Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  “No.”

  “No . . . what?”

  “No, it’s not too early for me. I love you, Romaric, and believe me, the last couple of weeks were just as long and dreary for me as they were for you. I love you—I think I fell in love at first sight, the first time the earth shook under my feet. And nothing could make me happier than building a life with you, whatever it may be.”

  A smile broke like sunrise across his face, and right there, in the midst of the lavender fields, he kissed me as though I had just offered him the moon.

  But in truth, I had been the one graced with a gift.

  Once again, my father had been right.

  You just need to have faith.

  Epilogue

  Karouac, Brittany

  A year later

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two souls in holy matrimony.”

  Father François’s voice rang out into the church. He smiled at the assembly, and I smiled back.

  It was the most wonderful day of my life.

  Or, at least, the second most wonderful. The top spot belonged to the day I had married Romaric.

  My gaze slid over my left ring finger and the stunning diamond that graced it. When Romaric had knelt down on the beach in Karouac at sunset a few months ago, and asked me to become his wife, proffering his mother’s engagement ring, I had braced myself to wake up any moment. I’d pinched myself just to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. My very own Prince Charming was asking me to make an honest man of him and become the mother of his children—and his horses.

  We married a few weeks later in a small ceremony. Only our closest friends had been invited—including, naturally, Erwan, Amélie, and her two daughters, who had come down from Paris just for the occasion, and Gwenn and Dan, her mysterious partner from the ball. Of course, in the meantime he had lost most of his mystery and become more or less a part of the family as interim owner of the bed-and-breakfast. Rom had handed it over to him while we waited for me to be transferred to southern Brittany so we could move back to Port-l’Abbé.

  I had dithered for some time over the idea of leaving my father behind—as well as relinquishing my house, I admit—but we’d talked it over at length and we’d come to a compromise. My father had promised to close the shop for a few weeks in July and come spend some time with me. If he hadn’t, he knew as well as I did that my decision would have been much harder to make.

  In the end, after much hemming and hawing, I had decided to keep my house. Six years ago I couldn’t stand the idea that someone else might live in it, which had prompted me to buy it. I could bear the idea even less now I had lived in it. It was too important to me, to us. I’d called a family meeting with my father, Erwan and Amélie, Gwenn and Dan, and Rom and me, and together we’d decided that it had to stay in the family. Rom and I would pop in during the school holidays and low tourist season to visit my father and the knitting circle without having to trespass on anyone’s hospitality, and the rest of the year, it would be available to anyone who wanted to relax away from the busy crowds of tourists. We could even rent it to tourists, if need be. It was an ideal compromise for everyone. I hadn’t even had to bring up the money side of the equation—always a sensitive topic—before Gwenn, Amélie, and Erwan had spontaneously offered to chip in so we could all share the upkeep costs.

  I really had the best family in the world.

  “Erwan Alban Patrick Kermarrec, do you take Amélie Virginie Sophie Lacombe for your wife, to love her and cherish her, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

  Erwan gazed intently into Amélie’s eyes and he intoned clearly, “I do.”

  The priest smiled.

  So did I.

  “And do you, Amélie Virginie Sophie Lacombe, take Erwan Alban Patrick Kermarrec for your husband, to love him and cherish him, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

  Amélie’s response was as clear and determined as Erwan’s. “I do.”

  “You are now married in the eyes of God.”

  I brushed a tear away. Weddings made me so emotional. I slid a glance toward Romaric, who saw I was about to burst out sobbing any minute and curled an arm around my shoulders, drawing me into a protective embrace. He dropped a tender kiss on my hair and hugged me, a mischievous smile playing around his lips. But try as he might to seem unaffected, I knew he was as moved as I was.

  Today his uncle, the man who had been his father in all but name for most of his life, was getting married to his one and true love. After waiting for all these years, Erwan was at long last going to have the life he deserved with the woman he loved. And nothing could make Rom happier than seeing Erwan alight with joy in the church that had been such a fundamental part of his life.

  Even though it had taken a few discreet conversations with Father François to achieve this—Amélie was, after all, divorced.

  The priest blessed the rings, and Amélie and Erwan turned to face each other.

  “Amélie, I give you this ring as a symbol of our love and fidelity,” Erwan said softly as he slipped the band onto a glowing Amélie’s finger.

  “Erwan, I give you this ring as a symbol of our love and fidelity,” she murmured back.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Father François beamed. “You may kiss the bride.”

  And in front of the whole assembly, Erwan reached out to cradle Amélie’s face gently in his hands and gave her what had to be the sweetest kiss in history, brimming with restrained passion yet exquisitely moving. I even caught a glimpse of a tear rolling down his face.

  It had taken them forty-five years to find each other.

  Forty-five years to overcome the obstacles in their path.

  But they had succeeded, and now nothing could ever stop them from being happy again.

  * * *

  And the novel, you ask. Did I write it?

  I did. Under the gentle pressure of my friends from the knitting circle, who had refused to take no for an answer, I submitted it to my publisher. My editor loved it, and so it had been published.

  Against all expectations, my novel became a best seller, and I had kept two of my author’s copies, discreetly slipping them onto the table bearing the presents for the happy couple.

  It would be my wedding gift—the story of their love.

  What about the title, might you ask? Had I called it The Letter Came on a Tuesday, as I implied at the beginning of the story?

  No. In the end, I had chosen another title, a better-fitting one.

  I had called it Stolen Time.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is generally considered to be solitary work, and this is true most of the time. But this book would never have been published if not for the support and assistance of several people, and I would like to thank them all.

  To Carine, Caroline, and Cécile, my best friends, and to Vanessa, my little sister, for their unyielding support even—and especially—when I doubted myself, and for reading the first draft when it was still far from perfect.

  To Shelbylee, for regaling me with stories from her life as a teacher and opening the door to her world for the span of a novel.

  To Suzanne, for everything, plain and simple.

  To my very own Prince Charming, for supporting me and putting up with me all through the writing and proofreading of this novel, for believing in me the way he does, and for making my life into a never-ending fairy tale.

  This story would never be what it is without my French editor’s amazing work. Thank you, Marie, for all the hours, for all your advice, and for always taking me one step further, even when I thought I had reached my limits.

  Many thanks to Domitille, for her skillful translation of my words. And a huge thank-you to Tara, my wonderful American editor, who took a leap of faith with Flavie and gave me much precious advice as I worked on the editing. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  And of course, a book would be nothing without readers,
so many thanks to all of you for trusting me enough to buy this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much I did writing it.

  As a small girl, Chloé Duval used to fill her notebooks with stories about knights fighting terrifying dragons to save damsels in distress. She may have grown up, but her stories still retain a touch of the sweetness and enchantment of her childhood fairy tales.

  Though born in France, she considers Canada to be her second home. She lives in Montréal with her Prince Charming and several dozen of her characters.