He handed me a shiny red apple, polishing it first, as though he was my mother or something. “I can think of a few things to keep me entertained.”

  CHAPTER 33

  CHARLES

  Sitting opposite Florian in his cramped office, sorting through scraps of invoices and old files and reacquainting myself with how a shredder worked, wasn’t the perfect reunion I’d planned in my head, but I’d take it. At least he was talking to me. Nevertheless, as much as having him in my eyeline was a piece of heaven brought down to earth, it was also like having a caged tiger prowling around the confined space. The love of my life was not designed to be indoors.

  With Florian slouched in the seat next to me, sulking, I’d interviewed and appointed a very nice, and quite handsome office manager, named Pierre, who was already whipping the salt cooperative into shape. Pierre and I developed an extremely good rapport during the interview, which I liked to think, with a little thrill, was the source of Florian’s ill humour. As if he ever needed an ounce of worry in that regard.

  I kept myself busy. Not stressy busy, more like allowing my hours to be filled with things I enjoyed. What with my art group, the book club I’d joined, and odds and ends with Marcus, very little time remained for melancholy.

  Unless I found a spurious cooperative-related reason to visit him, I tried to stay clear of the path weaving past Florian’s salt flat. The one time I’d caved and shared lunch with him, he hadn’t seemed to mind. I had a feeling he was mulling things over. I was prepared to wait.

  My sleep had settled down too. Less of a freestyle shuffle and more solid blocks of seven or eight hours, with only the occasional jolt awake at 3 a.m. And even then, my nightmares had blunted teeth. Regular online sessions with a grief counsellor helped. A persistent belief that suicide was a self-fulfilling prophecy faded, to be replaced with an understanding and acceptance that if I was going to do it, I would have done. But I hadn’t, even in the depths of that shadowy abyss. And somehow, I managed to draw strength from that.

  Being on the island also helped, even if Florian hadn’t fallen back into my arms. Call it the fresh sea breeze, the healthy diet, the simplicity of my life here, or a combination of all three, but I was cautiously happy. My forest green was focused, flat, and calm, and when my mother’s yellow came calling, it was a welcome visitor. Memories of our time together still held a bittersweet edge—I suspected they always would. But no longer brought me to tears.

  I’d been assisting with the cooperative’s finances for a couple of weeks before I spotted a familiar figure on one of my beach walks. Like a Regency gentleman, I’d taken to a daily promenade—usually after a brief check-in with Pierre. It improved my appetite and helped me sleep. I tended to avoid the popular stetches of sand in favour of plodding around the bleaker, less trodden Loix headland. Seemed Papi had the same idea.

  He walked with a stick now. A little slower than before, but with a sense of purpose; not as if he’d lost his way. A posy of spring flowers dangled from his free hand, wrapped in a sheet of damp newspaper, and picked by him. As he trudged towards me, lost in thought, I stepped to the side of the narrow coastal path so we wouldn’t collide. He gave me a nod.

  “Hello. Um… hello. It’s… it’s…”

  “Charles,” I prompted. “Florian’s friend.”

  He squinted at me. “That’s right, Florian’s friend. Charles. The Belgian.”

  We shook hands, then stood back, both waiting for small talk from the other. Never my forte.

  “Good salt weather, isn’t it?” he said, tilting his head up to the sky. Patchy sunshine tried to break through the cloud, helped along by a brisk onshore wind.

  “Yes, I bet Florian is glad of it, after all that rain.”

  “Yes, but there’s always plenty to do out on the flat, even in the rain.”

  This I’d found out for myself. Since taking on my new, very part-time role, I’d discovered salt harvesters didn’t spend the off-season with their feet up twiddling their toes. Late autumn was taken up with sorting and grading the yield, now piled into the hangar, and arranging for shipments to be sent out all over France. And then, when the hangar had been stripped bare and cleaned, there were the marshes to maintain. Drainage systems to repair, tile banks to rebuild. Tractors to tinker with and ecosystems to protect. To think that a year ago I’d assumed the whole thing was a piece of theatre for the entertainment of tourists.

