And then I thought about what Noëlle had said. The Germans had no right to keep our men’s letters from us. Might they be here, somewhere?
Listening carefully for the sound of footsteps in the hall or heavy boots on the squeaky stairs, I set down the basket and eased open the top drawer of Rainer’s bureau. It was filled with shirts and underwear, all carefully folded. But no letters.
Again, I listened for sounds of anyone in the hall. I shouldn’t be doing this, I knew; when I was growing up, my mother had often chastised me for my unbecoming curiosity and bullheadedness. What I was doing could be dangerous. But I could not resist, and eased open the next drawer.
This one contained a few assorted papers, and several pairs of folded pants. Under the pants, I spotted a slim volume of what looked like German poetry. I picked it up, studying the unfamiliar symbols and umlauts, some of the words so long, they seemed to take up an entire line. The German soldiers had been frighteningly efficient and well organized, making it easy to imagine their culture was devoid of art and poetry, though certainly that was not the case with Rainer. I tried to imagine what he must have been like as a boy, growing up in cabarets, surrounded by music and dancing and laughter and joy, the world changing around him and forcing him to go to war.
A photo fell out of the book, and I knelt to pick it up. It was a young man, and there was something intriguing about his features, which rendered him more arresting than handsome. It might have been the intense gaze. Though his hair was dark, his eyes were very light, and looked unbearably sad. I turned it over. On the back of the photo was written: In Liebe, Sascha.
A sound at the door startled me, and I dropped the book and the photo.
Rainer entered the room and fear surged through me. Despite his kind acts, his poetry and love of lighthouses and a good fire, this German officer was the enemy. He could have me arrested for looking through his things, or even for nothing at all.
But worse than my fear was the look of hurt in his eyes. Rainer had been amiable and respectful, and in most ways a friend. And I had betrayed that trust.
He made a tsk sound, and the wounded look gave way to a more neutral expression as he tossed his hat and gloves atop the chest of drawers.
“I did not expect to find you here,” he said.
“I was hanging the laundry,” I said, gesturing to the window.
“Is that right? And do you make it a habit to go through your visitor’s things while hanging the laundry, madame?”
I shook my head.
“What are you searching for? Is it money?”
“No, of course not.”
“I see,” he said with a nod. “The letters aren’t here, you know.”
I said nothing.
“Are you working for someone?”
“What? No— Who would I be working for?”
“I don’t imagine you would tell me the truth, anyway.” He blew out a harsh breath, knelt, and picked up the book and photo. “Please leave, madame. I will bring the sheets to you when they are dry.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, excusing myself in his language. “Entschuldigun Sie, bitte.”
“Just go, Violette.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Natalie
The storm had passed, but Natalie wrapped the cookbook in plastic bags to protect it from any lingering showers, and pulled on her bright yellow slicker. The raincoat was one of the first things she had bought here; she had found it on sale at the souvenir store Le Caradec. Just like Jean-Luc.
At the café, Natalie peered through the window as Milo came out from the back room and walked toward the bar, looking rumpled and sexy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. She pushed her hood back, ran a hand through her hair, pasted on a smile, and rapped on the front door.
He frowned as he came to the door.
“Bonjour,” she said.
“Bonjour,” he said curtly.
The wind blew a wet gust in Natalie’s face, and she shivered as a drip of cold rainwater trickled down her neck. “There’s something I would like to talk with you about,” she said. “And . . . maybe beg a cup of coffee?”
“We’re not open yet.”
“I understand. It won’t take long.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh and stepped back, allowing her to come in out of the rain.
She followed him to the bar, watching the muscles of his broad back move under a blue chambray shirt. He started to heat the cappuccino machine. Natalie took off her wet slicker and hung it on the rack, where it dripped onto the tile floor.
“So, I found something in the attic last night,” she began, unwrapping the journal.
Milo fiddled with the ground coffee in the little metal cup, tamping it down.
“It’s an old cookbook, or a journal of sorts,” she said, setting it on the bar. “From what I can tell, it’s from the late nineteen thirties, up through the Second World War.”
“And so?” he said, watching the coffee machine steam and hiss.
“I was wondering about trying to track down some of the people mentioned in it, maybe speak to them or, if they have already passed, speak with their descendants.”
“Why?” he asked over his shoulder. The machine made spitting sounds and a dark liquid began to drip into a diminutive porcelain cup.
Natalie waited to reply, hoping for his full attention and not wanting to shout over the sounds of the machine at work.
He set the cup on a plate, added a small wrapped chocolate on the rim, and placed it on the zinc bar in front of her.
“Merci,” she said.
“Je vous en pris,” he replied.
She noted that he still used the formal pronoun, “vous,” even though they’d known each other for nearly a year. She supposed it made sense; they had never really moved beyond a restaurateur/patron relationship. I’m assuming a lot, dropping in like this, she thought. Isn’t that what the French always think about Americans? That we’re pushy?
