“I’m surprised you still have it.”
She pursed her lips and reached for another ornament. “The way I see it, we can’t understand the present—much less make better decisions for the future—if we don’t acknowledge the good, bad, and ugly of the past.”
I stopped and watched her for a bit. “That’s remarkably rational.”
She smiled. “If anything proves that there is a God, it’s Mona being rational . . .”
“And this one?” I held up a small figurine depicting a rock climber hanging by one hand from the edge of a cliff.
“That’s from the first Christmas after Fred left.” Mona laughed, taking the ornament from me to wrap it in tissue. “Believe me, the symbolism is an understatement.”
“What kind of Christmas store carries this kind of thing? The least they could do is put a Santa hat on the guy’s head.”
“Oh, it’s not intended to go on a tree. Grant found it in an REI store and drilled a hole through it for the hook so I could remember every Christmas just how far I’ve come.”
I watched as Mona laid the figurine in the box, alongside the rest of her life’s story told in tacky Christmas fare, and marveled at her sanity.
“So . . .” The tone of Mona’s voice made me look up with suspicion. “You know the French expression for changing topics without warning in the middle of a conversation?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“It’s called ‘jumping from the rooster to the donkey.’”
“Okay.”
“And you’re about to meet the donkey.”
I forced a smile and took another ornament from the tree. “Oh boy.”
“It’s about you and Grant . . .”
I froze.
“Preferred the rooster, did you?”
“I just have a feeling I know where this conversation is leading.”
But there was no deterring her. She put down the ornaments she held and turned to look at me. “I want to say a couple things. Not because I’m worried. Just because . . . because I need to say them.”
“Mona . . .”
“Grant is a good man.”
I put up a hand to stop her, disturbed by the confusion her words were exacerbating in my mind. She ignored the gesture.
“He’s a good man,” she said again, “and . . .” She paused for a moment. “The fact is, all you know of Grant is what you’ve learned about him here. And he had a different life before he came to France. A complicated life.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“What I’m trying to say is that he wasn’t in a good place when he got to Balazuc, and you’re—you’re in a tough place too.” Her voice and face expressed reluctance and pleading. She was clearly as uncomfortable with this conversation as I was, but determined to see it through. “I know it’s easy to get attached to someone and feel like that person is part of the healing process, but the way I see it—”
“Mona . . . ,” I tried to interrupt her.
“Lost finds lost. That’s all I’m saying. And in my experience, lost finding lost only multiplies the lostness. I just don’t want either of you to get hurt by thinking that the other is capable of ‘fixing’ you.”
“Please. Stop.” There was sharpness in my voice. “If you think you’re seeing something between Grant and me, you’re imagining it. We’ve been together a lot because of Adeline’s journal and now planning for this trip, but I’m not looking for someone to . . . to fix me. Mona, that’s the last thing on my mind.”
She sighed and waved a hand as if to erase what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“How long have you been sitting on this little admonition?”
She held up her hands. “It’s just that men like to be needed, and women . . .”
Something cold and bitter trickled down my spine. “You don’t have to worry about me needing anyone,” I said, my voice low.
“No,” Mona said before I could go on. “No, that’s not what I meant, Jessica. It’s just the timing. That’s all I was talking about.” She seemed to rack her mind for the right words. “Just be careful,” she finally said. “That’s all I’m trying to get across. With what you’ve both been through . . . Just be careful. I’ve said as much to Grant, and he was about as pleased as you are.”
I wasn’t sure if I was shaking because of the cold in the manor’s living room or the intrusion of Mona’s words. The muddiness I’d been fighting hardened into something solid, impenetrable, and irrevocable. “Grant and I, we’ve been working hard—for Adeline. That’s all. And when this trip is over, I promise I’ll be on the first plane out.”
She threw up her hands. “I knew when I opened my mouth that I should just shut up, and yet . . . Please, Jessica, forget that I said anything. I’ve loved having you here—and I do not want you to hop on the first plane out. You’ve been good for me, for Connor, and for Grant. I just wanted you to be careful, and I’ve opened my big mouth about things that are none of my business. Can you forget what I said?”
I could tell by her expression that she was sincere, that her words had probably come out more strongly than she’d intended. But I also knew they’d anchored deep. I tried to focus on the concern that had motivated her comments rather than the response they had elicited in me. “You’re imagining things,” I said again.
“I know. I know I am.”
We finished our task in awkward silence, then Mona apologized again and went upstairs to bed.
As we continued to prepare for the trip, I caught myself being more guarded when I was with Grant. We still spent time together and engaged in conversations that felt casual, but I retreated to the cottage more often during the day and feigned fatigue earlier at night. Part of me wanted to resent Mona for the warning she’d given, but the other part of me knew that her concerns were founded. Lost seeks lost. Broken finds broken. I’d seen it happen before, and I knew I’d be safer pulling back than leaning in.
TWENTY
AFTER A TEN-HOUR DRIVE TO CALAIS AND A SHORT night in a Formule1 motel, we took our time visiting the city before driving our car onto the train that would take us to England.
