Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Read online

  “Do you know their names?” Alex asked, startling Natalie out of her reverie.

  “Um, yeah,” said Natalie. “The terrier pup is Remy, and the cat is Tula. The unfriendly dog glowering over there is Korrigan. It’s the Breton name for a water sprite.”

  Korrigan was about the size of a German shepherd but her caramel coloring, floppy ears, and wolflike countenance hinted at a mixed heritage. Her lack of one eye and one leg revealed a history of trauma.

  When Alex reached a hand toward her, a low warning rumble emanated from Korrigan’s barrel chest.

  “Guess she doesn’t like me,” Alex said.

  “She doesn’t like anybody, though she will accept food.”

  “I don’t have anything to offer, Korrigan. Sorry,” Alex said to the dog, then turned back to Natalie. “What happened to her?”

  “They think she might have fallen off a fishing boat. She was found half-drowned in the cove by the hotel, with one foot caught in the rocks. It couldn’t be saved, and she obviously lost an eye at one point as well.”

  “I like her,” said Alex. “She’s a survivor. Speaking of which, how is your health?”

  “I’m, um, fine, thanks,” Natalie stammered, startled by the question.

  “Hope and Faith and I are all wearing glasses now,” said Alex. “But you’re good?”

  “Yep. I had LASIK,” Natalie said as two toddlers careened into them, followed closely by an apologetic dad.

  “So,” said Alex, “it was made very clear to me when I went through customs that I’m on a limited visa, and when it expires, I have to leave. How is it you’re allowed to live in France so long? Did you marry your French boyfriend?”

  Natalie clenched her teeth. No, she wasn’t married.

  “I have a special visa from the local prefecture because we’re redoing the house. It’s considered a project for the general good,” she explained. “Since it’s so close to the ferry landing, the guesthouse is pretty prominent, and the islanders don’t like to see it in such disrepair. Doesn’t look good for the tourists.”

  “Makes sense,” said Alex. “And how does that work? Did you buy the place?”

  “What is this, Alex? Twenty questions?”

  Alex let out a startled, breathy laugh. “It’s been a while, that’s all. Trying to catch up. Clumsily, apparently.”

  In their family, interrogations were more common than small talk, so it was often hard for Natalie to distinguish between the two. Secrecy was her default mode—and used to be Alex’s as well.

  “To answer your question, no, I didn’t exactly buy it. I signed an agreement with the family that owns it to invest some money to renovate it and run it as a guesthouse, and then we’ll share in the profits.”

  “Invest some money” was an understatement, Natalie thought with a spurt of anger tinged with fear. She had poured money into the project. François-Xavier’s remaining island family, his elderly aunties and his oncle Michou, were stout, practical people who had been beyond thrilled that their golden boy had come home to the island for good, to settle down with his American girlfriend. They had been so hopeful, so excited, so welcoming. Natalie dreaded letting them down, seeing the disappointment in their eyes, just as her family had looked at her when it was her turn to bring home food and they all went hungry.

  How was Natalie going to tell them that François-Xavier wasn’t on a business trip after all? That he had dumped her, her money was running out, and there was no way the guesthouse would be open in time for the Festival of the Gallizenae?

  Her jaw tightened. If she kept this up, she was bound to crack a tooth, which would add yet another item to her to-do list.

  They walked along the arc of shops and restaurants that lined the quay. On the sand below, children were still playing, now wrapped in towels and sweatshirts as the warmth of the sun ceded to the chilly evening. Beyond the swimming area was a small harbor lined with boats, including several on the mud, beached until the next tide came in.

  “That ribbony-looking seaweed you see everywhere?” Natalie said. “It’s called algues here and, specifically, goémon. In the old days the islanders collected it; they say it kept them alive during the war. It’s supposed to be good for one’s health.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  Natalie shook her head. “I’m not in The Commander’s encampment anymore; I can eat what I want. Algae is definitely not on the menu.”