This was not going the way she had imagined this conversation would unfold.
Milo set his hands on the bar and leaned on them, as though ready to take a food or drink order.
“No coffee for you?” she asked.
“Had mine already. What do you want, Natalie?”
“I was hoping to find some of the families of the people—the women—who might have contributed to this cookbook.”
“I repeat: why? Who cares about the old methods of cooking fish? That book is nothing special. There’s at least one in every house on the Île de Feme.”
Her heart fell. Natalie had been hoping the journal would be her deliverance. It had been hidden in the attic wall. Milo was wrong; this one had to be special.
“It’s not just recipes, though. There are letters in here, messages. . . . I think it could be really something interesting. As you know, I’m a writer, and . . .”
He shrugged, his eyes wandering back down her body, where the fabric clung to her curves. He had never looked at her that way before. Natalie felt a warmth flood her cheeks. She hadn’t noticed a man looking at her like this in a very long time. It felt . . . good. Sort of. Also, disconcerting.
“Why don’t you just look them up yourself?” he said, finally turning the book around and flipping through a few pages. “Why do you need my help?”
“Because sometimes I get nervous and forget my French. And you know how people are on the island. They take a while to open up. I thought, since you’re a native—”
“So ask François-Xavier to help you.”
“He’s still in Paris,” she said automatically, though she knew it wouldn’t be long before everyone on the island knew the truth. Don’t think about that now. “I’d rather not wait.”
“I suppose I could talk to a few people,” he said, his rough fingers resting on the letters tucked within the fragil
e pages of the old journal, nodding as through recognizing the names. “You’ll leave this with me?”
“Actually, I wrote out the names of the people I’m particularly interested in,” she said, setting a piece of paper on the bar with a list of names: the Spinec family, the Cantés, the Guilchers. “I want to keep the journal just now, read it some more, maybe try out a few of the recipes.”
He looked at the list and nodded, then gazed at her for another long moment.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll ask around.”
* * *
• • •
By the time Natalie left the café, the last of the rain clouds had passed and warm sunshine was drying the cobblestones and the seawall. The yellow slicker slung over one arm, the cookbook tucked under another, Natalie nodded to acquaintances but let her mind wander as she meandered back to the Bag-Noz, stopping to watch the first ferry of the day pull into the harbor, accompanied by a flurry of seagulls. There was a dolphin that often met the boat, to the delight of tourists and natives alike. Why did it do that? Was it merely curious? Hoping for tourists to drop food? Or was there something else to it?
And what had just happened with Milo? Had he been flirting with her?
Natalie unwound the chain on the front gate and let herself into the guesthouse yard, distracted from her thoughts by the site of a frighteningly tall and spindly-looking ladder leaning up against the side of the house, Jean-Luc holding it at the base.
“What are you doing?” Natalie called out.
“Hello, Natalie! Your sister wanted to get a better look at the damage from the storm,” Jean-Luc said, as upbeat as ever. “She . . . What’s the word? She went right up there, like a little monkey. Skimpered?”
“Scampered.”
“Yes! She scampered right up the ladder, your sister.”
Natalie took a few steps back and craned her neck to see up onto the roof, hoping for a glimpse of her sister.
“Alex?” she called out. “I hate to be a drag but let me remind you that there are no medical facilities out here on the island.”
“What?” came the muffled shout.
“Be careful!” Natalie shouted, then bit her tongue. In the Morgen family, the admonition to “be careful” was considered unnecessary and annoying, and therefore was rarely acknowledged.
“I am rather no help at all, I am afraid,” said Jean-Luc.
“Holding the ladder’s an important job,” said Natalie, distracted not only by the danger posed to Alex on the roof, but by what she was no doubt discovering up there. Alex was right. Natalie should have made the roof her very first priority, no matter what François-Xavier had said.
At long last, Alex came back into view. As she reached the top of the ladder, she grasped it and paused for a long moment.
Great, Natalie thought, her jaw tightening at the thought of what Alex’s hawk eyes were fixing on. Wouldn’t want to leave anything out of the inspection.
Finally, Alex eased her way down the ladder, Jean-Luc bracing it with both hands and one foot planted on the bottom rung. When she finally got back down to earth, she sat down on the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“Are you all right, Alex?” Jean-Luc asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine,” she said. “But I hate to say we really do need a professional. The problems are too extensive to be repaired with a little mastic, as I had hoped.”
“I’ll make some phone calls, see if I can get on someone’s schedule before the rainy season arrives in earnest,” Natalie said.
“Good idea. By the way,” Alex continued, “while I was looking for the ladder, I ran into what’s his name—Uncle Michou?”
“Tonton Michou, yes.”
“He and Agnès invited us for dinner tomorrow night.”
Natalie’s heart fell. “What?”
“He said that he and Agnès want the two of us to come to dinner.”
