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 The Hampton Beach Café
The Complete Starting Over Series

BOOKS 1 - 6

SAGE PARKER
Copyright © 2023 by Sage Parker.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems,
without prior written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review.
The book is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental and not intended by the author.
 CONTENTS

BOOK 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

BOOK 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
 Chapter 15

BOOK 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14

BOOK 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
BOOK 5
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

BOOK 6
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Coming Soon by Sage Parker!
More Books by Sage Parker
About the Author
BOOK 1
 ONE

The black swimsuit Frances wore was still dripping wet as she stood at the
kitchen counter, and she was vaguely aware that a small puddle of water
had formed at her feet. The towel she had intended to wrap around herself
hung limply from her left hand. On her right, she held the unfolded letter
that now bore spreading dark patches from where she grasped it between
her fingers.
She had no idea where the envelope had gone, and honestly, she
didn’t care.
Divorce.
Divorce was bad enough, but divorce through a letter delivered by a
deeply uninterested teenage bicycle courier? That was worse. The fact that
said bicycle courier had let themselves into the yard while she was
swimming her morning laps and she had shrieked when she saw the poor
kid? A lot worse.
A ragged breath in jolted her back to her senses, and she dropped
the letter. She hadn’t so much been holding her breath as simply not
breathing at all. Her world had stopped. The courier, she remembered now,
had mentioned something about being too cheap to tip before they had
taken off in a huff. She needed to stay calm, not stand around, barely
breathing like an idiot.
She should call Malcolm. This must be a mistake. The postman
stopped at the wrong house. She grabbed her phone and opened her
favorites. Malcolm’s number was at the top. She pressed it.
Surely there were other women in California called Frances
Crawford…She glanced down at the letter. Her name and address were
printed clearly at the top.
 “Other Frances Crawfords who also live at 173 Bermuda Crest?”
she said aloud, trying to ignore the nagging sense of dread.
The first trill of the call made her jump, and creeping nausea she had
kept at bay settled into her stomach. It wasn’t the normal sound of a call
being connected, but the tri-tone beeps of a disconnected number.
This was not happening, it could not be happening, and it was
definitely not happening.
The letter stared up at her. It certainly seemed to be happening.
“Dear Mrs. Frances Crawford…”
She read the letter four more times as she sank into the leather
armchair that Malcolm had insisted on installing in their casual dining
room, not really caring that she was, in fact, still wet from the pool or that
the chlorine would hardly be beneficial to the leather.
The phone number at the top of the letter indicated that the lawyer
was local. She dialed them instead.
Their number was not disconnected.

***

“Honestly, the documents are a little wet,” she explained several hours later.
On the fourth read-through, she had registered that the letter asked
her to refer to the pre-nuptial agreement they had included in the envelope
before signing her papers and returning them as soon as possible.
This time it was her own lawyers at the end of her phone call––
neither the receptionist nor the lawyer she spoke to would tell her any more
than what was in the letter. It was, of course, pretty normal for one party’s
lawyer not to communicate with the other party, but that was other people!
Not her. Her life wasn’t imploding, and her husband was most definitely not
unreachable.
“Frances, I can’t give you advice on documents I haven’t seen…”
her lawyer said, “…but when we reviewed your affairs three years ago,
your prenup was filed with us. I’m assuming it hasn’t been rewritten in that
time?”
“Of course not! I barely even remember signing the ridiculous
thing! It was years ago, decades!”
The word decades was strangled like it was being forced out of her.
It really had been decades. She had just turned eighteen when she and
Malcolm got married, and they had only waited until then so they wouldn’t
have to get their parents to sign off on the wedding. Well, his parents,
really––her mom would have done anything to make her daughter happy.
“Twenty-three years ago, I signed what felt like a thousand pieces of
paper––all of which I barely read because all I cared about was marrying
the boy I loved,” Frances said in a low voice, “and you’re telling me that
one of those pieces of paper was a contract saying that no matter what
happens or whose fault it was if we divorced, I get nothing?”
There was a moment of silence as Frances’s lawyer prepared her
response.
“Unless you’re planning on claiming that they tricked you into
signing it, or he pressured you, then…yes.”
Frances leaned back into the deck chair and sighed.
“I was eighteen years, one week, and three days old,” she said
quietly. “What the hell did I know?”
“Frances, don’t sign the papers you have with you now,” her lawyer
said. “I need to look them over properly––and talk with the other firm.
Please don’t get your hopes up, though. From memory, the agreement is
pretty iron-clad. You leave the marriage with what you came into it with––
your savings, your retirement fund, and a 1987 Toyota Corolla.”
The laugh that bubbled up out of her mouth sounded more manic
than she intended, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
“Sorry…” she said, “…that car…I sold that car six months later so
that I could buy textbooks. I haven’t driven since.”
“Well, then there’s an argument that those textbooks are also yours,”
her lawyer said sheepishly. “But other than that, there’s not really anything
to fight for. Unless your name is on the deed to the house?”
 “Hardly…” she said, “…but I do have my own savings. My mother
always said it doesn’t matter how much you love your husband––you need
a nest egg. How long do I have in the house?”
“I don’t know exactly, but you have a good argument for being able
to stay for as long as it takes you to find suitable accommodation. I’ll
contact the firm today and let you know what’s happening. Do you have
someone to be with you today? You’ll need a support system.”
“You’re my lawyer, not my therapist…” Frances said, “…but thank
you for the concern.”
She managed to keep it together while they sorted out some other
details and plans, but Frances burst into tears the moment she hung up the
phone.
Through her wracking sobs, she picked up her phone and dialed
once again. Not Malcolm’s disconnected number like she wanted to, but
Lucinda’s number. As the phone rang, she sent a message to the same
number.
911 pick up
The message was sent and registered as sent. She held her breath.
Within two rings, Lucinda answered.
“Are you alright? Where are you?”
 TWO

