The Space Between Words

by Michele Phoenix

  We circled around the cobblestoned courtyard in our loud deudeuche and parked in the spot labeled Visiteurs near the cottage’s front door. Patrick took off toward the gate as soon as he was out of the car. “Hey,” I called after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Checking out the antique store we passed back there. These places close at five, and it’s nearly quarter ’til!” He jogged around the gate and out of sight.

  I shook my head and stretched in the afternoon sun, careful not to pull the still-healing incision in my side. I hadn’t even noticed the store he was referring to, but Patrick had a radar for the junk he called treasure.

  A door opened in the manor house across the courtyard from our cottage and a woman stepped out, waving at me before she’d crossed the threshold. Though I’d expected a greeting in French, she spoke to me in English.

  “Hello, hello! You must be the Jessica who reserved online.”

  “I am,” I said, surprised by her American accent.

  She closed the gap between us. “I saw from your credit card info that you’re from Denver.” Holding her arms out wide, she declared, “From one American to another—welcome to Balazuc!”

  “I . . . Thank you. It’s a beautiful little town.”

  “It is indeed. Charmed us the first time we set eyes on it.”

  “You’re from the States?”

  “California. Redding.” She hitched her chin toward a freckled face peering around the open door of her house. “Although that little guy remembers more of France than he does of the States by now.” She called to the child. “Come say hello, Connor!”

  The boy ducked out of sight, then peeked around as he reached out with one hand to push the door closed.

  “He’s only shy when he first meets someone,” she said, shaking her head. “And since you’re here for four days, you’ll be wishing he were shyer by the time you leave again.”

  I looked around the courtyard, where every window was adorned with flower boxes and green shutters. They softened the harshness of straight angles and gray stone. “How long ago did you renovate?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, honey, the renovation’s ongoing. The old barn over there is the current concern. We’re turning it into a youth hostel of sorts—cheaper rooms, tighter quarters. We put a new roof on in the fall so Grant can work inside over the winter, but I’ve made him promise he won’t start until after breakfast in the mornings so you won’t be disturbed by the noise. Here’s your key, by the way. And my name is Mona—did I say that before?”

  “You did not. And it’s nice to meet you.”

  I took the key from her and glanced back at the gate. No sign of Patrick.

  Mona opened the door to the cottage and preceded me inside. I took in the Provençal décor—shades of blue, whites, and accents of yellow. The space was clean and welcoming. A kitchenette in the far corner was bigger than the one in Patrick’s Parisian studio, and the view from the window right next to it was stunning—the deep, rocky riverbed of the Ardèche and rugged cliffs rising up toward an intense blue sky.

  “The bedroom’s through here,” Mona said, opening the door to a bright space in which twin beds stood on either side of a courtyard-facing window. “Feel free to pull the shutters closed for privacy,” she said. As she led me back out toward the door, she pointed at the phone on the kitchen counter. “Need anything, give us a call. Number’s next to the phone, along with a bunch of information about the area. Breakfast’s at eight, if that works for you. I’ll bring it over here so you can eat in peace. And if you’d like to go out for dinner in town, there’s a crêperie just past the church that makes the best buckwheat crêpes around.”

  She paused and took a breath, as if trying to reel herself back in. “Oh, and coffee . . .” She went to the kitchenette and opened cupboard doors. “Everything you need is right here. Coffee. Sugar. Creamer’s in the fridge. A couple boxes of cookies if you get a midnight hankering. Just scrounge around and if there’s something you can’t find”—she pointed at the phone again—“call me.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “And just what we were hoping for.”

  She gave me a pleased but quizzical look.

  A shadow crossed the doorway and I turned, expecting to see Patrick, but a larger man stood there, backlit by the afternoon sun.

  “Grant!” Mona exclaimed. “Come on in and meet our guest.”

  “I’m dragging around a day’s worth of construction dirt on my boots, so . . .”

  Mona held out both arms, as if warding off an evil force. “You stay put—we’ll come to you!”

  As we crossed the living room and stepped out of the sunlight pouring through the doorway, more of Grant came into view. He smiled a bit nonchalantly, hands propped on dusty hips, a ball cap coated with dirt on his head. “Grant,” he said, pulling a work glove off his hand to shake mine. “But I guess you’ve already figured that out.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I had to look up to return his smile.

  “Got any luggage I can carry in for you?”

  I looked past him. Still no sign of Patrick. “I’d appreciate that. It’s all in the backseat.”

  He smiled. “The trunks on those deudeuches are a joke, right?”

  There was something calming about him—I wasn’t sure if it was the deep voice, his imposing frame, or the aura of sturdy composure that emanated from him. “So is the suspension,” I said.

  He was standing by the car already, pulling the bags out of the back seat. “Just inside the door okay?” he asked as he carried them back toward the cottage.

  “Not okay—mandatory,” Mona said, watching him closely as he set down the luggage. “Those boots come nowhere near these floors.” She turned to me. “Holler if you need anything.” And with a friendly wave, she backed out of the house and closed the door.

  I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and left it on the floor by one of the beds. Then I went to the window to look out.

