There’s a small ledge, and I let it bear my weight as Jonah quickly unzips his jeans. Clutching the edge of the stone, I hook my leg around his waist. He grips my thigh, lifts my hips to meet his, and with a measured movement, pushes himself inside of me.
There’s a desperation to our connection, something new and awakening. Jonah moves fast, each thrust hitting me deeper and deeper, and I bite my lower lip to stop from crying out.
He quickens the pace, and the heat builds rapidly within me, threatening to spill over at any moment.
“I’m going to—”
“Me too,” I assure him.
He pushes into me harder, and a pleasured sigh is out of my mouth before I can stop it. The sound only seems to entice him, and he doubles his efforts. The orgasm ripples through me, moving across my entire body. With one last, deep thrust, Jonah lets out a labored groan.
We hold each other, my fingers still digging into his arms. A light laugh escapes my lips as Jonah lets go of my leg.
“Well, that’s a first for me,” I say as I move off the ledge.
“First?” he asks, zipping up his pants.
“I’ve never had sex outside before.”
He chuckles softly. “Well, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
I readjust my clothing, and he reaches for my hand, leading me out of our alcove, back onto the lamplit lane. As he entwines his fingers with mine, I’m overcome with a feeling. Something more powerful than words can describe.
It’s as though I’ve been here before. As though I’ve walked these steps, on a night like this. I stop, suddenly, and lift my gaze to the sky. A shooting star passes overhead.
I’m not one for signs, but this I can’t ignore.
“You okay?” Jonah asks.
“She’s going to show me the way,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.
“Who?”
I look at him and smile, the feeling only growing. “My grandmother. She’s going to show me where to go.”
He doesn’t question it or give any indication of doubt. Instead, he simply nods. “We’ll find her.”
I’m filled with the truth of it, all my reservations giving way to hope. There’s something in this place that has me believing.
Call it faith.
Call it magic.
Either way, I’m choosing to trust it.
22
I finish my coffee and lean back against the headboard, wishing I could take the view with me. Seagulls fly past, screeching at one another as they make a dive for some unseen snack. The breeze that comes in through the window is cool but revitalizing. I close my eyes, wanting to make the moment last.
How strange to consider what’s come to pass in such a short time. It feels like so much more than a new day has dawned since last night.
Jonah should be back any minute with breakfast. He left a half hour ago with a kiss on my cheek and the promise of returning with fresh pastries. My stomach rumbles in anticipation but my thoughts don’t stray far from our conversation. The words that were spoken, the question that was asked.
To know that he loves me, to be able to say it back means more than I could have imagined. But what happens next?
It’s unfamiliar territory for me, being in a relationship with someone who knows exactly what they want and isn’t afraid to speak it out loud. As refreshing as it is though, it’s also daunting. There are real-life factors to consider. Decisions to make.
I try to push aside the logistics, the rationalization I’m all too prone to get caught up in. I think about the advice I gave Matilda at Pointe du Hoc. To allow myself to feel the decision rather than think it.
It was there, at that look-out, that I realized the simplicity of what it is I want. To play piano. No more, no less. As simple as it sounds, I’d lost sight of that along the way. When that realization came to me, it made the world feel balanced again, as though I’d been walking out of sync for so long I’d forgotten how it was supposed to feel.
Could I find the same clarity for what Jonah’s asked?
With a long exhale, I focus all my attention on the idea of it, of staying in France. I don’t try to force the trepidation away, but instead, lean into it, searching for the root.
What is it I’m afraid of?
Is it what I would have to leave behind? Aside from Fiona and Zoe, I don’t have much tethering me to Seattle anymore. Is it the unknown of what I’d be jumping into? Or is it that fact that it’s all happening so quickly?
Arbitrary.
I can’t help but smile at the word. That night in Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue Jonah had used it to describe love. It had seemed so unromantic at the time, and yet, it’s exactly how it went for us.
Random. Unpredictable. Slightly illogical. But love, nonetheless.
Like a paratrooper in a war, a missed drop zone. A field where a young woman would find him. Ten days was all they had together. That was all it took for my grandpa to know that he wanted to be with my grandmother.
Some choices we get to make, and some are made for us.
Everything else is chance.
* * *
That thought follows me as we leave Mont-Saint-Michel. We take an early shuttle back to the parking lot and return to the Audi, one adventure behind us, another ahead. I take my journal from my bag and open it to the list of towns Jonah and I made.
“What’s first?” he asks, starting the car.
“Lieusaint.” I watch as he puts the address into his phone.
“Okay, it should take us less than two hours to get there.”
We follow a different route than the one that brought us here, heading north via the coast. It’s a pleasant drive, the time passing quickly with each village and farm we pass. There’s nowhere I love being more than in this car with Jonah. It’s become our own little world. Traveling down country roads, the windows open, listening to music.
That we could have this for more than just a few weeks fills me with exhilaration.
“Did your grandfather every marry?” Jonah asks as we get closer.
