Before he could lie or gently guide them elsewhere, she interjected, “My name is Marielle Moreau.”
There it was. A flicker of recognition sparked in his denim blue eyes.
“Ah,” he said.
Then they both sighed. His was a sign of resignation; hers, one of relief.
“Olivier Blanc was a dear friend of my grandmother.”
“Oui. I’m Luc Blanc, his grandson. Grand-père told me if Madame Moreau’s granddaughter ever turned up asking for help, I was to provide it.”
“I need help.”
Four
Once Marielle played her family connections card and established that the grouchy grandson would rent them rooms, Omar let his guard down enough to check out the inn.
He registered the space in fragments, his headache making it hard to focus on details. Furniture that didn’t match but somehow worked together. Blue-and-white pottery scattered on shelves and side bars. All painted with olives, lemons, and little insects he couldn’t name. An eclectic collection of art on the wall: realistic paintings of the seascape outside the window; old photos cataloging the inn’s history mixed in with sleek modern black-and-white prints. A large guest book sat on a small table, its leather cover soft with age. He wondered if Marielle and her grandmother had signed it years ago.
He finished his inventory of the space and turned to more pressing matters. “Is there a store nearby where we could get some clothes?”
“We don’t have our bags,” Marielle added in a tone that suggested don’t ask questions.
“I see,” Luc responded in a tone that said I don’t want to know the details. Then he tilted his head and appraised them. After a long silence, he sighed. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Omar asked as their host led them toward the back of the house.
Luc didn’t answer.
Omar and Marielle exchanged a look. They were trained to be cautious, and following a stranger—even one who’d been vouched for—to an unknown location hardly qualified as prudent. But they really did need clothes.
Marielle shrugged and followed their host. Hanna did as well.
He couldn’t let them wander off without him, so he trailed along. He was alert, watching for an unexpected movement or sudden change of demeanor. But Luc strolled easily, pointing out family mementos or pieces with a local connection as they walked through the house to the kitchen in the back.
He opened a door that led to a patio that that had been left to its own devices. Thick pockets of lavender and rosemary, buzzing with bees, sprang up from all over. A wrought iron table with a mosaic tile top sat beneath a faded pink umbrella, surrounded by cracked pots of kumquats and herbs. Jasmine climbed the gate in a wild tangle, scenting the air. Beyond the low wall, strawberry trees clung to the cliff.
Luc quickened his pace and Omar matched it as their little group continued toward the edge of the property, where a winding path led to a weathered shack. Luc stopped in front of the small structure to reach into the pocket of his linen trousers.
H removed an old-fashioned key ring, selected a key and turned it in the lock.
“This was my grandfather’s fishing shed,” he explained as he swung the door open and ushered them inside. “Now it’s my storeroom.”
The space was full but orderly. Clothing racks stood in neat lines like soldiers at attention, groaning with apparel of every imaginable fabric, cut, and color.
“I don’t understand,” Hanna said. “Did you used to be a shopkeeper?”
Luc laughed, but there was no humor in it. “No. I used to be a fashion designer.”
“What happened?” Marielle asked, running her fingers over a silk dress.
“I went to Paris to study and stayed after I graduated. I worked for several years in the industry, built up a small but loyal following and reached the point where I had enough money saved and enough of a reputation that I could open my own very small house.”
Marielle winced. “It didn’t do well? I’m surprised. These are gorgeous.”
“Who knows how it would have done.” His dark blue eyes turned gray. “I’d just taken possession of the keys, was days from moving in, when I got the call that Grand-père was ill.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Ancient history.”
“Why did you stay?” Omar asked, curious despite himself. “After he passed, you could have gone back to your life in Paris.”