Eventually, I joined him on the old concrete slab, hunched into my coat with my hands shoved in my pockets.
“Are you cold?” He leaned my direction as he spoke, but he didn’t look at me.
“No.”
He crooked his arm for me, keeping his hand in his pocket. I hooked my arm through his and then returned my hand to my own pocket. Standing there, facing the wind, I reminded myself again that he flirted with everyone. Clearly he was involved in a relationship with Sévérine. The wind blew any romantic fantasies out of my mind.
“I’m sorry, Freddie. I had no right to do that. You always seem to be the victim when my old nature rebels against the new one.”
I could think of no reply.
Cranwell walked us to an area of rocks that jutted up from, its neighbors but was sheltered from the prevailing winds. He climbed up onto the highest of them. I nestled into the rock below it, leaning back against his legs, and drawing my own up in front of me.
Then Cranwell began to talk. “I’m not used to having a relationship with a woman that isn’t based on things physical. Freddie, I like you. You’re like no one else I’ve ever known. In my former life, the highest honor for that designation would have been to sleep with you. Of course, now, that should be the furthest thing from my mind. But it’s not. And I don’t know how to tell you how I feel about you without using my body to show you.”
Cranwell’s speech was very pretty. How he could have such high aspirations when he was sleeping with Sévérine was a little hypocritical in my opinion, but then, he never stopped and asked for my thoughts, so I kept them to myself.
“Every day I pray for the strength to respect you. And most of the time, I do. But once in a while, I don’t think, I feel. And that’s when the problems start. So, more than anything, I want you to know how much you mean to me. And I want you to know that I don’t ever want to hurt you. Or be the cause of delay on your way toward God.”
“Do we have to talk about Him all the time?”
“Freddie, how can we not talk about Him? Spoken or unspoken, He’s the cause of your being here. Why did you move to the chateau?-to flee from Him. You can’t flee from something unless it has presented itself. By your own flight, Freddie, you proclaim that God exists. If He didn’t, you wouldn’t have anything to run from. You believe, Freddie. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t hold such interest for me. And then there’s me: why did I come to your chateau?-to learn how to establish a life with Him. Away from everything I used to know. I could have gone anywhere, but I chose you because of Alix. Think how far back, how long ago, God planned this and how he reached back through history to bring us together. He amazes me.”
We stayed so long that I saw the stars shift in the sky. The thudding of the waves and the low whistle of wind through the rocks lulled my mind into numbness. I realized at some point that Cranwell had slid down his rock and that I was no longer leaning against his legs, but against his chest. I looked down, in wonder, to see his arms clasped around me, his knees drawn up next to mine.
Looking back on that night, I have no memory of how long we sat like that, but it was long enough that we were breathing in unison; his body had molded so close that it felt like my own.
“We need to go.”
He brought his mouth close to my ear. “Wait.”
“We need to go.”
Although I didn’t mind being Cranwell’s friend, I was not going to get into a relationship with him. Not while he was with Sévérine. I couldn’t trust him.
Clambering to my feet, I realized for the second time that night just how warm Cranwell had kept me against the chill.
We hiked back down to the car and snuck as quietly as we could back up to our rooms.
The next morning, it took three rinses of conditioner to get the knots out of my hair. And I was trying to do it in a standard French hotel bathtub/shower which had no shower curtain. By the third rinse, I was extremely peeved at Cranwell and the game he was trying to play.
With great impatience, I pulled on a pair of slim black pants and an ice-blue turtleneck sweater. After tugging on a pair of black square-heeled boots and winding my hair into a knot, I tramped downstairs to the dining area.
When I rounded the corner, I saw that Cranwell was already there. He was wearing an outfit I was wild about: black wide-wale cords and a tweedy charcoal roll-neck sweater. He rose from his table when I entered the dining area. If he were a scoundrel, at least he was a gentleman about it.
He must have read my mood, because he didn’t try to speak to me but kept his nose stuck in an International Herald Tribune newspaper. Every time he turned a page, whiffs of his cologne were propelled in my direction.
The coffee was sour, the bread was stale, and the croissants were greasy. But a hungry girl has to eat. When the bread was finished and I’d read the entire front and back pages of Cranwell’s paper, I scraped my chair back from the table.
Cranwell got up too, folded his paper, and tucked it under his arm.