“How can twenty years of savings not be enough for a house?” Lucinda
asked, pausing to sip from her frozen slush margarita.
Frances pushed her sunglasses up her nose and leaned back in the
pool lounger. “Because we live in a ridiculous town full of ridiculous
people who have ridiculous amounts of money.”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Lucinda teased.
“Yes, it is,” Frances said seriously, lifting her own margarita to her
face and battling the supposedly environmentally friendly pasta straw.
It seemed like a waste to Frances, but at least it wasn’t soggy paper.
The overpriced, overcrowded, and over-cool rooftop pool bar she
and Lucinda favored was mercifully close to the company where Frances
worked, her home, and Lucinda’s co-working space.
“So, this bike courier…he let himself in?”
“Yeah. They must have given him the gate code,” Frances said,
shaking her head. “I don’t know how to change it, but honestly, once I’m
out of there, I don’t care if that courier sells Malcolm’s security code to all
the house breakers in LA.”
Lucinda rolled her eyes, and Frances could tell she was waiting
patiently for what came next––Lucinda knew her too well.
“Okay, fine, I care…” Frances said, “…but there’s something very
satisfying in pretending I don’t.”
“You need another drink,” Lucinda said.
“How can you have finished that thing so fast? I get brain freeze just
looking at it,” Frances replied, but Lucinda was already flagging down a
waiter.
She handed the frozen drink to Lucinda and gestured for her to drink
up. When the waiter arrived, Frances ordered a classic gin and tonic.
“What? I like gin!”
“No one likes gin,” Lucinda retorted.
A woman waved across the pool, flipping her long blond extensions
over her shoulder with one of her lime green, double-extra long, and
bejeweled acrylic nails.
“Oh, hold on to your house keys. It's Monica,” Lucinda said,
strategically placing the frozen margarita in front of her mouth as she
spoke.
“Hi, ladies!” Monica cooed in her high-pitched client voice. “What
are two of this city’s brightest and hardest working boss babes doing at a
pool bar on a Wednesday?”
Frances cleared her throat. Monica was always friendly, but there
was a killer realtor under her rhinestone-studded facade.
“Well, it’s my birthday this weekend, and so I took the week off to
relax. I think it’s called a stay-cation these days.”
“Ohhh, very nice, and how’s Malc––”
“Hi Monica,” Lucinda said, smiling through her interruption. “I
could ask you the same thing! Don’t you have a thirty-million-dollar listing
to sell?”
Monica pouted and pressed one of those remarkably long acrylic
nails to her lips. “Shhh! It’s a secret! Well, sort of. Only you, me, and my
followers know about it! No. I’m joking, obviously, but I am actually here
to meet a client––they want to sell that huge four-story thing off The Birds,
and I’m telling you it’ll go for sixty million. This is hardly my favorite
place to do business, but honestly, who would say no to working next to a
rooftop pool this gorgeous, right?”
Frances smiled and nodded, hoping that Lucinda’s trick of getting
Monica to talk about herself would keep working like a charm. It showed
no sign of letting up, but as Monica wrapped up, letting them in on all the
real estate gossip, she made rather confronting eye contact with Frances.
 “Now, I couldn’t help but overhear. It’s probably, like, a side effect
of so getting my face frozen like this…the price we pay to stay young,
right? Anyway, I thought I heard Miss Lucinda saying you were looking for
a place! Investment or residential?”
Lucinda and Frances looked over at each other, managing to resist
rolling their eyes. Both women were in their early forties, and Monica
wasn’t even thirty yet.
“Both…” Lucinda said, surprising Frances, “…she’s thinking of
living in for a while and renovating, then selling.”
Monica’s eyes lit up, and Frances could have sworn dollar signs
flashed behind the woman's eerie green contacts.
“Uh, yeah, I mean,” Frances said. “But I don’t really want to spend
a lot or get a huge loan.”
“Why not get finance? You’re so secure! You’re like, the Ferrari of
risk management…everyone wishes they had you on their corporate side!”
Sipping on her gin and tonic, Frances glowered at Lucinda.
“Because…” she said, “…I hate loans, and I don’t want a huge
financial burden.”
Monica pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, if it’ll just be you
there––I can’t see Malcolm putting up with contractors and paint fumes––
you could do a little place down by the water for less than five mil. Let me
have a look around, and I’ll call you.”
Before Frances could say any of the ‘no, please, it’s fine’ variations
that she had planned, Monica was standing and waving at a short, dark-
suited man who had appeared at the bar.
“My client’s here. I’d say wish me luck but come on…it’s me. I
don’t need luck.”
They watched as Monica sauntered over. She was already tall, but
her stilettos meant she had to lean down to place two heavy kisses on the
man’s cheeks.
Lucinda turned to stare at Frances. “It’s me? I don’t need luck. Good
lord, that girl…”
 Smiling into her gin, Frances laughed quietly. “It’s a little off-
putting, but I sure wouldn’t mind her confidence.”
“You can be confident without being conceited,” Lucinda said.
“Anyway, how’s that five million dollar bargain she had for you? Jeez,
Louise, I’m so glad I rent.”
There wasn’t much to say. Frances couldn’t afford that––or even
half of that––and she really didn’t want to think about the question of
interest rates even if she could get a loan post-divorce. Sure, she earned
well enough and was a shareholder of the company she and Malcolm ran––
Coughing, she had choked on the soda at the thought of her
husband. Well, her sort-of-ex-husband now, she supposed.
“You alright?” Lucinda asked, suddenly sounding concerned.
“Stop asking me that,” Frances said, clearing her throat. “Of course,
I’m not. I just need to get used to the idea that he’s not my husband
anymore.”
“It’s been less than five hours. Give yourself a hot minute, okay? I
know you’re a perfectionist, but you don’t have to heal before five pm.”
“You take your business coach voice out of your mouth,” Frances
said, but softened her tone to make sure her friend knew it was all in good
fun. “I don’t need you to invoice me.”
It must have struck the right tone, because Lucinda laughed and
actually did drop the patient teacher air she had taken on. Frances smiled as
her friend leaned over and patted her knee.
“Listen, I know you don’t like doing big things for your birthday,
but I know you and Malcolm were going to go out for dinner and whatever
else––why don’t we go away for the weekend? Big change of scenery, no
eavesdropping real estate agents, and an excuse for me to take some half
days.”
“Don’t your clients need you twenty-four-seven?”
Lucinda laughed. “That’s the beauty of contracting––I can work
from wherever I like so long as there is WiFi or cell signal. Jamaica, Bora
Bora, Fiji, Atlantic City––wherever! Now, you tell me where that is––
birthday girl.”
 Frances swatted at Lucinda’s knee. She hated being called birthday
girl––celebrating her birthday always made her feel like a child. She was
supposed to be too grown up for all that stuff now. She worried her lower
lip with her teeth. She had been thinking about a trip for a while now…
“Well…” she said, “…it’s not exactly Jamaica, but I have been
meaning to visit Hampton Beach. I haven’t been back home since I left for
college. Mom’s just an hour down the road in Salem. I thought I could lurk
around the foreshore and pop down for a visit…”
“I say Fiji, and you say New Hampshire?” Lucinda raised an
eyebrow but held her hands up in surrender under the glare Frances sent her
way. “Alright, alright, I can give New Hampshire a go. Just tell me there’s
WiFi?”
 THREE