“No, he never did. There was a woman — Grace — she’d known my grandpa for a long time before I was born. They were close, but I never knew if it was only a friendship or something more.”
“He was quite private, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yeah.” I laugh at how truthful that is. “Infuriatingly so. But he was also funny, and kind, and generous. If one of his students couldn’t afford to pay for lessons, he’d give them for free. He believed music was the most important gift.”
“One he instilled in you.”
“I wouldn’t be who I am without him.” Though my heart tugs with grief, the memories bring a sense of serenity, the pain and the joy existing simultaneously.
“And you wouldn’t have come here,” Jonah suggests. “For that alone I’m indebted to him.”
I smile at the sentiment. “It’s weird to think, isn’t it? How all of this happened because I found a letter. And now, here I am in France with you, thinking about staying.”
Jonah glances at me, his expression hopeful. “You’re thinking about it?”
“Of course I am.”
He reaches across and takes my hand, squeezing it gently before letting go.
When we get closer to Lieusaint, I feel my nerves increase, my hope rising. I look at the list, at the eighteen towns we’ve crossed off. After this, there will only be nine left.
Staring out the window, I focus my breathing, trying to control my nervous energy. As the countryside blurs by, I see a sign on the side of the road advertising flowers for sale. But not just any flowers.
My heart skips a beat.
“Turn down here,” I say quickly.
“What?”
“This road, up on the right.”
“We’re on the road to Lieusaint.”
“Please,” I urge.
He does as I’ve asked, taking the right turn onto the narrow country lane. Though it makes no sense, I can’t shake the feeling that’
s come over me.
“Did you see something?” he asks, slowing the car.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.” I turn to look at him. “I saw a sign for flowers. For irises.”
“They’re pretty common here.”
I can hardly explain it to myself. “Iris was my mother’s name.”
There’s a subtle hint of skepticism on his face, but he quickly masks it. “You want to go look?”
“Please.”
We drive down the hedgerow lanes, and I keep a look out for any indication of where the farm could be. It’s a tranquil area, the lush green paddocks stretching on past the tree lines. We continue winding down the lane for a few minutes but see nothing.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling foolish.
“It’s okay. We can take one of these lanes back to the main road.” He makes a turn onto another hedgerow lane and we travel down until the road begins to narrow. “I don’t think this is the right way.”
“Can you turn around here?” The road is so tight, with a slight ditch on either side.
He murmurs in thought and changes gear. “I think I see a farm up ahead. We can probably turn around there.”
As we continue, the hedgerows disappear, the lane finally starting to widen. The land around us opens into a vast paddock, hay bales spaced out on either side. The concrete turns to gravel, the tires kicking up dust as we carefully drive down it.
An old farmhouse comes into view, the weathered stone exterior and clay roof in contrast with a more modern add-on behind it. As Jonah goes to turn the car around, I see an older woman sitting on the front porch, watching us with a keen eye.
“Should we say something?” I ask, feeling bad for encroaching.
He follows my gaze. “Maybe she’ll know where the iris farm is.” Parking, he gets out of the car and walks over to the porch.
I hesitate, wondering if I should go with him or not. A younger woman comes out from the house, and I decide I should, figuring it’s my fault we ended up here in the first place.
The woman is in her mid-twenties at most, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair. As I approach, she points off in the distance, giving Jonah what I assume are instructions.
“Excuse me,” I say when she sees me and stops talking.
“This is Marie,” Jonah tells me. “She knows the farm we’re trying to get to.”
“It’s not far from here,” Marie says in English, her accent strong.
“We’re so sorry for intruding. We got a bit lost.”
She gives me a warm smile. “It’s no problem.”
Suddenly, the older woman stands from her seat, her gaze boring into me. She takes a few awkward steps before Marie rushes to her side. Their conversation is quick and impossible to understand, but I see Jonah’s expression shift.
For all her efforts, Marie cannot get the woman to return to her seat.
“She gets...” Marie searches for the word. “Confused.”
“Perhaps we should be going,” I say to Jonah.
He makes no move to leave. “What did she say before?” he asks Marie. “I couldn’t hear.”
The older woman doesn’t take her eyes off me. Though I can’t read her expression, she seems upset at my being there.
“She thinks you are her sister,” Marie explains to me.
“Her sister?”
“Yes. Her sister Charlotte. She died a very long time ago.”
I feel the earth shift beneath my feet. “Charlotte?”
Jonah looks at me, a shocked expression stamped across his face. He quickly turns back to Marie. “How long ago?”
Marie frowns slightly in thought. “It would be seventy years at least. My grandmother was fifteen at the time.”
“Has your grandmother lived here all her life?” Jonah asks, speaking words I can’t form.
Marie nods. “She was born in this house. She and her sister.”
“Charlotte.” The woman emphasizes the name, pointing at me.
“Non,” Marie soothes. “Ce n’est pas Charlotte.”
“Actually, I am.” My voice is shaky but my words are clear. Marie looks at me, confused. “My name is Charlotte Reynolds. And I need to ask her a question, if that’s alright.”
