Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  “See you soon?” Erwan asked, turning to me, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Of course. Remember, you owe me a dance!” I joked.

  “I can’t wait,” he said with a smile.

  Then it was Romaric’s turn to kiss his uncle good-night. “See you tomorrow, Erwan. I’ll come as soon as I can tomorrow to finish the garden with you.”

  “All right, I’ll wait for you.”

  “Perfect.” Romaric turned to me. “Are you ready to go, Flavie?”

  “I am. Good night, Erwan. And think of what I said,” I added softly, just for him.

  “I will. Good night, Flavie.”

  * * *

  It took us but a few minutes to get back to the inn. After Romaric parked the car, I followed him into the house, while Gwenn went to quickly check on the horses. Or at least, that’s what she said, but I caught a glimpse of her typing on her cell phone. Maybe the horses weren’t the only ones she wanted to check on, I thought, as I noticed the dreamy smile that appeared on her lips.

  Inside the B & B, I took off Romaric’s jacket, although reluctantly, and gave it back to him. Deep down inside, a part of me hoped that my scent would linger in it, and make him think of me the next time he wore it.

  Yes, I was aware that I should know better than to daydream like that about a man I had just met who was probably not interested in me, or at least not in a romantic way, but I was a romance novelist. Imagining romantic gestures and situations was in the job description—and I wasn’t above fantasizing that my life was a romance novel from time to time.

  “Thank you for lending it to me,” I said softly, my eyes catching his.

  He smiled, and once again, the ground seemed to move under my feet.

  “You are welcome. Are you warm enough now? If not, please keep it.”

  “Thanks, I’m fine now.”

  Not that I would have minded keeping it, but it was better not to.

  I might have worn it to bed and never taken it off again. Ever.

  “As you wish,” he said, flashing me another of his ground-shaking smiles. My blood ran quicker through my veins. Again.

  Silence fell in the house, but we kept looking at each other, as if time itself had stopped.

  “Well . . . good night,” I said, finally.

  “Good night.”

  That’s when Gwenn came rushing into the inn, a huge smile on her lips, her phone still in her hands.

  Well, apparently, “the horses” were really fine.

  “Well, good night, Flavie, sleep tight!” she whispered, disappearing into their private quarters in the house. “See you tomorrow!”

  “Yes, see you tomorrow, Gwenn! Good night, Romaric.”

  “Good night, Flavie.”

  And on those words, I climbed the stairs leading up to my room, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.

  Chapter 10

  I got up early the next morning, awoken after a too-short and dream-filled night by the loud thump of a boot falling on the floor and the whispering of obnoxious riders as they were getting ready in the room next to mine. Ten minutes later, I knew all about their plans for the day—apparently, there was a very nice creek a few hours’ ride away that was perfect for a picnic. I had to admit that I wouldn’t have minded joining them—and I had given up all hope of going back to sleep. After a quick shower, I went to sit in the sun on the terrace of the bed-and-breakfast with my knitting while I waited for the riders to leave and for breakfast to be served.

  “That looks pretty,” a voice behind me said. “Is it for a baby?”

  I smiled as I turned my head. Romaric leaned against the door, the morning sun highlighting streaks of red in his dark hair. Images of my dreams rushed into my mind, and I did my best to act naturally, and not to blush.

  “Actually, it’s for a penguin,” I answered innocently.

  Romaric looked confused.

  Amused, I told him more about the project. “It’s for an Australian charity that tries to protect penguins that were caught in oil spills. If they’re wearing sweaters, they can’t try to clean themselves with their beaks and get oil poisoning. And the sweaters keep them warm, since the oil strips their natural protection away. My friends and I are knitting a few sweaters to contribute.”

  “Sweaters for penguins?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t a hoax?”

  I got where he was coming from. I’d reacted pretty much the same way when Angélique had come up with the idea. But we’d looked it up and lo and behold, it really was a legitimate organization, so we’d charged ahead with our usual enthusiasm. It is kind of cool to think somewhere out in the world a cute little penguin will be wearing a sweater lovingly knitted by me.

  “I am.”

  “Huh. You learn something new every day. I didn’t think penguins needed sweaters.”

  “Only the ones caught in oil spills. Most get by just fine without them.”

  “I see. That’s an important distinction.”

  “An essential one.”

  He smiled, amused.

  This time, the world didn’t shake, but I suspect it was only because my feet weren’t on the ground.

  His smile was bright enough to set a few hearts aflutter. Mine included.

  “Breakfast’s ready, if you’d like.”

  “Let me finish this row and I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  “Any plans for today?” Romaric asked a little while later, pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee and leaning against the kitchen counter to sip it.

  I swallowed a mouthful of the huge breakfast he’d prepared. Cereal, yogurt, toasted baguette, cheese omelet . . . I was going to need all day to work this off. I leaned back in my chair with my mug of tea, and peered at him over the rim.

  “I was planning on visiting Kerzalec manor. I heard it was built in the fifteenth century by a local count, was seized after the Revolution, sold, and then bought again by another family. Is that all true?”

