The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  “The B26 Marauder,” Jonah explains. “It’s a twin-engine bomber. When they first introduced it, they nicknamed it the widow-maker because of all the accidents during training.”

  “Oh my god.” I look at him and see that he’s serious. “Why’d they use it, then?”

  “They made changes to make it safer. In the end, it was used by the allies all over Europe, and even in the Pacific. Over a hundred thousand tons of bombs were dropped from these planes during the course of the war.”

  It’s an unfathomable amount. I can’t bear to think about what came of where they landed. A necessary evil, it seems, but tragic all the same.

  As we walk through the rest of the museum, Jonah continues to impress me with his knowledge. “You should be working here,” I tell him at one point.

  “I would if I didn’t have to have a boss,” he says. “I don’t like working under other people.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  He feigns indignation. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?”

  I nod, though I’m realizing more and more that I don’t. The Jonah I’m learning about today is very different from the one I met yesterday, or even this morning.

  When we return to where we started, he suggests we go to the beach, but I tell him I need to speak to the cashier first. Confused, he follows me over.

  She doesn’t look older than twenty, her dark hair cut short. I glance at her nametag. Valerie. “Excuse me,” I say, getting her attention. “I was wondering if you could please help me.”

  “Of course,” she replies, her French accent euphonious.

  “I’m trying to see if I can locate a specific landing area for an American paratrooper. I know which infantry and battalion he was in, and I know he landed somewhere around this region, but I’m wondering if there’s a way I could find out a more precise location.”

  She purses her lips in thought. “There were over twenty-one thousand American soldiers that landed at the beach, and around fourteen thousand who came by air. And those who came by air often missed their drop zone. They landed in many different places.”

  “Is there a way to know where one might have landed?”

  “Unless it is recorded somewhere, I do not think so. A lot of the men were scattered.”

  I try not to let her see my disappointment. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “What’s that about?” Jonah asks, following me to the exit.

  I step out of the museum, my anxiety rising rapidly. Did I do this for nothing? Come all this way on a fool’s errand? Tens of thousands of soldiers. How did I think I could ever find just one?

  “Charlotte.” Jonah reaches out and touches my arm, stopping me. “What’s going on?”

  “I need air,” I tell him, and walk up the path to the beach. Concrete turns to white sand, and I don’t stop until the sand turns to water. Staring out at the vast ocean, I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs.

  “Are you okay?” Jonah asks, coming up beside me.

  I exhale and nod. Crouching down, I run my hands through the water, the cool temperature a balm to my anxiety. When I stand, I find him looking at me, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “Is that why you wanted to come here?” he asks. “To find a soldier?”

  I look back out at the horizon, where sparkling water meets blue sky. There’s an unimaginable beauty to it. “My grandfather,” I tell him.

  Jonah steps closer, stopping just before his feet touch the water. “Did he die here?”

  I don’t know how to explain it without telling him everything. “No. He survived the war.”

  He doesn’t say anything, his confusion clear. I look around, thinking about what this land has seen, the lives that never made it off this beach. I’m not sure if it’s my despondency, or the overwhelming reverence this place instills, but I decide to tell him the truth.

  “A week ago, I found a letter my grandpa wrote. It was to a woman, a local woman named Charlotte who he met the day he landed here. I think that she was my grandmother.”

  I reach down and pick up a small shell, turning it over in my palm. “My grandpa was a paratrooper, with the 502nd. He was shot just before landing, and this woman helped him. According to his letter, she saved his life and hid him in a barn while he healed.”

  I toss the shell back into the ocean and can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “I came here to find out who she was. It sounds foolish, I know, but I thought if I could find out where he landed, that maybe I’d be able to...” I let the sentence trail off, realizing how ignorant it sounds. “It was stupid.”

  “Why was it stupid?”

  I turn to him sharply. “You heard what she said. Fourteen thousand men came in from the skies that night. And all I know is that my grandpa was one of them, and that he landed in a field.”

  “So that’s it?” he questions. “One person tells you it’s not possible and you give up?”

  I don’t know why, but his response vexes me. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then make me understand.”

  “You can’t.” My tone comes off harsher than I intend.

  His gaze lingers on me, a gentleness in his expression.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “It okay.” He scans the horizon before retuning his gaze to me. “Are you hungry? Can I take you to lunch?”

  I let out a heavy exhale and figure food might make me feel better. “Why not?”

  * * *

  There’s a café right by the museum, but that’s not where he takes me. Instead, we get back into the car and drive five minutes down the road to a country manor. The two-story building has the look of a refurbished farmhouse, as elegant as it is picturesque.

  It’s not the front door he leads me to, but instead the courtyard at the center of the property. Tables and chairs line up against one of the exterior walls, a four-tiered fountain adding charm to the immaculate, yet simple garden.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “This is L’hotel de Lavande.”