  Milo’s Café was the last in the row of old stone houses facing the water. Though it was considered the best restaurant on the island, tourists rarely made it this far in their search for food, so it served mostly locals.

  Natalie paused for a moment to assess the situation. Half a dozen tables spilled out onto a stone terrace, taking advantage of the view, but they were all occupied. Inside, a few regulars lingered at the bar along with one obvious tourist, a nattily dressed man with light brown hair and a rarefied air about him. Natalie was most pleased to spy Christine Tanguy sitting at the end of the bar.

  Christine was one of the few islanders under the age of seventy whom Natalie could actually call “friend.” She had short-cropped hair and large, capable hands, and wore a tank top that showed off her broad shoulders and lean muscles. Her usual jeans and boots were none too clean, which surprised no one because Christine was fresh off her fishing boat.

  On bad nights, when Natalie gave up on sleep and took a cup of tea out to the terrace, she sometimes saw Christine motoring off into the frigid stillness of the ocean. She recognized Christine’s boat because it had a little cluster of lights at the top of one mast, reminding Natalie of a Christmas tree. Natalie wondered what it would be like to wake up in the hushed predawn hours, pull on work boots, and climb aboard one’s boat, alone, to head out into the freezing nothingness of the dark sea, relying upon one’s maritime skills to bring in a catch and then to find one’s way back to this tiny sliver of an island.

  “Salut! Ça va, toi?” Natalie greeted Christine with kisses on both cheeks and introduced her to Alex.

  “Another Américaine!” Christine exclaimed in heavily accented English, and kissed Alex on both cheeks. “Mostly we have the Brits here. Welcome. You are come to visit your sister?”

  Alex nodded. “It’s been too long.”

  “Would you like to join us for dinner?” Natalie asked, suddenly realizing how much Christine reminded her of Alex.

  “Thank you, but as soon as I finish my drink, I must go clean up,” said Christine, making a show of sniffing her shirt. “Whew! I am very aromatic. I need a shower, you see? Nice to meet you, Alex. Perhaps we will have dinner together soon, yes?”

  Natalie was sorry Christine declined to join them; not only did she enjoy her stories, but the fisherwoman’s presence would have made dinner with Alex less awkward. Natalie wondered what she and her sister were going to talk about, just the two of them, staring at each other across the café table.

  Natalie’s heart sped up slightly at the appearance of Milo Le Gall, the café owner, who’d returned from serving tables to tend the bar. In the way of so many Bretons, Milo was broad, strong, and gruff, and looked capable of single-handedly harpooning a whale. He was the kind of man who made Natalie wonder what he had been like as a little boy; it was hard to imagine him without a reddish brown five-o’clock shadow on his square jaw and thick neck. As usual, tonight Milo wore a button-up vest over a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his thick forearms.

  Like François-Xavier’s family, Milo’s people had lived on the island for as long as anyone could remember, inhabiting this forbidding rock long before things like electricity and fresh water were brought over from the mainland. But although they had grown up together, François-Xavier and Milo shared a deep-seated antipathy for each other, the result, Natalie assumed, of childhood rivalries.

  Lately she found this made Milo more attractive in her eyes.<
br />
  “Bonjour,” she said.

  “Bonjour.” Milo gave Natalie a barely-there chin raise.

  “Là-bas?” Natalie gestured to a nearby table.

  “Où vous voulez,” he said, indicating they should sit wherever they wanted.

  “What would you like to drink?” Natalie asked Alex as they took seats at a small table by the window. “This region isn’t known for its wine like the rest of France. . . . The islanders tend to prefer beer and hard cider. I’ve developed a fondness for pastis, which is a kind of anise liqueur.”

  “Cider sounds great.”

  Natalie caught Milo’s eye as he stood behind the bar and asked for a cider and a pastis, ignoring the roll of his eyes at her order. It was a ritual with them. Natalie always ordered it, and Milo always responded that only foreigners—by which he meant people from the South of France—drank such strong-smelling stuff.

