Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  Natalie pulled on a robe and went down the hall to find a brand-new coffeemaker and a carafe of freshly brewed coffee. And that wasn’t all. The large kitchen had been tidied up, the flatware stowed in the drawers, the cups and dishes stacked neatly on the shelves.

  Natalie stared at the coffeemaker. She and François-Xavier had bought it on one of their last “fun runs” into Quimper. They had lingered in the massive Carrefour, searching each aisle even though they really needed to finish the renovation before even thinking about furnishing and decorating the place. It had been hard to resist the allure of what the Bag-Noz might look like, feel like, once the building was fully functional and filled with guests. Once their dream had come true.

  Her dream. Not his, as it turned out.

  The coffeemaker had sat in the pantry in its original packaging for weeks now, alongside several other appliances and a dozen boxes of filters they had bought with optimism, imagining serving their guests in the morning. After François-Xavier left, Natalie couldn’t find the energy to set up the coffeemaker and deal with actual coffee beans. She had briefly considered returning the appliances to get her money back, but wavered at the thought of lugging all those big boxes down to the ferry under the watchful eyes of the islanders. The money wouldn’t be enough to fix things, anyway.

  But somehow, while she was sleeping, someone had put the coffeemaker to good use. She didn’t even have coffee beans in the pantry, did she?

  The back door squeaked as Jean-Luc came in from the yard.

  “Oh! Bonjour, Natalie!” He kissed her on both cheeks. “I am an early riser, as is your sister, and must confess that I have a caffeine habit. Too many years trying to stay awake in the terrible office, I suppose. I hope you do not mind.”

  Natalie blinked.

  “May I fix you a cup? Happily, the general store was open, and they had some very nice dark roast coffee beans. Your sister assured me I should open the coffeemaker. Otherwise I would never have presumed . . .”

  “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “Thanks, yes, but I can serve myself.”

  He smiled. “That’s what your sister said.”

  “Two peas in a pod, I guess,” she said. Not. “What is Alex up to?”

  “Your sister, she is working on a windowsill at the front of the house. She was thinking to check out the roof tiles, though, and wondering whether to make that a priority. The proprietor of the general store says her arthritis is acting up, which means there’s a storm coming in.”

  On an island, there’s always a storm coming in.

  “She is rather fantastic, is she not? Your sister?” said Jean-Luc, taking newly washed pots and pans from the drainer by the sink and placing them on the open shelf above the counter, turning each so its handle faced out and to one side, at precisely the same angle. “She tells me she worked on a ranch, like a cowboy! I do not believe I have ever met such an able woman.”

  “She’s able, all right,” said Natalie, pouring herself some of the fragrant java. She hugged the mug and breathed in the aroma. After weeks of instant coffee, she savored the moment and almost forgot Jean-Luc was there.

  When she looked up, he was leaning against the counter, holding his own cup of coffee, and looking at her expectantly. Natalie considered trying to make up an excuse for her reaction to his words last night, but couldn’t bring herself to address it. And he seemed, kindly, to be allowing her to ignore it.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind what?”

  “About opening the coffeemaker.”

  “Not a bit. Thank you.”

  “And tidying up in here. I have probably put all the dishes where they are not supposed to go, and you will spend the next several weeks looking for what you need and cursing my name,” Jean-Luc said with a broad smile. “Also, I found a very old cantaloupe that was past saving, I’m sorry to say. Your sister assured me it would be all right to organize the kitchen. I was worried I would wake you, but Alex said you always used to sleep through anything.”

  She managed a nod.

  Still feeling fuzzy and not quite awake, Natalie studied her guest. He was so eager, rather like a bouncy puppy. She wasn’t accustomed to this from the French, especially not from Parisians. According to François-Xavier and his chic friends, it was the Americans who were enthusiastic and puppylike. She tried to imagine Jean-Luc at his desk alongside the other fonctionnaires, churning out government-mandated paperwork, fulfilling his dreary daily responsibilities to a massive bureaucracy, year after year. She couldn’t picture it.

  This morning he was wearing a button-down shirt and nice slacks, but at least he wasn’t wearing an entire suit. She wondered if he owned a pair of shorts or jeans.

  Jean-Luc noticed her gaze and said, “Your sister tells me I must find some work clothes if I am to stay on. And I would very much like to stay on.”

  “Alex has a way of putting people to work, but you don’t have to do her bidding, Jean-Luc,” said Natalie, pasting on a small smile. “You’re paying me good money to stay in this hovel, and you brought me coffee.”

  He smiled and ducked his head. “It probably sounds silly, but I am fifty-three years old, and I’ve never worked with my hands. I believe I would enjoy it, to remain a few days and learn from your sister. Unless you object, of course.”

  “If it’s okay with Alex, it’s okay with me.”

  Jean-Luc beamed at her. “Then it is settled! I shall today purchase some appropriate work clothes.”

  “How long were you planning on staying?”

  “I am a free agent.” He smiled and sipped his coffee, sighing in appreciation. “But of course I will seek more permanent arrangements. As a matter of fact, I have to leave now for an appointment with the mayor’s assistant; he has promised to see whether he could help me figure things out.”