  “Indeed it is. The manor was converted into a museum sometime during the twentieth century by the current owner, and it’s amazing what he recovered to re-create the feeling of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. When you walk inside, it’s as though time has stopped. It’s quite a unique place in Brittany, and as a history teacher, you’re bound to love it. And the park is beautiful during high summer. Did you know Erwan sculpted the fountain at the foot of the main building?”

  My eyes widened in surprise. That was an interesting tidbit of knowledge! “I didn’t! I can’t miss it now.”

  “It’s . . . pretty good. Actually, scratch that, it’s beautiful.”

  “You’re teasing me! Come on, tell me more. When did he sculpt it?”

  Romaric smiled. “Maybe thirty years ago. In the early eighties, I think. I was too small to remember it properly, but Erwan’s told me the story. Some man with a lot of money bought the place and restored it, made it almost as good as new. During the renovation, they found a few documents dating back to the nineteenth century, among which were plans for a stone fountain with a statue in the middle. The owner had heard of Erwan, of his work during his training as a stonemason. You know he is a Compagnon, right?”

  There was pride in his voice. I nodded.

  “So one day, the new owner of Kerzalec comes up to Erwan’s workshop and says Mr. Kermarrec, I’ve seen your work and you’re very skilled. I’m restoring Kerzalec manor and I want you to be a part of my team. Are you in?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “What did Erwan say?”

  “Let’s see what you’re offering. The owner unfolded the plans for the fountain and showed them to Erwan.”

  “How did Erwan react?”

  “He made up his mind on the spot. He looked at the owner and reached out to shake his hand. When do I start? he asked. And that was it. It took him almost a year to finish the fountain working alongside a hydraulics expert.
”

  “I love that story! And now I’m even more eager to see the fountain. Do you know if there are any other examples of his work around here?”

  “There are a few, yes,” he answered with a smile. “Not all of them are available to the public. Some are part of private collections, but there are several that were commissioned by local councils. He’s a peerless stonemason and an even better sculptor. He’s a stonemason by trade, and that’s how he makes a living, but his real passion is sculpture.”

  “I saw the Virgin Mary he gave to the church of Karouac. It’s gorgeous. You’d swear she could breathe.”

  “I’d love to see that.”

  “I’ve got a picture of it in my room. I’ll show it to you.”

  “That would be great, thanks. Can you believe that I’d never heard of Karouac, that statue, or anything that happened back then?”

  “I think it’s the same for everybody. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell you what my father was like when he was twenty years old, what he thought, or what happened to him. I know a couple of things, but that’s about it. It’s like he sprung into being the way I know him right now. But he was a little boy first, and then a teenager who probably had a rebellious phase like anyone else . . .” As I was speaking the words, I realized they were true. What do we really know about another person’s past?

  “You never think about the members of your family having a life before you came into the picture. I don’t think either Gwenn or I ever asked Erwan about his training and the journey he made across France. I’ve seen pictures of his final work, the one he presented for full Compagnon status, but I don’t know anything about the people he met or the things he lived through during those years. It’s kind of a shame, when you think about it.”

  “You know what they say. Never too late to start.”

  “You’re right. But it is a shame that you had to come into our lives for us to start asking questions.”

  Embarrassed, I laughed and quickly changed the subject. “Tell me, is there a place I can find a list of Erwan’s viewable artwork?”

  “On his company’s website. There’s a page about his sculptures.”

  “There’s a website?” I frowned, bemused. “How come I didn’t find it when I tried to look him up?”

  Romaric frowned. “I don’t know. You should have. I know updating it isn’t Erwan’s priority, but you should have been able to find it. It could be the referencing isn’t good enough. I’ll look into it. I keep telling Erwan he could create more opportunities if he consistently updated it and posted more articles. He always says he has more than enough orders and that in his line of work, the best publicity is by word of mouth. And since he’ll be retiring this year, I guess he’s not interested in making the effort.”

  “I guess I see his point. Still, can you give me the web address?”

  “Sure.”

  He wrote it down on a sticky note, which he handed over. I thanked him and gazed at it for a few moments. Taille de Pierre, Pierre de Taille. What a lovely name for a company! It was a sort of pun: Taille de pierre is the act of shaping the stone and pierre de taille is the material, the stone used for carving, and the name for a standard block of stone used in stone building. The name couldn’t have been better chosen. I thought it fit Erwan to a T.

  “Thank you very much. I’ll look into it as soon as possible.”

  I laid the note by my breakfast plate and stared at it, sipping my tea.

  Another hidden part of Erwan’s life was unfolding before me, and I couldn’t wait to discover his sculptures.

  I wanted to find out everything there was to know about him.

  Over the course of a single evening, he had become very important to me. I was used to thinking of my father as my only family, and it was strange to feel so close to someone I had met so recently, even though it somehow felt as though I had known him for much longer . . .

  “You’re so lucky to have him.”

  “I know. He’s a wonderful person.”

  “He is,” I replied.

