5. Camille
Camille
Ryan thanks me with a note.
Not a visit, not a knock upon my door followed by an invitation to share the wine I selected for him, nor even an awkward attempt at conversation through the crumbling passage in the wall.
A note.
I find it folded beneath a smooth stone on the front step the following morning, the paper torn from what appears to be a cheap notebook and his message written in hurried blue ink.
Camille,
Thank you for the basket. It was very kind, and everything has already been useful.
Ryan
No suggestion that he would like to repay the kindness. No questions about the village or cottage or anything else.
I turn the paper over, as if he might have continued on the other side, but it’s blank.
The stone he has chosen to hold it in place is from the eastern bank of the river, pale and oval, polished smooth by decades of current. He must have walked some distance to find it, unless he picked it up without thought during one of his trips beyond the cottage.
The possibility that he selected it deliberately is the only reason I do not discard it, and instead carry both rock and note into my study and place the paper beneath a glass weight on the corner of my desk.
I tell myself I keep it because his handwriting may prove useful.
By the third day, I understand that Ryan Smith is either far more self-sufficient than he appears or far more stubborn than is reasonable.
He walks into the village each morning despite the heat, returning with bags cutting into his fair skin and perspiration darkening his clothing.
The first time, I assume necessity has driven him to it, which is understandable.
The second time, I leave my car near the wall with the keys in my pocket and make certain I am visible in the western garden when he comes outside.
His gaze passes over the car, then me, and lingers long enough that I expect him to cross the garden and ask whether my offer of assistance still stands.
Instead, he lifts one hand in a distant greeting, nods politely, and continues down the road.
The third time, I intercept him.
“There is a larger market in Saint-Cyprien,” I tell him. “I am driving there this afternoon.”
Ryan adjusts the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp at the temples, and a thin streak of dirt marks one side of his jaw, suggesting he has already attempted some manner of work in the cottage or garden.
“Thanks, but I only need a couple of things. The market in town is fine.”
“The selection in the village is limited.”
“It is, but I don’t need much today.”
“I can take you.”
“I’m good, thank you.” The answer is immediate, almost reflexive, and delivered with a smile that seems intended to soften the refusal.
It does not.
I look at the faded red mark one of the bag’s straps has left against his neck. “You would rather walk several kilometres in this heat?”
“It’s not that far.”
“It is five kilometres each way.”
“Honestly, Camille, I don’t know how far that is. But I’ve been doing it just fine. Thank you for the offer, but I really am good.”
I study him, waiting for some indication that this is humor rather than obstinacy, but he only shifts the bag higher on his shoulder and looks toward the road.
“I have no objection to helping you,” I say.
Something guarded moves through his expression. It comes and goes quickly, but I see it. “I know. And I appreciate it. I just don’t want to keep imposing.”
“You have imposed nothing.”
“Well then I’d like to keep it that way.”
Before I can determine whether the words are meant as a joke, he gives me another small wave and leaves.
I remain beside the wall long after the sound of his steps has faded.
People generally recognize opportunity when it stands before them.
Ryan is alone in a foreign country, isolated in a village that has already made its dislike of his grandfather’s name apparent, living inside a house that is scarcely habitable and attempting repairs he has neither the tools nor knowledge to complete.
He has little command of the language, no vehicle, no established relationships, and no understanding of the history into which he has walked.
I have offered transportation, supplies, translation, knowledge, and safety.
The sensible response would be dependence.
I had expected him to accept my friendship with gratitude, perhaps even relief.
I had imagined the progression clearly enough—assistance with the cottage, meals at my house, questions about Alberte answered slowly and selectively until Ryan trusted me enough to grant unrestricted access to his property.
It should have been simple, but no.
He carries his own supplies. He consults books and poorly translated websites rather than asking me which tradesmen can be trusted.
When a delivery van arrives with timber two days later, I learn he has managed to arrange the purchase through a combination of gestures, broken French, and what must have been a deeply unfortunate telephone conversation.
He is even repairing the garden wall himself.
Badly, if I may add.
