Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

“Mmm?”

  “I miss you already. I know it’s kind of stupid because you’ve only been gone a day, but I can’t help it. I miss you. This place feels empty without you.”

  My heart soared with relief. For a second, I’d been worried he would tell me that our little romp had been fun but it stopped here. I knew that the likelihood was low, given how he had been behaving over the last two days, but I wasn’t being completely rational, and I was very, very afraid I’d never see him again.

  “So do I, Rom,” I’d said. “I miss you too.”

  I could almost hear him smiling.

  “Flavie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I come and see you?”

  YES! I’d felt like screaming into the phone. Come now, straightaway, don’t wait, I need you, want you.

  Of course, I had said none of that.

  “Whenever you want. But . . . What about your place? I thought—”

  “I’ll work something out. I need to see you, even if it’s only for a few hours. I don’t know when I’ll come yet, but I’ll find a way. That’s a promise.”

  I’d hung up with a silly smile on my face.

  Parents are always right, it seems.

  We’d worked out a routine. Romaric called me every night without fail, and we talked for an hour at least, often more. We shared small pieces of our daily lives and got to know each other better. He kept me updated on the bed-and-breakfast, Gwenn, Erwan, Dan, Moonlight, and Belle; I told him all about my father’s birthday, what we did together to take his mind off things, his shop, my knitting circle. He asked me whether I was writing anything. I wasn’t—my mind was still too full of him for me to focus on anything else. I asked him whether he had carved anything recently, but he hadn’t, and he didn’t elaborate on the topic.

  Then a few days ago, he’d asked me the question.

  “Flavie, can I come over this weekend?”

  A knock on the door startled me out of my daydream.

  I froze, my entire body shutting down before it rebooted in earnest. My heart beat double time, blood rushed to my face. It had to be him. I ran to the door and flung it wide open.

  There he was, the ground-shaking smile I loved so much on his lips.

  “Hi,” he said, meeting my eyes. “I sell vacuum cleaners. Can I interest you in buying one?”

  I laughed and threw myself into his arms.

  Chapter 20

  Gwenn by his side, Erwan stopped in the church entrance.

  Unlike the rest of the town, nothing here had changed. It looked just the same as he remembered it. He turned around, his gaze sliding to the spot where he’d stood forty years ago on Amélie’s wedding day, hidden behind the porch at the corner of the street. It was an eternity ago, almost half a lifetime. And yet it seemed as though it was yesterday that he had watched her ascend the steps arm in arm with her father, glowing and ready to marry another man.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as much to calm his beating heart as to brush off the memories assailing him. This pilgrimage to all the places that he’d come to love during his stay in Karouac was to bolster his courage and strength, not to relive painful memories. Those weren’t the ones he wanted to remember today.

  But just in case, he’d wait a little longer before he went down to the beach.

  “Are you okay, Erwan?” Gwenn asked.

  “I’m all right. It feels strange to be here after so long.”

  “I can only imagine. Do you want to go into the church straightaway or wait a little first?”

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “All right.” She slipped her arm through his. “Lead on.”

  Together, they climbed the steps, and Erwan pushed open the heavy wooden door, just as he had done on the last day of summer in 1971.

  Other memories flooded him, debates with Father François, long hours spent working on the church, laughter and jokes tossed around. For an instant, he was twenty years old again, living like there was no tomorrow.

  “This is nice,” Gwenn murmured, letting go of this arm to venture farther inside. “It’s light and warm, unlike the churches you usually find all over the place, all cold and dark. I like it. You did good work here.”

  “You make it sound like I built the church! I just repaired a few sections back there. Here”—he pointed to a wall—“and here. But I agree with you. This church is one of a kind, and I always enjoyed coming here. I would find peace and comfort when I needed to.”

  “That’s kind of funny,” Gwenn said, crinkling up her nose.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you’ve always been pretty much an atheist, so it’s funny you would come here for peace and comfort. And you worked here. It’s like napping in your office.”

  “I usually worked outside, so it did make a difference. And it wasn’t about the religious aspect of things. I didn’t come here to pray or talk to God. I came for the silence. There was something here I found soothing. And I liked talking to the parish priest.”

  “The one Flavie met?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  They’d reached the center of the transept. Erwan looked around for his statue and soon found it.

  “It was such a long time ago.” He stepped closer. “I had forgotten. . .” I had forgotten how much it looks like Amélie.

  “So that’s the Virgin Mary statue Flavie was talking about?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you carved it when you were only twenty. You’re a genius, uncle mine!” She kissed his cheek. “I’m proud to be your niece, you know.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Do my eyes deceive me?” a voice interrupted. “Is this young Erwan? Have you come to make sure I kept my promise to look after the statue you gave me?”

  Erwan turned, a smile upon his lips. “Not that young anymore, Father. And I never doubted you would keep your end of the bargain. How are you doing?”

  “You’ll always be young Erwan to me, I’m afraid.” The priest embraced him. “I’m doing well. It’s good to see you again, even after such a long time. I have missed you, you know.”