He walked me back to my room, but before he passed by and down the hall to his, he leaned against my doorjamb.
It blocked me from opening the door.
“The bread was stale and the croissants were greasy. You are a much better chef, Freddie. I thank God every day that I stay with you.”
With that, he sauntered down the hall, leaving me to wipe a silly grin off my face.
I hated him.
The next week, Cranwell decided he needed to visit Dinan and he asked me to come with him.
“Have you ever been?” He was composing a tartine, carefully buttering a length of baguette. I knew from experience that in another moment, he would just as carefully spread jam across it.
“Yes, Cranwell.” A hundred times at least. And every week since he’d come to stay. I was not the hermit he had supposed me to be. The closest Carrefour and Monoprix were in Dinan. I did most of my shopping around the periphery of the town in the newly built areas.
“I need to see it because Alix accompanied Awen there at least once when he went on business.”
And there went the jam.
In a major feat of self-control, I tugged the corners of my lips back down. For all the masculinity of his roughly knit rust-wool turtleneck sweater and espresso-colored moleskin jeans, he looked like a six-year-old boy.
I could have cared less about Alix, but there were a few things I needed, like garbage bags and toilet cleaner. “What time would you like to leave?”
“How about now? I’ll drive.”
After cleaning up from breakfast, I ran upstairs to change, pulling on a pair of black twill slacks. I chose my black boots, and then I buttoned a black leather jacket over my funnelneck sweater and wrapped a blue and plum scarf around my neck. I took my black leather gloves with me but decided against a hat. I didn’t think we’d be outside in the weather much. We left Lucy with Sévérine. I don’t know why he didn’t ask Sévérine to go with him, but I wasn’t going to inquire: I needed garbage bags. It was possible they were having a lover’s spat. Lately Sévérine’s moods were oscillating faster than a floor fan.
Cranwell looked to me for directions, and I had him turn north on D71. We wound through the morning mist for the first thirty kilometers of our journey, and then a stiff breeze pushing inland from the ocean began to lift it before us in swirls and we drove out into the rare, bleak winter sun.
“Could you get my sunglasses for me? They’re in the dash.”
In a moment I found them and unfolded the arms, so he wouldn’t have to fumble with them as he drove.
It’s possible that he winked at me, but I couldn’t be sure because his shades were so dark. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and be agreeable. Especially as he was driving with both hands around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Men who drive with only one hand make me nervous. I always wonder what they intend to do with the other.
Since we had broken into the sunlight, Cranwell sped up. Way up. I’ve found that on tight, curvy country roads, the best thing to do when someone speeds is to close my eyes. Or grab the chicken bar. Jags don’t come with chicken bars so I closed my eyes. Tightly.
“You’re missing the scenery, Freddie.”
“It’s going by my window so quickly that it doesn’t matter.”
He downshifted, sending the car lurching.
My eyes sprung open.
“You don’t like speed?”
“Not when it threatens my existence.”
“On the autoroute?”
“On the autoroute, on a sunny day, with no wind, no other cars, and no police, then, yes, Cranwell, I like speed.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I can be very fun. Under the right conditions.”
He turned to look at me.
That was not what I had meant to say. Or rather, what he understood was not what I meant. Besides, I hate it when men wear sunglasses. I can’t see their eyes.
It seemed like an eternity that he looked at me, and when he looked away, he gasped and yanked the steering wheel to the right.
It was such a violent movement that it practically threw me on top of him, but it did have the result of avoiding a collision with an oncoming truck. The road had made a tight turn to the right while Cranwell had been distracted.
“I’m sorry, Freddie,” he said, once he’d yanked the steering wheel back to the left to avoid sending us sailing into the ditch. “You have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Propositioning me.”
“Prop-?” My face immediately flamed, but then I remembered what men of his type are like. They flirt with everyone. “Cranwell, if I ever proposition you, you’ll know it.”
He turned to grin at me. “My mistake.”
“Drive.”
Cranwell accompanied me to the grocery store, and after that, he insisted I accompany him into the historic center of Dinan. I didn’t protest too much. Dinan is a charming town with the oldest network of ramparts in Brittany. We drove, as closely as possible, around the walls so that Cranwell could get a good look at the dimensions of the medieval city.