  Natalie felt herself relaxing. Here at the restaurant she felt more confident and in charge, ordering drinks in French, greeting familiar faces with breezy bonjours. It made her feel more like Natalie Morgen, urbane world traveler and international bestselling author.

  “If you’re starving, we could order an appetizer,” Natalie said, “but I’ve gotten into the apéro tradition of taking a drink before dinner.”

  “When in Rome, as they say,” said Alex, looking at the chalkboard menu, which included several local specialties. “Do you speak the Breton language? It looks complicated, all those apostrophes and ‘k’s and ‘x’s. . . .”

  “It’s called Brezhoneg, and you’re right. It’s difficult to pronounce.”

  “I wondered about the name of the guesthouse. Is ‘Bag-Noz’ a Breton word?”

  “It is, yes. It actually refers to a ghost ship.”

  “A ghost ship? Like in Pirates of the Caribbean? Why?”

  “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I had been hoping to collect stories from the elder islanders, but they’re remarkably reticent to speak about the past.”

  “Maybe they would tell you more if you spoke their language.”

  “Hardly anyone speaks it anymore. Those who came of age after World War Two refer to themselves as ‘the lost generation’ because they never learned to speak it properly. It’s used in place-names and recipes, that sort of thing, but it’s more a reflection of Breton cultural pride than a working language. I can say ‘Cheers,’ but that’s about all.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Yec’hed mat.”

  “It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?”

  Natalie chuckled. “It’s a Celtic language, related to Cornish and Welsh, brought to France in the early Middle Ages by migrating Britons. In fact, this whole area is considered one of the five Celtic nations. It’s an ancient place that was settled long before modern France existed. According to the islanders, nine virgins once lived on the island, the Gallizenae. Their festival is coming up in October. It sort of marks the end of the tourist season.”

  Her heart fluttered. Only six weeks to finish the renovations. To be ready. But Natalie wasn’t anywhere near ready. Story of her life.

  “Why have a festival for nine virgins?” Alex asked.

  “Supposedly they had special powers; they could command the wind, cure disease, and foretell the future. Occasionally they transformed into mermaids to save lucky sailors, whom they would take for lovers until they threw them back into the sea.”

  “Wait—how did they remain virgins if they took lovers?”

  “Apparently the word ‘virgin’ was also used for women who chose not to marry and have children.”

  “Like us, then.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose so, yes.”

  “And if they didn’t take a shine to the men, they threw them back into the sea? Seems a bit harsh.”

  “Or maybe they turned them into swine, like Circe,” Natalie said with a smile. She pronounced it seer-see, and then doubted herself. “Or is it pronounced kir-kee?”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about, much less how to pronounce it.”

  “Circe is a goddess from Greek mythology. In The Odyssey, she turned Odysseus’s sailors into swine.” Natalie’s words sounded pompous to her own ears; she doubted her sister knew the first thing about Greek mythology. She glanced over at the bar, wishing Milo would hurry up with the drinks already.

  After a beat, Alex gestured to the view of the harbor with the ocean beyond. “This is nice. Pretty.”

  Natalie tilted her head. “Are you joking or being serious?”

  “Why would you think I was joking?”

  “This isn’t the sort of thing you used to enjoy.”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve spent any time together.”

  “True.”

  “You seem to have made a good life for yourself, Nat.”

  Natalie smiled but her monkey brain was racing. Natalie had made a good life for herself, hadn’t she? She had cultivated a following and was under contract to write another book about how she had made a good life for herself. But . . . would she be able to get by until the next check from her publisher came through? Would the French government even allow her to stay if she was no longer attached to a native? And speaking of natives . . . Milo’s wrists and forearms were so thick, his hands so large and capable-looking. She knew he lived over the restaurant, and now she wondered: Was there anyone special in his life?

  Realizing her sister was waiting for a reply, Natalie said simply, “Yeah, it’s nice here. Thanks again for fixing the porch step.”

