“I didn’t know that. Like I’ve always said, you’re such a smarty-pants.”
Natalie didn’t feel particularly smart as she visited more of Milo’s relatives, each time bringing the cookbook and asking about it. Milo always came along, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, like a grumpy bodyguard. She could never tell who he thought he was protecting: her or the people she was interviewing.
Eventually, Natalie grew closer to her neighbors as she sat in their kitchens and sought out their opinions and advice, asking for their help transcribing and interpreting measurements, figuring out what was meant by a “warm oven,” or “butter the size of an egg,” clabbered milk, and hartshorn.
During the visits, Natalie also asked about tales from World War II. Most people recounted hearing stories of how hungry everyone was, and the anger toward the soldiers and officers billeted in their homes. Also the system of le ravitaillement, the Germans requisitioning what they wanted, especially tobacco and coffee and meat. Even when they paid for the goods, it was only a fraction of what they were worth.
But when Natalie showed them the cabaret photo, the gray heads would shake. “Je n’ai aucune idée.” “I have no idea.”
Natalie began to feel that she was biding her time until she was allowed back into Ambroisine’s kitchen. The old woman knew the whole story; she would bet a pretty penny on it.
Natalie tried to work up some enthusiasm over Milo, but was disappointed to realize that he wasn’t particularly kind or attentive to the people they visited. He paid no mind to the old people’s aches and pains, and ignored their dogs and cats. He didn’t ask his elderly relatives if he could help bring in firewood, or fetch something from the attic, or if they had enough groceries.
Jean-Luc would have been all over that sort of thing, Natalie thought, and her sister’s words came back to her: Sometimes a grump is just a grump.
Still, Milo was sexy in a gruff sort of way, and it was flattering to find his eyes on her from time to time. It had been so long since she had felt wanted, desirable. Also, it would drive François-Xavier nuts to know that she was spending so much time with his old nemesis, though she didn’t suppose he was still plugged into the Île de Feme’s gossip network. Maybe she should post some photographs of herself with Milo on social media . . . but that would be outing herself, wouldn’t it?
It was all so complicated.
Late that night, Natalie let herself into the quiet guesthouse. Jean-Luc and Alex had already gone to bed, and Natalie realized how much nicer it was to be sharing the place with them than it had been living here alone. She wouldn’t have expected everything to be so easy, so homey.
She made herself a cup of tea and checked her e-mail—no surprise: François-Xavier had not returned her message, and she doubted he ever would. So Natalie wrote up the island tales she had gathered so far, matched them with recipes and observations about the island, and sent it all off to her agent.
Upon hitting “send,” Natalie blew out a long sigh.
She could only hope Sandy would approve.
* * *
• • •
Would you help me rearrange the furniture in here?” Natalie asked Alex the next day.
Alex looked around the parlor. “Dad always said never to rearrange the furniture. You have to be able to navigate in the dark.”
“Like I care about his opinion. Let’s try moving the couch to that other wall.”
The two sisters began to move the surprisingly heavy couch.
“Oof,” uttered Alex.
“Did it ever occur to you that our father was afraid of a lot of things?” Natalie asked. “I mean, I never really thought about it as a kid, but as an adult it strikes me that he lived a lot of his life in fear. Why else spend all your time preparing for the worst?”
“Well, he feared the government, though come to think of it he never really explained why.” Alex shook her head. “Still does, I suppose. But now he’s . . . old, Nat. Harmless.”
“Does he still have his guns?”
“Okay, so not totally harmless,” Alex said, giving the couch one final shove. She gazed about the room. “I don’t think the couch works well here—it kind of sticks out, don’t you think?”
“You’re right. Let’s put it over there,” Natalie said, and they began moving the couch back to the other side of the room.
“I think losing the ranch he grew up on affected him deeply,” Alex said. “I don’t know. I never heard the whole story of what happened. But maybe that was when he stopped trusting anybody but his wife and kids.”
“And then we betrayed him by leaving.”
“That wasn’t a betrayal, Nat. That was just life.”
“That’s not how he saw it.”
“I didn’t leave him,” Alex said. “And he repaid my loyalty by betraying me.”
Natalie paused and looked at Alex. “What exactly happened? I don’t think I ever heard the full story.”
“He sold our land right out from under me. He didn’t discuss it with me and didn’t give me a dime of the money he got for it, either, even though I was the one who paid the taxes on it and supported him and Mom all those years. I mean, it’s not as if they qualified for Social Security, since neither one ever had a real job. And then he bought some land outside of Horseshoe Bend and took off. Serves me right, I guess,” Alex said with a humorless laugh. “He told us not to trust anyone. I should have listened. Let’s try the couch over there.”
“Actually, what he said was ‘Never trust anyone but family,’” Nat said, pushing the couch into position.
“Which means he was a traitor and a liar,” Alex said. “I like the couch this way.”
“I do, too. But now the rug’s not working. Grab that end, and let’s turn it a hundred eighty degrees.”