She regards me cautiously. “Okay.”
“Could you please ask her if an American soldier landed here on June 6th, 1944?” My heartbeat hastens. “His name was William.”
Marie stares at me, unblinking. “How do you know about this?”
I glance at Jonah, who looks back at me, a brow raised.
“I don’t understand,” Marie says warily. “Why are you here?”
I try to get a handle on my thoughts. “This is the place? This is where he landed?”
“Who are you?” Marie asks, her tone guarded.
I don’t know how to answer, what to say. My thoughts run through my mind a thousand miles a second. Jonah moves away from us, heading over to the car. When he returns, he has my journal.
“You have the photo, right?” he says, pressing the journal into my hands and nodding in encouragement.
Absentmindedly, I open the book and pull out the picture of my grandpa during the war, his youthful, stoic face looking back at me. Taking the few steps to bring me closer, I offer the picture to Marie.
She takes it, studying it with uncertainty. The older woman says something, and Marie shows the photo to her.
“William,” the woman says, tapping on the photo. She looks at me again and points. “Charlotte.”
“How do you have this?” Marie asks.
I exhale deeply. “William was my grandfather. My mother’s name was Iris. I think she was born here.”
Marie begins to speak to the woman in French. Jonah joins the conversation, adding in what I can only assume is information. When they’re done, they all turn to look at me.
“I think you should come inside,” Marie says.
23
I sit in the dining room, my tea untouched. It’s like being in one of those dreams where I’m not entirely sure if I’m asleep or awake, the edges of everything blurry, with fragments in sharp focus. How am I in this place? The events leading to this moment don’t add up. We took a wrong turn, that’s all.
We were never meant to be here.
Jonah reaches beneath the table and touches my leg, bringing my attention back to the present. “You okay?” he mouths.
I nod, though I’m not exactly sure what it is I feel.
Marie returns with a box and puts it on the table. She pulls out an album and places it in front of her grandmother, whose name I’ve come to learn is Margot.
“It’s been a long time since she has seen these,” Marie explains.
Margot opens the book and smiles. “Mes parents,” she says gently, touching one of the photos.
Marie searches through the box and takes out a framed photo. “This is Charlotte.”
I take the picture, staring at the black and white image. Charlotte stands in front of a store, posing with a bicycle, her blonde hair styled in victory rolls.
“Wow,” Jonah says. “You look exactly like her.”
“It was taken in 1943,” Marie says, “when she was nineteen.”
To have a photo of her in my hands, to finally see her face, fills me with overwhelming emotion. “What was she like?” I ask, my fingers tracing over the glass.
Marie translates my question to Margot, who chuckles and gives an answer that causes Marie to laugh.
“She says ... I’m not sure I know this word in English.”
“Stubborn,” Jonah offers.
“Yes, that’s it. She was stubborn, strong-willed, but very smart.”
I laugh lightly. “My mother was the same.”
Margot asks me something, and I look to Marie for translation. “She would like to know what happened to the child. To your mother.”
My laughter dissipates. “She died when I was six. A car accident.”
Marie exhales heavily and tells her gra
ndmother.
I see Margot’s eyes water, and she reaches across the table, touching my hand. I don’t need translation for the words she says to me, her expression clearly conveying her condolences.
“I didn’t know about Charlotte,” I tell them. “I found a letter my grandpa wrote to her, and I’ve been looking ever since. I didn’t even know her last name.”
Marie gives me a sad smile. “It’s Dubois.”
“Dubois,” I repeat, the name strange and yet familiar on my lips.
“So, you do not know their story?” Marie asks.
I shake my head. “Only what my grandpa wrote in the letter.”
“May I see it?”
I remove it from inside the journal and hand it to her. As she reads, she translates out loud in French. Once she finishes, a silence falls over the table.
“Grand-maman told us their story when we were young,” Marie says in quiet reflection. “But we never knew what happened after. To William and Iris. Where did they go?”
“He took her back to Eugene, Oregon. His hometown.” I wait as Marie translates for Margot. “Mom was a teacher. She loved working with children. She met my dad at one of the schools she taught at. He was a teacher also. They got married in Hawaii and wanted to start a family, but it was difficult. They tried for a long time. Years. Then one day, after she’d given up hope of having a child of her own, she found out she was pregnant with me.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Marie asks.
“No. It was just the three of us. Well, four, including Grandpa. After the car accident, he didn’t want to stay in Oregon anymore, so we moved to Seattle.”
Marie’s face falls. “You lost both parents in the accident?”
I nod and watch as Marie translates. Margot lets out a low murmur.
“He was a great father, a loving parent to my mom, and a wonderful grandfather to me. I grew up loved.”
Margot says something to Marie and then looks at me, awaiting a response. “She says you have the same smile as your grandmother.”
“I do?” My breath comes out trembling, and Jonah reaches beneath the table, taking hold of my hand. “Do you think you could tell me what happened? I would love to know their story.”
The Sea of Lost Things Page 20