The flight to Boston was not exactly what Lucinda had in mind to kick off a
long weekend of relaxation––but it sure did beat driving for two days,
spending one day at the destination, and driving two days back.
Though it had to be said, even by Lucinda, that even the expressway
their taxi was driving them down was more green and lush than anywhere
either of them had seen in a long time.
“How much further?” Lucinda asked the cabbie.
“About ten minutes,” he replied. “Now, if you ladies need a pickup
in a few days, you let me know. I’ll pick you up any time you like. Carry
your bags…jeez, I’ll get the wife to cook you breakfast if you want!”
“Yeah,” Lucinda said. “I bet.”
He handed his card over his shoulder, despite the doubtful look cast
on it by Lucinda––Frances giggled. Lucinda had insisted on paying for the
cab because she was not about to take a train anywhere, and even though
she could afford it, Frances knew her friend probably wasn’t exactly
looking forward to repeating the three-figure taxi ride.
“Luci, I’m happy to pay next time––”
“No! It’s your birthday! Everything is free on your birthday.”
Frances rolled her eyes. This was not the first so-called ‘free’ thing
Lucinda had insisted on paying for based on the same faulty logic that
Frances was turning forty-one this weekend.
“Well, if it’s your birthday, then you need a birthday treat,” the
cabbie said. “After we finish up with getting you to your accommodation,
how’s about we just drop your bags off, and then I show you the best ice
cream parlor in town––no extra cost.”
“What a bargain! How can we resist,” Lucinda said dryly, but the
wink she sent the driver in his rearview mirror let him know she was
teasing.
The green of the expressway was starting to thin out, and wide-open
flat plains greeted them instead. As they drew closer to the Bed and
Breakfast Lucinda had chosen, Frances could feel the creeping urge to just
block out everything that had happened the last few days. She could do with
a little escape, surely?
“What you need is something to focus on,” Lucinda said. “You need
a project or a hobby––not work! Then you won’t be running away from
your problems, but you will have a solid way of not thinking about them all
the time.”
“A hobby?” Frances repeated. “You think a hobby is the best way to
forget that my husband ran off, divorced me, and I don’t even know where
he is?”
“Yikes,” the cabbie said. “Maybe get two scoops of ice cream.”
Lucinda shot him a look. “Obviously not, but I know you. You’ll
either work yourself to the bone or worry yourself away to nothing. You
should take up baking, painting, or learning a language!”
“Well, with all the time you think I have, why not all three?”
The friends mock glared at each other before Lucinda reached a
handout and rested it on Frances’s knee. “You really don’t know where he
is?”
“Nope…no idea,” Frances said. “And according to his lawyer, I
have no right whatsoever to even ask.”
This was too depressing.
“Hey, Mike, was it?” Frances said. “I need the ice cream before we
do bags.”
“No problem.” Mike laughed and canceled the blinker, carrying on
straight ahead towards the sea.
 As they rounded the last corner, both women grinned at each other
as they took in the wide sweeping shoreline––this was going to be a good
weekend. Living in California meant that neither Frances nor Lucinda was
easily impressed when it came to beaches, but this stretch of soft-looking
sand, relatively free from people at the moment and with a chill in the air,
was positively breathtaking. After much debate, they finally agreed to get
an ice cream and sit outside––even though it was kind of freezing compared
to Los Angeles, where just a day ago, they had been luxuriating in the sun
on a rooftop bar.
The two old friends sat perched on a small stone bench a few steps
away from the ice cream parlor Mike the Cabbie had suggested. Mike had
ordered a hot chocolate and stepped away to take a call, leaving Frances
and Lucinda to chat in peace for the first time that day.
“This is pretty good,” Lucinda said. “You should try some.”
Looking at her friend’s bright purple ice cream, Frances made a face
and shook her head.
“It’s potato-flavored ice cream!” she exclaimed. “What on earth
makes you think I’d want to eat that!”
This was a surefire way to annoy Lucinda, but despite the long day
of travel they had endured, she laughed instead.
“It’s not a potato. It’s taro,” she said. “It’s a root vegetable, and it’s
very sweet! It’s no weirder than candied yams at Thanksgiving.”
Frances couldn’t really explain why she was so against the weird-
looking food, so instead of trying to justify it, she went the lighthearted
route instead. “Well, it’s definitely…purple-er.”
Glad she could make Lucinda laugh, Frances leaned around her
friend to spy on Mike the Cabbie. He looked like he was having a rough
time, indeed. He mouthed the word ‘sorry,’ pointed at his watch, and
mouthed the words ‘ten minutes’ with an anxious expression. Lucinda
hadn’t seen it, and Frances knew the delay would only annoy her friend if
she knew about it.
“Let’s wander down. Mike looks like he’s in a world of hurt,” she
said. “Maybe he actually suggested to his wife she cook breakfast for us on
our last day.”
 Despite the chilly breeze, it couldn’t have been more than seventy
degrees out. The ice cream went down exceptionally well. The rich
chocolate Frances had chosen might not have been cool or interesting like
Lucinda’s choice, but chocolate was almost always a pretty good bet––and
as a risk management specialist, wasn’t that kind of what Frances was paid
to prefer?
“These hotels look like something out of an old movie. I can just
imagine murder mysteries solved by high society flappers in the
twenties…” Lucinda said, “…and the stolen jewels absolutely get
discovered in a bootlegger’s secret tunnel.”
She couldn’t exactly disagree, but the majority of the hotels were
from the fifties and sixties at most. Frances didn’t want to point that out to
Luci when she was having such a great time, but then she saw an old
redbrick building that would fit Lucinda’s story.
“That one there…” she pointed to the hotel, “…it’s been renovated,
and that extension is definitely eighties, but I think the central part was
probably built around the turn of the century.”
The pair crossed the road, jogging the last few steps to avoid the
sweeping school bus that barely slowed down for them.
“This is such a pretty street,” Luci commented, popping the last
piece of waffle cone into her mouth. “Oh, look!”
Frances turned her gaze from the red brick marvel to where Frances
was pointing. The place looked like a house, but the wooden sign over the
door and large glass window display meant that it must be a store. Her heart
fluttered slightly though she couldn't pinpoint why. Frances shook it off and
pulled Lucinda down the road to get a closer look.
 FOUR

