Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Read online

  Praise for

  The Vineyards of Champagne

  “A beautifully captivating story of wartime tenacity and tenderness that celebrates the sweetest bonds of human relationships and the courage to love again after loss. So exquisitely rich in detail you’ll feel bubbles on your tongue.”

  —Susan Meissner, bestselling author of The Last Year of the War

  “Blackwell moves effortlessly between present-day France and the battlefields of WWI. . . . The allure of the decades-old mystery of missing letters juxtaposed against the history of the caves of Champagne makes for a satisfying page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Blackwell’s exquisite talent at interweaving the past with the present is on full display in her latest . . . telling the universal story of grief, loss, and human resilience.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for

  The Lost Carousel of Provence

  “Blackwell uses an outsider’s passion to shine a light into the dark past of a broken family and how a sweet wooden rabbit can bring them together again.”

  —The Associated Press

  “Plan your trip to Provence now. In this meticulously researched novel, Juliet Blackwell deftly navigates three time periods, taking us from contemporary California to both the Belle Époque and Nazi-occupied France as she spins a story as charming as an antique carousel.”

  —Sally Koslow, author of Another Side of Paradise

  “An untrusting American orphan meets a dysfunctional French family—and each turns out to possess wisdom that helps the other to heal from old, old wounds. With crystalline imagery, vivid characters, and lively prose, Juliet Blackwell redefines what family means, in a way that will touch readers long after they’ve read the last page. As Cady points her camera at one antique carousel after another, this novel should come with a warning: Will cause enormous desire to travel to France.”

  —Stephen P. Kiernan, author of The Baker’s Secret

  “Narrating from several perspectives, Blackwell weaves together a tale of love lost, repressed passion, and finding a sense of belonging that should utterly charm and delight readers new to her and current fans alike.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for

  Letters from Paris

  “Blackwell seamlessly incorporates details about art, cast making, and the City of Light . . . [and] especially stuns in the aftermath of the main story by unleashing a twist that is both a complete surprise and a point that expertly ties everything together.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Bestselling author Blackwell brings us another captivating tale from the City of Light. . . . This romantic and picturesque novel shows us that even the most broken people can find what makes them whole again.”

  —Booklist

  “Blackwell paints a picture of Paris that is both artistically romantic and realistically harsh . . . a compelling story of Paris, art, and love throughout history.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Blackwell has woven a great tale of mystery, artistry, history, and a little romance. With plenty of backstory and tidbits about Parisian life in the nineteenth century, there’s something for everyone in this recommended read.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for

  The Paris Key

  “A charming protagonist and a deep well of family secrets, all gorgeously set in the City of Light.”

  —Michelle Gable, international bestselling author of I’ll See You in Paris

  “[A] witty, warm, winsome novel . . . [Blackwell’s] generation-spanning tale combines intrigue and passion with a flawless ear for language and a gift for sensory detail.”

  —Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of The Guilty One

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  The Vineyards of Champagne

  The Lost Carousel of Provence

  Letters from Paris

  The Paris Key

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Julie Goodson-Lawes

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Penguin Random House LLC

  Excerpt from The Lost Carousel of Provence copyright © 2018 by Julie Goodson-Lawes

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Blackwell, Juliet, author.

  Title: Off the wild coast of Brittany / Juliet Blackwell.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020040106 (print) | LCCN 2020040107 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593097854 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593097861 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1939-1945--France--Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.L32578 O37 2021 (print) | LCC PS3602.L32578 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040106

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040107

  First Edition: March 2021

  Cover photo of woman by Rekha Garton / Arcangel Images; coast by Mathieu Rivrin / Getty Images; planes by Amer Ghazzal / Getty Images

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  To the Stauff boys.