“I suppose trusting anyone is like building a house on sand,” Alex said, bending to pick up her side of the rug. “The only person you can truly count on is yourself.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Natalie said. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”
“You don’t? After what the scumbag did to you?”
“Clearly, when it came to François-Xavier, I made a bad choice. And it’s not the first time. I don’t think I have the best taste in men. . . .”
“Are we talking about Milo now?”
Natalie shot her a glare. “No. But I’m talking about trusting people in general. I had a lot of help you know, when I moved to San Francisco. You can imagine how naive I was, how likely to be hurt. But I met a really nice girl who let me sleep on her couch, and then the people at the coffee shop were kind to me. Genuinely so. They offered me friendship, helped me figure out how to navigate the world, and didn’t expect anything in return.”
“I’m glad, Nat. Really glad.” Alex sank onto the couch. She could still remember that hollow, aching feeling when The Commander said Natalie would die in the big city. “Yes, this is a much better arrangement.”
Natalie joined her on the couch. “I think so, too. Good teamwork.”
“So, about Milo. There’s some gossip going around about the two of you.”
“Alex, you’ve been here, what, two weeks? And you don’t speak French? How is it you’re already part of the rumor mill?”
“That’s an excellent question. If you ask me, it takes about three days, tops, to be absorbed into the island gossip network. Resistance is futile.”
“So what are people saying?”
“People don’t like you and Milo hanging out together, Nat. You’ve got to come clean with them about François-Xavier, at least. Otherwise they’ll blame you for being unfaithful when it’s really all his fault.”
“I know. You’re right.”
“And you know what Christine said about Ambroisine and lying. She might just hex you again, and I’m not sure how much more y
ou could stand at this point.”
Natalie chuckled. “Hey, she said we could go back tomorrow if we bring Christine with us, and she’d tell us more. Want to come?”
“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss out on a chance to see Ambroisine, much less her dog.”
* * *
• • •
That afternoon, Alex was out running errands. Natalie went to the kitchen in search of a snack and found Jean-Luc heating the kettle for tea.
“Natalie, may I ask you a question?” he asked.
“Sure.” She leaned on the counter. “What’s up?”
“I wonder . . . I certainly do not mean to overstep. But I am worried about your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “It’s the stumbling . . . and sometimes she appears a bit dizzy or disoriented. And there are the bruises. . . .”
“Bruises?”
“She bumps into things. Often. I just wondered if she needed anything . . . if there was anything I could help with.”
Natalie opened her mouth, but no words came.
“I should probably discuss this with her directly, but she seems a bit sensitive. I know with the paperwork here in France, this sort of thing needs to be handled carefully, but I know a good doctor in Paris. Is she eligible for national health care?”
“She said she was fine,” Natalie said at long last, her mind racing. Was something wrong with Alex? Alex? Alex never got sick; she sloughed off sprained ankles, bruised shins. When they were kids she once lost a fingernail and merely bound the bloody finger with an old shirt until it stopped bleeding and the nail grew back.
“Perhaps she is,” said Jean-Luc, blushing. “I assumed something was wrong, and that was why she quit her job and came here to be with you.”
“She’s just visiting,” said Natalie. Out of the blue and after ten years of no contact?
Had Alex ever actually said why she had come? Had Natalie ever asked her? Alex being sick would explain why her sister had followed her all the way here, off the Wild Coast of Brittany. She certainly hadn’t come intending to renovate an old guesthouse.
Their eyes held for a long moment.
“Well, good, then,” said Jean-Luc. “I would not want to intrude. I just . . . I like your sister a great deal. She’s unlike anyone I have ever known. She makes me laugh, and seems to find me interesting, which still surprises me! And if there is one thing my career as a fonctionnaire has given me, it is the ability to navigate bureaucracies. I would be more than happy—I would be eager to help.”
“Thank you, Jean-Luc,” said Natalie. “That’s very kind. But you’re right. My sister is a very private person. I think we should let her tell us in her own time if there’s anything wrong.”
He nodded. “Of course. You know her best.”
Natalie’s words sounded cool, but her mind was racing. Should she call Faith or Hope to see if they had any insights? With the time difference it was the middle of the night for them. She could send some e-mails, see if they’d tell her anything.
It was hard to imagine something being wrong with Alex. She was always so strong, so able. But their mother had been, too, and they hadn’t realized she was sick until it was too late.
Natalie mounted the stairs and entered Alex’s room. The bed was neatly made, Woolf’s To the Lighthouse on the bedside table—either Alex was the slowest reader in the world, or she’d given up on the rather dense novel. Not that Natalie blamed her. As an English lit major, Natalie had read plenty of Woolf, and certainly appreciated her brilliance, but for pure diversion there were a lot of other books downstairs Alex might enjoy more. Natalie made a mental note to suggest some.
Next to the book were a flashlight and a water bottle, but that was it. No dirty socks, no items tossed on the floor, nothing. Natalie, in contrast, had lived out of a suitcase for months after she moved in with François-Xavier.