The paint was peeling off the wooden door and window frames, the glass
was dirty inside and out, and the sign she had seen was hanging by a single
chain loop that Frances was sure could not be at all safe.
“Isn’t it just so stinkin’ adorable?” Frances said, pressing her face
into the glass to try and see inside.
“Stinkin' adorable? More like rotting, but still,” Lucinda said. “It
was probably very charming once. Now, though, it looked quite a bit nicer
from further away––it’s actually condemned, Frances!”
She was pointing at a yellow piece of paper stuck to the window
with an excess of clear packing tape. Frances looked closer at it and shook
her head.
“It’s not condemned. It’s just in foreclosure,” she said. “Look…the
bank is auctioning it off this weekend.”
Peering through the musty glass, Frances could see the built-in
wooden counter at the rear of the room. A flicker in her chest erupted again.
There was something there, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. There
was a pattern of stained glass that bordered both windows and arched over
the doorway. It was beautiful despite the bad paint job. She looked over her
shoulder, intending to glare at Lucinda for being so down and out about
such a nice old place that had clearly been left to fester, but the wall across
from her made her stop in her tracks.
“I remember now,” she said. “This was the candy store my friend’s
parents owned when we were in high school. Good lord, that must be
twenty-five years ago now. We used to hang out here all the time. Look at
the bricks.”
 She crossed the road to indicate the ones she meant. There was a
slightly gray color to some of the bricks in the wall that alternated with the
dull red to create a pattern of overlapping diamonds.
“Yeah?” Lucinda said, her eyebrow raised.
“We came back one night, way past curfew. All five of us were
supposed to be staying here overnight, and boy was Mrs. Lockwood mad at
us,” Frances trailed her fingertips down the wall. “We couldn’t convince her
we hadn’t been out partying––which we had not, by the way––and she
thought the best punishment was to get up and help Mr. Lockwood build
this wall starting at six am. We weren’t hungover like she thought we were,
but six am is torture when you’re sixteen––even more when you got home
at one in the morning!”
“So you were a rebel in high school? Never would have picked
that.”
“Hardly! We had been out on the beach with a campfire, reading
poetry to each other and finding different constellations with Alex’s dad’s
telescope…”
A sharp bark of laughter came from Lucinda. “That makes a lot
more sense. You were a nerd in high school!”
Frances laughed at that, but it was a quiet one, unlike Lucinda’s.
“Yeah, that sounds more like me,” she said. “We should head back. I
think Mike’s either done on the phone or in too much trouble to take us
anywhere.”
“A candy shop, huh?” Lucinda asked as they crossed the main road
so they could walk down the beach as they made their way back to Mike.
“It was so cool in there. When I was little, Alex’s mom used to give
us free tasters––I don’t think I had to pay for candy until I was about
twelve.”
The walk back from the shop felt longer. It could have been because
Frances really wanted to be back at Lockwood’s old candy shop and not
back into reality where they’d have to figure out what they were doing for
dinner, sleep, and inevitably talk even more about Malco––
 “Oof!” Frances exclaimed, fiery pain shooting through her shin.
“That hurt!”
“I am so sorry. Are you alright?” the dark-haired man who was
wheeling the huge A-frame sign that Frances had just collided with said.
“Yeah, no,” she said. “I’m fine, sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry! I should have been looking where I was going…”
He trailed off as he parked the oversized thing, and Frances looked
up from her stooped position to meet his eyes. Rubbing her shin where it
had connected with the corner of the sign, she tried to smile at him––he
looked so upset.
“Eco Jet Ski Safari?” she said. “Seems dangerous if the sign is
anything to go by.”
He didn’t laugh, just looked at her like she’d started speaking a
different language. Frances stood up straight, embarrassed now––but why
should she be embarrassed? He ran into her, not the other way around!
She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.
“Frances? Frances Lane?” he said, taking her off guard.
“Uh, not really,” she said. “It’s Crawford, now.”
The man’s face lit up, and suddenly he looked sixteen again. Frances
recognized him immediately,
“Alex! Oh my word, we were just…” Frances broke off,
remembering the foreclosure sign just in time, “…talking about my high
school days!”
“Last century, you mean?” He laughed and swooped his arms
around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground as he hugged her.
She found herself laughing too but stopped when she caught sight of
Lucinda, watching on with a ridiculous expression on her face.
“Alex, this is Lucinda,” Frances introduced them. “We’re up here
for a birthday break. She takes the best friend thing very seriously.”
“I do indeed,” Luci said, stepping forward. “Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands. It was all so surreal that Frances felt almost like
she was watching from outside herself. Alex Lockwood, right here in front
of her after over twenty years? She wondered if any of their other friends
were still in town, it didn’t seem likely.
Alex still had the habit of running his hand through his thick hair as
he spoke, Frances noticed as he began an animated conversation with
Lucinda.
“What do you think?” Lucinda asked, knowing full well that
Frances had not been listening.
“Uh, yeah?” Frances tried to cover. “Details?”
“Tonight at seven,” Alex jumped in. “Lucinda suggested I prove that
I’m sorry about your shin by showing you the best place to eat in town.”
She could agree to that, so she nodded, and they made plans to meet
up later in the evening––after they’d unpacked. As she and Lucinda walked
back down the beach, Frances rolled around what had just happened in her
mind. What were the chances of them bumping into Alex Lockwood, of all
people––on their first night in town and so soon after stumbling across his
parents’ old store?
 FIVE