  “Oh good. Monsieur Le Guen knows everyone on the island.”

  “I also bought some bread and butter and jam for breakfast,” Jean-Luc said. “Would you like me to make you something?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, finally waking up, grateful to feel the caffeine kicking in. “I’m not much of a breakfast person.”

  He nodded. “Your sister mentioned that.”

  “You and she had quite the talk this morning, it seems.” Natalie glanced at the clock on the wall: It was ten forty-five. Alex and Jean-Luc must have been up for hours. Have they been speculating about me and François-Xavier? Pitying me?

  “I noticed a small shop with some clothes that we passed by last night,” Jean-Luc said. “Just down the way.”

  “Le Caradec? That’s a souvenir shop, for the tourists. The islanders buy their clothes on the mainland.”

  “But that is perfect! I suppose, since I am a tourist, it will be just what I need.”

  Natalie imagined Jean-Luc would return clad in a bright yellow rain slicker and a long-sleeved Breton T-shirt. The shirt used to be part of the uniform for navy seamen in Northern France, and the original design featured twenty-one navy blue stripes—representing each of Napoleon Bonaparte’s victories—against a white background. According to lore, the distinctive stripes made it easier to spot sailors who had fallen overboard. Mariners still fell into the sea from time to time, but no one wore the striped shirts anymore.

  No one but the tourists.

  “Well, I suppose I should let you get ready for your day,” said Jean-Luc, “and I should make my way to the mayor’s office. But thank you, again, for giving me a place to stay. However temporary.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Why don’t I pay for a week in advance, and we can adjust as necessary?”

  “That will be fine,” Natalie said. A week means fourteen hundred euros, she thought. I can get by with that until the publisher’s check comes through.

  “Do
you still prefer cash?”

  “I, um . . . cash would be great.”

  “Is there a machine on the island?”

  “No, but the bank window is open this afternoon. There’s only one, and it’s only open on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from three to six. It’s not far from the mayor’s office; Monsieur Le Guen can show you where it is.”

  “Bon! I will be sure to go by, then. Je vous souhait une bonne journée, Natalie.”

  “You, too, Jean-Luc. And thanks for straightening up.”

  Natalie downed the rest of her coffee, returned to her room, pulled on a clean pair of shorts and a tank top, and went outside, where she found her sister in the lean-to by the shed.

  “Morning, Nat,” said Alex, looking up from a piece of wood trim she was measuring.

  “Good morning. Looks like you’re hard at work. Again.”

  “Yeah. That window project in the front was halfway done. Figured I could finish it up quick enough. Just a rotten sill.” Alex had strapped a tool belt to her slim hips, and she was moving efficiently around the shed as though she had worked there for years. Laid out in precise order atop the workbench were the tools left by the workmen, as well as the shiny new ones Natalie and François-Xavier had bought.

  “What time is it?” Alex glanced at her watch, a masculine-looking manacle with a large face.

  “Almost eleven. I was up until three,” Natalie added, feeling defensive. “Writing.”

  Alex nodded. “I remember how you used to stay up late, reading with a flashlight under the covers.”

  “And here I thought I was so sneaky.”

  “It infuriated The Commander.” Alex gave that low, raspy chuckle that still startled Natalie. She didn’t think of her sister as someone who laughed.

  Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

  “Sorry about last night,” said Natalie.

  “Are you okay?”

  Natalie shook her head, feeling tears sting the backs of her eyes.

  “Nat, tell me what’s going on.”

  Natalie hesitated.

  “You can trust me, you know,” Alex said softly.

  “I know.” Natalie sighed and sat down, hard, in a wooden chair. She gazed out at the garden. “I . . . He . . .” She shrugged. “He’s not coming back.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “He didn’t say anything. I mean, everything was good—at least I thought it was. But he got bored here, and lost interest in the renovations, and then started taking quick trips to Paris. Then the trips got longer and more frequent . . . and finally he texted me, saying he wasn’t coming back.”

  “He texted you?”

  Natalie nodded, her humiliation complete. “I checked the Internet last night for news of what he’s doing in Paris. None of the articles mention me. Yet. They haven’t put it together, but they will. Soon enough, they will. And then, as The Commander used to say, the you-know-what will hit the fan.”

  “What do you care what people think?”

  “It’s probably hard for you to understand, but I have a social media presence to protect. It’s like a brand. ‘Living Well.’”

  “And can’t you live well without a man?”

  “Of course.” She could, couldn’t she? “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Natalie snapped. What did Alex know about love, anyway? Had she ever even been in love, ever known what it was like to be with someone who wanted you, needed you, loved you? Because Natalie sure had. Hadn’t she?

  Alex’s only response was to raise her eyebrows and turn her attention back to the window frame.

  “Look, Alex,” Natalie said, feeling churlish. “I don’t want to talk about François-Xavier. And I really appreciate everything you’re doing around here to help. But you’ve only just arrived; don’t you want to walk around and see things? The islanders are particularly proud of their history during World War Two.”

