one where he’d begged Amélie to meet him.
He would never have been so bold, had not Sophie, the inn’s owner, offered to help. They had become friends shortly after he had arrived in La Rochelle. He was working on the port, on the restoration of an old building nearby, and day after day, as he was eating his lunch alone, his sad eyes gazing toward the sea, remembering the feeling of her, the touch of her, the smell of her, the way her body fitted perfectly into his, Sophie had watched him from afar. Until one day, she came to speak to him. She was so kind, so understanding, that before he knew it, he was telling her of his broken heart, of his longing, of the dreams he hadn’t even dared admit to himself yet. “If you love her that much, tell her,” she had said. That’s when a plan had started to form into his mind. He had asked Sophie if she would help him, and she said yes, she would help any way she could. So, filled with hope, he had written the letter, and begged Amélie to meet him at the inn—he couldn’t very well set the rendezvous point at the Compagnon house where he was living. Sophie had promised to let him know as soon as Amélie arrived.
But she never came.
“Please tell her I’ll be there until after Christmas,” Erwan said. “Tell her . . .”
Tell her I miss her so much I can barely breathe. That when she’s away, the days are dull, that she’s my sunshine and that I can’t, won’t, live without her, he wanted to scream into the phone.
But he stayed silent. He couldn’t say that to Amélie’s mother. She’d think he was crazy for sure.
“Just tell her I’ll wait for her to call or write. Whatever she wants,” he said in the end.
He thanked her and hung up with a heavy heart.
* * *
In Karouac, Viviane Lacombe set the phone down and tore the sheet of paper from the notepad where she’d written the young man’s name and address. She put it away in a drawer. She made a note to herself to mention it in her next letter to her daughter.
But fate was against Erwan, and decided otherwise. A few days later, Amélie’s father went through the drawers, throwing away papers that had been lying around for too long. He never even looked at the precious note as it went straight into the trash.
And Erwan continued to wait for a call that would never come.
Chapter 9
“Erwan, that was absolutely delicious!” I exclaimed as I swallowed the last strawberry on my plate later that evening.
“Care for another helping?”
>
“I’d love one, but I think I’d explode if I took one more mouthful.”
“Coffee? Tea?” he offered.
“Maybe in half an hour?”
“I’ll ask again then.”
I leaned back in my chair, looked up, and took a deep breath.
We were sitting on the terrace as the sun slowly sank below the horizon. The heat of the day had subsided, and a cool evening breeze was bringing the scent of salt and seaweed from the beach. It felt very peaceful.
I was on holiday, and I was starting to feel the tension I’d collected during the school year slowly leave the muscles in my neck, back, and shoulders.
As planned, I walked over to Erwan’s after I’d unpacked at the bed-and-breakfast. We spent the entire evening chatting. Though I’d known him for only a few hours, I already enjoyed his company immensely. He was a deeply kind and generous man, both open-minded and welcoming. A real gentleman like in the old days, with impeccable manners. How many men drew back a woman’s chair before she sat down at the table?
If he hadn’t been old enough to be my father at the very least, I think I could have fallen in love with his kindness and gentleness. I no longer had any doubts as to whether Amélie had been truly in love with him. I was even ready to bet he’d been a regular heartthrob during his younger years.
“You haven’t told me whether you liked Romaric and Gwenn’s bed-and-breakfast,” Erwan said, interrupting my thoughts on his character. “How is it?”
“It’s perfect. So beautiful. I actually don’t have the words to express how much I love it.”
And no, I was not biased by the fact that his handsome and sexy nephew owned it. From the moment I had set foot there, the entire area exuded a sense of peace that appealed to me. On one side, the sea was a few hundred meters from the stables; on the other, a trail led straight to the woods. The whole place felt like an island of peace and quiet. I hadn’t gone up to the horses’ corral yet, but it was several dozen meters long and ran along the left side of the house.