Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  Two women emerged from the dark.

  Alex jumped, then regained her composure.

  Not women. Dresses. Two black dresses hanging from a beam. On a nearby shelf sat two pairs of boots, and two winged headdresses.

  Alex recognized these as the robes noires and jibilinnen Nat had spoken of, the traditional outfits worn by the perpetually mourning women of the Île de Feme. One dress was extra large, but the other looked like it would fit Alex. She ran her hands along the fabric; it was softer than she would have imagined. What would it be like to wear the same costume, day in and day out, whether gathering goémon, visiting friends, or attending a feast day celebration? Would it be stultifying? Or would it be freeing not to have to think about what to wear, to so easily fit in with one’s town and culture, like a hand slipping into a custom-made glove?

  She poked around but didn’t see much else of interest in the attic. Wooden and cardboard boxes filled the shelves of a bookcase built into the wall. There were two small end tables, a large ceramic lamp with no shade, a mirror, mismatched window frames, a couple of doors, and assorted small pieces of lumber. Alex made a note to bring these last down to the shed. She might be able to put the wood to use, and in any case, it was never good to leave things like this lying around as an invitation to pests.

  Messes went against Alex’s nature. She liked everything tidy and in its place.

  More worrisome were the large tarps and pots and buckets spread around, evidence of attempts to catch water. Alex could see daylight through a few pinprick holes in the roof overhead, and water stains marred the ceiling and the broad wood floor planks.

  Alex felt a spurt of anger. Water damage would destroy the building. What is Nat thinking? Or the scumbag boyfriend? A new roof should have been the first thing on their renovations list.

  Alex brought the two robes noires with her as she navigated the steep attic stairs to the third-floor landing, and then down two more flights to the main floor. She hung the dresses in the parlor and went to look for Nat in her study.

  “Knock, knock. Nat?”

  Her sister wasn’t there, but her laptop was open on the desk.

  Alex sat down and looked up how to repair a slate roof. It seemed simple enough—not easy, but straightforward. She took some notes and closed the roofing websites, then noticed the tabs open to Nat’s social media sites. Alex scrolled through Nat’s posts, studying the photographs that made the island seem beautiful and romantic—and it was beautiful and romantic, at least to Alex. But it was also stark and dramatic, the way it was so low, surrounded on all sides by water.

  Guess who surprised me, coming off the ferry without letting me know she was coming: my sister! We had a scrumptious meal of locally sourced seafood at Milo’s Café, one of my favorite island gems, and spent the next day strolling around the island, taking in the sights, chatting with villagers, and climbing the lighthouse steps. Who knows what adventure is next on the sister agenda?

  Nat had illustrated these chatty words with photographs of Alex caught in profile, some taken when she was sitting on the rocks, others on the lighthouse catwalk, as she was gazing out across the whole of the island.

  Alex wasn’t happy to see so many wrinkles at the edges of her eyes, but otherwise was pleased. No two ways about it, Nat had a talent with the camera. Alex knew—she had been told often enough—that she didn’t smile often, yet Nat had caught her several times with a small but sad smile playing on her lips.

  Alex supposed anyone who had read Pourqois Pas? would not be surprised to see her looking sad.

  Genuinely nosy now, Alex clicked on another open tab. This one was a Parisian news site with an article featuring a photograph of a man and a woman. Alex was so engrossed in the attempt to translate the article that she didn’t hear Nat come in.

  “What are you doing?”

  Alex jumped. “Sorry. I was looking up some details about roof repairs . . . but then I got distracted.”

  Nat peered over Alex’s shoulder at the photo of François-Xavier and that woman walking along the Seine. She sank into a chair by the desk, looking stricken.

  “He’s very attractive,” Alex said softly. “I’ll give him that.”

  Nat stared at the photo on the computer screen.

  “But if you ask me,” Alex continued, “he’s sort of too good-looking. You know what I mean? Like when you see a guy with his shirt off. A six-pack is nice and all, but too many muscles are kind of off-putting. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  Nat finally gave a reluctant smile. “What are you even talking about?”

  “I’m just running off at the mouth. What do I know? I’ve never had much luck with love myself.”

  Alex had had sex a few times, mostly to see what all the fuss was about: a guy at the lumber mill, the bartender in town. There had been a brief and surprisingly enjoyable fling with a businessman who had come to the ranch to “find himself” before returning to his wife and kids in Modesto. But she never let anyone get close.

  When Alex first read Pourquoi Pas? she found the chapters on their childhood galling, but much worse was Natalie’s therapy-inspired discussion about what it meant to survive childhood trauma: how the typical responses were either to care too much about what others thought, or to refuse to trust and to live an emotionally stunted adulthood.

  Ridiculous, Alex had scoffed, tossing the book aside. Self-involved, navel-gazing twaddle. Little wonder the book became a bestseller, she thought the next day as she patiently showed a young ranch guest how to tie and throw a lariat. She heard her father’s voice in her head: People like nothing better than to blame someone else, to pretend nothing is ever their fault. They’re full of excuses.

  But over time Alex wondered whether Nat was onto something. Her little sister had always gone through life like a butterfly, driven this way and that by the opinions of others, by the stories she read or by what a boyfriend said, in a constant search for approval.

