Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

“But were you happy?” Cranwell never failed to understand.

“Happiness is transient. You might as well try to trap the ocean. You’ve never been married.”

“No.”

“Happiness is not enough to marry for.”

“So does that mean you weren’t happy?”

“No. But I was not happy every single minute of every single day.”

“But-”

“There were moments of incredible happiness strung together with real life.”

“Do you believe in soul mates? That there’s just one person on Earth? A person reserved just for you?”

“No. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Now that was an interesting piece of information. “And you haven’t found her yet?”

He rolled onto his side, facing me. “I might have.”

The way he was looking at me made my eyes dive toward the floor of the car. But they couldn’t stay away for long. His eyes were magnetic, so I closed mine and reminded myself of Sévérine. Then I changed the topic. To what, I can’t even remember, but I know we spent almost an hour on it.

And then, I felt myself shiver. Somehow, the perspiration trapped between my body and my cotton turtleneck had grown clammy. And my feet were freezing.

The next few minutes I spent concentrating on my toes. They were so cold I could hardly move them.

“What’s wrong?”

“My toes.”

“Move them.”

“I’m trying.”

“Can you still feel them?” A note of concern had crept into his voice.

“Yes, Cranwell, I can, and they really hurt.”

His teeth glinted in the dark, and I saw the condensation curl from his chuckle.

I moved my shoulders farther up my neck.

It was exasperating that we hadn’t seen a single car up to that point. I think I would have even flagged down an axe murderer. Was there no one in all of Brittany who was partying until the wee hours of the night?

Experimentally, I wriggled my fingers inside the sleeves of my coat. They were cold, too. I was beginning to think that staying put hadn’t been such a smart idea. I was scared. Opening my mouth, I asked the first question that popped into my head. I always get chatty when I’m nervous. “What’s it like to date movie stars?”

“What’s it like to date anyone?”

Touchy, touchy.

Cranwell sighed. “Some are workaholics. Some are egotistical. Others are the nicest people I’ve ever met. They’re people, Freddie. Just like you or me.”

Maybe like him, but definitely not like me. “How about the rock star?”

“How about her?”

“What was the attraction?”

“We were young.” He snorted. “It was the eighties. We were both on top of our games. Life was one golden, glamorous party. We looked good with each other. The photo ops were tremendous.” He sighed then, a long heavy weary sigh. “If I had it to do again, I would do it so differently. I just didn’t realize there could be so much more. With so much less. I am so grateful for God’s grace.”

“I read about you becoming a Christian.”

“That made the news here in France?”

“No. I was surfing the Internet.” How did I always get myself into such embarrassing situations? I dipped my chin toward my chest so that my face was shielded by the lapels of Cranwell’s coat. “I did some research on you.”

“Pardon me?”

There was no help for it. I batted away the protection of the coat and turned to face him. “I did some research on you.”

His smile was apologetic. “My reputation precedes me.”

My smile must have been rather thin. I tried to shrink down into myself, knowing that if I could make myself smaller, my body heat would go farther. I know I closed my eyes. I must have let my chin drop, because the next thing I remember is Cranwell shaking me and my head jerking up.

“F reddie, listen to me. You can’t fall asleep.”

The yawn could not have been stopped if I’d tried. “Of course I can.” He could be so overbearing sometimes. “I’m really tired, Cranwell.” I let my head drop back down. It was so heavy.

Cranwell grabbed me by both shoulders. “Freddie. You must not fall asleep.”

“But I’m so tired.”

He took off his gloves and cupped my face. “Freddie, you’re freezing.”

It was true, I was cold. I had been shivering for at least an hour, but his coat was so big, I had managed to hide it. “I know. And Cranwell, I’m so tired.”

“Freddie, come over here to my side.”

“Not enough room.” My lips and my cheeks were so cold it was hard to form words.

“Freddie, move it!”

He must have been mad at me, because I’d never heard Cranwell yell before. But he was yelling then. At me.

The difficulty in unfolding my legs and pushing myself across that short distance between the seats is indescribable.

By the time I reached him, I was crying.

He must have seen a reflection from my tears because he quickly wiped them away. “Shhh. Don’t cry.”

“… mad at me.”

“No, Freddie. I’m not.”

“… yelled.”

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I was worried about you.”

“… cold.”

He unbuttoned the coat around me and then pulled me against himself, stretching the sides of the coat as far around him as they would reach and clamping them to his sides with his arms. We were chest to chest and my head was pressed against his shoulder.

“I know you’re cold. You’ll be warm again in a minute. Just don’t cry anymore. It will make you colder.”

“… not mad…”

He pressed my head against his shoulder with his chin. “No. Freddie, I love you.” His arms tightened around me.

“… can’t breathe…” It took me an enormous effort to get those words out.

He loosened his hold, but not by much. “Let’s sing. What do you want to sing?”

“… bright, coppered kettles…”

He groaned. “ Sound of Music ? Freddie.” He sounded disappointed in me, but he joined me anyway. By the time we were done, I felt marginally warmer.

“No more Julie Andrews. Something else.” He didn’t sound like he was joking.

A song popped into my head. It wasn’t one that I wanted to sing, but the longer I refused to sing it, the louder it echoed in my thoughts.

He shook me. “Freddie!”

“… Jesus loves me…”

He finished the line, “… this I know…”

“For the Bible tells me so.” By alternating the lines and joining in on the chorus we finished the song, albeit slowly and with not a lot of rhythm.

“‘Jesus Loves Me?’ I knew you believed. You just had to stop trying to convince yourself you didn’t.”

My lips had thawed enough to smile against his scratchy sweater. To this point, my head had rested against his shoulder, nose first. Now I had the energy to turn it and nestle it into the dip of his collarbone.

He laid his cheek against my head. “Someone will come soon.”

My eyes closed again. His scent was intoxicating: wool mixed with soap and aftershave and a hint of mint in his breathe. I felt my head begin to spin.

He shook me slightly and my eyes flew open. “Freddie, who’s your favorite author?”

I smiled to myself. “… trick question…”

He laughed. And with my head against him, I could hear it start deep inside his chest. “No, seriously.”

“… Jane Austen…”

“Movie?”

But I wasn’t finished. I shook my head. “And Byatt.”

“A. S. Byatt?”

I nodded.

“Good, Freddie. Movie?”

“ Sense and Sensibility .”

He groaned. “You’re a romantic too. I never would have guessed it. And I suppose you thought Willoughby was handsome.”

No. I shook my head. “Colonel.”