“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
“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 Severine. I don’t know why he didn’t ask Severine 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 Severine’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
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