I stand at the window of my specimen room and watch him wrestle a stone into position, only for it to roll loose and narrowly miss his ankle. Ryan swears loudly enough that the words carry through the trees, then braces both hands upon his knees and glares at the wall.
I could rebuild the damaged section before luncheon, but he spends four hours on it and accomplishes less than a metre.
Along with watching him struggle from his refusal to accept any assistance, I’ve become increasingly aware that the longer Ryan remains, especially always being outside and easily seen, the greater the likelihood that someone else, someone who may want Ryan for the same reasons I do, will learn that Alberte’s grandson has returned.
Perhaps they already know.
I check the road cameras twice each day and review the feed from the lower gate before bed.
No unfamiliar vehicles have stopped near the cottage.
No one has approached through the woods.
The only unusual activity is Ryan himself, who moves restlessly from room to room after dark, appearing in one window and then another with a flashlight in his hand.
The cottage will be searched eventually, with or without permission, but Ryan himself presents a more complicated problem.
If Alberte told him anything—if there is some phrase, memory, childhood gift, or document whose significance he has not yet recognized—I require his trust before he understands the value of withholding it.
Trust has always been an uncomplicated transaction.
Offer a person what they need, and they begin to associate your presence with relief. Continue long enough, and relief becomes expectation. Expectation becomes reliance.
Yet Ryan refuses the first step.
On the fifth morning, I find him at the edge of the road speaking to Monsieur Duret, the village roofer, in a mixture of English and such badly fractured French that listening becomes physically uncomfortable.
Duret knows perfectly well that Ryan cannot understand him. He speaks faster anyway.
I’m approaching them before I realize it.
“Vous lui donnez un prix pour le travail ou pour son nom?” I ask. Are you charging him for the work or for his name?
Duret turns, his irritation sharpening when he sees me. “Ce n’est pas votre affaire, Moreau.” It is none of your business, Moreau.
“It is when you quote three times the proper amount,” I say in English, casting a glance toward Ryan.
Ryan looks between us. “Oh, um… Is there a problem?”
“No,” Duret says, far too quickly. “No problem.”
“There is a problem,” I correct. “He believes you will pay whatever he asks because you are American and because your grandfather was Alberte Legrand.”
Duret mutters something beneath his breath that I do not catch but can tell is nothing Ryan deserves to hear.
I take one step closer. “Répète ca,” I say coldly. Repeat that.
He doesn’t, and within the next three minutes, the quote has been reduced to a reasonable amount and the work scheduled for the following week. Duret leaves without offering either of us a farewell.
Ryan watches his van disappear around the bend, then turns to me. “Thank you.”
At last.
“You are welcome.”
“How bad was the first price?”
“Insulting.”
“I figured,” he sighs.
“You intended to pay it.”
His brows draw together. “I mean, yeah. I don’t know what roof repairs are supposed to cost here anyway.”
“Which is why you should have asked me.” There is perhaps more frustration in my tone than necessary.
Ryan crosses his arms. “I didn’t know you were the local roofing-price expert.”
“I am not. I am, however, French.”
“Congratulations.”
The word catches me so off guard that I can’t fully suppress the quirk of my lips.
“You insist upon making simple matters difficult,” I tell him.
“And you insist on acting like I’m incapable of doing anything without you,” he snaps back like an annoyed kitten.
“You were about to give that man enough money to repair two roofs.”
“I was still negotiating.” His lips press together.
Ryan studies me, his gaze moving from my eyes to my mouth, lingering there for a fraction too long, then dropping to the open collar of my shirt before skirting away.
Hm.
It is not the first time I have noticed his attention, though until now I had dismissed the earlier incidents as solely suspicion. He watches me often, but watching does not necessarily indicate attraction. Fear, curiosity, and distrust can all hold the gaze with equal intensity.
This is different.
His eyes return to my chest before he catches himself, and the colour at the tops of his cheeks deepens.
I should use the opportunity to ask whether he has discovered anything unusual inside the cottage. Instead, I find myself considering the shape of his mouth when he smiles.
This is not useful.
Or… perhaps it is?
Attraction is another form of leverage, though less reliable.