  We stop at the table closest to the garden, beneath the shade of a large navy blue umbrella. I take a seat, still not entirely sure where we are. Seconds after we sit, a waiter in a white apron comes out. He says something in French, and Jonah responds, a brief conversation concluding with the waiter giving us menus.

  “Merci,” I say, painfully aware of how bad my pronunciation is.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Jonah tells me.

  I open the menu and see what he means. Everything is written in French. “I don’t think I can read any of this,” I admit.

  “The salmon is amazing.”

  “Then I’ll have that.”

  His lips curl up into a smile. “You don’t want to know the rest?”

  “I like salmon.”

  He puts the menu down and picks up a smaller one. “What about a drink? Are you as easy to persuade on that front?”

  “It depends. Do they have a rosé?”

  He skims down the list. “They do.”

  “Then I’ll have a glass of that.” I hear him chuckle. “What? I’m not fussy.”

  “No, you’re not, are you?”

  The waiter returns with water, and Jonah gives him our order. Their conversation continues longer than expected, interspersed with laughter.

  “What was that about?” I ask after he leaves.

  “Just being friendly.”

  I get the feeling there’s more to it, but don’t want to pry. “This place is incredible.”

  “It’s nice, huh? It used to be a farm, but about ten years ago they converted it into a hotel.”

  “Are we scoping out the competition?” I tease.

  “No.” He smiles. “I know the owners. They’re good people. I like to eat here anytime I’m out this way.”

  A myriad of smells floats on the air, the mix of floral and rural scents pleasing. My thoughts go back to the beach. To the museum
. To what the cashier told me.

  “You okay?” Jonah asks, pulling me back from my spiraling thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his gaze unyielding. I get the sense that he’s trying to read me. To see beyond my mask. I don’t look away, though a part of me wants to.

  The spell is broken with the return of the waiter. He places a glass of rosé on the table in front of me and a beer in front of Jonah. I lift mine, expecting him to do the same, but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits for the waiter to leave, his eyes still on me.

  “Why did you really come here?” he asks.

  I’m taken aback by his question. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean” —he rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward— “why did you really come to France?”

  “I told you. I’m looking for someone.”

  He sighs softly, leaning back against the chair, clearly not satisfied with the answer I’ve given. “There’s more to this though,” he says.

  “Well, if there is, then you know more than I do.”

  He takes a sip of his beer. “You say you’re looking for a woman you think could be your grandmother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t know about her?”

  I can hear in his tone how odd that must seem. “No. A week ago I had no idea she existed.”

  “Your mother never talked about her?”

  I shift position, my muscles tensing slightly. “No.”

  “Does she not know?”

  Picking up my glass, I take a sip, the chill of the wine refreshing. “I don’t think my grandpa ever told her.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” My words are laden with my frustration. “I don’t know why he never told her. I don’t know why he never told me.”

  Jonah thinks on that a moment. “Someone in your family has to know though, right?”

  I shrug, not sure what he wants me to say.

  “No?”

  “I don’t know.” That familiar tug begins to pull, threatening to unravel me. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t ask them.”

  “How come?” he asks.

  I feel like I’m under interrogation. “Because I can’t, okay?” I look at the fountain, unable to handle his eyes on me.

  “I don’t get it, why can’t you ask?”

  “Jesus,” I snap. “Why do you want to know?”

  His expression falls. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

  He turns his attention to something at the opposite end of the garden, and the silence between us becomes uncomfortable.

  A pang of guilt hits me. “My parents died when I was six,” I tell him.

  He returns his eyes to me, his expression solemn.

  “It was a car accident. I survived, but they didn’t. I was raised by my grandpa. Up until six months ago, it was just us, but he passed away recently.” I pick up my wine. “I don’t have any other family, no one left I can ask. It’s just me now.”

  Jonah exhales softly. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, I’m really fucking sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Yesterday, when we met, I thought...” His voice trails off. “I assumed,” he clarifies, “that you were just some entitled tourist. And then this morning, offering to drive you ... shit, I was being an asshole.”

  “Finally something we agree on.” I give him a small smile.

  “I’m sorry.” He looks down at his beer, and when he lifts his gaze back to me, there’s remorse in his eyes. “Do you think, would it be alright if we started over?”

  I let his question hang in the air, surprised at how earnest he is. “I guess it depends.”

  “On?”

  “Are you paying for lunch?”

  The regret on his face gives way to relief. “Yeah, of course I am.”

  “Well then, in that case, I’m having dessert, and it’s nice to meet you.”

  The grin he gives me is captivating. “It’s nice to me you too, Charlotte.”

  10

  He runs his hands across my body, his touch firm but tender. My fingers grip the bedsheet as he moves over me, his lips finding mine with urgency. There’s a hunger in our need for one another, a fire I’ve never felt before. I feel the weight of him on me, wanting more. He whispers something in my ear. I can’t make sense of the words, but a shiver courses through me. His fingers move lower, and lower, and I open myself to him, needing him.