  “I missed you too. But I . . . I couldn’t come back.”

  “I know. Flavie told me a little about what happened when she came to see me a few days ago. I’m sorry life has dealt you such a harsh hand.”

  “Thank you, Father. But it’s about to change—I’ve decided to seize my chance again. Better late than never. Do you remember what you told me the day I left?”

  “Every word.”

  “You said if she was meant to be with me . . .”

  “. . . the Lord would reunite you, yes. And you replied that you’d rather rely on yourself.”

  “And that’s what I’m going to do, even if forty-five years went by before I could gather the courage to do what I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to find Amélie again.”

  “I hope it works out the way you want, Erwan.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Will you come back and see me before I retire? I’d enjoy a few more conversations like the ones we used to have when we were young.”

  “You’re leaving, Father?”

  “You might have noticed I’m not getting any younger myself. It’s time for some new blood in our parish.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Not for a few years yet, don’t worry. But I wouldn’t want another forty-five years to go by before you came back this way. I won’t live that long.”

  “I promise I’ll come back as soon as I’ve found Amélie.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “A promise is a promise.”

  Gwenn cleared her throat conspicuously.

  “Father, let me introduce my niece and adopted daughter, Gwenn.”

  “A pleasure, Gwenn.”

  “Likewise, Father.” Gwenn shook his hand.

  “You look like Erwan.”

  “Yo
u should see my older brother. He’s the spitting image of Erwan.”

  “Speaking of Romaric . . . Father, I have to leave. We have someone we need to surprise. Flavie doesn’t know we’re here yet,” Erwan explained with a smile.

  “What a pleasant surprise! I’ve no doubt she will be very glad to see you.”

  “I certainly hope so!”

  “Goodbye then, my dear Erwan, and may God grant you your heart’s desire this time.”

  “Goodbye, Father.”

  * * *

  Romaric and I were talking in the entrance—read: kissing as though the world was about to end—and I was mentally planning a tour of the house that would inevitably end in my bedroom, when someone knocked at the door.

  I made an executive decision to ignore the ill-timed guest who dared intrude upon our reunion.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Romaric said.

  “Mmm, no, whoever it is can come back later.”

  The knocking redoubled.

  “Maybe you should check it out,” Rom suggested.

  “Don’t wanna. I have much better things to do right now,” I replied, wondering why he was so insistent I open the door. Wasn’t he in a hurry to move on to the next stage of our reunion?

  Once again, the knocking.

  “I really think you should go and see. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

  I sighed. “If you insist.”

  As I made my way to the door, I grumbled that whoever it was, I was going to send them back to where they came from and get right back to what I had been doing, and I didn’t care what anyone thought about it.

  I opened the door, ready to unleash a heap of cutting remarks at my unwelcome caller, and then—

  “Erwan! Gwenn! What—”

  Questions could wait, I decided as I threw my arms around them, almost—but not quite—as enthusiastically as I had greeted Rom earlier.

  “Flavie!” Gwenn hugged me back. “I’m so glad to see you again!”

  “What—How—What about your bed-and-breakfast? Did you close? What’s going to happen to the horses?”

  “Don’t worry, some friends of ours are taking care of them. Won’t you invite us in?”

  “Of course! Please, come in. I’m just so surprised, I forgot my manners. It’s great to see you!”

  I stepped aside and turned toward a beaming Rom. “You sly fox—you never said a thing.”

  “We wanted to surprise you.”

  “Come on, Flavie, ask us why we’re here!” Gwenn begged.

  “Okay. Why are you here?”

  “Flavie,” Erwan began, “we’re going to find Amélie, and we want you to come with us.”

  “Really?”

  Erwan nodded. I turned to Rom and Gwenn for confirmation and they both agreed wordlessly. “Oh, Erwan!”

  I embraced him.

  Again.

  I really was starting to make a habit of it.

  * * *

  Over the next few hours, we laid out our battle plan. Erwan told us what he wanted to do, I suggested a few changes. Romaric and Gwenn each took part in their own manner: Rom said nothing and Gwenn pointed out a few weaknesses in the plan. The four of us eventually built a solid plan. The only unknown was Amélie. I would have to call her to tell her about the letter without giving away too many details, and convince her to meet with me so I could hand it over.

  In the end, we decided to move ahead that very evening. Around 7 p.m.—a time at which I estimated Amélie should be home from work—I sat at my kitchen table, surrounded by Rom, Erwan, and Gwenn, and dialed the number Chantale had given me a lifetime ago.

  “It’s ringing,” I mouthed to the others.

  My hands were clammy. I could barely believe I was finally going to speak with Amélie. How many times had I pictured this talk? How many times had I imagined myself calling to share what I had discovered and tell her about Erwan?

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Lacombe?” I prayed I wasn’t stepping out of line calling her by her maiden name.

  “This is she.”

  “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Flavie Richalet.”

  “Good evening.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience. One of your old friends gave me your number, Chantale Dumas—or, well, actually, it was her older sister, France.”