Dinner with Alex had been great. She and Lucinda ate significantly more
than anyone could advise them as being healthy. Honestly, though, what
could be expected when the all-you-can-eat seafood and cocktail bar comes
recommended by a local? The only option was to stock up on shrimp and
keep the margaritas coming.
Well, Lucinda kept the margaritas coming. Alex had said he was
driving, and Frances had no desire to sport a hangover the entire next day.
She was especially pleased with herself over this decision as she
walked down the street happily this morning. With Lucinda in back-to-back
meetings with clients until after three, Frances had the perfect opportunity
to explore a little on her own. She planned on enjoying every shop she saw,
having at least three relaxing coffees, and trying as much chocolate cake as
she could manage in a day.
Stepping aside to let a woman with a stroller pass, Frances noticed a
sterile-looking storefront just down the road and wondered what was inside.
As she made her way down the street, Frances went over the events of the
last few days in a quiet kind of awe because it had felt…amazing. It
shouldn’t have. She should have felt devastated, destroyed––something! It
had been a whole day since she had thought about the divorce, and when
she had realized her true feelings in the early hours of the morning, her
stomach had dropped with what felt like physical force. How could she be
so cold? Or was she just in denial?
As she drew closer, she saw that it wasn’t a store but an art gallery.
Vivid paintings were hanging from the walls, and a huge tangle of rope was
hanging from the ceiling. Frances really did love art galleries, and––from
the look of the deco-styled cart in the corner––this one served coffee, so it
wasn’t even like she was deviating from the plan all that much.
The star of the show, though, was a huge wooden sculpture in the
display window. The twisted driftwood was splashed with different colored
wax dripping in interesting shapes. One of the extending branches ended a
few inches from the ground, and the deeply pigmented blue wax had
managed to reach all the way to the mirror the piece was created on.
The highly polished window let Frances look directly at herself and
the artwork simultaneously. It created a strange and almost nostalgic feeling
in her. There were so many things that could go wrong with the piece.
Something could break, or the wax could dry an ugly color––and in some
places, it had––only to be covered up partially with another more attractive
one. The thin wax that only just covered the texture of the wood beneath
looked like it could crack and fall any minute, but amongst all that fragility
was a structure of driftwood that had reshaped itself along with the sea.
No. I’m not cold, she decided as she made eye contact with her
reflection. She was just moving with the sea. This escape had been intended
as a distraction, something to make her feel better about the whole forsaken
debacle, and it was working––she tended to feel less guilty about that.
Her reflection waved at her.
A jolt of shock made her jump. She couldn’t also be losing her mind
on top of everything else, could she?
Refocusing, she realized that she wasn’t hallucinating. She was just
looking like a fool––there was a person inside the store who was waving at
her.
Awkwardly she waved back and tried to cover her embarrassment
by gesturing to the closed door, silently asking if they were open.
Not as if she couldn’t see the large piece of paper with “open”
written on it in green highlighter.
The person inside strode to the door and opened it for her. He was a
tall, dark-skinned man with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a pleasingly deep
voice.
 He stepped back while holding the door to make room for her. As
she stepped through, Frances smiled back and pointed to the coffee cart that
sat in the corner.
“Does that thing work? I obviously need it…” she said, “…and
there’s no need to be sorry.”
The man laughed now, and it was just as pleasing as his speaking
voice––Frances wondered if he could sing.
“Works as well as I can poke and prod at it,” he said. “I’ll do my
best.”
She could tell it was meant in good humor, but internally she
flinched––it seemed like she couldn’t entirely switch off her business mind
after all.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll listen to you,” she said, looking around the walls
heavily loaded with paintings and photographs. Several sculptures stood
around the room, though none were as delicate as the tree in the window.
“I like the candle tree,” she said offhandedly. “Though I suppose it’s
not really a tree…”
“It was once,” the barista said. “It doesn’t have a name yet, but I
think candle tree sounds cool. It’s all about contrasts––soft and warm wax
meeting the cool sea, flowing wax, and solid timber.”
Secretly pleased that she had been right about the intended meaning
of the artwork, she added, “the liquid form of the wax mirrored in the
ocean, yet it could break so easily compared to the solid nature of the wood
that moves and floats in the water, allowing itself to be reformed by it.”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, handing her the cup of coffee. “You're an
artist?”
“Oh, no,” Frances said quickly. “I love art, but I could never….”
“No, no, no. I am removing the question mark…you are an artist if
you’re talking about art like that.”
Giggling now, Frances decided it was easier to nod and agree than
explain just how bad she was at drawing and painting. At least, she had
been the last time she had tried at a paint and drink event for a friend's
fortieth birthday. That had been a total disaster. They were supposed to
paint a chair with flowers perched on it like a crown. She’d had fun,
splashes of color and bold outlines, but in the end, she had realized too
late––everyone else had just painted the chair. The teacher had been nice,
calling it impressionistic and abstract, but Frances had seen how her friends
glanced at each other uncertainly at these words.
Taking the coffee he handed her, Frances decided to introduce
herself.
"Thank you. I’m Frances.”
“And I’m Vincent. Is this your first time in Hampton beach?” he
replied.
Frances blinked hard as she processed the question, taking a second
too long to reply according to the slightly raised eyebrow on his face.
“No! No, I’m actually from here…I just didn’t realize I’d been away
for so long. I seem like a tourist now…”
“Oh, well, no offense intended,” he said. “So you’re a local girl who
made good in the big city?”
She raised the coffee cup to her lips, taking a moment to bite her
tongue. Even though he seemed like he was genuinely trying to be friendly
and joke with her, she was tired of that particular joke after decades of
hearing it. It seemed that no matter how good she got, how high she rose in
international risk management, or how many billionaires begged her for
advice––people always came back to the fact that she was from a small
town.
“You know, it’s funny how people do that,” she said, surprising
herself.
Lowering the takeaway cup with its pretty red flower pattern
without taking a sip, she made eye contact with Vincent. He looked
confused, so she continued.
“Whether it’s a casual conversation like this or a business deal of
huge proportions, where I’m from almost always makes an appearance––
the size of it, I mean. You know, I’ve had people reject my professional
advice because they found out I’m just a small-town girl––their words, not
mine––and just as many billionaires skip over the formalities of an
interview and treat me like a long-lost friend just because they came from a
different small town.”
Vincent looked bemused but nodded. “Humans are constantly
looking for connections, and ways to make themselves superior to those
around them, or at least feel that they are.”
That made a certain amount of sense, but it was still annoying,
Frances reasoned silently. She nodded as Vincent went on.
“The owner, here, for example? Really nice lady ninth-nine percent
of the time…” he said, “…but when it comes time to pay rent––cash only
because she hates Internet banking––she always makes an aside about being
my boss. ‘The boss is here, time to pay’ or ‘rent time for boss lady.’ It’s
remarkably grating.”
Frances found that she couldn’t control the laughter she felt
bubbling up inside and blurted out, “Rent time for boss lady!?”
Vincent laughed, too. “I wish I was kidding. I won’t have to put up
with it much longer. I can’t really afford this place. Getting my own spot
would be grand, but…well, that’s even more money. I dropped a bit on the
coffee stuff to try and get people in, but I’m not great with it.”
The coffee smelled strong, which Frances liked, but there was
something off about it, too, as she took a sip from the cup. She regretted the
sip almost instantly, doing her best to conceal the look on her face that she
knew was twisting into disgust. The coffee was so incredibly burned.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “Don’t feel you have to drink it. And no
charge.”
Oh, blast, she obviously hadn’t succeeded.
“No…no, it’s fine,” she said, smiling tightly.
Vincent shook his head. “I know it’s not. I really am no good with
this thing.”
He was gesturing to the espresso machine.
“You got hired as a barista, but you can’t make coffee?”
“I barely even drink it, and I’m not a barista––I’m the artist. The
coffee cart was intended as a secondary draw for people walking past, but
I’m afraid it just makes them regret buying things from me…”
 As she realized her assumption had been so wrong about this man,
Frances balked.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask.”
“It’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with being a barista,” he said.
“There’s something wrong with the way I do it, but I think that’s more a
lack of skill than anything else.”
Frances bit the inside of her lip, she didn’t want to overstep…was
this one of those situations where she should keep her knowledge to
herself? She was so bad at telling the difference. People didn’t always want
to be told how to do something properly, and men often took even greater
offense than women. She eyed Vincent. He didn’t seem like the sort to be
rude or condescending…
“I’m a bit of a coffee person,” she said. “You obviously know how
to work the machine, but would you like to know some tricks to make a, uh,
smoother espresso? And I can teach you how to steam the milk without,
well…”
She pointed to the milk jug that had scorched milk the color of
butterscotch clinging to the sides. The breath she held in anticipation eased
out as his face lit up instead of contracted.
“Oh, for real? Yeah! Definitely!”
 SIX

