That following Saturday dawned gray and misty. It looked as if the carpets could look forward to another steam cleaning.
The first visitors arrived at 9:30. I had sworn off cooking that day, figuring that mouthwatering smells wafting up from the kitchen would only encourage people to stay longer. I had dressed in the standard French uniform of black pants and a black V-neck sweater, wrapping a silk scarf around my neck to provide the requisite splash of color. I even went so far as to pin my hair up in a twist.
Those first visitors were students from the University in Brest and they came in a caravan of three minivans. Sévérine went out to greet them. The dark jeans and high-heeled boots she was wearing only served to accentuate her long legs, and the citron green silk shirt she wore made her eyes sparkle and her teeth gleam as she smiled and laughed. She spent some time talking to the professor who had accompanied the students. The students themselves milled around on the gravel drive, smoking cigarettes.
Watching them, I ground my teeth. I’d forgotten how many days it had taken the previous year to locate and dispose of all the cigarette butts my visitors had left behind.
Sévérine was gracious enough to give the students a private tour of the chateau. I stayed by the front door to welcome any guests that followed.
And did guests follow!
It was only when I stopped to take a breath an hour later that I realized I hadn’t seen Cranwell that morning. Racing up the central staircase to the second floor, I prayed that I’d find him in the hallway exactly where I’d asked him to stand.
No such luck.
I poked my head into the rooms, stopping now and then to answer questions from the guests.
He was not to be found, so I sprinted up the stairs to the third floor, hoping he’d attached himself to a group of visitors.
The only person I saw was Sévérine, and she was at her station in the library.
“Have you seen Cranwell?”
“Non.”
Had he materialized just then, I would gladly have poked his eyes out. “I can’t find him. Could you rotate between this floor and the second?”
“Of course.”
I flew down the stairs, berating myself for having trusted him.
Cranwell drove up at six o’clock that evening in his Jaguar, waving at me as I stood in front of the door watching the last of the visitors leave.
As I watched him walk up to the door, his good-natured grin and dashing tweed overcoat did nothing to soften my heart. In spite of all the things I had to say to him, “Where were you?” was the phrase that popped out of my mouth.
“In Nantes. It was terrific. I was doing some outlining last night and realized I didn’t know anything at all about the city. And it was the capital of Brittany. You were the one who told me that, right? So I decided to spend the day looking around.” He was practically glowing. “Almost every museum in Nantes was free. And they were crowded. The French take their history seriously.”
“I know. Because it’s the Journées de Patrimoine.”
“Which are…?”
I just stood there glaring at him. Because I knew if I moved, even a muscle, I would do something I might regret. Like permanently disfigure him.
Expressions swept across the contours of his face like clouds across a landscape. “Oh no. I stood you up, didn’t I? I am so sorry. I just-this is going to sound like an excuse, and I suppose it is, but at this stage in writing, I’m really not reliable. I can’t be trusted. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“I was counting on you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“And what are your plans for tomorrow?”
“When I was driving back from Nantes, I got some great plot ideas. But I really need to walk around with them. Try to place them in location. I thought I’d take Lucy and just-”
“Wander around the grounds? Walk where Alix walked, that sort of thing?”
“Exactly.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re not going to be around to help me tomorrow?”
“With…?”
“Forget it.” I had to give him credit. At least he’d warned me about himself. And he was right: He wasn’t reliable; he couldn’t be trusted. If he couldn’t concentrate for two minutes on a conversation he was contributing to, there’s no way I was going to count on him showing up tomorrow.
And it’s a good thing I didn’t.
Sunday was no less busy than Saturday had been. By the time I’d closed the door behind the last guest, I was ready to fall into bed and sleep for a month. I’m sure Sévérine felt the same. I stripped off the black uniform I had worn that weekend, shook down my hair, jumped into a pair of comfortable jeans, and pulled on Peter’s old cherry chamois shirt.
And Cranwell?
He’d spent the day wandering the forest. When he finally appeared, shedding his disheveled barn jacket and coming to dinner in a plain black turtleneck and grubby black cords, his greatest concern was his own stomach. I wanted to slap a baguette into his hand, give him a jug of water, and banish him to his room!
But then he looked into my eyes and gave me a smile. It was a happy smile-the kind of smile that usually comes from three-year-olds. And what can I say? I’m a sucker. My heart melted, and I put a heaping plate of moules marinaire, mussels steamed in aromatic broth, in front of him.
His dark head bent over the plate, that distinguished nose funneled in the rising vapors, and he let out such a blissful sigh of pleasure that I couldn’t help but forgive him.
Besides, writers are a type of artist. Aren’t artists supposed to be flaky?
His wanderings must have taken him far out into the woods, for he ate at least two pounds of mussels, using nearly an entire two-and-a-half foot baguette to sop up the broth. Finally, he pushed the plate away, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled.