We passed the Jungle on the way to the station, a huge refugee city that stretched out of sight just off the highway, its makeshift tents tattered and clustered close. Children clung to the chain-link fence as we drove by, their faces dirty, their hands extended, their eyes imploring.
“Are they in prison?” Connor asked.
“They’re refugees,” Grant said.
“What’s a refugee?”
Mona patted his knee. “They had to leave their countries because they weren’t safe there, and now they’re waiting to go across to England.”
“Like us?”
“Well . . . kind of.”
The political standoff that had resulted in the Jungle was too complex to explain to the curious five-year-old. I knew the arguments on both sides of the issue—I’d seen them flash across my computer screen and heard them debated on the radio station Grant played in the barn. But as I looked into the faces on the other side of the fence—a boy in a green hoodie peering out with solemn eyes and an older one who watched the traffic with frustration in his gaze—my only thought was of the men I’d seen in the Bataclan. All I could feel was distrust. Fear too.
The sheer cynicism of my response made me look away. They’re only kids, I told myself, loosening my white-knuckled grip on the magazine I’d been reading. The men who killed Patrick were kids once, too, another voice replied inside my head.
The reminder made me shiver. I focused on the signs counting down the kilometers to the Eurotunnel and tried to take deep breaths, stilling the panic that seemed to surge when I expected it the least.
The thirty-five minutes we spent crossing under the Channel were uneventful. We exited the train in Folkestone and followed the flow of traffic toward the motorway we would take toward London. After a few minutes, we made the mistake of veering off main roads to fi
nd a place for Connor to take a potty break and were instantly introduced to the perils of driving on the left through towns whose narrow streets were obstructed by cars parked on both sides.
Because we were driving a French car, Grant’s vantage point around corners and obstacles was diminished by sitting on the left, leaving me in the unenviable position of estimating distances between us and the curb and warning him of oncoming cars and trucks. I took deep breaths and tried not to grip the dashboard, disoriented by exit ramps that went off to the wrong side and traffic circles we navigated clockwise.
I could hear Mona trying to distract herself by focusing on Connor in the backseat, but the occasional tense intake of air told me that her attention hadn’t really strayed from the close calls of driving for the first time in England.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” I said when we finally made it onto the broader lanes of the A2, headed toward Canterbury and London. “How’s the adrenaline over there?”
“Pumping nicely,” Grant answered, his fingers relaxing a bit on the steering wheel. His jaw was set, but there was a flush in his cheeks that I hadn’t seen before.
“Loving it or hating it?” I asked.
He pursed his lips for a moment. “Both,” he answered as his smile spread.
“Men and cars,” Mona said from behind us, shaking her head. “Nothing like a little seat-of-your-pants driving to perk up the testosterone.”
We stopped to buy a quick lunch from a Tesco supermarket outside Canterbury on our way to Rochester, eager to get to the Old Schoolhouse B&B Mona had booked for four nights in Burham, a small town in the southeast corner of England. Connor hadn’t stopped talking about riding horses since we’d mentioned it to him, and we wanted to get there with time to spare before it got dark.
“Find it here all right?” a young woman asked as we got out of the car around three that afternoon. Her accent was lilting, her pacing slow, her expression as friendly as Mona’s had been when I’d arrived in Balazuc, but mellowed by British sobriety.
“We did,” Mona said, lifting Connor from his car seat and setting him on the gravel drive.
“I’m Renée,” our hostess said, shaking each of our hands, even Connor’s, when she reached the car. “I’m delighted to welcome your little family to Burham.”
Grant smiled. “We’re a bit of an eclectic assortment.”
“Brother and sister,” Mona filled in, pointing at each of them. “My son, Connor, and . . . his Aunt Jessica.”
Grant raised an eyebrow at me and I shrugged my consent.
“Lovely,” Renée said. “You’ve certainly picked the perfect days for your trip—these are the warmest temperatures for January since 1974.”
She led us into a beautiful old house restored to its nineteenth-century splendor. The front door opened into a small sitting room where the remnants of a fire glowed in a stone-framed fireplace. I could see Mona taking in every detail of the décor, the authentic floral prints, antique sconces, and Victorian furniture.
“Don’t get too many fancy ideas,” Grant said as Renée led us up the stairs to our rooms.
“Who, me?” Her response sounded too coy to be genuine.
My room was the epitome of vintage country charm, bright and busy, with a view of the North Downs extending out of sight. After helping us to bring in our things, Renée pointed out the landing’s window to the stone-and-steel barn behind the house. “If you’d like a quick ride on horseback before dusk, I’ll let Clive know you’re on the way.”
“Horseback!” Connor exclaimed, striking a superhero stance.
“That sounds like a resounding ‘yes,’” Renée said, laughing.
Minutes later, we made our way around the Old Schoolhouse to the barn. Clive was an amiable and soft-spoken man. He suggested that Connor ride the pony on a lead around the enclosure while the rest of us followed a well-marked circuit in the fields along the edges of the B&B’s property.