Frances stepped behind the coffee cart and took stock of the situation.
“Well, first of all, you’re overfilling the basket…” she said, pointing
at the gleaming silver want, “…that means that you’re compressing it too
much to fit it in the machine. You should get a measured grounds
dispenser…”
“Is that what this is?” Vincent asked, retreating to a stack of boxes
and withdrawing one labeled 12-gram Dose Press.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly one of those––the amount of coffee
you use is called a dose. So load your beans in there, and it will grind it,
then press the next lever, and it will put the right amount of grinds in. I feel
like that one will also tamp it down with the right amount of pressure.”
She had manually measured out one of her own into a clean basket
and inserted it into the machine.
“Look here. You want to notice the color of the extraction rather
than the time it’s taken to get there.”
They pottered around the setup for several more minutes, Vincent
taking notes and bringing out even more expensive equipment that he didn’t
know how to use and so had just ignored.
In fact, there were several total luxuries that she would have
considered too much work to have used at home, let alone in a professional
café situation. The next hour went remarkably smoothly, with Vincent
pulling several espresso shots that were far better than the one he had given
to Frances.
 They were focused on perfecting the latte swirl when a nasal voice
interrupted them.
“I believe your insurance doesn’t cover random members of the
public making food products for customers?”
Vincent turned to face the woman as fast as he could, but Frances
caught the gray look of dread and annoyance morph into a mask of
politeness.
“She’s not making anything for sale, and she’s not a random
member of the public. She’s a friend showing me how to do the wiggly line
you all like so much on top of your lattes.”
Despite only knowing Vincent an hour or so, Frances felt an odd
swelling of pride at hearing him refer to her as a friend––though she was
aware that he was probably just covering himself against a litigious local.
She turned as well, feeling that it wouldn’t be right to let Vincent
take the brunt of whatever this woman was going to throw at him.
“Absolutely, don’t worry about me. I haven’t actually made
anything. Just shown Vince the wrist tricks my old barista showed me
once,” she said brightly.
The woman looking back at her couldn’t have been much older than
her, but the energy she was giving out added a decade. Though she hadn’t
always been so aware of herself, Frances always tried not to be judgmental,
especially when it came to other women, but she had never seen someone
with such a strong––and unnecessary––resemblance to a bulldog. The
woman’s mouth was drawn down into such a strong frown that it formed a
genuinely unhappy arch, pushing her cheeks out to frame and enhance the
likeness. It seemed to be unnecessary as Frances was sure that the woman
would look perfectly fine without the expression. The sheer dislike and
barely concealed rage in her eyes solidified the negativity of the expression.
“I will worry about whatever I please. Do not presume to tell me
what to do.”
Resisting the urge to apologize, something twenty years in business
had taught her never to do without considering all your options first,
Frances smiled her friendliest smile and held up her hands in mock
surrender.
 “I wouldn’t presume to do so. I was only trying to reassure you that
there has been no infringement of guidelines here. I’ll leave you to order.”
With that said and no reply save a narrowing of the eyes from the
angry woman, Frances moved away to look at one of the paintings on the
far wall.
She knew that she couldn’t really afford to buy any artwork, nor did
she have the encase fry house to hang it in, but Vincent’s work was lovely.
It ranged from the quite abstract candle tree in the window to gentle
landscapes that made Frances want to breathe deeply and contemplate
something.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of color.
“Listen, I do––” a loud voice almost barked at her, startling out of
her reverie…
Frances jumped in surprise, turning to face the new color and
sounds––her shoulder connected hard with the hand of the angry woman
from the counter.
The hand holding a takeaway coffee cup.
They both exclaimed loudly as they reached to try and catch the
falling beverage simultaneously. Despite their valiant attempts, Frances
watched haplessly as the cup hit the floor, split open, and spilled a dark
black liquid across the blue-gray tiled floor.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” Frances replied, shocked.
“Were you actually born just to ruin my day? Or was it a calling you
found later in life?”
Every snappy, confident, and even cutting remark that Frances
wanted to throw back at this caricature of a woman dried up and turned to
dust in her throat. Instead of saying, 'what makes you think you can talk to
people like that’ or ‘imagine thinking you’re important enough to have a
predestined day-ruined?’ She choked. Literally choked on the words and
began to cough.
 “I’m sorry,” she said instinctively, covering her mouth. “Let me buy
you another one.”
Vincent had already made a move to approach the scene but spun on
his heel to get busy making the fastest double-shot latte of his life.
“You think you can just buy your way through life? You people with
your money. Don’t act like you’re better than everyone else just because
you ran away to some fancy Ivy League and paid a hundred thousand
dollars for some stuffy old guy to teach you about history you could find on
any search result page on the Internet.”
The rage-filled monologue got louder with every poorly stifled
cough from Frances. Doubly shocked by the woman’s twin outbursts, she
no longer even wanted to say anything witty or cutting. She just wanted to
understand what in the world was going on. She stared in silent amazement.
The rant was still going on when Vincent arrived with a fresh cup of coffee.
“Here you go, Kennedy,” he said. “Fresh, three sweeteners, oat
milk.”
This stopped her in her tracks. The woman, Kennedy apparently,
turned to look at him. She took the coffee roughly, did not say thank you,
and turned to leave. Frances watched as she paused outside the door and
took a sip, turning back to face them through the windows. Frances winced
through a half smile she hoped conveyed her apology and mortification
over having spilled the coffee. This woman must be having an absolutely
horrendous day to have reacted so strongly to something so minor––it
hadn’t even splattered on the woman’s shoes, from what she could tell.
All compassion evaporated as she made eye contact with the woman
mid-sip. She narrowed her eyes at Frances and slowly lowered the cup. In
one swift movement, she dumped the coffee in the trash can next to her. The
heavy thump they could hear even through the closed door told them both it
was still full.
“What…what just happened?” Frances said.
“That…” Vincent said, emerging from behind the wall of cardboard
boxes with a mop, “…was Ms. Kennedy Pine. The local councilor hates
tourists, hates every coffee I’ve ever made her but comes in here for her
lunchtime fix because…well, in her words, it’s always dead. So, yeah, she’s
a ray of sunshine.”
Frances stopped to pick up the paper cup and lid that had ruptured.
The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t tell why.
“Here, let me grab the bucket, or it’ll drip,” she said, brow furrowed
as she tried to place the name.
As Vincent returned with the mop bucket, he waved his hand at her.
“You don’t have to clean up. It was an accident.”
“Oh, stop. I’d be helping you if it was a random teenager who
dropped their Frappuccino double caramel on purpose. The fact that it was
me staring and flinging it across the room has nothing to do with it. I’m just
glad it didn't get on any of your work.”
The blank look on Vincent’s face made her laugh. He clearly knew
nothing about coffee at all.
“I don’t make whatever that is,” he said. “I don’t think I can even
remember what you just said.”
“It’s basically a milkshake with a shot of coffee in it, very tasty, but
dentists bully you if you drink too many.”
As she said the word bully, it all came flooding back. Kennedy Pine,
queen of Statesmen High. No wonder Frances felt like a kid being picked
on. She had actually been picked on by this girl as a kid.
“You ok?” Vincent asked.
“Yeah, I just remembered her,” she explained. “We went to high
school together. She was exactly like you’d imagine her to have been.”
Their eyes met, and she saw understanding in his expression. Funny
how people with similar life experiences tend to flock together even when
they don’t know they share them yet.
Frances felt her pocket vibrate and recognized the pattern as an
incoming call from the board.
“Sorry, excuse me, I have to take this,” she said.
“Frances Crawford,” she said in her calm business voice.
“Hi, Frances. It’s Veronica.”
 “How are you, Veronica?” Frances asked. Veronica was as close as
it got to a friend on the board.
“Well, I’m fine…” she said nervously, “…but we, uh, need to talk.”
 SEVEN