“I didn’t really eat all that myself, did I?”
I said nothing.
“Good grief! Is there any left for Sévérine?”
“I saved some for her. No worries.”
As I got up to clear the plates, he made a move to help me, but I waved him back to his seat. “I take it you don’t want any profiteroles?”
“How big are they?”
I put four small pastry puffs filled with vanilla ice cream on a plate, smothered them with steaming chocolate sauce, and set them down in the middle of the island. “Not very.”
His hand was reaching toward the plate even before I’d set it down. “Maybe just one.”
Smiling as I started the espresso-maker, I watched as the caramel-colored liquid filled the glass carafe. “Cranwell, how do you go about writing a book?”
“It depends on what sort of book it is. I start with the idea-”
“But how do you get ideas?”
“I don’t know, really, they just come. I guess God gives them to me.” His lips curled into a wry twist. “I wouldn’t have admitted a year ago that it has anything to do with Him, but it does. Sometimes the characters come first. Sometimes it’s the plot. If I need to research, I research. For some books, I just leave holes and go back and fill them in later.”
Deciding to leave all thoughts of God alone, I focused on the process. “How do you know you’ve done enough research?”
“When the characters start talking. When they start telling their story, I start typing.”
I poured the espresso into demitasse cups and placed one in front of him. “But how do you know how to write?”
“I don’t. It’s a gift I’ve been blessed with. I just listen to the characters. If they’re strong enough, they write the story for me. The trick is to be able to type fast enough or to take notes if I’m not near a computer.”
“You don’t have an outline?”
“I do. But characters don’t usually talk to me with chronological precision.”
“How long does it take you to write a book?”
“If I work on it for half a day, I can count on about 2,000 good words. A book has about 100,000 words. If I were able to write flawlessly, in fifty days I’d have a book. It usually takes several drafts for me to get it right.”
“Which stage are you at with this one?”
“Still deciding who’s going to tell the story. It’s different this time. I’m not exactly sure how to approach the writing process anymore. I feel like I’m starting on my first book again. I just became a believer several months ago…” He looked up then, and his eyes were piercing. “Maybe you don’t quite understand, but for me, knowing God changes everything. There’s a new presence in my life, a new awareness. And the things I did before automatically, without thinking, aren’t necessarily the right ways to go about life anymore. I find myself questioning everything I do.”
He wanted to say more, I think, but he seemed at a loss for words. That must be disconcerting for an author.
“I think I’ll work on reading Alix’s journal first to get her point of view in her own words; I’ll see what that looks like. Maybe I’ll let Alix tell the story. Maybe I’ll have her husband tell it. We’ll see.”
It was difficult for me to even imagine what it took to write a book. Cranwell might be a playboy, he might even be a flake, but writing a book was something I could never dream of doing.
“You do understand-about God?” he asked.
“Can we not talk about Him?” The mention of God evoked thoughts of eternity, and thoughts of eternity were irrevocably entwined with my thoughts about Peter. If I had ever bothered to have an honest discussion with him about God; if I had ever bothered to challenge his atheistic beliefs, then thinking about eternity wouldn’t cause such guilt. But I hadn’t; so it did. There were many ways to deal with grief, and I had tried most of them, but so far, I had found nothing to help me deal with guilt. And instead of diminishing over time, its burden had only increased.
Cranwell’s eyes registered disappointment.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know all about Him. I grew up going to church. I just don’t approve of Him.” I hoped I didn’t sound too defensive; Cranwell would never understand the dialogue I wasn’t having with God.
“Because of your husband?”
“Because of lots of things. Anyway, I’m going to put a bottle of champagne in the fridge. When you finish that last draft, let me know and we’ll pop it open.”
“Thanks.” Cranwell got up from his stool and stretched toward the ceiling; mid-stretch, he asked if I had any armagnac.
Did I have armagnac? Any chef worth his toque would be humiliated to be discovered without armagnac.
“If I don’t have something to help all this food digest, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“We can’t have that.” I poured out two large snifters.
“Can we have these in the library?”
Shrugging, I lifted an eyebrow in surprise. I had my own lounge on the fourth floor, so I’d never thought of using the library as one, although it made sense. It was cozy enough.
He ambled to the stairs, and I followed him to the entrance hall and then up the central stairs to the third floor.
In the library there are several floor lamps and a lamp on the large table that serves as a desk. I had decided during renovation that they would be more intimate than a huge chandelier.
Cranwell stopped me as I walked around the room turning on the lights. “Let’s have a fire instead.”
Backtracking, I turned off the lamps and then settled into a leather armchair, kicking off my shoes, and tucking my feet beneath me.
Cranwell arranged the firewood. I saw the flare of the match light his face. The fire caught, and the room began to glow with light.
