by Karen Abbott
Just a Summer Romance
by
Karen Abbott
Originally published 2005 by D.C. Thomson & Co., Ltd.,
185 Fleet Street, London EC4A 2HS
Under the separate titles
A Summer Of Love and Her Reluctant Heart
First Linford Edition published 2006 by F. A. Thorpe (Publishing)
Anstey, Leicestershire. LE7 7FU
Copyright © 2005 and 2006 by Karen Abbott
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Karen Abbott 2012
Synopses
Just A Summer Romance
When Lysette Dupont decides to help her grandfather restore his old windmill on Ile d’Olèron off the west coast of France, she doesn’t want to get sidetracked into pursuing a deepening interest in the bohemian artist Xavier Monsigny. Xavier has planned to spend his time on the island painting and sketching—but intrigue and danger draw them together into a summer romance ... for, surely, that is all it will be?
Her Reluctant Heart
When Lys’s friend Danielle Cachart comes to visit, an incident flings her into the life of Alex Gallepe and his young son, Christian. Dani finds herself facing danger on two fronts ... the literal danger of armed bank robbers and the emotional danger of falling in love with Christian’s widowed father. But is Dani prepared to face the commitment required?
Table of Contents
Just A Summer Romance
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Her Reluctant Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Just A Summer Romance
Chapter One
“No, it’s quite impossible, dear!”
Isabelle Cornaille’s tone of voice clearly indicated that the discussion was over. Her hand suspended for a fraction of a second as she flicked a glance at her daughter’s face reflected in the mirror as she stood behind her mother… and then resumed its drawing of two finely arched eyebrows over her cool grey eyes. Although now in her mid-forties, she was still a beautiful woman … and intended to stay that way, as her almost daily visits to the Beauty Salon bore out!
“But it’s such a good opportunity, Maman,” Lysette Dupont argued. “Danielle says we can both stay in her uncle’s house in Provence for a week or so and then we’ll go to Italy and get some sort of summer job—which will give us time to look around before we get something more permanent.”
Isabelle studied her daughter’s reflection once more, noting with pride that she had inherited her finely boned physique, her slender, graceful figure and her dark brown hair that was gathered loosely at the nape of her neck from where it tumbled to below shoulder length in a waterfall of luxurious curls. She failed to acknowledge that Lys’s warmth of character came straight from Gilles Dupont, her first husband … who had eventually given up trying to draw out some reciprocal warmth from his wife and had set off in a sea-going yacht to sail the seven seas.
That was three and a half years ago, just before Lys had left the shelter of her home for the student-life on the southern bank of the Seine in Paris. Neither Lys nor her mother had seen him since, although he sent a postcard from almost every port … to Lys, not her mother … and had agreed to Isabelle’s demand for a divorce in a similar fashion. Isabelle had lost no time in marrying Oscar Cornaille, a well-known city-banker of infinite wealth and a veneer of charm.
“Anyway,” Lys went on, not being one to give up too easily. “I don’t know why you are objecting. You’re going to St. Tropez with Oscar, aren’t you? I don’t want to stay here on my own. No-one stays in Paris in the summer!”
Isabelle’s eyebrows drew together half way through Lys’s reply, although she waited, frowning, until Lys paused.
“I do wish you would call Oscar ‘Papa’, as he has asked you to, Lysette, dear! You know, if only you’d soften your attitude towards him, he would open any doors you could wish for … and more besides.” She completed her make-up and, after critically inspecting her reflection in the mirror, she put her hands on the edge of her dressing table in a decisive manner and swung round to face her daughter, as if coming to a decision about something.
“Indeed, I must tell you, Lysette … Oscar wants you to go into the bank with him. He says he has just the opening for you and he will clear the way with the board. You’re a bright girl. You’ll soon pick up the procedures.”
She trilled lightly. “After all, a degree is a degree, no matter what subject you read. No-one need know it was only in business studies!”
Lys glared at her mother.
“Then tell Oscar, ‘Thanks … but no thanks!’ I don’t want to go into banking, Maman. If that was my intention, I would have read mathematics!”
“Then what do you intend to do, now that you’ve graduated? I’m not having you lie around in the sun at St. Tropez, reminding everyone that I am old enough to have a daughter of twenty-one!”
The shrill call of the telephone brought to a close Isabelle’s tirade and, with an impatient sigh, she crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
“Yes! Who is this? … Oh, I see! … Well, no, it’s not convenient! … I’m afraid it’s no concern of mine. I am no longer married to his son. You will have to find someone else to act as his nursemaid! Good-bye!”
She dropped the receiver into its place.
“Really! I don’t know what the woman was thinking of! Would I go to stay with Gilles’s father to nurse him back to health? Me … on that backwater of an island! How preposterous!”
“What is the matter with Grandpere?” Lys asked anxiously.