We stopped at St. Sauveur, leaving the car to take a look inside the basilica. Then we drove up and down the more touristy streets, filled with old half-timbered and stone houses. I pointed out the missile-shaped Tour de l’Horloge, the clock tower that postdated Alix by half a century. It was Thursday, so we ate lunch at Place Duguesclin market, picking up rillettes sandwiches and Cokes. Then we decided to tour the rest of the city on foot. After passing several old convents, another church, city hall, and the municipal library, we walked through the old commerce streets where fishmongers, iron workers, tailors, and other merchants had hawked their wares in Alix’s time.
Cranwell was forever asking me to translate the historic signs fixed to buildings or perched on poles in the middle of the sidewalks. He wanted to make sure he didn’t write about things not present in Alix’s era.
Finally, we paid an entrance fee to the Maison du Gouverneur to see exactly what the inside of a fifteenth-century half-timbered house had been like. They also had a good collection of regional furniture on display that Cranwell took some time to sketch.
By five that afternoon, he’d seen what he’d come for and had nearly scribbled through his notebook noting his impressions, so we decided to walk to a nearby restaurant and then head home.
“I’m low on gas,” he commented as he started the car. “Should I get some before we leave?”
“It’s only about 75 kilometers.”
Cranwell gunned the engine and we peeled out of the parking garage. “We should be fine.”
With night falling, I decided to direct Cranwell to take a slightly larger road. While less picturesque, it wound through fewer towns and should have been an easier drive. At least it was a beautiful drive. Twilight had always been my favorite time of day, and that evening, the trees seemed to lengthen, then loom. In the stretching shadows, their silhouettes formed a tunnel over the road.
At one point, it looked as if there were a board lying in our lane up ahead. Cranwell must have seen it also, because he slowed the approach of the car. But he didn’t steer around it, he drove right over it. He must have been thinking about our near-miss that morning. And that was his mistake. The moment he hit it, the car seemed to deflate.
Cranwell pulled the car off onto the narrow shoulder and got out to inspect the damage, slowly walking around the vehicle. I saw his mouth moving, although I couldn’t hear any words. Then he hiked back down the road. Turning in the seat, I could see him pick up the board and examine it. Then he flung it into the trees.
When he got back into the car, he slammed the door shut. And as he turned to me, I could tell from the flint in his eyes that the news was not good. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“No.”
“All four tires are flat. That board must have had about fifteen nails sticking out of it.”
I wasn’t prepared for that. If winter days were mild in Brittany, the nights could kill. It’s not that they were frigid, but they were damp, and if you didn’t keep moving, if you didn’t keep your blood circulating, you could get hypothermia.
“Where exactly are we?”
“We passed Montauban about fifteen minutes ago.” At least I remembered that much. And I remembered more. “The next town, Iffendic, isn’t for another six kilometers.” We really were in the middle of nowhere. “I’ve seen police on this road before. They may patrol it. I think waiting here, inside, is safer than leaving. Besides, we’ll stay warm for a while.”
“Agreed.” In turning on the ignition briefly, he glanced at the gas gauge. His eyes grew wide.
“Isn’t it two kilometers to the mile?”
“Roughly. It’s actually 1.6.”
“I miscalculated. I’m sorry, Freddie.”
“Are we low?”
“Past empty… I probably drove too fast.”
No “probably” about it. He’d definitely driven too fast.
“I can’t leave the engine on, but we can have some heat for a few minutes at least.”
He turned the heat on full and moved his seat back and down, then he stretched out his legs, cracked his knuckles, and folded his arms under his head. “So what do you want to talk about?”
The warmth from the car’s heater didn’t last long. An hour later, I had drawn my legs up onto my seat and had my arms slung around them. I remembered from some water safety course I’d taken in junior high that this modified fetal position helped to trap body heat.
He turned the car back on for about fifteen minutes to restore the heat. It felt good, but with all the layers that encased my body, I began to sweat.
“Do you want my jacket?” Cranwell leaned toward me and reached an arm behind my seat for it.
In spite of seeing me shake my head, he kept looking, and when he fished it out, he made me wear it.
“Don’t you want it?” I figured he should have dibs if he needed it.
It was as if he were dressing a child. He guided one of my arms into a sleeve and then the other. “I’m fine, Freddie. I dressed for the weather.”
He was right, but I frowned at him anyway.
“Don’t scowl at me.” He reached through my leather jacket and began to unwind the scarf from my neck.
Closing my hands over his, I tried to stop him.