Frances stepped outside the door. The tone of voice was never something
you wanted to hear. Had Crawford Incorporated been sued, and was a major
investor just arrested? It could be anything.
“Well?” Frances pushed.
“Well, the thing is…” Veronica said, “…there’s a clause in your
contract…”
The cold rush of panic that had flooded her moments ago settled
into a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach.
“What clause?”
“The partnership, the shares, and your position on the board were all
contingent on a few things,” Veronica explained, her voice wavering. “No
compete, limited freelancing, capped––“
“I know that. What’s the problem?”
She heard the woman gulp so clearly that it was almost audible.
“Your marriage status…” she said, “…in all contracts that relate to
your personal stake in the corporation, you’re defined as the legal spouse of
Mr. Crawford.”
That stone was getting heavier in her stomach.
“So what? It’s clear that those contracts refer to me. I was his only
spouse…”
“Yes, but the protective clauses state that should you get a divorce,
your holdings are to be liquidated and your position dissolved.”
With her years of experience in risk management, negotiation, and
all levels of business dealings, Frances was accustomed to taking shock in
her stride––but this?
No.
Her tongue felt like it was too big for her mouth. She couldn’t form
words. The stone she felt in her stomach grew hot, and she thought she
would throw up.
“What?”
“Your position on the board doesn’t exist anymore…” Veronica said
sheepishly, “…and your shareholdings have been sold at market closing on
the day you signed the divorce papers…the company broker has already
organized it.”
“You can’t do that! Those are my shares, not the company’s!”
“Frances…you signed the release. There are standing instructions
with the broker; besides, it’s already done.”
Silence filled the phone call, and Frances could hear Veronica
fidgeting.
“I’m sorry, Frances, I didn’t know…I thought I should be the one to
tell you instead of Bob.”
A weird twinge of relief passed over her, adding to the nausea she
felt.
“That…That is appreciated. Veronica, is this already done?”
A pause made Frances dare to hope that she had a legal leg to stand
on if those shares were still in her name…
“It’s all completed. The letter from the holdings representative was
delivered by courier to your house today. When you weren’t there, well, I
got worried and wanted to call to make sure you were ok and…well, like I
said, Bob would have been the person the board would want to have this
conversation with you and…”
“That would have been even less fun than this conversation.”
“Sorry.”
The genuine regret in Veronica’s voice made Frances cringe. “No,
I’m sorry, you’re doing me a favor by telling me. Have…have you spoken
to…”
 No, she couldn’t bring herself to ask about him. How strange it was
to think that less than a week ago, they had thought nothing of calling every
few hours to check-in, and now she couldn’t even say his name to their
colleague.
“Mr. Jeremy?” Frances added quickly before Veronica could assume
she had meant her husband.
Her ex-husband.
“Yes, I have, and he is equally displeased by the action, but he can’t
see a way out for you. It’s done. You’re no longer part of Crawford
International.”
“Bye, Veronica, thanks.”
It was rude, but she didn’t care. She needed to not be talking to
anyone. Frances glanced over her shoulder at Vincent fussing around the
coffee machine. She couldn’t face explaining all this to him, but the idea of
going in and pretending everything was fine? No. That wouldn’t work.
Spinning on her heel, Frances marched down the street in the
opposite direction Kennedy Pine had taken––just in case.
How dare they do this to me?
She could feel herself getting angrier with every heavy thump of her
walking shoes on the pavement.
She was a founding partner, for Pete's sake.
A discarded soda can rattled in the wind, and Frances kicked at it,
missing.
Her last hope had been Mr. Jeremy, a contract lawyer with the firm
whose reputation of viciousness in the courtroom had saved them millions
over the years and if he thought there was no hope for her, then she really
was up the creek without a paddle.
A twinge of guilt made her pause. She turned and picked up the
soda can she had missed with her foot. Looking around, though, she
couldn’t see a trash can, and the last thing she really wanted to be doing was
carrying a filthy piece of trash around with her. In her search for somewhere
to deposit the can, she realized where she was and that she had seen a
recycling sign the other day.
 “Even better,” she said out loud.
Lucinda was right. She was always happier when she had a mission
to focus on––even if it was looking for a garbage can. It would take a lot
more than recycling to get her through this, though. A divorce she could
probably handle…probably. Having to find a new place, sure. She had been
resigned to having to move from her position at Crawford International
eventually but to have it forced on her? To be forcibly bought out in such a
conceptually dodgy way? Just the thought of it made her stomach twist.
The recycling station was ugly––blue painted metal, and a boring
governmental sign explaining the fines for littering. Frances rolled her eyes
and dumped the soda can inside. What a way to make people not want to
pay attention––make it look like there’s a cost to recycling.
It was Cherry Street that the station was located on, less than a
hundred yards from Lockwood’s candy shop. Peering up the street towards
the shop, Frances saw a small crowd around it. They seemed to be filing in
the side gate to the garden.
Cocking her head to one side, Frances wondered if the garden was
still the same as when she was a teenager. She and Alex had spent a good
many hours in that backyard playing as kids, then hanging out when they
became teenagers and thought they were far too cool to play anymore.
The sign in the street said, ‘Inspections Welcome,’ so why not go
and inspect? It would be grounding, she decided, and definitely not sticking
her head in the sand and ignoring what just happened.
 EIGHT