  To Cole, for going with us;

  and to Luc, for staying with us.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Juliet Blackwell

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: Natalie

  Chapter Two: Alex

  Chapter Three: Violette

  Chapter Four: Natalie

  Chapter Five: Violette

  Chapter Six: Alex

  Chapter Seven: Natalie

  Chapter Eight: Alex

  Chapter Nine: Violette

  Chapter Ten: Natalie

  Chapter Eleven: Violette

  Chapter Twelve: Alex

  Chapter Thirteen: Natalie

  Chapter Fourteen: Violette

  Chapter Fifteen: Alex

  Chapter Sixteen: Natalie

  Chapter Seventeen: Violette

  Chapter Eighteen: Alex

  Chapter Nineteen: Natalie

  Chapter Twenty: Violette

  Chapter Twenty-One: Alex

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Natalie

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Alex

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Violette

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Natalie

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Alex

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Natalie

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Violette

 
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Alex

  Chapter Thirty: Natalie

  Chapter Thirty-One: Alex

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Natalie

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Violette

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Natalie

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Alex

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Natalie

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Violette

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Alex

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Natalie

  Chapter Forty: Violette

  Chapter Forty-One: Alex

  Chapter Forty-Two: Natalie

  Chapter Forty-Three: Alex

  Chapter Forty-Four: Violette

  Chapter Forty-Five: Natalie

  Chapter Forty-Six: Alex

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Natalie

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Alex

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Violette

  Chapter Fifty: Natalie

  Chapter Fifty-One: Violette

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Alex

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Natalie

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Violette

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  Excerpt from The Lost Carousel of Provence

  About the Author

  And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

  —Anaïs Nin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Natalie

  And we’re off, to continue our adventure on the Île de Feme,

  renovating a historic guesthouse and opening a gourmet restaurant!

  Because when you grab life with both hands and hold on tight,

  you never know where it might lead:

  perhaps even to a rocky island off the Wild Coast of Brittany.

  Stay tuned. . . . This tale is not over.

  —last line of the international bestseller Pourquoi Pas? A Memoir of Life, Love, and Food by Natalie Morgen

  Things are not going according to plan.

  Natalie Morgen sat at a little metal café table on the stone terrace outside her guesthouse, watching the latest herd of tourists surge off the ferry.

  An aroma of anise rose from her glass, melding with the smoke from her cigarette and the scent of the sea: a mélange of dead things and salt, of the abundant seaweed and muck that marred the shallows during low tide. Island sounds wafted over on the ocean breezes: the histrionic seagulls squabbling over a bucket of scraps Loïc had tossed out the back door of Pouce Café, the rhythmic lapping of the waves in the snug harbor, the murmurs of visitors enjoying lunch at outdoor tables, the occasional clacking of a pétanque ball hitting its mark.

  Natalie imagined the newly arrived tourists mistook her for a native sipping her glass of pastis—though most of the actual natives preferred beer or hard cider—and enjoying a sunny day on the beautiful island.

  And sitting here like this, Natalie could almost convince herself that life was good. That everything was going according to her carefully thought-out plan. Lounging on the terrace of her ancient guesthouse, its rusted iron gates still secured with a heavy steel chain because the Bag-Noz was not yet open to guests even though accommodations were well-nigh impossible to come by on the Île de Feme during tourist season.

  Bobox strutted by, clucking in contentment. The fluffy white hen had come with the house and had made herself a little nest in the shed. Ridiculously long snowy white feathers on the top of her head quivered and swayed with every confident step, reminding Natalie of stylish Parisian ladies in photographs of yore, parading along the Champs-Élysées in their feathered chapeaux.

  Paris. What had Audrey Hepburn said? “Paris is always a good idea”? Maybe for Audrey—she was rich and beautiful. Absentmindedly scratching at a mosquito bite, Natalie realized she was clenching her jaw, willed herself to relax, took another sip of pastis, and turned her attention back to the ferry passengers.

  Trying to get their bearings, the newcomers weren’t talking much as they staggered along the walkway that hugged the thick stone seawall. Some carried inflatables and beach toys; others clutched scraps of paper with instructions directing them to their rented guesthouses or to the Ar-Men, the only hotel on the island. It must have been a rough crossing: Most of the children and more than a few of the adults were decidedly green around the gills. A storm had thrashed the region yesterday, and though to the unpracticed eye the sea today appeared calm, Natalie had lived on the island long enough to have learned a few things from the locals, such as how to read the water.

  Or, at the very least, when to ask a local to read the water for her.

  Even after a storm appeared to have passed, waves lingered and surged. The swells rippled out and down, the awesome energy of the sea needing time to settle, to balance, to find its footing once again, lulling sailors and landlubbers alike into a false sense of security only to slam them with choppy water if they dared venture too soon onto open sea.