“How should I know? Something about him not being well and worrying about his windmill or some such nonsense. I told her, it’s no concern of mine! Now, where were we? Ah, yes! You must do as Oscar says, Lysette and …”
“You can’t just dismiss Grand-père like that, Maman! He lives on his own! He must need you or he wouldn’t have asked someone to telephone for help!”
“What that old man needs is someone to take that tumbledown windmill off his hands and put him in some sort of home for the elderly! It is Gilles’s responsibility, not mine! No, I’m sorry, Lysette! Etienne Dupont has no claim on me!”
She noticed the quickening of interest on Lys’s face. Her eyes narrowed sharply.
“Nor on you, Lysette! I absolutely forbid it!”
Lys was unmoved by her mother’s protestations. She had been forbidden to go to Provence with Danielle; she didn’t want to spend the summer being inducted into banking; and she didn’t want to spend the summer on her own in their apartment in Paris.
Here was her answer!
She would go to Ile D’Oleron, an island off the west coast of Charente Marit
ime and she would spend the summer there, doing what she could for her grandfather and, no doubt, have time to enjoy herself as well.
Isabelle’s objections fell on stony ground. As well as wanting to help her grandfather, Lys wanted to prove that she could look after herself—and Oscar, when informed of Lysette’s decision by his wife, merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
“Let the girl do as she wishes, Isabelle. She’ll soon find out what is best in life. She has tasted the life of privilege. It won’t take long before she changes her mind and comes begging to be taken back.”
“No chance!” Lys muttered under her breath. She was already remembering the wonderful holidays she had spent on Ile D’Oleron when she was a child, the slow pace of life on the island, the freedom, the wonderful beaches and the warm sand and the surf!
“And how do you intend to get there?” Isabelle asked, tight-lipped but accepting the inevitable.
Lys looked at her in surprise, thinking of the car that Oscar had given her for her twenty-first birthday. Was he going to demand its return? She threw a questioning glance at her step-father, trying to weigh up his expression.
“Go in the car,” he said lightly. “It’s yours. There are no strings attached.”
“Thanks.”
Maybe she had underestimated him? The car would certainly make getting around the island much easier.
“And I’ll continue your allowance until the end of September,” Oscar continued, ignoring Isabelle’s displeased, ‘Tut’. “And, if you need help in any way, if Etienne is in a bad way, don’t be too proud to get in touch.”
“Thanks,” Lys said again, abashed at her earlier unworthy thoughts of him.
***
She left the next morning and, once clear of Paris, the traffic quickly reduced to a minimum and she drove south on the A10 Autoroute heading for Saintes. It was a long drive, but she stopped a number of times for a comfort break and it was mid-afternoon when she paid her Autoroute toll fee at Saintes and joined the 728 heading for Marennes and Ile D’Oleron.
After the fast pace on the Autoroute, it was quite a relief to be on an ordinary road, with scattered villages to pass through. The bright sunshine that had seen her exit from Paris had now given way to a darkened sky and, a few kilometres after leaving the Autoroute, just past a village called Balanzac, a jagged fork of lightning split the darkened sky, followed seconds later by an enormous crash of thunder that seemed to shake the road beneath her.
“Wow! That was close!” she said aloud.
She had never seen a thunderbolt hit anything but was more than willing to believe that the noise had heralded some such occurrence. Two thunderclaps later, huge drops of rain began to splash her windscreen and she had only time to switch on the windscreen wipers before the rain was pelting down so hard that her wipers were unable to cope with the amount of water cascading over the windscreen.
The distorted image of a parking sign came within her range of vision and she decided to make use of the lay-by until the downpour had eased. She guided her car into it, drove to near its far end and put on the brake. As she switched off the engine, the rear passenger-side door was wrenched open and a thoroughly soaked, male figure tossed a large dark bundle onto the rear seat. Before she had time to do more than shout, “Hey!” the door was slammed shut and the front passenger door wrenched open. The, bedraggled figure flung himself headfirst into the car, flopped onto the seat at her side and thrust forward a wet brown hand.
“Thanks!” he gasped. “I didn’t think anyone would stop in this weather! You must be my guardian angel in disguise!”
He looked at her startled face and visibly sagged into his seat, embarrassed realisation flooding his face.
“You didn’t stop to pick me up, did you? I’m sorry! I’ll make myself scarce! Sorry about the wet seat and everything!”
He turned away and tugged at the door handle.
“Sorry! My hands are so cold I can’t seem to grip it!”
Lys felt her heart rate begin to subside.
“You’re all right. Stay for a few minutes until the rain stops! I can’t throw you out in this!”
“Are you sure? I’m very grateful.”
He grinned disarmingly.
“I’m not an escaped convict or a serial killer or a rapist,” he assured her lightly, “and I’m very sorry I startled you like that. I truly thought you’d seen me and taken pity on me. Did you hear that first clap of thunder? It was right overhead! The lightning was fantastic! I must get it down on canvas as soon as I can!” He smilingly tapped his head. “I’ve got it stored in here but it’ll lose its impact if I store it too long.”