  “When our parents died twenty years ago, he was the one who took us in. He fought to get custody of us and he raised me and my sister. He was father and mother both, and he was an extraordinary parent—considerate, thoughtful. We owe him everything we are today. After our parents died . . . let’s just say we were two young and difficult kids, but he gave us all the love, the attention, and the space we needed. He let us grieve and have our own space. Then one day he took us to our parents’ grave and told us dozens of little stories about them.

  “Things got better after that. We still missed our parents, but we’d learned to accept that they were gone and move on with our lives, and it was all thanks to him. I think if I only had to remember one thing about him, it would be his dedication to raising us. He’s still very much a part of our lives today. He’s our anchor, for both of us.”

  “I’m so sorry about your parents,” I murmured.

  “Thanks. If Erwan hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be the people we are today.”

  “He’s very important to you.”

  “More than anyone else in the world.”

  “I understand. I feel the same about my father.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Romaric broke it. “I don’t know exactly what happened with the woman in the letter, but—”

  “Amélie.”

  “Amélie, right. I can’t help thinking that if she never tried to find him again, maybe she didn’t deserve him. Maybe she didn’t feel for Erwan the same way he did for her.”

  “Perhaps it’s more complicated than we think. Remember, she never got his letter.”

  “But she never tried to write or call,” he pointed out.

  “Not that we know of, but we haven’t heard her side of the story. We don’t know what really happened to her. Maybe she fell ill. Maybe she tried to find him, and they missed each other. Or she didn’t know where to find him. Maybe their entire lives are peppered with missed encounters.”

  “She could have gone to the Compagnons to find out where he was; they probably knew.”

  “Maybe she did and they wouldn’t tell her. The woman in charge of the Brest boarding house didn’t want to release the information to me,” I reminded him.

  “But she called Erwan on your behalf. They probably would have done the same for Amélie if she’d tried.”

  He had a point.

  “I can’t help thinking she just wanted to have a bit of fun, and when he left, she ended up marrying someone else.”

  “But that happened several years later. And she divorced him afterwards. I know the sixties weren’t that far back, with all the unrest and social revolution in France, and women taking actions to emancipate themselves from the yoke of society, but we have to remember that the communication we take for granted today wasn’t available then. I have a feeling that Amélie was a very caring person.”

  “How do you know? Have you spoken to her?”

  “No. It’s just that since I found the letter, I’ve learned a lot about her. And my impressions don’t fit with the person you think she is, that’s all.”

  He sighed, and I wondered what he was thinking. I hoped I hadn’t upset him, that my theories or my defending Amélie hadn’t offended him. I could understand why he was so unwilling to trust her. He loved Erwan like a father, and Erwan had suffered because of Amélie. It was only natural Romaric should want to protect him.

  But I couldn’t just sit by and listen. Not after what I had learned, after what Erwan had told me yesterday. I was convinced that in this particular case, blame could be shared. It had taken two to tango. But I was reasonably certain that their story of lost love had more to do with timing, circumstances, and of course, age. They were so young at the time.

  I knew, however, that there would be no convincing Romaric. That was one conversation he would have to have with Erwan, not me.

  In any case, I didn’t hold all the pieces to the puzzle. How could I arg
ue my case when I was missing crucial evidence? I needed to wait and find out more.

  “It’s in the past, anyway,” Romaric reasoned. “Let’s leave it there. It’s for the best. So,” he went on, evidently eager to change the subject, “what will you do now that you have solved the mystery of the waylaid letter? Any other history projects?”

  “Well, for now my only plans are to enjoy my holiday here.”

  “Excellent idea. You have my seal of approval.”

  Once again, he smiled at me, and the effect was the same. My heart fluttered. My stomach too. Heaven help me, the man was breathtaking.

  “What about after that? When you return to Karouac?”

  “My father’s birthday is the day after I get back, and then I promised him I’d help him inventory his shop.”

  “What kind of shop does he have?”

  “An antiques shop.”

  “So no more digging up dusty archives?”

  I hesitated, then decided to be completely honest with him. “Actually, I do have some plans regarding Erwan’s letter.”

  Romaric frowned. Poor guy, he’d thought I was done and moving on . . .

  “What are they?”

  “Well”—I grimaced an apology—“I’m going to turn Erwan’s story into a novel . . .”

  * * *

  A few dozen kilometers away, Erwan was teaching one of his monthly classes—or at least trying to. He couldn’t focus on the young aspirants he was instructing.

  Last night’s conversation with Flavie kept intruding, going through his mind over and over again, leaving him unable to think of anything else.

  Fight. Fight for Amélie and win her back.

  Forty-five years had gone by. Wasn’t it too late by now?

  She’d probably forgotten him.

  But he couldn’t resist the urge to see her, speak to her, try to explain, try to understand. Try to make her understand.

  He’d tried so hard to move past her. He’d tried to forget her for decades in an effort not to suffer as much as he had during those first years, and all of that had come to nothing when Flavie told him about the letter. The pain had bloomed as fast and as powerfully as it had on the first day. Worse, even, because now he had to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake. If everything had been his fault after all.