Chapter 30 Eight Years Ago
Eight Years Ago
Frank pulled the car over at the small train station, by the side of the road, a rocky beach visible in the distance. It was an unassuming little train station—a two-story red building. The only sign was a plaque near the front door. èZE-SUR-MER STATION.
“Let’s walk,” Frank said to Nicholas. “I want to show you something.”
They headed toward that rocky beach, Nicholas reluctantly following him.
Frank had been in France on a family vacation for the better part of August. He was staying at that beautiful villa in Cap Ferrat—the one he’d taken Nicholas’s family to all those years ago, back when Jenny was still with them.
Back when Meredith was still with them. Their wives.
All their collective kids. A lifetime ago.
For this extended vacation, only Frank’s oldest daughter had joined him. Quinn and her boys. Frank had invited Nicholas to join them as well—Nicholas and Charlie and the twins.
At first, Nicholas had declined. For one thing, it was the first anniversary of Meredith’s death, and Nicholas was planning to spend it in Tuscany on the small farm where his wife’s grandmother had grown up. And where his wife was now buried.
Meredith and Nicholas had always talked about spending time there when Kate and Charlie were grown. That was always the plan. It wasn’t the plan for Meredith to be buried there before they could.
And it certainly wasn’t conceivable—not to Nicholas—that his beloved Kate was also buried there, beside her mother.
But this was what had happened. That was Nicholas’s reality. Which was partially why, at the last minute, Nicholas decided to fly over and meet Frank instead of going to the farm. To take Frank up on the invite to the South of France.
He couldn’t face that farm in Italy, not yet. He couldn’t spend his days alone with the two gravestones of the people who mattered most to him.
Was it simply that it would make him feel too sad?
Maybe that was part of it. But that wasn’t all of it.
How could he explain it? He felt like he didn’t deserve it yet—the respite that special farm provided.
He felt like he could only spend time there when he could truly rest. But his granddaughter was still missing.
His heart was still shattered. Nicholas was nowhere near rest, at least not yet.
“This is it,” Frank said.
They were at the start of the rocky beach. They crossed the road, followed the unlined crosswalk, and headed to a hiking trail—a sign beside it, naming it. SENTIER NIETZSCHE. The Nietzsche Path.
“This hike here will take us straight up into the village of èze,” Frank said. “It’s about three miles, give or take. But you won’t feel it.”
“Looks like I’ll feel it.”
“Not at all. I can tell you that. Most gorgeous path you’ve ever walked. What do you think? You up for a walk?”
“Right now?”
“What’s better than now? There are a group of octogenarians who swear by it. They walk the path every day. The three miles up to the village, then back down. One of them is pushing ninety. It’s the path and this town and the air here. They swear that it will keep you young forever.”
“Nothing will keep us young.”
“Well I need to show you a house about a quarter of a mile up. Mediterranean, cliffside. It’s got these large windows that the current owners call fenêtres de verité.
Windows of truth. And they tell me that you’ve never seen a sunset like the one you get there.
I think we should hang around, see if they’re right. ”
“Why’s that? You thinking of buying it?”
“I already bought it. And the house next door.”
“You’re joking.”
Frank shook his head. “No,” he says. “So how about it?”
“How about what?”
“Any desire to take the second house off my hands? Would be a nice place for us to spend our summers.”
“Are you serious, Frank? I thought you were just trying to get me to hike up this mountain trail.”
Frank gave him a smile, and Nicholas almost added that if he moved anywhere in Europe, it wouldn’t be here. He would move to Meredith’s grandmother’s farm in Tuscany. But he didn’t feel like sharing this with Frank. He wasn’t up for sharing that with anyone. That place belonged to his family alone.
“One thing at a time,” Frank said. “We’re going to walk this trail right now and I’m going to take you to La Chèvre d’Or for the best lunch you’ve ever had and we’ll stop by the houses on the way back…”
“I’m never listening to you again when you tell me to put on a pair of sneakers,” Nicholas said.
“Does make it harder to find a good excuse to turn around.”
Frank started to head up the steep path, but Nicholas stood still.
He stared at the trees and the train station and the beach below.
And then he looked up at the town itself.
Cliffside and luminous, up in those clouds in the late morning light.
And then he looked over at his friend in that light.
His friend who turned back and was waiting for him.
“What’s that look?” Frank asked.
Nicholas didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out what he wanted to ask him. Or, rather, trying to figure out how to ask him about what he saw in Frank’s eyes—the sadness there. The guilt.
“You think you’ll be able to outrun it here?” Nicholas asked.
“Who says I’m trying to outrun anything?”
“No? So it’s just me then?”
Frank laughed. “This is Nietzsche country and I like to think we get to play by his rule book,” he said. “You know what he always said. No need to outrun your sins. They’re not even sins.”
“Is that what he said?”
“I’m paraphrasing but, sure. More or less…” Frank looked up toward the cliffside, as if trying to recall it, Nietzsche’s actual words. “How did he say it? Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
“Maybe…” Frank said. But he turned back around. He turned toward Nicholas. “But it’s our best shot.”