  And as for herself . . . Alex liked to think of herself as an island. She stood alone. Anything else scared the hell out of her, because in the end, the only person she could rely on was herself.

  What would Nat do if people thought less of her? And what would happen to Alex, now that she herself had become unreliable?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Natalie

  So, what did you learn about the roof?” Natalie asked, wishing Alex would change the web page so she didn’t have to look at François-Xavier’s face.

  “Oh, right. Seems slate can become spongy.”

  “I thought slate was a rock. How do rocks become spongy?”

  “Apparently it starts to delaminate. Anyway, it’s not good. I was thinking I would try to patch it with some mastic I found in the shed. It isn’t ideal, but it might do in a pinch. I was just up in the attic and there are gaps in the ceiling—I can literally see the sky through a few spots. Somebody tried to minimize the damage with tarps and pots, but that’s not going to be enough when the rainwater comes through.”

  “If it comes through.”

  “Face facts, Nat. It’s going to come through.”

  Alex was right, of course. A light rain wasn’t a problem, but the wind-driven water of a severe storm was another story altogether. The last time there was a bad storm, François-Xavier was still here. She had asked him about the roof, and he had shrugged and insisted it wasn’t so bad. It could wait.

  Why had she listened to him?

  “We should empty the attic,” continued Alex. “Get the place cleaned up. You don’t want to have a lot of lumber lying around. It can attract pests. Are there termites on the island?”

  “I’m not sure. That was François-Xavier’s venue. I was on the hospitality and decoration end of things. Anyway, the stuff in the attic is just junk. I think I had romantic notions of what might be up there. But there was really nothing.”

 
“Some of the wood might be useful in redoing things around the house.”

  “We’re not back at the compound, Alex,” Natalie said. “We don’t have to always reuse everything.”

  “But why not use it, if it’s an option? Keep the historic bits. Oh, there were two black outfits up there, too. I brought the dresses down and hung them in the parlor so they wouldn’t get wet.”

  “Thanks. I thought about putting them on display for guests but couldn’t figure out exactly how. Maybe I should give them to the museum.”

  “Hey, while I was online I also read your blog. Looks like we’ve had a nice visit.”

  “Well . . . we have. Haven’t we?”

  “Of course. It’s just that . . . when you experience it in person, then read about it online like that, it seems different.”

  “It’s part of my job, you know,” said Natalie. “It’s part of what I do, as an author, a motivational author. I create this online presence. It’s based in the truth, but it’s not entirely real. It’s not a deposition.”

  Alex nodded. “I get it. Anyway, good news about the house: Most things are cosmetic fixes, but you’ll need an electrician to update the wiring. But I could install the plumbing fixtures and lamps. Besides painting and cleaning, it’s mostly just the roof.”

  “That is good news,” Natalie said, relaxing for the first time in a while. “It all seemed so overwhelming. Do you think we could have the guesthouse ready in six weeks, in time for the Festival of the Gallizenae?”

  “A licensed electrician probably wouldn’t need more than a few days. The roof might take longer. I’m not really sure. But again, you really need a professional. Could you ask the scumbag’s family for money, maybe?”

  “No point; they don’t have any. But I just got some other good news: My agent sold the film rights to Pourquoi Pas?”

  “Someone’s making a movie out of your book? That’s amazing, Nat. Congratulations.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen. Someone bought the option, but in the long run not many movies actually get made.”

  “Still, that’s pretty cool. You don’t seem very excited about it, though.”

  “I would be, but I feel like . . . I feel like a fraud. I mean, no one’s going to make the movie when they learn the real ending to my story, will they?”

  “It’s not over till it’s over,” Alex said. “How can anyone know the real ending, until you die?”

  Natalie smiled. “Now you sound like Dad. But—”

  She was cut off by the sound of the front door opening and a man’s voice calling out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

  Jean-Luc came into the kitchen wearing a bright yellow slicker over his suit.

  “What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out and turning around like a little boy showing off his new school clothes.

  The sisters exchanged glances and smiled.

  “That looks perfect,” Natalie said. “You are every inch the islander.”

  “I am prepared for the storm,” said Jean-Luc.

  “You certainly are,” said Alex.

  “I bought a few other things,” he said, holding up a bag. “A striped Breton shirt, of course, a pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts. I haven’t located a long-term rental yet, but with Monsieur Gilbert Le Guen on my side, I feel sure something will be discovered. Oh, and I brought you something,” he said, reaching into his bag.

  “Jean-Luc, you’re already paying me a good sum to stay here. You don’t have to give me a gift, too. Save it for yourself.”

  “I am afraid that would not be a good idea,” he said, and held out a bundle wrapped in white paper. “A nice, plump chicken and some fresh vegetables. The shop owner had a shipment this morning. It would be my pleasure to cook for you.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Jean-Luc,” began Natalie, “but—”

  “Scared to let someone else in the kitchen?” Alex said. At Jean-Luc’s confused look, she added, “Nat’s a famous chef.”

  “I’m really not,” Natalie hastened to say. This was a common misconception, and one that her publisher had exploited. “François-Xavier’s the real chef. I’m merely a decent cook.”