“Would you like that, Connor?” Mona asked.
He was too busy jumping up and down in excitement to form an answer.
“I’ll stay with him, and you and Grant can take the trail,” I suggested.
“Honey, this body is not heaving itself onto a horse.”
“But you’re the one who picked the place precisely for the horses!”
“I picked the place because Connor would love it,” Mona corrected me. “Never once have I implied that I’d be riding too.”
“So it’s just you and me,” Grant said to me. “You up for it?”
The long drive had left the area around my wound feeling a bit tighter and sorer than it usually was, but I wouldn’t let the Paris attack deprive me of this chance for a horseback ride at sunset across the North Downs.
“I think so,” I said, my greater concern more about the time alone with Grant than the discomfort of riding.
My eyes met Mona’s. I saw both apology and encouragement on her face, as if she were trying to convince me that she no longer had any qualms. “You go—I’ll stay with Connor,” she said.
Uncomfortable and uncertain, I looked at the horses staring at us over their stall doors. “Have you done this before?” I asked Grant
“Yep. You?”
“Does riding my grandfather’s quarter horse when I was six years old count?”
“You bet.”
“I’ll saddle two horses,” Clive said.
“Tame ones, please!” I called to his retreating back.
“Scaredy-cat.”
I rolled my eyes in Grant’s direction.
Just a few minutes later, we were riding Kimble and Mable through the gate Clive held open for us.
“Just follow the orange arrows,” he instructed for the third time. “They’ll get you back here in about an hour if you take it slow. There’s a lookout just past the fourth marker if you want to rest a bit.”
“Doing okay?” Grant asked over his shoulder as he took the lead to the broader path that circled the fields around the B&B.
“For a girl who’d rather not fall off a horse but is currently riding one? Yep, I’m doing fine.”
“Did you ever fall off the quarter horse?”
“I only rode it a couple times.”
“And?”
“Didn’t fall.”
“There you go.”
I watched his easy sway as he rode. “You’ve clearly ridden before.”
He reigned in his horse long enough for mine to come alongside his as the man-made path broadened. “Once or twice.”
“As a kid?”
He nodded. “Worked at the local stables so I could compete in barrel racing growing up.”
I laughed. “Of course you did.”
“Not sure how to take that!” His chuckle was rich and mellow.
When we reached the fourth marker, Grant motioned to a bench just off the path. “That must be the lookout Clive mentioned. Sit a bit?”
Grant helped me off Kimble and we tied our horses to a tether pole, then walked around the bench to sit at the edge of an outcropping overlooking the Downs. The sun was low, nearly touching the outline of the soft hills that spanned the horizon. The only sounds we heard were of nature: branches creaking in the light breeze, birds, animals burrowing in the leaves nearby, and the contented munching of our horses, their heads hanging low over grass left green by the winter’s mild temperatures.
“Gorgeous,” I said—nearly whispered—as much to break the silence between us as to comment on the idyllic setting.
“Agreed.”
We took in the lengthening shadows and darkening colors for a few moments.
“Feels good to be out of the car,” Grant said.
I nodded and hugged my arms closer, the windbreaker I’d put on an hour ago not quite sufficient in the cooling air. I thought of Patrick, of the hues and nuances his artistic eye would see that were invisible to me. I started to imagine what he’d say if he were sitting there with us, then stopped the impulse. It would only make me miss
him more.
I racked my mind for neutral topics to fill the lull, but found that after so much time together, we’d exhausted every casual subject I could think of. As the silence began to feel more uncomfortable, despite Mona’s warning still ringing in my ears, I voiced the question that had been niggling at my mind since New Year’s Day. “So . . . I’m wondering. What was your life like before France?” I heard the awkwardness in my own voice and wording, and could have kicked myself the moment the words were out.
I could feel Grant smiling beside me. “That’s a pretty subtle discussion starter, Jessica.”
Something stirred in me as he said my name. I didn’t like the feeling. To distract myself from it, I prompted, “You flipped houses, right?”
“I did.”
“And then you flew to France.”
“I did.”
“Listen, I’m happy to be the discussion opener on this little horseback ride, but at some point you’re going to have to jump in too.”
He shifted and turned a bit toward me on the bench. His arms were crossed, but his expression was open. “I flew to France to help my sister.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because her husband had just left her.”
“Fred, right?”
“Fred. Visionary loser,” Grant said.
“So you really liked him.”
I smiled. Grant smiled too. Some of the awkwardness diminished, and I felt myself tense up as it did.
“He was only there a year before he bailed.”
“Was it a surprise?”
Grant sighed and turned front again. “To me? No. To Mona—most definitely.”
“She seems so—I don’t know—casual about it now.”
“You should have seen her right after it happened. Connor was only about two. They’d just opened the cottage to the public and listed it online, and Fred informed her that he never really wanted to move to France—or to marry her, for that matter—and that he was heading to Florida to learn massage therapy and work on a cruise ship.”
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