  Grant and Mona were still standing in the courtyard, their attention trained on the barn. They looked right together, somehow. Though Mona’s frame was much smaller than Grant’s, there was a sturdiness to it that spoke of strength and reliability. A strand of sandy blonde hair escaped from the clip that held it in a loose roll at the back of her head. It blew across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear as Grant pointed at the roofline and said something that made her shake her head in what looked like dismay. They walked slowly toward the open front door, where Connor—who looked to be maybe five years old—leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, just the way Grant had stood in mine.

  The boy straightened as they approached, and Grant ruffled the boy’s bright-red hair before bending over to take off his boots. I heard Mona’s voice again, unintelligible from this distance, then they all disappeared inside as the door closed behind them.

  “You missed all the fun,” I said when Patrick returned a few minutes later.

  “Sorry. Not worth it.”

  “The fun?”

  “The store. Overpriced antiques and underfriendly staff.”

  “Find anything?”

  He shook his head. “I like my treasures rough and moldy, not sweating under layers of slapped-on varnish.”

  I told him about Mona and Grant. “We should do that,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Start a B&B!”

  “Patrick.”

  I could see his wild imagination already conjuring up the future. That he was able to do so astounded me. I felt incapable of projecting beyond today.

  “Think about it—a B&B-slash-brocante. A comfy house and a picker’s paradise. People would come from all over the world for the Ealy-Jackson experience.”

  “So your name comes before mine in this little fantasy of yours?”

  “Jackson-Ealy? That make you feel better? And if we could get a place with this kind of view . . .” His voice trailed off.

  I’d started to pick up on a pattern since m
y release from the hospital. What little energy I could muster to do “real life” seemed to seep out of my system during the day and usually hit its lowest point just before dinnertime. The now-familiar slump came on suddenly as I watched Patrick standing by the window, visions of the Jackson-Ealy B&B brocante brightening his features. My muscles seemed to grow heavy. My mind less clear. My ability to process and communicate all but gone.

  Patrick sensed my depletion. “Sinker?” he asked, using the term he’d coined for my end-of-day fatigue.

  “It’s the injury, right?” I asked, fear stirring. “Not something permanent.”

  He gave me the look that made me feel known. “You lie down and rest. We’ll deal with dinner later.”

  As it turned out, dinner was boxed cookies and a few slices of the dried sausage we’d picked up at the butcher stand of an open-air market the day before. I told Patrick he was losing credibility in the “ooh-là-là chérie” department, and he informed me that I was in no position to insult the chef.

  I went to bed early again that night, knowing how difficult sleep would be. Even in my childhood, when the worst of my fears were of monsters in closets and snakes under my bed, nighttime had fueled anxieties.

  And now, in the vacuum of insentience, undefined memories surged back, laced with acid and barbed with terror. They’d lain dormant for a while—muted, perhaps, by subconscious self-preservation, but they’d resurged since the beginning of our trip to southern France.

  I willed myself to stay awake until my medication kicked in, fearful of the twilight sleep between wakefulness and slumber when snapshots of the horror hurled themselves—blood-streaked and shrill—against the backdrop of my mind. But there was little I could do when my will surrendered to memory’s onslaught.

  Daylight didn’t erase the macabre, but it diluted it somehow. There were moments when the beauty we encountered brightened the edges of the darkness that consumed me. But I couldn’t seize the light that glimmered out of reach while my strength was still held hostage by the burden of surviving.

  With Patrick’s bed just feet away from mine, I woke on our first night in Balazuc to find him leaning over me, saying my name and rubbing my arm. “It’s just a dream,” he whispered when my eyes found his in the dark room. I shook my head against the pillow and fought the urge to back into the wall, draw up my knees, and sob some of the terror from my mind. “I hate this, Patrick . . .”

  “I know.”

  He sat on the floor next to my bed with his hand resting on my arm as the acid of terror seeped out of my veins and the ticking of the alarm clock lulled me back to sleep. When residual fear snapped my eyes open again, I found him there, his head propped on his hand—a look of sadness and compassion on his face. “Still here,” he whispered.

  I let my eyes drift closed again.

  SIX

  BY THE TIME EIGHT O’CLOCK CAME THE NEXT MORNING, I was hungrier than I’d been in a long while. When I saw Mona coming across the courtyard with a tray, I yelled at Patrick, who’d just finished his shower, that food was on the way and opened the door before Mona had reached it.

  “Good morning!” She carried the tray to the small table next to the kitchenette and unloaded a basket of croissants, a steaming baguette, and a small platter of jams, honey, and Nutella.

  “Just press the plunger to the bottom and pour,” she said, motioning to the French press she’d wrapped in a kitchen towel. She surveyed the table. “Did I forget anything?”

  “It all looks wonderful.”

  “Excellent.” She went to the door through which crisp morning air was pouring. It felt reviving. “Big plans for the day?”

  “We’ll lay low this morning, then head out into the countryside this afternoon looking for brocantes.”

  She gave me a look again.

  “This trip is more treasure hunting than sightseeing,” I clarified.

  “Well, don’t miss the one about fifty kilometers down the N102 from here. Go west toward Langogne and keep an eye out after you leave the town. Can’t remember the name of the place—there’s a big white sign on the stone wall out front. Looks like a dump, but it’s a gold mine. We found that fixture there.” She pointed at the rustic chandelier above the table. “Well worth the visit.”