  “In Pourquoi Pas? it sure sounded like you knew what you were doing.”

  “Wait,” said Jean-Luc, looking back and forth between the two women. “Natalie . . . you are the author of Pourquoi Pas? It seems there is nothing but surprises for me here at the Bag-Noz! I know this book! And you, Alex, will you turn out to be a famous actress? Or do you hold some other intriguing secret?”

  He gazed at her a second too long.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex said, with an annoyed shake of her head.

  “But, of course,” Jean Paul said, flustered, turning back to Natalie. “You are the famous Natalie Morgen! Your book was fascinating.”

  “It’s a good read,” said Alex, sounding like a proud older sister.

  Natalie gave her a side-eyed glance. “You said I spilled all our family secrets.”

  “You did,” said Alex. “But it’s still a good book.”

  “At least I changed the names.”

  “But that means . . .” Jean-Luc stared at Alex. “You are the ‘Diana’ in the book?”

  “How did you guess?” Natalie asked.

  “Because of course Alex”—he blushed—“reminds me of her.”

  “Reminds you of who?” asked Alex.

  “Isn’t it . . . ?” Jean-Luc looked back and forth between the two sisters. “The name ‘Diana’ was a reference to the Roman goddess of hunting, was it not?”

  “I’m not up to speed on my Roman goddesses,” Alex said. “I thought you named me after Princess Diana.”

  “Why would I name you after Princess Diana?” asked Natalie.

  “I had no idea. That’s why I was confused.”

  “Jean-Luc’s right,” Natalie said. “I called you ‘Diana’ in the book because you were so good at hunting.”

  “I’m . . . I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Anyway,” said Natalie, “enough talk of royal princesses and Roman goddesses. Why don’t I cook us all some dinner?”

  “If you would grace us with your cooking,” said Jean-Luc, “I would consider myself the most fortunate man in the world.”

  “Nat, to your knives and saucepans,” said Alex.

  “All right. But I insist the two of you stay and keep me company,” said Natalie. “Jean-Luc, would you pour us some wine?”

  “I would be honored,” Jean-Luc said, and began looking through the bottles on a small wine rack in the corner of the kitchen. “Do you have a preference?”

  “You choose,” Natalie said. “Something to go with this lovely chicken.”

  “What can I help with?” asked Alex.

  “How about some chopping?” Natalie handed Alex a wooden board and a sharp knife, and tossed her an onion from the bag of groceries Jean-Luc had set on the counter. He had purchased the ingredients for a classic French mirepoix: carrots, onions, and celery.

  Natalie noticed that Alex wielded the knife clumsily, which surprised her, given Alex’s aptitude with weapons when it came to more lethal pursuits.

  “So, what’s on the menu?” asked Alex.

  “Let’s see . . . ,” Natalie said. Moving around the kitchen felt good, made her feel in control. “Jean-Luc, I know Alex would be happy with anything. But do you have any particular likes or dislikes?”

  “I am very amenable,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Why am I not surprised?” murmured Alex. “Hey, Jean-Luc, did you know Nat can butcher a rabbit in under twenty?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Jean-Luc. “I remember that part in the book! That was a very evocative scene.”

  “We had an unusual childhood. But now I buy meat from the store, like every other normal person.”

>   “That’s too bad,” said Alex. “I’ve never gotten used to the sanitized version of everything in the modern grocery store.”

  “People don’t like to be reminded of guts and nastiness,” Natalie said. “At least, my readers don’t.”

  “Some of them might,” Alex said.

  “Like I told you, no one wants to hear about smelly fish or rising seas,” said Natalie, clenching her jaw. “People read my book to escape from their worries and concerns, like I used to do when I lost myself in the fantasy world of cookbooks when we were kids.”

  Jean-Luc had been trying to follow this exchange, clearly unsure how to interpret the tense undercurrent but picking up on the tone. “I do love cooking,” he said to change the subject. “But I am pretty basic. What is it that you like about cooking, Natalie?”

  Natalie paused to form her thoughts. “I think it’s because cooking is all about culture. Want to learn about a society and its people? Take a look at what they eat and how they eat it. Making older or less tasty cuts of meat palatable by adding salt and pepper, for example. Way back when in France, there were no chili peppers or other kinds of strong spices, so the chefs in the great châteaus created intricate sauces to make bland meat more flavorful.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” said Alex. “Cooking isn’t my forte, to put it mildly. And I confess that I may have skipped some of the book’s cooking sections, so I need a refresher. What are the ‘five sauces’ I keep hearing about?”

  “The list can vary, but basically it’s béchamel, velouté, espagnole, sauce tomate, and hollandaise,” said Natalie.

  “And this being France, I imagine they’re all based on butter?” asked Alex.

  “Surprisingly, no. Béchamel is a simple roux—flour whisked into hot milk or some other dairy to make a white sauce. Have you ever made macaroni and cheese or chicken potpie?”

  “I’ve made mac and cheese. But it came in a box.”

  Jean-Luc reared back, looking vaguely appalled.

  “Hey, it was cheap and it was quick,” Alex said. “And it tasted good, too.”