Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

“I know. Because it’s the Journées de Patrimoine .”

“Which are…?”

I just stood there glaring at him. Because I knew if I moved, even a muscle, I would do something I might regret. Like permanently disfigure him.

Expressions swept across the contours of his face like clouds across a landscape. “Oh no. I stood you up, didn’t I? I am so sorry. I just-this is going to sound like an excuse, and I suppose it is, but at this stage in writing, I’m really not reliable. I can’t be trusted. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“I was counting on you.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“When I was driving back from Nantes, I got some great plot ideas. But I really need to walk around with them. Try to place them in location. I thought I’d take Lucy and just-”

“Wander around the grounds? Walk where Alix walked, that sort of thing?”

“Exactly.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re not going to be around to help me tomorrow?”

“With…?”

“Forget it.” I had to give him credit. At least he’d warned me about himself. And he was right: He wasn’t reliable; he couldn’t be trusted. If he couldn’t concentrate for two minutes on a conversation he was contributing to, there’s no way I was going to count on him showing up tomorrow.

And it’s a good thing I didn’t.

Sunday was no less busy than Saturday had been. By the time I’d closed the door behind the last guest, I was ready to fall into bed and sleep for a month. I’m sure Sévérine felt the same. I stripped off the black uniform I had worn that weekend, shook down my hair, jumped into a pair of comfortable jeans, and pulled on Peter’s old cherry chamois shirt.

And Cranwell?

He’d spent the day wandering the forest. When he finally appeared, shedding his disheveled barn jacket and coming to dinner in a plain black turtleneck and grubby black cords, his greatest concern was his own stomach. I wanted to slap a baguette into his hand, give him a jug of water, and banish him to his room!

But then he looked into my eyes and gave me a smile. It was a happy smile-the kind of smile that usually comes from three-year-olds. And what can I say? I’m a sucker. My heart melted, and I put a heaping plate of moules marinaire , mussels steamed in aromatic broth, in front of him.

His dark head bent over the plate, that distinguished nose funneled in the rising vapors, and he let out such a blissful sigh of pleasure that I couldn’t help but forgive him.

Besides, writers are a type of artist. Aren’t artists supposed to be flaky?

His wanderings must have taken him far out into the woods, for he ate at least two pounds of mussels, using nearly an entire two-and-a-half foot baguette to sop up the broth. Finally, he pushed the plate away, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled.

“I didn’t really eat all that myself, did I?”

I said nothing.

“Good grief! Is there any left for Sévérine?”

“I saved some for her. No worries.”

As I got up to clear the plates, he made a move to help me, but I waved him back to his seat. “I take it you don’t want any profiteroles ?”

“How big are they?”

I put four small pastry puffs filled with vanilla ice cream on a plate, smothered them with steaming chocolate sauce, and set them down in the middle of the island. “Not very.”

His hand was reaching toward the plate even before I’d set it down. “Maybe just one.”

Smiling as I started the espresso-maker, I watched as the caramel-colored liquid filled the glass carafe. “Cranwell, how do you go about writing a book?”

“It depends on what sort of book it is. I start with the idea-”

“But how do you get ideas?”

“I don’t know, really, they just come. I guess God gives them to me.” His lips curled into a wry twist. “I wouldn’t have admitted a year ago that it has anything to do with Him, but it does. Sometimes the characters come first. Sometimes it’s the plot. If I need to research, I research. For some books, I just leave holes and go back and fill them in later.”

Deciding to leave all thoughts of God alone, I focused on the process. “How do you know you’ve done enough research?”

“When the characters start talking. When they start telling their story, I start typing.”

I poured the espresso into demitasse cups and placed one in front of him. “But how do you know how to write?”

“I don’t. It’s a gift I’ve been blessed with. I just listen to the characters. If they’re strong enough, they write the story for me. The trick is to be able to type fast enough or to take notes if I’m not near a computer.”

“You don’t have an outline?”

“I do. But characters don’t usually talk to me with chronological precision.”

“How long does it take you to write a book?”

“If I work on it for half a day, I can count on about 2,000 good words. A book has about 100,000 words. If I were able to write flawlessly, in fifty days I’d have a book. It usually takes several drafts for me to get it right.”

“Which stage are you at with this one?”

“Still deciding who’s going to tell the story. It’s different this time. I’m not exactly sure how to approach the writing process anymore. I feel like I’m starting on my first book again. I just became a believer several months ago…” He looked up then, and his eyes were piercing. “Maybe you don’t quite understand, but for me, knowing God changes everything. There’s a new presence in my life, a new awareness. And the things I did before automatically, without thinking, aren’t necessarily the right ways to go about life anymore. I find myself questioning everything I do.”

He wanted to say more, I think, but he seemed at a loss for words. That must be disconcerting for an author.

“I think I’ll work on reading Alix’s journal first to get her point of view in her own words; I’ll see what that looks like. Maybe I’ll let Alix tell the story. Maybe I’ll have her husband tell it. We’ll see.”

It was difficult for me to even imagine what it took to write a book. Cranwell might be a playboy, he might even be a flake, but writing a book was something I could never dream of doing.

“You do understand-about God?” he asked.

“Can we not talk about Him?” The mention of God evoked thoughts of eternity, and thoughts of eternity were irrevocably entwined with my thoughts about Peter. If I had ever bothered to have an honest discussion with him about God; if I had ever bothered to challenge his atheistic beliefs, then thinking about eternity wouldn’t cause such guilt. But I hadn’t; so it did. There were many ways to deal with grief, and I had tried most of them, but so far, I had found nothing to help me deal with guilt. And instead of diminishing over time, its burden had only increased.

Cranwell’s eyes registered disappointment.

“Don’t get me wrong, I know all about Him. I grew up going to church. I just don’t approve of Him.” I hoped I didn’t sound too defensive; Cranwell would never understand the dialogue I wasn’t having with God.

“Because of your husband?”

“Because of lots of things. Anyway, I’m going to put a bottle of champagne in the fridge. When you finish that last draft, let me know and we’ll pop it open.”

“Thanks.” Cranwell got up from his stool and stretched toward the ceiling; mid-stretch, he asked if I had any armagnac.

Did I have armagnac? Any chef worth his toque would be humiliated to be discovered without armagnac.

“If I don’t have something to help all this food digest, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”