  “Which way are you walking?” I enquired.

  “The same route I do every day.” He pointed with his stick. “Along this bit, then across that cove, around the headland and back. Takes me an hour and a half; I stop at the cove for a rest and a chat to Beatrice for a few minutes.”

  What would Florian make of that? I fell into step alongside him. Being careful on the uneven ground took up most of Papi’s faculties and he was quiet as we walked, which was fine with me. But not so preoccupied that he didn’t spot an avocet way before I did, standing high in a rock pool, on white stilted legs.

  “Florian’s the one for birdwatching,” he remarked, as a flock of black-headed gulls took off from the shoreline. “The boy knows them all, and where to find the nests. Comes from spending all day out on the marshes.”

  “I… ah… didn’t know that.”

  I wondered what else I didn’t know about Florian; I hoped to discover everything one day.

  We reached the cove, not a beach exactly, more of a sandy outcrop separated from the path by a steep layer of rocks and pebbles. The pebbly shoreline deterred swimmers and holidaymakers, especially with a fine, wide sandy beach less than fifty yards farther up the coast. Fixed to one side of the path, a worn wooden bench overlooked the cove, providing excellent views across the bay, as far as La Rochelle on the mainland in one direction and up to Les Portes at the top of the island in the other. I couldn’t have chosen a better rest stop myself.

  With a sigh, Papi sat at one end of the bench, hitching his trousers up his thighs to get comfortable, in the way old men did. Propping the stick up next to him, he crossed his feet and began unwrapping his parcel of flowers.

  “Daises today, Beatrice,” he announced cheerfully, as if I wasn’t there. “From that little patch by the back wall that gets the morning sun. Not many, because we haven’t got too many in bloom yet.”

  As he arranged the flowers on the bench next to him, he motioned me to sit. “She likes yellow flowers the best.” He resumed conversing with his dead wife. “I’ve brought one of Florian’s friends with me today, Beatrice. A nice lad. Charles.”

  I smiled to myself. I was a good many years down the line from being a lad. For an instant, I was inclined to stay standing, make my excuses and walk away. Because I’d stumbled upon a private moment, a secret ritual that even Florian was unaware existed. Then he spoke again.

  “Beatrice and I were married for fifty-eight years. I know she’s listening, that woman couldn’t keep her ears and nose out of anything. Have a seat, take the weight off. Don’t mind me.”

  I sat at the other end of the bench, the little bouquet resting between us. A peaceful feeling settled over me, in a wash of faded yellow, complementing his gift of pale daisies. How often did any of us rest on a bench, doing nothing, staring out at the ocean? Papi was silent too, his faded pale green gaze, so like Florian’s, lost in his own memories. Not miserably contemplative, just… accepting that this was how things were.

  A handful of dead blooms lay scattered at our feet, their stems wrinkled and brown. After a few minutes, Papi leaned down and began collecting them together. I reached to help him, and soon they were all bundled up in the newspaper. “Yesterday’s,” he commented. “They need to go on the compost heap when I get back.”

  He regarded the loose parcel in his gnarled old hands, strong hands that had done their fair share of raking over the years. Gazing out across the bay, he smiled. “My boy Florian doesn’t like me talking to her. I think it upsets him. He thinks I don’t remember she’s dead.”

  He glanced across at me. “I do, though.” He tapped his temple. “There’s a lot gets lost up here these days, but I remember that.”

  I’d tell Florian one day, about this little chat. Not now, not until we were friends again. Not until I’d shown him I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Florian’s a bit of a worrier,” I observed diplomatically.

  “He is that. He’s taken on the cooperative, you know.” Pride shone in his eyes. “My clever lad. He’ll do a good job.”

  I didn’t doubt it.

  The old man gathered himself together and got to his feet, leaning on the cane. “It’s a decent spot for a rest and a chat, this bench. Me and Beatrice have had many a good chinwag here, putting the world to rights.” Looking down at the bench, he gave it a friendly pat. “Don’t wait until people are dead, Charles, to give them flowers. And if there’s anything you ever need to get off your chest, you know where to come.”