  Natalie fully expected her sister to say no, that she had no time for frivolous things like sightseeing, but Alex straightened, laid her leather work gloves to one side, and nodded.

  “Sure, thanks. I’d love to see the island.”

  * * *

  • • •

  You saw this yesterday,” said Natalie as they walked along the seawall, following the crescent of buildings. “It’s pretty much the main drag of the village.”

  “There was a photograph of German soldiers walking right here,” said Alex. “In that old photo album in the parlor. It’s hard to imagine Nazis walking these paths.”

  “That’s how I feel about most of France,” said Natalie. “Have you seen that famous photo of German soldiers goose-stepping down the Champs-Élysées in Paris? Still gives me the shivers.”

  Though not nearly as busy as last night, the cafés were open, with tourists sitting outside in the morning sunshine, enjoying espressos and croissants. Couples strolled along the quay, and children chased dusky sparrows, trying to catch the little birds as they searched for crumbs. In the harbor half a dozen boats were moored on the mud, waiting for the tide to come in.

  “It’s low tide. Want to walk out to the point?” Natalie asked.

  “You’re the tour guide.”

  Natalie led the way out to a narrow peninsula featuring jagged rocks, scrubby wildflowers, and a whole lot of seaweed.

  They passed a large sign that read: Accès interdit à marée haute.

  “I thought ‘accès interdit’ meant you weren’t allowed,” Alex said.

  “That’s only during marée haute, which means ‘high tide.’ This thumb of land gets cut off from the rest of the island when the tide’s in. Occasionally a tourist doesn’t heed the warnings and gets stuck out here.”

  “What happens then?”

  “If someone on the quay notices, they’ll bring a boat over to rescue them. If not, then whoever’s out here has to bide their time and wait for the next low tide. But I suppose they could swim over if it came down to it.”

  They walked along to the very end of the spit of land, which was the easternmost point of the island. Surrounded by water on three sides, they were buffeted by winds off the ocean.

  “The mainland doesn’t look that far away from here, does it?” Alex squinted at the landmass rising out of the ocean to the east. “But it took more than an hour to get here on the ferry.”

  “It’s not far, as the crow flies. But this stretch of water is called the Raz, and it’s famous for its reefs. The water’s full of them, lurking just below the surface.”

  Alex nodded. “I read about that.”

  “They have a saying here: ‘Qui voit Feme voit sa fin.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “‘Whoever sees Feme sees their end.’ According to the locals, the first inhabitants of the Île de Feme were castaways, sailors who survived shipwrecks and were stranded here. There are no real trees on the island, so there was no way to build a boat to escape.” Alex seemed interested, so Natalie kept talking. “I always find the word ‘castaway’ interesting. I mean, who is casting whom away, and from where? The French word makes more sense to me: A shipwreck is a naufrage, and the victims of it are naufragés, literally those to whom the shipwreck happened.”

  Alex gave her a strange look and Natalie felt like a freak for researching abstract factoids no one else cared about.

  Chill, Natalie. You’re not Alex’s inept little sister anymore.

  Alex turned her back to the water to view the village from a new angle. “It’s really pretty, isn’t it?”

  “It looks great in photographs, that’s for sure. We should probably head back, though. If I got caught out here during high tide, I’d never live it down.”

  They retraced their steps, but rather than turning onto the quay, they kept walking west, skirting
the populous area of the island.

  “The island’s shaped sort of like a big S, with the bottom part inhabited and the rest not as much,” said Natalie.

  “I recognize that guy,” said Alex as they passed a bowlegged man with long white hair, bright orange cargo shorts, and bare feet petting a dog outside a business that rented kayaks and standing boards to the tourists. “He was one of the pétanque players last night.”

  “That’s Tarik,” Natalie said with a nod. “There are only a few hundred full-timers on the island, so you get to know people quickly here. Speaking of which, here comes François-Xavier’s uncle—we call him Tonton Michou.”

  Michou was not particularly tall but had a big belly that protruded aggressively. His face was well rounded and tanned, and he sported little tufts of hair on his otherwise bald head. Michou had a tendency to slur his words and speak “into his barbe” even before he started drinking, but once he’d downed a few, he also got weepy, talking about his hundred-year-old mother, who had passed away just a few years ago. He didn’t speak a word of English, but didn’t let that hinder him and spoke to Alex at length in French, which Natalie tried her best to translate.

  “He’s saying he’s happy to meet my sister, and he’s saying nice things about me,” said Natalie with a smile. “The people here tend to be very family oriented; they worry about me being so far from home.”

  She told Michou that she had found a photo album and wondered if she could bring it by soon for him to help her identify some of the people in the photos.

  “Bien sûr!” he responded. Of course.

  Then they bade farewell to Michou and continued on their tour, passing the last of the buildings. Spread out before them were small fields and a patchwork of gardens ringed by low stone walls.

  “This is where the islanders grow vegetables. In the old days they kept cows and pigs, but now there are only chickens.”