She eased open the top drawer of the bureau. Alex’s few things were lined up like neat little soldiers. Underwear, T-shirts, a folded pair of jeans. Under the shirts she spied the spine of a book—
“What are you doing?” came Alex’s voice from the doorway.
Natalie jumped. “Oh, um, sorry.”
“You’re going through my drawers?”
“I’m sorry, Alex, really. I was just curious to see if you were still as neat as you were as a little kid. Anyway, Jean-Luc mentioned something to me, and I wanted to ask you—”
“Get out,” said Alex.
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” demanded Alex. “I said, get out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Alex
Nat walked stiffly through the door and Alex slammed it shut behind her, leaning back against it, trying to calm her breath and her pounding heart. To quell her anger and shame.
Why should you feel shame? Faith, their supremely sensible older sister, had asked when Alex confessed her feelings.
Alex couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a weakness. Something Alex couldn’t stop, couldn’t overcome.
And on its heels came anger, hot and fierce.
Damn. She had overreacted, which wasn’t fair to Nat. Not that anything about this was fair. But then, “Life isn’t fair” was one of The Commander’s favorite sayings.
Alex blew out a long breath. Her little vacation had allowed her a brief respite, on a rather magical island, to pretend everything was fine. But the island wasn’t actually magical, and there were no Gallizenae around to fix her. Things were getting worse; it was time to make some decisions. Take some steps.
Where would she go? Back to Albuquerque? Faith had invited her to come live with her near Salt Lake City. Alex didn’t especially care for Faith’s husband, but she would enjoy spending time with her nieces and nephews while they were still young. Still . . . what would she do there besides hang out? Could she simply hang out? It wasn’t in Alex’s nature not to be useful.
In any case . . . she needed to come clean to Nat, let her know what was happening. Nat had always been smart, but now she was also worldly. Much more so than Alex, and probably far more adept at dealing with the brave new world than Alex was.
Maybe Alex should just get over herself and ask her baby sister for advice.
* * *
• • •
Alex made her way down the two flights of stairs, pausing for a moment to take pride in the new paint job. It made a huge difference. Another few weeks and most of the cosmetic work would be finished, and most of the electrical, with Ismael’s generous help. That still left the second-floor bathroom fixtures, and of course the furniture and other supplies. . . . But if they kept on track, they would have this place ready for guests by the Festival of the Gallizenae in October. Maybe not perfect, but ready enough.
Alex was heading for Nat’s office when she heard the sounds of crying coming from outside.
She peeked out the kitchen window and saw Nat kneeling in the mud, her head hanging down. Sobbing.
Had their fight bothered Nat that much? This seemed a bit of an overreaction.
The kitchen door squeaked loudly as Alex let herself out into the garden, but Nat still didn’t look up. It was only as Alex neared her sister that she saw the too-still mound of white feathers, the longest, fluffiest ones wafting silently in the breeze.
Bobox.
“Ah, Nat, I’m sorry,” said Alex, squatting in the dirt beside her sister and wrapping her arm around her, holding Natalie as she sobbed.
Nat’s tears seemed out of proportion to the death of a chicken—after all, they had dined on a lovely poulet au estragon just last night.
But then Alex remembered the bitter loss of her dog, Buddy, and how for weeks, even months afterward she would suddenly break down and cry in public, feeling like an idiot, but not caring because no one had kn
own Buddy like she had, had seen him covered in mange and fleas and assorted wounds inflicted by who knew what, his ribs protruding, desperate for food, for a safe place to sleep, for someone to love and to love him in return. She had spent an hour coaxing him out from under an old car at the junkyard where he’d sought refuge from the cruelty of humans, and he had only slowly learned to trust her, had blossomed with food and baths and consistent affection, the look in his eyes gradually changing from fear to trust and love. It might sound silly to someone who had never had a Buddy in their life, but that mutt had given her the courage to break away from not only her father but from that whole world, to leave behind once and for all the doomsday plans and bluster. Buddy had helped teach Alex to trust herself, to lift her eyes from the looming threat of The Change and make friends in the here and now, to appreciate what she had while she had it.
Buddy’s love was the purest thing Alex had ever known.
But then, dogs were famous for devotion. As Alex gazed now at the white hen, her little orange beak open as though in surprise, it was hard to imagine Nat had felt something similar for Bobox—for poultry—but who was Alex to judge?
Alex pushed Nat’s hair out of her face, wet with tears.
“Don’t you dare make a crack about frying her up for dinner!” Nat said in a fierce whisper, then hiccupped.
Alex shook her head. “I won’t. I wouldn’t. She was a good little hen.”
“She was.” Nat sniffed loudly and let out a shaky breath.
“She was,” Alex repeated. “And you gave her a good life.”
“I tried,” Nat said. “I mean, I didn’t even know her that long. . . .”
“She seemed pretty happy to me,” Alex said. “Hey, I have an idea. What if we buried her right there, in that corner where you were going to plant the yellow rose for Mom? It would be a pretty memorial, seeing the roses blooming over her.”
A long moment passed. Nat took another deep breath and sat up, pulling away from Alex. She ran an arm over her face.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 33