  CHAPTER 34

  FLORIAN

  Charles laughed in English, even when he was speaking French. I couldn’t pinpoint how it was different, except that it was. It wasn’t an especially hearty, bellyaching laugh, neither was it a boisterous, raucous show-offish one. In fact, even its joyfulness was quiet and unassuming, like it didn’t want attention drawn to it. Not unlike Charles himself. Tonight, however, it was not too many steps removed from a giggle.

  Unbelievably, it was coming from my kitchen.

  Mind you, the sound froze in his mouth when I pushed open the door. At least he had the good grace to be embarrassed.

  “Finally!” Papi exclaimed. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

  Seated around the kitchen table, they were playing Uno of all things. Papi and Charles each held a fan of cards and two colourful piles sat between them.

  “It’s a much better game with three people, isn’t that right, Charles?”

  “Another person to trounce, you mean.” Charles smiled at him before throwing me an anxious look. “We bumped into each other out walking. Papi… um… invited me back for a drink. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay.” Papi deftly rearranged his hand. “Florian missed you when you went away, isn’t that right, Florian?”

  So that wasn’t embarrassing. “It’s fine,” I said, in as fine a manner as I could manage. “Deal me into the next hand and I’ll be back after a quick shower.”

  The gorgeous laugh floated after me up the stairs. Mon dieu, how much I still wanted him. My delicate Charles, with his fragile mind and tender kisses. With his silvers and greens and yes, I was here for all the scary fucking oranges and reds too. And the clinging, soul-sucking dark shadows. I wanted to feel everything with him. The love of course, and the fun sexy times. Putain, I wanted plenty of those. But I wanted the pain, too. The days when his skies clouded over, and his oceans turned grey and choppy. When his canvases were filled with ugly jagged lines or ripped to shreds before the paint had even dried. When he needed someone to hold him in their arms ready to catch his fall. I wanted to be there for all of that too. Oh, fucking merde, he hadn’t even needed to say hello when I opened the door. He had me the moment I heard that sweet sound filling my ordinary little kitchen.

  But before I explained that to him, I was going to have to sit opposite him and play fucking Uno.

  We began the evening being ultra-polite to each other. Dancing around, trying to act as though we weren’t two people who’d had sex, endured a massive psychiatric illness, spent the wilderness months apart, reunited with a fall out, and not quite made up again. I think we made a decent fist of it. Papi didn’t seem to notice, anyhow. He’d never queried where Charles had disappeared to over the winter, nor why I’d struggled to get out of bed some mornings.

  Charles, it turned out, was fiercely competitive when he put his mind to it. As was my grandfather, even if he did need prompting almost every time it was his turn to play. Which saddened me, as that was a recent development, even though Charles smoothed it over in such a way that it wasn’t a big deal.

  Anyhow, I lost every hand, and I had a sneaking suspicion Charles let Papi win the last couple.

  I swear three salt harvests came and went before we packed away the Uno, then sat around the table eating my hashed together supper of cold meats, cheese, and salad. Charles had always praised everything I put in front of him; according to him, his culinary skills were on a par with Papi’s, who munched noisily through every scrap before finally shuffling off to watch the football in the room next door. Which meant I got to watch Charles wash up, better sport than anything Canal+ were offering tonight. Even if he had donned a pair of pink rubber gloves I didn’t think had seen the light of day since my grandmother died.

  “So, apparently you missed me,” he began, as Papi cranked the television volume up to sonic boom levels.

  “Meh. You know how he likes to exaggerate.”

  How the hell had Papi picked up on that when he didn’t even notice he was stirring salt not sugar in his coffee? “What other lies has he been telling you about me?”

  Rinsing the glasses under the cold tap, Charles chuckled. “That you like bird-watching. You are a walking encyclopaedia of island birdlife.”

  Mon dieu, thanks Papi. He’d be telling me he knew all about my old coin collection next. I drained my wine glass with a rakish flourish, possibly in an attempt to reinstate my cool persona. “As I said. He never lets the truth get in the way of a good story.”