  Sounds like a metaphor for life. Natalie made a mental note to post this, or some poetic version of it, on her social media accounts. She should post some photos as well. It had been a while. Too long. She had a lot of followers to keep happy.

  Her readers loved the snapshots of Natalie’s life on an island off Brittany’s Côte Sauvage, or “Wild Coast,” where she was renovating an ancient guesthouse with the proceeds from her bestselling memoir. In fact, some of the new arrivals lurching off the ferry might well be women of a certain age who had read Natalie’s inspirational tome about finding love and self-fulfillment through the art of French cooking, and had decided to come to the Île de Feme in search of love and self-fulfillment themselves.

  But as Natalie had learned, in a most painful way, the Île de Feme was still an île—an island—which meant that if you didn’t bring it with you, you weren’t likely to find it here.

  How could she explain that her Prince Charming—le prince charmant—the man she had fallen head over heels for, the reason she had come to Brittany in the first place, had turned out to be a lying, cheating, spendthrift schmuck who left her high and dry in the middle of their guesthouse renovation?

  Even his name was annoying. François-Xavier. Being French, he insisted she say his entire name, every time: Fran-swah Ex-ah-vee-ay. A full six syllables. Six. She once made the mistake of addressing him simply as François and he accused her of calling him by another man’s name. A classic case of psychological transference, she thought with grim humor, knowing what she now knew.

  François-Xavier claimed it was an American thing to give people nicknames. He was forever blaming her quirks on Natalie’s being American, but in this case it might have been true. In college Natalie’s roommate had introduced herself as Anastasia—a mere four syllables—and everyone on their hall immediately shortened it to Ana. Natalie had fought her entire childhood against being called Nat because it sounded like the bug, which her sister Alex insisted she was: Nat-the-Gnat, small and annoying, bouncing around ineffectually, her head in the clouds, endlessly searching for some unspecified thing. Natalie had tried to retaliate by calling Alex “Al,” but in that irksome way of smug elder sisters, Alex had embraced the name, stomping around the family compound, singing at the top of her lungs, loudly and proudly, the old Paul Simon song “You Can Call Me Al.”

  Which wasn’t fair. Nobody wrote songs about gnats.

  Natalie never managed to outmaneuver her four older sisters, and Alex, the closest to her in age, had been by far the most difficult.

  Anyway. François-Xavier. She supposed two names suited a man with two faces. Still . . . that gorgeous face flashed in her mind: the sloping, intensely blue eyes; the sensual, full lips; the hint of dark golden whiskers glistening along his strong jaw. The way he looked at her as if she were not merely desirable but that he had waited a lifetime to meet her, that he was ready to share his
life with her, wanted to create a family with her right here on his native island, where they would play pétanque in the sunshine, drink apéro curled up in front of the hearth, and cook together, transforming classic ingredients into sumptuous dinners through the dedicated application of traditional French techniques. And then they would linger for hours over elaborate meals with friends and extended family and guesthouse visitors.

  That was the plan.

  At the moment her cupboard contained half a box of crackers, an open bag of dry-roasted peanuts, and a single fragrant cantaloupe well on its way to rotten. Natalie had forgotten to put an order in with the mainland store that shipped to the island, so today’s ferry brought no bundle of supplies with her name on it. She supposed she could buy something from the island’s small but well-stocked “general store” that primarily served the tourists, but if she did, then the shop’s owner, Severine Menou, would know Natalie’s business, which meant soon everyone on the island would know Natalie’s business.

  Better to do what she usually did these days: eat the ample menu du jour at Milo’s café, blaming it on her torn-up kitchen, and stick to peanuts and stale crackers—and plenty of pastis—the rest of the time.

  François-Xavier would be appalled.

  What was she going to do?

  Keep your head down and the pretense up. At least until she figured out her next steps. She had told everyone that François-Xavier was on a business trip to Paris, scouting for kitchen help for the gourmet restaurant they were supposed to be opening in the large dining room of the Bag-Noz Guesthouse. No one was surprised; he traveled to Paris frequently, after all.

  This time, though, François-Xavier had no intention of coming back. How long would it be until people started asking questions? Also, the construction workers hadn’t shown up this week and Natalie was afraid to ask why. It might be because today was le quinze août, a national holiday. Or just because it was August, and a lot of French people took the entire month off for vacation.