  I thanked her and saw her to the door. “Does he have his water bottle?” she yelled across the courtyard.

  Grant was walking toward the front gate with Connor. He waved off her concerns and disappeared around the corner.

  “How old is your son?” I asked.

  “Five and a half. And more than ready for first grade.”

  “He’s a doll.”

  “He’s Grant’s mini-me too. The only kid in maternelle—that’s kindergarten in France—who wears a Sacramento Kings ball cap to school, but whatever Grant does . . .”

  “Imitation’s the sincerest form of flattery, right?”

  “Something like that.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her wraparound apron. “Need me to draw you a map?”

  I shook my head. “Fifty kilometers west on the N102, just outside Langogne.”

  “That’s quite the memory you’ve got. Let me know if you find any treasures!”

  The truth was that my mind craved details to remember—innocuous, practical details to take the place of those I just could not forget. I closed the door and leaned back against it, repeating Mona’s instructions to myself, hoping the place they took would push the memories further from my consciousness.

  But I knew they couldn’t.

  Patrick and I headed north as we left Balazuc, circled through scenic villages and towns, then found the N102 and came home through Langogne, just as Mona had suggested. We found Passé Composé on the outskirts of the village, a ramshackle barn with a fancy calligraphed sign. Patrick whooped as we turned off the road onto the potholed driveway that led to huge barn doors. Just to the right of the brocante, several old cars languished, dented and rusty, under the collapsed roof of a decomposing carport. A dog chained to the house on the other side of the structure barked a warning to its owner.

  “You think they’d let me dig through to those cars?” Patrick asked as I pulled the lever that released the deudeuche’s door.

  A bony man in farmer’s overalls, a fisherman’s hat, and rubber boots came out of the house, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He nodded approvingly at our car, then turned his watery eyes on me.

  “I think that’s what you call a once-over,” Patrick mumbled.

  The man ambled toward us, tilting left. “Bonjour!” he yelled, raising an arthritis-clawed hand in greeting. “Vous voulez voir à l’intérieur?”

  I waited for Patrick to use his French and confirm that we did indeed want to see inside—and glared at him when he didn’t.

  “He’s got eyes only for you, Jezebel. I’m guessing ears too.”

  “Oh, please.” I smiled at the man. “S’il vous plaît,” I said, trying for my very best accent.

  The old man slapped his thigh, and a cloud of dust billowed up from his gray overalls. “Anglaise?” he said, his interest clearly piqued.

  With Patrick still standing there, silently enjoying himself, I said, “No. Not English. American.”

  “Yes!” the man exclaimed, clearly thrilled by foreign visitors. “Venez,” he said. “You come! You come!”

  “That’s French for ‘swipe right, swipe right,’” Patrick said under his breath, this time eliciting a smile from me.

  “You’re a freak.”

  “Yes, but I’m your PMFEO freak.”

  The barn was epic. I’d expected a few tables laden with dusty relics and maybe some larger furniture pieces standing alone—like what we’d found in the other brocantes we’d visited. But this was a chaotic, overstuffed, and overwhelming space where every square inch was occupied and stacked high. An open second floor, accessible only by ladders, was equally cluttered.

  “Holy—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “It’s th
e freakin’ Taj Mahal of exquisite excrement.”

  “Only you could make that sound poetic.”

  “You look,” our host instructed us with a heavy accent, sweeping an arm across the expanse of the barn. He seemed to search for words. “Many things!”

  “Yes. Many, many things,” I agreed.

  He smiled and nodded, then pointed from his chest to the table near the barn’s broad entrance, where stacks of old buttons had been partially sorted into Mason jars according to color. “Me here, yes? I wait here.”

  He turned and walked back to the desk.

  “Pick up a shovel and believe in gold,” Patrick said as he walked past me to the darkest corner of the barn.

  We spent over an hour digging through the piles of books and linens, opening every drawer in every piece of furniture we passed, sorting through tarnished brass window handles and doorknobs, porcelain dolls with moth-eaten clothes, military paraphernalia, kitchenware, and building tools.

  When we’d filled our arms with items we wanted to buy, the old man appeared with a large wicker basket for us, then disappeared again. We dropped our loot into it and continued the exploration. For the first time since Paris, I felt excitement stirring. Our hands were black with dust and our eyes were tired from squinting in the barn’s dark interior, but we were finding treasures. An 1880 prayer book inlaid with mother-of-pearl, sterling silver dessert ware engraved with a nobleman’s crest and stamped with the maker’s mark, and—when we dared to climb one of the ladders to the open space above—an antique map of Paris.

  “That’ll look fantastic framed and hung on a wall,” Patrick said, excitement in his voice and gestures.

  “Or under the glass top of a coffee table.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Good call, grasshopper. I’ve taught you well.”

  He had. The four years we’d known each other had been an apprenticeship of sorts. I didn’t know as much as he did, but I’d come a long way. It felt good to have adrenaline pulsing through my veins again. I felt . . . alive. And that, somehow, felt utterly wrong.