  All of him.

  There’s a knock at the door, the sound distant but getting louder. Clarity pushes away the blurring edges.

  I wake suddenly, my breathing shallow. Confused, it takes me a second to realize it was a dream. As my heart beat slowly steadies, I’m even more baffled at the disappointment that lingers.

  The knocking continues.

  In a daze, I get out of bed and go to open the door. I find Jonah on the other side.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he says.

  He’s dressed for the day in jeans and a gray t-shirt. I can smell the subtle hint of peppermint toothpaste. My gaze goes fleetingly to his hands, and I have the sudden fear that he knows about the dream, as though it’s being projected on the wall behind me.

  Quickly averting my attention to his face, I see his eyes travel over me. Belatedly, I realize that I’m wearing nothing by a white tank top and blue pajama shorts that are far too short for company.

  “I have to go to Paris,” he tells me.

  “Okay.” I’m not sure why he’s woken me for this.

  “I’ll be back later tonight.”

  I have no idea what time it is, but it’s early, the sun barely over the horizon.

  “So, listen, I was thinking.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t think you should give up. You came all this way to find out who your grandmother was, and I think you should keep looking.”

  I stare at him, puzzled. “This is why you woke me?”

  His smiles slightly. It’s probably my imagination, but it’s almost as if he’s nervous. “I want to help you.”

  My tired brain takes a moment to register. “You want to help me?”

  “Yeah. But like I said, I have to go to Paris today. Starting tomorrow, though, I can drive you wherever you want to go.”

  I’m floored by his offer. “I can’t ask that of you.”

  “You’re not,” he says casually. “I have five days until my parents leave for London. Come up with a plan today, the places you want to go, and I’ll take you.”

  I almost ask why. What’s in it for him? But instead I nod, my words barely forming. “Thank you.”

  His eyes hold mine, the blue more of a gray at this early hour. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  He disappears down the hall. Closing the door, I lean against it, trying to make sense of what just happened. It isn’t only his offer that has me bewildered. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about his hands. The way they felt in my dream. The need they brought from deep within me.

  Frustrated at myself, I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  I make sure the water’s running cold.

  * * *

  I spend the first part of the day at a café next to the cathedral. Aided by the internet, coffee, and my grandpa’s letter, I try to come up with a list of places to visit. With the map on my iPad, I focus on the lower east part of the Cotentin peninsula, close to Utah beach. It’s made up of smaller villages called communes. I write down every one of them in the search area. There are twenty-four.

  Discouraged, I stare out the window at the passerby. I can’t search twenty-four communes with only a first name to go off of. The whole thing seems impossible, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve set myself up for failure.

  And then there’s Jonah’s offer.

  It makes no sense. Sipping my third espresso, I decide he must be doing it out
of some sense of guilt. I’m not sure what he’s feeling guilty for, but it’s the only rational explanation I can come up with.

  My thoughts are traitorous and keep returning to the dream. I try to brush it off, tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. But that lingering disappointment persists.

  It’s a natural thing though, I reason. Everyone has sex dreams. And Jonah isn’t exactly hard on the eyes.

  Especially with that face and body.

  Oh god, stop.

  My mind seems happy to toy with me, bringing up the memory of him shirtless in the kitchen. I feel a deceptive fluttering in my stomach.

  This is ridiculous.

  I’m an adult woman, not some dreamy-eyed schoolgirl. Jonah is a man, that is all, and he has offered to help me with my search. As strange as that offer may be, I’m glad for any help to find out who my grandmother was.

  Yes. That is what this is all about. Finding out who my grandmother was.

  Happy with the shift to a more appropriate focus, I look back at the map and see if I can come up with some semblance of a plan for how to find her.

  * * *

  That evening, I sit on my bed, staring at the list, feeling overwhelming failure. The towns are numerous. One needle, so many haystacks. I don’t know why, but I thought that maybe by coming here it would be easier somehow. Instead, the whole thing is only starting to feel more and more impossible.

  My phone rings, Zoe’s face lighting up the screen. I accept the call and it opens to video.

  “Bonjour!” she says cheerily. “Look who’s here.”

  She pans the camera to show Fiona, sitting next to her with baby Kayla on her lap.

  “How’s everything going?” Fiona asks, repositioning her daughter.

  Zoe puts her phone on landscape and sets it down in front of them, putting everyone in frame.

  “I’m good, how are you guys?”

  “The usual here,” Zoe says. “Work, rain, babies, all that jazz. We want to hear about you. What did you get up to today?”

  I tell them about the ghost of a plan I’ve come up with, and even I can hear the despondency in my voice. “I don’t know, I worry I’ve made a mistake.”