  “I know them both quite well. But if I may, why were you trying to reach me?”

  “It’s sort of a strange story, in fact, but I promise every word is true. You see, I live in Karouac, in what used to be called the principal’s house. A few weeks ago, I received a letter addressed to you.”

  “Oh! How peculiar.”

  “It is, isn’t it? It was sent in the seventies and the post office mislaid it for years. I took the liberty of opening it to see if it was anything important.”

  “If you’re calling me, it must have been,” Amélie stated.

  “It was.”

  “What was it?”

  “A letter from a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Uh . . . He didn’t sign, so I don’t know,” I improvised with a grimace.

  “All right, it does seem like a strange story. I don’t quite know what to say, except perhaps to thank you for letting me know. Could you send it on?”

  “To be frank, I’d like to hand it over in person. You see, I’m a historian and I’m planning on writing a novel that takes place in Karouac in the seventies. If I could ask you a few questions, it might help a lot. Would you have a little time to spare? I could kill two birds with one stone.”

  I crossed my fingers, my toes, anything I could cross as I waited for her answer. Please let her say yes . . . please let her say yes . . .

  “Well . . . If you want to . . . Why not? But are you really going to come all the way from Karouac just for this?” Amélie asked.

  “Um, no, I have to pass through anyway.”

  I felt a little guilty for telling so many lies and half-truths, and I sincerely hoped she would forgive me when she learned why I had done all this.

  “In that case, I’d be willing, yes. It’s been a long time since I spoke of Karouac with someone.”

  “Great! Fantastic! Shall I call you again when I’m there? In a couple of days?”

  “Yes, it will be easier to agree on a meeting place then.”

  “Great! Perfect!” I repeated. “Goodbye then, Ms. Lacombe! I’m so very glad to get to meet you at last.”

  I hung up, exhilarated.

  “She’s waiting for us!”

  * * *

  Across the country, in the small town of Valensole, Amélie stared at the phone for several long seconds, frowning.

  Who was the slightly crazy person who claimed to have a letter addressed to her? Chantale must trust her if she had given her Amélie’s phone number—which was kind of presumptuous on her part, by the way. She could have at least asked permission before handing it out. But still, it was a rather mad story.

  Amélie shrugged. She’d know soon enough what it was all about.

  Thinking no more about the mysterious call, she returned to her everyday pursuits, unaware that her life was about to change completely.

  Chapter 21

  Lavender fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Pale purple flowers filled my line of sight. Somehow, I couldn’t get enough of the beauty of this region I was visiting for the first time. I only knew what the internet had told me about the town.

  Valensole. The city of lavender.

  The end of my journey—of our journey.

  Sitting beside me in the back seat, Gwenn pored over a map of the city.

  I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender floating in the air, and my eyes met a sapphire gaze in the rearview mirror. I smiled, and from the crinkles around the corner of his eyes, I knew Rom was smiling back.

  “Where will we be staying again, Erwan?” Gwenn asked.

  “Route d’Oraison, that’s in the northern part of town,” Er
wan answered from the passenger seat.

  “Got it. Not too far from here.”

  “No, we should be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Good, I need to stretch my legs!”

  I leaned back against the headrest as Erwan and Gwenn talked, and gazed over the surrounding fields, drifting into a daydream.

  * * *

  By some stroke of luck—which I had chosen to interpret as a sign that the stars were aligning in our favor—a last-minute cancellation two days ago had allowed us to book rooms in an adorable little bed-and-breakfast right in the middle of the lavender fields just north of Valensole, rather than in the drab hotel where we had resolved to bunk down after our unsuccessful search for better accommodations. Yes, I know—what else did we expect, trying to book a room with little notice during high tourist season in southern France? But we were on a mission.

  The next day—that is, yesterday—we had piled our bags into the trunk of Erwan’s car, and with Romaric at the wheel, we hit the road southward. We’d stopped for the night in a little hotel halfway between Karouac and Valensole, and we’d been up at the break of dawn this morning. Our surroundings had turned to lavender fields awhile back, and I simply could not tire of the gorgeous landscape that was so different from the Breton coastline and yet just as magical.

  I smiled to myself, and once again my gaze strayed to meet Romaric’s in the rearview mirror.

  “This is it,” he announced. “Valensole.”

  I sat up. Here we were at last, in the town where Amélie lived. Erwan’s fate was going to be decided here.

  The town was small and adorable. Most of the buildings were old, made of light-colored stone, and looked like they could have told a hundred stories if they had a voice to speak with. We drove through town to reach the route d’Oraison and leave our bags in the bed-and-breakfast before we could proceed with the next step of our plan.

  When we arrived there, we could see that the online brochure had not lied about the beauty of the establishment.

  The house was built of pale ochre stone, with a red slate roof and blue window shutters, and it sat right in the middle of a lavender field.

  “Wow, this is amazing!” Gwenn exclaimed as she spun around and looked at our surroundings.

  I could only agree. Not even the most jaded tourist could have resisted such a view.