Salt island love book 1, p.23
Salt (Island Love Book 1),
p.23
“Is it possible to do a walk of shame down a staircase? Honestly, Flor, I’m forty next month. Way too old for this little scenario.”
I laughed. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Even I felt a little sheepish as I entered the kitchen. Barefoot, Charles trailed after me, one of my worn T-shirts thrown on over his jeans. With his usually neat hair sticking up in ten different directions and his unshaven chin stippled with beard burn, he may as well have dangled a sign around his neck enumerating all the ways I’d wrung every drop of spunk out of him.
Having tired of waiting for his usual table service, Papi had cobbled together his own breakfast. Hunched over his coffee, he peered up at me and then down at himself, with a confused expression.
“These aren’t my clothes, are they?”
He plucked at the expensive linen shirt, bunched around the collar and at the line of fastened mismatched buttons. A few coffee dribbles had made their way down the front where it stretched tightly across his modest belly. On the floor nearby, one of Charles’s upturned loafers pointed in the direction of its mate lying a few feet away, as if signalling we had a visitor. His socks snaked around each other, equally confused.
“Florian? This is not my shirt.”
Charles hung back, unsure of how to respond, looking to me for support. I winked at him. My two worlds had collided, the two men I cherished above all others, and I couldn’t recall being any happier.
“No… no,” I managed, stifling a snort. “Or perhaps I’ve shrunk that shirt in the wash. Let me find you another one. By the way, Charles is still here, Papi. He stayed the night. With me. Charles, mon chéri, pour us both a coffee.”
I’d never know what Papi made of my lover sidling into the chair across from him. Maybe nothing, maybe he’d known all along that me and the Belgian were more than just good friends. Or maybe his brain was too addled these days to put two and two together to even question where Charles had slept. Perhaps he was too occupied with letting me help him out of Charles’s tight linen shirt and into one of his much comfier, soft, checked ones, with his cosy knitted cardigan over the top, to keep out the chill.
Or maybe, he was accepting of all of me, just as I was accepting of all of him, and didn’t feel it worthy of comment.
Protecting his dignity, I shielded his naked torso from Charles as I helped him undress, and my lover busied himself with pouring us both coffee, adding a sprinkle of sugar to his own. Before long, we were all three settled around the table, dipping last night’s bread into steaming mugs while outside the window, the goldfinches chattered importantly and the sun climbed higher into the sky. I imagined many more peaceful breakfasts like this stretching into the future. Although we might need a bigger coffee pot.
Charles kept his head down as if trying to make himself as invisible as possible and my hand found his under the table.
“Ça va, Charles?” I checked. Are you okay?
“Very.”
When I looked up, Papi’s eyes, the same as mine, glinted with contentment. He gave a faint smile in the direction of us both before glancing toward the window. A pair of chaffinches sung at the tops of their voices.
“Good salt weather, Florian, isn’t it?”
I squeezed my lover’s hand. “The very best, Papi. The very best.”
EPILOGUE
CHARLES – ONE YEAR LATER
Bastille day. A day for flags, fireworks, fraternity, and food. A day for families. And according to Florian, for kissing foreign men. Although he made sure to do that every day.
Families were all around us. Jerome, Léa, and their baby were somewhere, the baby—more of a robust toddler now—wearing a pair of cute fluffy ear defenders, by all accounts bought by an adoring grandfather. I’d already observed Michel showing him off in L’Escale. Florian said it made him broody—a concept I hadn’t appreciated affected men, but perhaps my boyfriend was the exception. As long as they inherited his beautiful genes not mine, we could have as many babies as he liked.
We’d left Papi tucked up at home in front of the television with a bottle of beer and his friend, Paul. He’d grumpily declared fireworks to be a pointless waste of money. And I agreed with Florian; dementia, darkness, and the deep waters of the port were never a good combination.
My mother accompanied us, however, flickering in and out of my head in gauzy splashes of yellow. These days, I greeted her presence with open arms. The contemplative beach walks with Papi helped, along with the letters I penned and our silent conversations on that little bench overlooking the ocean. I never brought her flowers, though—she hadn’t been a flowers kind of person. Instead, we had lively debates of the sort we used to exchange when she lived. About art and physics. And about Florian and our beautiful quiet, gentle life. And for as long as I carried her around with me, her spark would never go out.
“Where’s Nico tonight?” I asked, cuddling even closer during a lull in the aerial display. The air temperature wasn’t even cold—it was July after all, but I took every opportunity I could to bask in his silvery warmth.
“Being mysterious.” Florian shrugged. “He’s seeing someone, I think. But keeping it very hush-hush.” His gaze drifted up to the night sky, dotted with a rainbow of colour, then back down to me. “He’ll tell me when he’s ready. Hey, look who’s over there.”