Lys glanced over the back of her seat at the huge bundle now dripping onto the rear seat and floor. It was a large backpack with various other bundles tied to its outer straps. She saw three wooden legs sticking out of the end of the main part of the backpack.
“You’re an artist,” she said, more as a statement than a question.
“Yes. Xavier … er … Piquet.”
He seemed to pause and, when she gave no reaction, he continued, “Freelance artist of no fixed abode.”
He held out his hand again and, this time, she took it lightly.
“Lys Dupont,” she returned. “Freelance ex-student … with temporary abode with my grandfather on Ile D’Oleron.”
“Really? That’s where I’m heading. Honestly!” he added, seeing her incredulous expression. “I’m renting a studio where I can paint and exhibit my work. It’s a disused fisherman’s hut. There’s any number of them lying empty along by the port. Artists and sculptors and suchlike hire them as studios for the summer.”
He studied her face, reading her doubtful expression.
“I’ll get out, if you like. I don’t want to make you feel obliged to give me a lift … only, with you going my way, I must admit it would be a great help.”
Lys relaxed. He certainly looked what he said he was. His long dark brown hair was plaited into dreadlocks, held back off his face by a braided band. His skin was bronzed by the weather and his clothes, although soaking wet, were rough but presentable. Most of her former student friends looked much the same … except that Xavier Piquet was much more good-looking.
She realised she was staring at him and, from his quizzical expression, he could read her thoughts.
“You’re not too bad looking yourself!” he grinned.
“I wasn’t …!”
“You were!”
She felt her cheeks redden ... and she grinned back.
“Don’t get big-headed! Beauty is only skin-deep!”
“I’ll remember that!”
He cocked his head on one side. “Am I in or out?”
She laughed. “You can stay,” she agreed. “I’ll take you to Ile D’Oleron. Count yourself lucky, for I wouldn’t usually stop for a hitch-hiker, good-looking or not!”
The rain was easing and the sky lightening. Lys glanced in her mirror, making sure that the road was clear.
“Fasten your seat belt and we’ll be on our way.”
***
The remaining time of the journey passed swiftly. The sudden storm had cleared the road of traffic and light-hearted conversation made the kilometres slip away. Xavier was easy to talk to and Lys found herself sharing some of her frustration at her mother’s attempts to mould her life into a shape that suited her.
“So, what do you want to do?” he asked, his eyebrows rising a little, giving the impression that he wasn’t too impressed by her protestations.
“I’m not sure exactly,” she admitted, flushing under his direct challenge, “but I want to make my own way in life! I feel I’ve got the ability to create something. As an artist, you must understand that.”
“Indeed I do,” Xavier agreed. “As an artist, I see things with my soul and transmit what I see to the canvas through my brush.” He studied her profile for a moment. “It costs a high price to remain true to your soul. Somehow, I don’t think you are dedicated en
ough!”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “Are you saying I will be a failure?”
“No, of course not but you will need to know what it is you want to do!” He shrugged his shoulders. “You want to stand on your own feet but you drive an expensive car and I expect some sort of allowance is paid into a bank account each month! Am I correct?”
Lys glanced at him sharply, irritated by the accuracy of his assessment.
“So what?” she snapped. “A person has to live! And I didn’t see you refusing a lift in my ‘expensive’ car!”
Xavier laughed at her barbed reply. “True! But an artist has to experience a degree of suffering! Only then will his inner soul burst through the outer shell!” He studied her face, smiling a little. “I do not think you will wish to suffer for your destiny.”
“Well, I suppose you know it all! Are you dedicated enough? Are you willing to suffer?” Lys challenged, annoyed at his ready criticism of her.
Xavier shrugged lightly. “Yes, if need be! My father wanted me to join the family business or, failing that, to be a surveyor. I tried to please him but in the end I just couldn’t go through with it. It was stifling me and I ducked out before my finals. Papa was furious and more or less threw me out—but I knew I wanted to paint above anything else, whatever it meant to my comfort.”
“Huh! And your ‘ducking out’ gives you the right to criticise my indecision about what to do with my life!”
They were crossing the three-kilometre-long viaduct that joined Ile D’Oleron to the mainland and Lys wanted to enjoy her first view of the island for over six years. Its low coastal line stretched out both to the left leading to St. Trojan and to the right to Le Chateau, two of the dozen or so small towns on the island.
The tide was out, revealing a large expanse of sandy flatland. A series of poles in the shallow waters indicated the line of the deeper channels and the positions of oyster beds and mussel grounds. On the wet foreshore a number of bent figures could be seen digging in the sand, foraging for clams and other shellfish, drawn back by the watery sun to the task the storm had temporarily ended.
