Ella smiled. ‘It sounds complicated. But then marriage is complicated, as I’ve found.’
‘Well, I hope this summer will give you the time and the space you need in order to get yours back on to an even keel.’
Caroline paused, raising the rose petal to inhale its rich scent.
‘But Ella, there is something I must tell you. When I first wrote suggesting you come for the holidays, I told you that Christophe would be in Paris. Well, in the end his plans changed, before we knew that your own would as well. He is on the island.’
Ella kept her eyes downcast, running a fingertip around the rim of her wine-glass. But her hand trembled and so she dropped it, quickly, into her lap, hoping that Caroline hadn’t noticed.
‘Where is he?’
‘Don’t worry. He will not come to the house, unless you say it is alright for him to do so. He’s staying above the new gallery in Saint Martin – there’s an apartment there. He’s perfectly comfortable, there’s space for him to work, and Bijou is moored in the harbour just in front of the building, so it’s ideal for him. He and I have discussed your visit. He realises it could be awkward for you. With the children here . . . and we’d wondered whether Angus might come too, after all, at least for some of the summer. Although I don’t know whether that would have made it more or less awkward. Christophe would love to see you all, but only if it’s what you want.’
Ella was silent for a few moments. Then she turned to Caroline, her expression unreadable in the shadows. ‘Of course, I’d love to see him. And I’d love the children to meet him too. I’ve told them all about the Martet family, what good friends you all were to me when I was here for the first time nearly twenty years ago. I just wish that they could have met your parents as well.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Very well.’
The tone of their words was nonchalant, but carefully so.
In the darkness, something seemed to have shifted. It was hard to say what, exactly. Perhaps it was just a change in the breeze, which caused the white rose in the pitcher to release its remaining petals on to the table all at once; perhaps it was the delicate wash of light that flooded the darkened garden suddenly, as the full face of the moon appeared above the dunes beyond the whitewashed wall.
Or perhaps it was something less tangible: a barely perceptible awareness in each of the two women that fate, like the swinging needle of a compass, had turned to point towards the possibility of another path. One that, until that moment, had been unimaginable.
‘Good morning! Hello? Coucou! Where are you all hiding?’ The house was still and silent as Ella came downstairs the next morning. She’d slept soundly, for once, worn out by all that travelling. And, having closed her bedroom shutters, she’d not realised how late it was.
A note sat in the middle of the kitchen table, weighted down by the fruit bowl: ‘Mummy. We have gone to have breckfast at a caffy. In Saint Martin. We will bring you back a crussent. Or Caroline says you can come and find us on a bike at the gallery. Love from Robbie XXX’
For a moment, Ella toyed with the idea of staying put and enjoying the peace while Caroline entertained her children. But she couldn’t resist the thought of joining them, not wanting to miss out on the children’s excitement. And the thought of a croissant and a café au lait, sitting in the sunshine on the quayside, was just too tempting.
She hadn’t been on a bike for years, and wobbled slightly as she set off up the sandy track between the neat rows of vines. But she quickly regained her confidence and was soon pedalling along the road that led to the north of the island. The roadside was lined with wildflowers, a petit point of Delft blue, magenta and silver-grey against the raw sienna of the grasses. The ever-present ocean breeze made the hem of her sun-dress flutter about her knees and lifted her hair from her shoulders, cooling the smooth skin of her neck even as the sun warmed her cheeks and forehead.
‘Oops, I’ll get freckles,’ she thought, remembering her seventeen-year-old self’s preoccupation and smiling as she did so.
Reaching Saint Martin, she rattled across the cobbles in the Place de la République and then turned into one of the steep, hollyhock-clustered streets that ran down to the port between whitewashed houses. The shops and cafés were already abustle with holidaymakers. She got off and wheeled her bike, taking in the snug harbour filled with boats and looking out for Caroline and the children in case they were sitting at a table outside one of the cafés. It was easy to spot the gallery, which faced her from the other side of the stone bridge that separated the two bassins of the harbour, with Caroline’s name painted on the canvas awning that shaded its windows from the sun. And her breath caught for a moment when she saw Bijou, just as Caroline had said, moored in front of it.
She propped the bicycle against one of the iron stanchions holding the chain that encircled the harbour’s edge and stepped into the coolness of the gallery, a bell sounding faintly from an inner room as she crossed the threshold.
She stood stock still, gazing round at the paintings that lined the walls. They were all Christophe’s work: sea-scapes and beach-scapes, interspersed with portraits of fishermen, a woman leading a donkey, workers in the salt-pans. In one corner was a separate display of several fine ceramics, alongside works by a sculptor – a local man, she later read in the accompanying catalogue – which sat on individual plinths.
She turned back to look more closely at one of the paintings, of wind-blown grasses in the dunes, clouds scudding across a summer’s sky.
And then she became aware of another presence in the room: a quality in the silence of the holding of a breath; the sensation of a pair of eyes upon her.
She turned.
He stood in the archway that led to the inner room. Watching her.
Without a word, she stepped swiftly across the space between them and put her arms around him. He hesitated. Then she felt him embrace her back.
When she could speak, she stepped back to look at him properly, blinking the tears away. ‘There you are. The man who came back from the dead.’
His face was thinner, lined now, and his hair was dusted with silver. His eyes were dark as the ocean deeps, and as hard to read.
He smiled, but it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. ‘Ella. You have grown even more beautiful over the years. How I have longed for this moment, and how I have dreaded it. Knowing that it would be impossible to see you, and impossible not to.’
‘Sometimes I think life itself is impossible,’ she replied. She raised a trembling hand to her chest, as if to try to calm her heart which was beating so fast.
Then she noticed the pictures beyond the archway, within the inner room of the gallery. They were all portraits and her breath caught as she recognised Marianne. She stepped towards the painting. ‘This is wonderful, Christophe,’ she said quietly. ‘You have captured her very essence.’
There was another silence between them then, filled with the sound of grief, as loud as the soft roar of a sea-shell held against the ear.
The bell pinged faintly and voices in the doorway of the gallery broke the spell.
‘Coucou, we’re back!’ Caroline called.
‘Mummy, you’re here! Did you ride the bike? We had breakfast in a café and then we had an ice cream straight away afterwards. It was made of salty caramel which sounds like it’s not going to be very nice, but it’s absolutely delicious!’
Ella stooped to hug her son. ‘Why Robbie, you’re not wearing your brace!’
‘I don’t think I need it when I’m on holiday. It’s easy because here on the island everything is flat. And Caroline says ice cream is very good for building up my strength. I think I might need to have one every single day.’
‘Oh, does she indeed?’ Ella laughed. ‘Well, she is a very wise woman, so that must be true.’
‘We got you a croissant, Mummy.’ Rhona handed her a crumpled paper bag. ‘And we bought some soap made with milk from a lady donkey. It makes your skin lovely and soft, Caroline says.’
‘It’s called an ass. Some people think that’s a rude word, only you’re allowed to say it because it’s not rude when you mean a donkey, is it Caroline? Ass, ass, asses’ milk.’ Robbie was clearly enjoying exploring all sorts of new-found liberties.