I followed the direction of his pointing finger and smirked. Pierre, our office manager, was becoming very well-acquainted with the village policeman. One evening at L’Escale, Jerome had done that straight person thing, introducing his two gay acquaintances to each other as if that automatically made them comrades. On this occasion, however, it looked to be working.
A flash from another rocket pierced the night sky. Not so long ago I’d hidden from them like a dog, with trembling limbs and my eyes squeezed shut. Tonight, tucked into Florian, I embraced the view. A rocket blistered the inky sky. “Is that the last one, do you think?” he asked.
“No. Obviously.” I rolled my eyes at him, and he made a noise that over the last week I’d come to recognise and adore. “Your bed will still be there in half an hour. We’ve only just got here!”
“We could go home and check anyway,” he wheedled in a singsong voice. The hand resting on my thigh as we dangled our legs over the edge of the port wall crept a little higher. “And create some fireworks of our own.”
“Even for you, that’s very corny.” I stilled his hand with mine. “Good things come to boys who wait.”
His sea-green eyes lit with mischief. “And in them.”
So. I’d done a thing. Two things actually. The first was straightforward, cutting my ties with Marcus for good, making Florian very happy indeed. As I’d explained to my old friend before tossing my work phone containing his number into the bin, I didn’t have time for big business deals any more. Not now my mini financial advice service was up and running, keeping my navy at a contented simmer.
Jerome and Léa had been my first customers. I helped them secure a low-deposit mortgage on a little house just outside Loix. My advice had cost them nothing—my small fee generated from the bank that had secured their loan. My second customer had been Bruno, a salt farmer, seeking pensions advice, the third the tabac owner, wanting a low-interest, affordable loan for a refit. The fourth was the moody young woman from the supermarket, demanding I sort out a grant for solar panels. Who acted like she’d never seen me before in her life. Plus ça change.
The second thing had been a little… um… more daring. And cheeky. And the reason a horny Florian tugged on my sleeve wanting to drag me away from the fireworks before the finale.
Dipping into my bank account, bursting with money I couldn’t ever spend, I’d purchased a house. But not any house. This particular one was attached to Florian and Papi’s and had belonged to some very pleasant weekenders from Nantes. Over aperitifs, I pointed out to them that they might be much happier with a roomier second home overlooking the ocean, and that something perfect for their requirements happened to be for sale on the edge of Loix. Money exchanged hands—a lot of money, way more than their cottage would ever be worth and more than enough to purchase the other. And then I paid a very nice local builder to knock the walls down between the two and an architect to make plans for some new ones. The upshot being that Papi retained his cosy snug and his familiar bedroom. We even kept his homey kitchen like a 1970s time warp, except now it was tagged onto a much larger, modern one. The new end of the cottage also housed my airy art studio, with a bathroom and big bedroom above it. In the middle of which sat a very comfortable and spacious bed, which had arrived a week ago. With springs Florian was eager to test.
As fireworks rained noisily over my head, I tucked my arm into Florian’s, resting my head on his shoulder. As always, he smelled salty and sun-kissed; of the ocean breeze across the marshes, and of all the good times stretching ahead of us. My muse and my peace. My forever silver.
“There are only a few minutes left,” I said with a smile. “Though perhaps it might be prudent to escape ahead of the crowds.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “We’ve seen the best of the display. And we don’t want to get trampled under the hordes of… I don’t know, maybe fifty or so children?”I huffed a laugh into the sweet skin of his neck. “You’re right. Kids grow so big these days. We should be careful. And there is always next year and the year after that.”
“There is, mon chéri.” His lips pressed against the top of my head. “And I really should check on Papi.” Hauling me to my feet, his hand slipped easily into mine, where it belonged. “Let’s go home, Charles.”
Do you want to read Nico's story? Oyster is coming Summer 2024!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fearne Hill resides deep in the British countryside, in the county of Dorset, surrounded by animals. She likes it that way.
Her novel, Two Tribes is a 2023 Lambda Literary finalist. Her popular Rossingley series was nominated in nine separate categories of the 2021 Goodreads M/M Romance awards and received an Honourable Mention in the 2021 Rainbow Awards.
She can be found on social media:
Facebook group: Fearne Hill’s House
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ALSO BY FEARNE HILL
Island Love
Salt
Oyster
Nailed It! series
Cloud Ten
Cloud Nine
Cloud White
Surfing the Waves series
Brushed with Love
Dipped in Sunshine
Rossingley Series
To Hold A Hidden Pearl
To Catch A Fallen Leaf
To Take A Quiet Breath
To Melt A Frozen Heart
To Mend a Broken Wing
Standalone Romance
The Last of the Moussakas
Two Tribes
Second-Best Men
Fearne Hill, Salt (Island Love Book 1)