Looking around at the rich red oriental carpet, the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books and the Louis XVI leather upholstered fauteuils armchairs, I felt peace. The niggling anxiety of the mystery of the fruit boxes fell away, and I decided I should end my evenings here more often.
Cranwell sat across from me, stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He took a sip of armagnac and savored it.
Mirroring him, I felt the slow awakening of taste in my mouth. I let the sip kindle my tastebuds and then I swallowed it, felt the pleasant burn that trailed into my stomach. I held the snifter in the palm of my hand, letting the liquid absorb my warmth.
Cranwell caught my eye. “What would this room have been used for?”
“In Alix’s time? A bedroom or drawing room. Might have been used to store books, but there probably would not have been nearly as many. Books were worth a fortune. Even an avid reader might only own twenty or thirty in a lifetime. It was kings and princes who had the money to collect them.”
“What would they have been reading?” It must have been rhetorical. Cranwell’s eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the fire.
I’d lost him.
Frankly, I had begun to feel ignored. It was surprising how Cranwell had started to grow on me. I missed his undivided attention even as I understood the reason for his introspection.
Not wanting to disturb him, I relaxed into my chair, sipped my armagnac, letting my own thoughts wander. My eyes swept the bookcases that surrounded me, many of them lined with books I considered to be old friends. Some books I read on an annual basis and found as much pleasure in them as the first time I discovered them. Some were reference books. A set of encyclopedias that I used when I was in grade school. At least three dictionaries. Books on history. Atlases. Two entire cases filled with books on political science and government, beloved by Peter. He had always read ravenously, two or three books at a time. There were classics, of both ancient and modern times. Biographies. Autobiographies. The only section absent was my cookbook collection. I kept it down in the kitchen so it would be close at hand.
Taking another sip, I got up and walked toward my favorite bookcase: the one filled with rare and ancient books. The temperature in the chateau stayed relatively constant, so I could afford to keep these books on shelves rather than in glass cases. I hadn’t dared read many. Just cracking open their covers and flipping through the pages was luxury enough. Some were so old they were written in Latin. Others in old English and French. Some even dated back to Alix’s time. They were my birthday and Christmas gifts to myself.
“Cranwell, you might be interested in these.”
He started in his chair. I’d disturbed his reverie, but he walked to my side, snifter in hand.
“These are from Alix’s period.” I waved a hand at a shelf’s selection of books. “They’re in French, so I don’t think that you could understand them, but if they’ll help you, you’re welcome to them.” This part of my library, I had arranged in chronological order; the other bookcases were arranged by subject and by height, but this section was my treasure. I ran a finger along the shelf in front of the books. I never touched them gratuitously. They were too valuable. I recited their dates for Cranwell.
“1352. 1365. 1380. 1412. 1430. 1433. 1451. 14-.” I stopped, confused. The book I was referencing was the book from 1451. I’d confused myself. I started over at the beginning of the shelf, but when I came to the book in question, I had again given it the wrong date. I looked past it toward the end of the shelf.
“Is something wrong?”
It was when I began again, purposely matching titles with the dates, that I found it. There was a gap between 1412 and 1430. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. “One of my books is gone.”
“Maybe you reshelved it in the wrong place.”
“I don’t take these books from the shelf. The last time I touched that book was when I first put it there, about three years ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“What kind of book was it?”
“It was a book found during the renovation of my room.” The only book on that shelf I had not bought. “It was a Book of Hours.”
He looked at me blankly.
“A medieval book of devotions. It was illuminated. Illustrated.”
“Why would anyone want to steal it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe Sévérine borrowed it.”
“It predates Alix by a generation. Her research is specifically tied to Alix. It wouldn’t be of interest to her. Besides, I invited her to use anything that I have. She looked at the shelf, but shrugged me off. She said there was nothing here that pertained to her work.”
Someone must have taken it during the Journées de Patrimoine. It was the only explanation. I felt like crying. If only Cranwell had been there, then Sévérine wouldn’t have had to cover both floors; the book would not have been stolen.
Cranwell was looking at the shelf, but his eyes were focused on a point beyond it. “What would your room have been used for again?”
“A servant’s room. Probably a servant with some status. The lord or lady’s personal servant.”
I drank the rest of my armagnac and glanced once more around the room.
The peace had vanished.
The last days of the month provided a warmth I would have expected from July. An été de la Saint-Martin had found us. An Indian Summer.
My cupboards were full of jam. The carpets had been steam-cleaned; the pictures straightened; the fingerprints waxed out of the furniture; the folds shaken out of the duvets where visitors had sat on the beds.
I even had time to spend drafting letters to my father’s old friends in the Senate on behalf of the foundation. The wording can get tricky when you’re trying to evoke an old friendship, prick the conscience, and lobby for new legislation at the same time.
My life had returned to normal.