  “And you’re quite the numismatist.”

  Oh, fucking merde. I poured a second glass. I was definitely not going to offer to help dry the dishes now. Charles reached for the plates.

  “I’m so sorry you found me here unexpectedly,” he said. “Papi badgered me into it.”

  “It’s fine, honestly.”

  He turned at that, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “Really?”

  I shrugged, like it didn’t matter either way and then sighed. Seems I now had a thing for cute men in pink Marigolds. “Of course it’s okay. More than, actually.”

  “More than? You mean… you…”

  “Yeah. I missed you. And I was cross with you. And I’m over it.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “And I used to collect old coins. Don’t judge me.”

  He snorted and faced the sink again, dipping a plate into the soapy bowl, giving it a brisk wipe and then a rinse under the cold tap before stacking it in the drainer. Then he picked up another. The sleeves of his impeccable linen shirt were folded back above the right angles of his elbows, the bottom of the shirt tucked tidily into a belted pair of smart jeans. Honestly? He could stand at my sink washing up all day and I’d never grow tired of watching.

  “I said, it was more than fine,” I repeated.

  “I know.” He swore under his breath in English. “I’m just… is that it? Are… are we…?”

  “Putain, I hope so,” I finished for him. A roar went up from the TV next door. “I’m game if you are.”

  The plate thunked into the bowl at the same time as I stood and only a fraction of a second before Charles stepped away from the sink and another cheer went up from the replay on the telly. We met somewhere in the middle. I found a wet rubber glove and, a finger at a time, began tugging it off. His steady gaze met mine.

  “Is it that simple?”

  Did he really need to ask? Was my besottedness not written all over my face? “It’s the simplest thing there is.”

  “I’m no prize, Florian.” His forehead wrinkled in a frown I wanted to kiss away. “Whereas you, you could have anyone. You’re young and free.”

  I laughed at that and reached for the other soapy glove. “Hardly. I’m handcuffed to this old cottage and a salt flat and an eighty-three-year-old toddler who disappears every day to talk to his dead wife. And, as you have recently discovered, have exceedingly dull hobbies.”

  “I’ve started talking to my dead mother.”

  Landing with a wet slap, the second glove joined the first on the floor. “So what? I talk to an otter. But you need to know I won’t leave Papi, not for anyone. He’s never going to be put in a home. No matter how bad his dementia becomes. Me and him, we come as a package.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” he replied. “My mental illness is part of my package. That will never leave me.”

  “Then we’re a match made in heaven, non?”

  I crushed him against me, and he hung on. Not kissing, just me hugging him with a hug that had been clawing its way out since the moment I’d heard his footsteps and his voice behind me in the gallery at Ars. He swayed, as if his legs couldn’t hold him anymore, but no way was he letting go.

  “Why did you leave it so long, Charles? Before coming back to me?”

  “Because I needed to be at my very best for you. I wanted you to see me like this so that you would forget how you’d… you’d seen me before.”

  “I’ll take you all ways, mon chéri, you know that. Sick or well. I promise. You will always be beautiful to me.”

  “Thank you.”

  So polite. So Charles. He made a muffled noise, caught between a sob and a sigh of blessed relief, hiding his dark head in my neck. I buried my nose in his hair. Damp arms clung to my middle as we embraced, unmoving, until the water in the sink had gone cold and the football match switched to the half-time adverts.

  When we pulled apart, two slate grey eyes above a shy smile held me hostage. All mine. The whole package. As beautiful and fragile as the evening shimmer of fleur de sel ghosting across my muddy pond. Gently, I slid my hand along his jaw.

  “Hi,” I said. “Nice to meet you. I’m silver.”

  A sweet chuckle escaped his throat. “Hi, silver. I’m green. It’s wonderful to meet you, too.”

  His lips brushed mine, washing over me in a wave of warmth. I took his face in my hands, hardly able to breathe. “I love you so much, Charles, you know that, don’t you?”