Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

Cranwell’s speech was very pretty. How he could have such high aspirations when he was sleeping with Sévérine was a little hypocritical in my opinion, but then, he never stopped and asked for my thoughts, so I kept them to myself.

“Every day I pray for the strength to respect you. And most of the time, I do. But once in a while, I don’t think, I feel. And that’s when the problems start. So, more than anything, I want you to know how much you mean to me. And I want you to know that I don’t ever want to hurt you. Or be the cause of delay on your way toward God.”

“Do we have to talk about Him all the time?”

“Freddie, how can we not talk about Him? Spoken or unspoken, He’s the cause of your being here. Why did you move to the chateau?-to flee from Him. You can’t flee from something unless it has presented itself. By your own flight, Freddie, you proclaim that God exists. If He didn’t, you wouldn’t have anything to run from. You believe, Freddie. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t hold such interest for me. And then there’s me: why did I come to your chateau?-to learn how to establish a life with Him. Away from everything I used to know. I could have gone anywhere, but I chose you because of Alix. Think how far back, how long ago, God planned this and how he reached back through history to bring us together. He amazes me.”

We stayed so long that I saw the stars shift in the sky. The thudding of the waves and the low whistle of wind through the rocks lulled my mind into numbness. I realized at some point that Cranwell had slid down his rock and that I was no longer leaning against his legs, but against his chest. I looked down, in wonder, to see his arms clasped around me, his knees drawn up next to mine.

Looking back on that night, I have no memory of how long we sat like that, but it was long enough that we were breathing in unison; his body had molded so close that it felt like my own.

“We need to go.”

He brought his mouth close to my ear. “Wait.”

“We need to go.”

Although I didn’t mind being Cranwell’s friend, I was not going to get into a relationship with him. Not while he was with Sévérine. I couldn’t trust him.

Clambering to my feet, I realized for the second time that night just how warm Cranwell had kept me against the chill.

We hiked back down to the car and snuck as quietly as we could back up to our rooms.

The next morning, it took three rinses of conditioner to get the knots out of my hair. And I was trying to do it in a standard French hotel bathtub/shower which had no shower curtain. By the third rinse, I was extremely peeved at Cranwell and the game he was trying to play.

With great impatience, I pulled on a pair of slim black pants and an ice-blue turtleneck sweater. After tugging on a pair of black square-heeled boots and winding my hair into a knot, I tramped downstairs to the dining area.

When I rounded the corner, I saw that Cranwell was already there. He was wearing an outfit I was wild about: black wide-wale cords and a tweedy charcoal roll-neck sweater. He rose from his table when I entered the dining area. If he were a scoundrel, at least he was a gentleman about it.

He must have read my mood, because he didn’t try to speak to me but kept his nose stuck in an International Herald Tribune newspaper. Every time he turned a page, whiffs of his cologne were propelled in my direction.

The coffee was sour, the bread was stale, and the croissants were greasy. But a hungry girl has to eat. When the bread was finished and I’d read the entire front and back pages of Cranwell’s paper, I scraped my chair back from the table.

Cranwell got up too, folded his paper, and tucked it under his arm.

He walked me back to my room, but before he passed by and down the hall to his, he leaned against my doorjamb.

It blocked me from opening the door.

“The bread was stale and the croissants were greasy. You are a much better chef, Freddie. I thank God every day that I stay with you.”

With that, he sauntered down the hall, leaving me to wipe a silly grin off my face.

I hated him.

The next week, Cranwell decided he needed to visit Dinan and he asked me to come with him.

“Have you ever been?” He was composing a tartine , carefully buttering a length of baguette. I knew from experience that in another moment, he would just as carefully spread jam across it.

“Yes, Cranwell.” A hundred times at least. And every week since he’d come to stay. I was not the hermit he had supposed me to be. The closest Carrefour and Monoprix were in Dinan. I did most of my shopping around the periphery of the town in the newly built areas.

“I need to see it because Alix accompanied Awen there at least once when he went on business.”

And there went the jam.

In a major feat of self-control, I tugged the corners of my lips back down. For all the masculinity of his roughly knit rust-wool turtleneck sweater and espresso-colored moleskin jeans, he looked like a six-year-old boy.

I could have cared less about Alix, but there were a few things I needed, like garbage bags and toilet cleaner. “What time would you like to leave?”

“How about now? I’ll drive.”

After cleaning up from breakfast, I ran upstairs to change, pulling on a pair of black twill slacks. I chose my black boots, and then I buttoned a black leather jacket over my funnelneck sweater and wrapped a blue and plum scarf around my neck. I took my black leather gloves with me but decided against a hat. I didn’t think we’d be outside in the weather much. We left Lucy with Sévérine. I don’t know why he didn’t ask Sévérine to go with him, but I wasn’t going to inquire: I needed garbage bags. It was possible they were having a lover’s spat. Lately Sévérine’s moods were oscillating faster than a floor fan.

Cranwell looked to me for directions, and I had him turn north on D71. We wound through the morning mist for the first thirty kilometers of our journey, and then a stiff breeze pushing inland from the ocean began to lift it before us in swirls and we drove out into the rare, bleak winter sun.

“Could you get my sunglasses for me? They’re in the dash.”

In a moment I found them and unfolded the arms, so he wouldn’t have to fumble with them as he drove.

It’s possible that he winked at me, but I couldn’t be sure because his shades were so dark. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and be agreeable. Especially as he was driving with both hands around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Men who drive with only one hand make me nervous. I always wonder what they intend to do with the other.

Since we had broken into the sunlight, Cranwell sped up. Way up. I’ve found that on tight, curvy country roads, the best thing to do when someone speeds is to close my eyes. Or grab the chicken bar. Jags don’t come with chicken bars so I closed my eyes. Tightly.

“You’re missing the scenery, Freddie.”

“It’s going by my window so quickly that it doesn’t matter.”

He downshifted, sending the car lurching.

My eyes sprung open.

“You don’t like speed?”

“Not when it threatens my existence.”

“On the autoroute?”

“On the autoroute, on a sunny day, with no wind, no other cars, and no police, then, yes, Cranwell, I like speed.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I can be very fun. Under the right conditions.”

He turned to look at me.

That was not what I had meant to say. Or rather, what he understood was not what I meant. Besides, I hate it when men wear sunglasses. I can’t see their eyes.

It seemed like an eternity that he looked at me, and when he looked away, he gasped and yanked the steering wheel to the right.