  Alex shrugged. “Easy fix. So, tell me about this guy you’re with.”

  “He’s . . . in Paris, interviewing sous-chefs,” said Natalie, feeling awkward as Milo approached their table with their drinks.

  “But you’re nowhere near ready to open the restaurant, are you?”

  “We will be. He’ll be back from Paris soon,” Natalie said, doubling down on the lie, feeling every bit the fraud.

  Milo set their drinks down, placed a small dish of peanuts on the table, and caught Natalie’s eye. She knew her island neighbors wondered what the story was with François-Xavier. Milo wasn’t known as a gossip, but any exciting tidbits were sure to spread soon enough. How long could she keep up the charade?

  Usually Milo took care of business and returned to his station behind the bar, but now he lingered at their table. Natalie’s heart beat a little faster.

  “Speaking of Paris,” Milo said to Natalie in French, gesturing with his head to the tourist at the bar, “that fellow over there, Jean-Luc Quenneville, missed the last ferry. Don’t suppose you could put him up at your place?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Says he’ll pay a small fortune for a room.”

  “We’re not really ready for guests.”

  His gaze shifted to Alex.

  “She showed up unexpectedly. Also, she’s my sister.” Natalie switched to English. “By the way, I should introduce you: Milo, this is Alex. Alex, Milo.”

  “Enchantée,” said Alex.

  His only response was a curt nod.

  “The man, he speaks English,” Milo said, again addressing Natalie in French. “He’s from Paris.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that part,” Natalie replied. Jean-Luc Quenneville was Parisian from the tips of his tasseled leather shoes to the silky tie and tailored suit, everything tucked in and just so. He stuck out like a sore thumb on this island, where flip-flops and T-shirts were the norm. Still, he was smiling and chatting easily with the locals at the bar, which, in Natalie’s experience, was not the way of most Parisians.

  “He’s my sister’s ex-brother-in-law, sort of. Divorced from her husband’s sister. They can’t put him up because their new baby is sick—also because her belle-soeur wouldn’t be happy about it. I’ve called everyone
I can think of for a place.”

  “I . . .” Natalie hesitated. Her sister’s arrival had already thrown her for a loop. But the Fémans—the people of the island—rarely asked for help, which meant that when they did ask, it was important. Not to mention this was Milo asking for a favor. Gruff, interesting Milo.

  “He will pay two hundred euros a night,” Milo added. “Cash.”

  “For a simple room?”

  Milo shrugged. “The man wants what he wants.”

  Two hundred euros a night, cash. That was a lot of money. A few days ago her agent, Sandy Ramirez, had confirmed there was no way the publisher’s accounting department could cut her a check ahead of schedule. Just paying for this dinner would blow her budget for the week.

  Over at the bar Christine made a loud snort, downed the last of her cider, pounded the Parisian on the back, and said, “I tell you what, monsieur. I’d put you up for that price, if I didn’t live with my mother.”

  Jean-Luc Quenneville smiled and raised his glass of cider to her. “Very kind of you. Let me buy your drink.”

  “Ah, thank you! I don’t care what they say about Parisians. I like you already,” said Christine with a smile as she left the restaurant, bowing to one and all. “Merci, Milo, et bonne soirée, mesdames and messieurs.”

  Natalie explained the French exchange to Alex.

  “Since when do the Morgens turn down money?” Alex asked. “The room across the hall from mine looked all right. I already swept it out, and you’ve got a new mattress in there as well. We just need to put the bed frame together and make the bed. Easy enough.”

  “You wouldn’t mind sharing the bathroom?” Natalie asked.

  Alex looked incredulous. “Am I the only one who remembers we grew up without indoor plumbing? Remember the ‘honey pot’?”

  The sisters shared a grimace.

  “What I really remember is we never had toilet paper,” said Natalie. “We had to make do with leaves or the pages of a phone book.”

  Another grimace.

  Milo frowned as his keen eyes shifted from one sister to the other. “I do not understand.”