He gently disengaged them. “If you tie this over your head, it will keep you warmer.”
He was right, so I let him wrap the scarf, Grace Kelly-style, over my head and around my neck.
“Just call me babushka.”
“Or we could braid your hair and call you Gretel.”
When he said that, I knew that I must have looked about twelve years old. It was the curse of my round face and my big round blue eyes. The freckles scattered lightly over my nose didn’t help any.
“What were we talking about, Cranwell?”
He went back to his side of the car and stretched out like before, but folded his arms across his stomach. “What was it like? With Peter?”
“In the beginning, it was wonderful. It was what I’d dreamed. Toward the end, his job had begun to devour him. He wasn’t there, physically or emotionally. His mind was always on his job, but we couldn’t talk about it. It was the only way he could protect me.”
“And by protecting you, he pushed you away.”
“Basically.” My temperature was beginning to moderate, and I was no longer sweating. “But I wasn’t going to let him push me far. He was an honorable man, a decent man. I was in love with him. And I respected him. We just had one more month, and then we would have moved on, started over again. Whatever had burdened him would have been left behind. I was not unhappy being married to him.” It was important to me that Cranwell understand.
“But were you happy?” Cranwell never failed to understand.
“Happiness is transient. You might as well try to trap the ocean. You’ve never been married.”
“No.”
“Happiness is not enough to marry for.”
“So does that mean you weren’t happy?”
“No. But I was not happy every single minute of every single day.”
“But-”
“There were moments of incredible happiness strung together with real life.”
“Do you believe in soul mates? That there’s just one person on Earth? A person reserved just for you?”
“No. Do you?”
“Yes.”
Now that was an interesting piece of information. “And you haven’t found her yet?”
He rolled onto his side, facing me. “I might have.”
The way he was looking at me made my eyes dive toward the floor of the car. But they couldn’t stay away for long. His eyes were magnetic, so I closed mine and reminded myself of Sévérine. Then I changed the topic. To what, I can’t even remember, but I know we spent almost an hour on it.
And then, I felt myself shiver. Somehow, the perspiration trapped between my body and my cotton turtleneck had grown clammy. And my feet were freezing.
The next few minutes I spent concentrating on my toes. They were so cold I could hardly move them.
“What’s wrong?”
“My toes.”
“Move them.”
“I’m trying.”
“Can you still feel them?” A note of concern had crept into his voice.
“Yes, Cranwell, I can, and they really hurt.”
His teeth glinted in the dark, and I saw the condensation curl from his chuckle.
I moved my shoulders farther up my neck.
It was exasperating that we hadn’t seen a single car up to that point. I think I would have even flagged down an axe murderer. Was there no one in all of Brittany who was partying until the wee hours of the night?
Experimentally, I wriggled my fingers inside the sleeves of my coat. They were cold, too. I was beginning to think that staying put hadn’t been such a smart idea. I was scared. Opening my mouth, I asked the first question that popped into my head. I always get chatty when I’m nervous. “What’s it like to date movie stars?”
“What’s it like to date anyone?”
Touchy, touchy.
Cranwell sighed. “Some are workaholics. Some are egotistical. Others are the nicest people I’ve ever met. They’re people, Freddie. Just like you or me.”
Maybe like him, but definitely not like me. “How about the rock star?”
“How about her?”
“What was the attraction?”
“We were young.” He snorted. “It was the eighties. We were both on top of our games. Life was one golden, glamorous party. We looked good with each other. The photo ops were tremendous.” He sighed then, a long heavy weary sigh. “If I had it to do again, I would do it so differently. I just didn’t realize there could be so much more. With so much less. I am so grateful for God’s grace.”
“I read about you becoming a Christian.”
“That made the news here in France?”
“No. I was surfing the Internet.” How did I always get myself into such embarrassing situations? I dipped my chin toward my chest so that my face was shielded by the lapels of Cranwell’s coat. “I did some research on you.”
“Pardon me?”
There was no help for it. I batted away the protection of the coat and turned to face him. “I did some research on you.”
His smile was apologetic. “My reputation precedes me.”
My smile must have been rather thin. I tried to shrink down into myself, knowing that if I could make myself smaller, my body heat would go farther. I know I closed my eyes. I must have let my chin drop, because the next thing I remember is Cranwell shaking me and my head jerking up.