“But . . .” Natalie’s mind cast around for a reasonable objection. François-Xavier’s extended family was all well and good in the abstract, perfect for her blog and her book, but the reality meant sitting for hours over long, drawn-out meals, keeping up the pretense. Even with François-Xavier there, she had felt awkward. His family members were kind and pleasant enough; it’s just that she and they had little in common, and so had nothing to talk about. François-Xavier used to complain about having to go to these family meals and quickly grew impatient with the old people. It was one reason he used to cite for needing to “get away” to Paris.
And then he escaped to Paris altogether. Didn’t even tell his family good-bye.
Maybe she should escape to Paris, Natalie thought.
Wait. Was she becoming like François-Xavier now? Could she simply abandon the Bag-Noz, and the old people?
“But what about Jean-Luc?” Natalie said, casting around for an excuse. “We can’t just leave him.”
“So we’ll bring him with us,” said Alex. “I’m sure there will be plenty.”
“This isn’t California, Alex,” said Natalie. “It doesn’t work that way here.”
“No, no, no, please—do not worry about me. I will be fine,” Jean-Luc said quickly. “I have been meaning to try Brigitte’s kebabs for days now.”
“They have only fish and chips,” Alex and Natalie said in unison.
Jean-Luc looked confused but replied, “Then I shall enjoy fish and chips. Natalie is correct, Alex. A dinner invitation is a serious thing.”
“There’s something else I should mention,” said Alex.
Good Lord, now what? Natalie thought. “What’s that?”
“They want to know if you’d be willing to do some butchering for them.”
“Do some—what?”
“The woman at the store—what’s her name? Submarine?”
“Severine.”
“Anyway, she overheard the two of us talking about it and mentioned it to Tonton Michou. He wants you to butcher something for them. Gotta say, he sounded pretty excited.”
“But . . . why are you even talking to people?” Natalie demanded. “And how are you talking to them? They don’t speak English.”
“I know a few French words, they know a few English words, and we use lots of gestures. Also, a little tourist kid helped with translation,” Alex said. “Anyway, they seem nice.”
“They are nice, but—”
“But what?”
“They’re nosy.”
“They don’t seem all that nosy.”
“On an island this size, everybody’s nosy.”
“Sorry, Nat,” said Alex, pulling herself up to stand by the ladder. “I didn’t realize it would be a problem. I can call and say we can’t come if you want.”
“No, no,” said Natalie. “Jean-Luc’s right. A dinner invitation is an important thing here. They’ve probably already placed their grocery order. It would be rude to back out now. Besides, we could ask them about the photos we found.”
Alex’s eyes shifted to the front gate. “I think someone’s here to see you.”
Natalie looked up to see Gabriel, a deckhand on the ferry, standing at the gate. Tall and thin, he was handsome in a gaunt sort of way and sported a number of piercings and tattoos, reminding Natalie of the young people she had known in San Francisco what seemed a million years ago.
“Bonjour, Natalie!”
“Bonjour, Gabriel. Ça va?”
“Oui, merci. Il y a des provisions pour vous.”
“Ah bon?” Natalie answered. “Merci. J’arrive tout de suite.”
“Everything okay, Nat?” asked Alex.
“Yeah, he says the ferry brought something for me.”
“Groceries?”
“Maybe, but those usually come on the afternoon ferry.”
“Need help?”
�
�No, thanks. I think I can handle this much, at least.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Alex
After Nat left, Alex told Jean-Luc she would be right back, went inside, hurried up the two flights of stairs to her room, and closed the door. Crossing over to the window, she leaned on her hands on the deep sill, hung her head, and took several deep breaths.
Being on the roof scared the life out of me. The morning sun had long since dried the slate, so it was no longer slick, but Alex had been petrified that she would misjudge her footing and slip, maybe even tumble off the side. She had spent thousands of hours climbing trees and rocks and cliffs as a kid, negotiating uneven surfaces and dizzying heights as if by instinct. But no longer.
She wasn’t able.
Who was she if she couldn’t do things?
Alex gazed out at the water. It was a bright day, and the storm had scrubbed the air clean. It was so clear the horizon line was the vivid marine blue of the ocean against the pale robin’s egg of the sky. A couple of impossibly fluffy clouds floated way up high, as though painted by an artist who mass-produced sofa-size paintings sold at big-box stores. The waves were dotted with pure white triangles of sails, kayakers hugged the shoreline, and fishing trawlers chugged slowly toward the harbor, their keeps no doubt bursting with the catch of the day.
Alex had always been able. Her father would pose a challenge for her—shooting, honing knives, orienteering—and she would excel at it. She thought of the list of skills she had been tasked with mastering, each set of her father’s initials a sign that she was worthy, she would survive, she was prepared.
But now . . . Alex wouldn’t be able to fix the damned roof, even if she knew how.
* * *
• • •
Alex came downstairs just as Nat returned, pushing a charette filled not with groceries but with packages and cans of paint. Close behind her trotted Gabriel with a similarly laden charette.
Nat stopped outside the gate, breathing hard.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 26
