She went back to nothing.
Without sparing either of the lovers another glance, she sprinted home with his bloody handkerchief in her hand, shaken and disgusted with herself while something that refused to be quieted tingled under her skin, a kind of exhilaration, the kind you feel when you fall in love.
They’d never spoken another word. Joss had left the village that same year in August, the summer he’d finished school, just after the fateful incident in his life.
Nine years was enough time for fixation to bloom into unrequited love. The pain of knowing her feelings would never be returned only made them stronger. In a twisted way, it gave her one-sided love a poetic edge. Besides having heard via the grapevine he’d gone to New York, she hadn’t had news and she’d refused to look at the house in which he’d grown up. Being reminded of her hopeless crush was too hurtful.
Now she stood facing it, taking it all in with a mixture of mounting fear and premonition. It was the biggest house—three stories high with two turrets framing the pointed roof—for miles around. The once pretty garden had been transformed into weeds strangling rose bushes and climbing the fence. Nine years ago, there was a swing bench on the porch overlooking the grassland that flattened out to the sea. The white shutters had stood out against the gray of the stone walls and the silver slate of the roof, but now the wood was the color of ash, faded, cracked, and splintered in places, hanging askew in front of the narrow turret windows.
His bedroom was on the top floor in the west tower. Sometimes he smoked a cigarette on the balcony with his gaze trained on the ocean or maybe what lay beyond, what the eye couldn’t see. It was the room in which the light burned the latest. Often, when Erwan was out fishing at night, depending on how the tides turned, she’d sneak out here on her bike and stood in the road until his light went out.
After that night, the house had been barred and sealed. It belonged to Joss now. People wondered if he’d sell, although it would have to be to foreigners, they said, from Paris or England, because no one in his right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands, would ever want to live there.
A trickle of perspiration ran down her spine. The summer was warmer than usual, and the July sun already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the time on her phone. She had to hurry or she’d miss the bus.
She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of tourists arrived to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric standing stones. A number of the tourists would rent horses and a guide to explore the oldest part, which dated back to 4500 BC and ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea.
When she pushed open the door of the office, Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head.
He grimaced. “Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but here you are again.”
“Where else will I go?” She dropped her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted the tour reservations.
He flicked through some papers on the desk. “To Paris. To university. Anywhere but here.”
“This is my home.”
“You’re wasting away, throwing your talents to the wind,” he said, lifting and slamming down books and old telephone directories.
“Who will take care of Erwan and my animals?”
Tristan looked up. She smiled.
“If it wasn’t for that old man, you wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s all I’ve got,” she said gently.
“No.” He waved a finger at her. “You’re all he’s got.” His expression softened. “Kompren a ran,” he said with a resigned air. I understand.
He plucked open a drawer, rummaged through it, and banged it closed again.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“The damn receipt book. It was here,” he pushed his finger on the desk, “just yesterday.”
She walked to the stack of plastic trays they used for organizing their filing and lifted a blue book from the top. “You left it here last night.”
He grabbed it from her. “What will I do without you?”
“Asks the man who wants me to leave,” she said as she took her seat behind the desk.
“You know I have to say things that are in your best interest. I never mean them.”
She smiled with affection. “I know.”
Nobody from here truly wanted anyone to get away. It would be proof that a world existed beyond theirs. As long as they remained here with the people they grew up with, they felt secure. Joss’s return had turned her safe world upside down. The meaning of her dream was a mystery, but the message was clear. Larmor-Baden had become the least safe place for her to be.
Chapter 2
The last group of tourists came back with the horses shortly before eight in the evening when the megalithic sites closed. Tristan had already counted the money for the day, taken the petty cash box, and left for his small farm ten miles from Carnac. The stable hand, Rigual, and the guide, Golven, took care of the horses. As soon as they were finished, all Clelia had to do was to lock up the office.
Before sunset, she’d be on her way, and home by ten. Erwan would’ve had his dinner by then, and if the tide wasn’t suited for fishing, he’d be sitting on the terrace drinking a Telenn Du, his favorite beer. She’d feed the animals and sit with him until ten thirty to watch the sun set over the sea. Then she’d clean the kitchen and stay up to read until midnight.
In winter and out of holiday seasons, her working hours were