The garden was not what she remembered at all. Her heart sank as she
absentmindedly took the pamphlet handed to her by the land agent.
“Name?”
Frances barely heard them––the grass was dead, and patches of dirt
showed through the worst spots.
“Frances Crawford,” she said on autopilot.
Wooden pallets piled with trash lined the back fence, the same back
fence she and Alex had hopped over to get to their first party where there
would be beer.
Far too young, she thought.
“Address?”
“Huh? Why do you need my address?”
The land agent all but rolled his eyes. “Because a lot of time wasters
come to these things, and having a bit of accountability is usually enough to
scare off nosy jerks just coming for a snoop.”
So much for inspections. Welcome. It seemed much more like
‘inspections tolerated at best.’
“So, are you here to participate?”
Seriously, what kind of customer service was this? He wasn’t
wrong, she guessed. She was there to snoop, after all. However, she did not
want him to know that or admit to it in front of the large crowd waiting for
her to finish up. So instead, she nodded in what she hoped was an
understanding way and gave her address.
“Great, thanks. Have you been to a liquidation auction before?”
 Had he asked the other people coming in these questions? Frances
wanted to lie and say yes, but if she was honest, it would be good to
understand a little more about real estate in general before she had to figure
it out back in LA.
“No…” she said, “…the first time.”
“Page four. Move on in so I can get these other people checked in.”
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she smiled and moved on. So
much for helping her out.
The crowd was gathering around a small podium where a tall
woman with a shock of gold-tinged coiled hair piled on top of her head
stood, flicking through paper notes. Her deep brown skin was perfectly
complemented by the gorgeous blue suit she wore, and Frances found
herself wanting to ask where the woman got it before realizing that she
probably shouldn’t be buying more clothes considering her current
situation.
“So, first timer, huh?”
A male voice next to her startled her.
“Little jumpy, isn’t she?” a second male voice said.
“Excuse me?”
She cringed internally––how many times would she say that today?
“Just that amateurs don’t usually do too well at their first big
business decision…” the first guy said, “…especially women.”
Anger flared in her stomach, and she opened her mouth to respond
when the first man butted in.
“Now, now, that’s not fair,” he said. “I think I could name a woman
or two that have made a good business choice!”
She had dealt with this her entire career, though it was usually so
boldfaced. She wanted to tell them about her accomplishments, her
billionaire clients, her––
Well, she didn’t have a board publicly traded company anymore…
due to her not taking contracts as seriously as she should have when she got
married.
 Her words were gone. Plus, she knew from men like this that the
best way to irritate them was to not reply at all. So instead, she rolled her
eyes and flicked open her brochure to read page four.
Apparently, the owner had gone into administration and was selling
their assets to service their loans, though, after the sale, the property
wouldn’t retain any of those debts. Was that a thing that happened? She
shook her head, hating that she was as lost as those guys next to her thought
she was. About this stuff, anyway.
The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and people started to quiet
down.
At the front of the crowd, the woman with incredible hair and suit
started talking, introducing the property and the valuation placed on it.
Frances listened as she listed the structural work and the title details. It was
all very complicated, but she thought she had it mostly figured out.
The bidding started laughably low. Why weren’t people bidding?
She looked around, confused but trying to hide it from the lackeys
beside her.
A low voice beside her whispered, “No one wants to start this low
because it might make people think they’re keen.”
Turning, she saw a well-dressed man with a flashy suit tailored to
within an inch of his life.
“Oh, that makes sense,” she said. “No one wants to be the first to
bid?”
“No. A lot of us think it’s bad luck,” he said with a smile.
He broke off eye contact and glanced at someone who had just
raised their paddle. Frances looked as well. The number in hers was
different. She realized that this was their answer to paddles. Her bidder
number was 1007. What were the chances of that, she wondered. The
seventh of October was her mom’s birthday. She smiled and moved to tell
the polite guy next to her the coincidence, but his hand snapped into the air.
Apparently, being second-bidder wasn’t bad luck.
The men next to her were bidding now and whispering between
themselves.
 She twisted to try and hear them.
“Yeah, it’s the first in a series, grab this junk heap and flatten it…”
he said, “…work on some of the surrounding owners and see how many we
can get to give. I know he’s looking to acquire most of this street if
possible.”
Cold dread settled around her shoulders, and the familiar feeling of
putting a scheme together crept up on her. She usually loved this feeling,
but knocking Lockwood’s store down?
“Even though there’s nothing else for sale?” the second asked the
one who had made the quip about only knowing one or two women.
Frances looked away to let them think she hadn’t heard anything,
anger building in her stomach as she listened to them talk.
“Not now, but when there’s construction day and night? When they
get offered a good little chunk of cash for their tiny one-bedroom? They’ll
come around. They always do.”
No. She couldn’t let that happen.
The auctioneer was talking at a million miles a minute, but Frances
raised her paddle, and the woman changed her sentence.
“New bidder 1007, do we have a counter? Yes, we do! 1005––
countered on the phone 1016––“
“Don’t play games, young lady,” the bigger guy said with a sneer.
“You might run up your husband's credit card.”
Instead of saying anything, she bid again.
The polite one leaned in and said, “Don’t let them bait you. This
place is a lot of work. You might not want that much renovation.”
She wasn’t going to buy the place…was she?
The big guy of the duo raised his paddle again, raising the price
another thousand. Didn’t small increments mean bidding was coming to a
conclusion usually? She was sure she remembered that from an episode of
Let’s Move. If the last bid was on him, then Lockwood’s place would be
torn down, and other families would be pressured to sell…
She raised her paddle, swallowing hard.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Mlle de Trivières avait négligé d’allumer l’électricité tant elle était
pressée de lire sa lettre aux derniers reflets du jour.
Il faisait complètement nuit quand elle eut achevé sa lecture ;
malgré l’obscurité, elle demeura longtemps à cette place, le front
appuyé à la vitre du jardin où les branches des lilas tournoyaient en
gémissant sous les rafales du vent.
Un quart d’heure plus tard, entendant sonner la cloche du dîner,
elle s’éveilla comme d’un songe, baigna longuement ses yeux rougis
et descendit au salon.
En voyant entrer sa fille, Mme de Trivières lui dit d’un ton sec :
— Tu t’es fait attendre, Diane. Je désirais te parler avant le dîner.
Maintenant il est trop tard.
— C’est inutile, maman. Je n’ai plus besoin d’entendre ce que
vous aviez à me dire…
— Comment, c’est inutile ! Tu profites de la faiblesse de ton
tuteur à ton égard pour me faire arracher mon consentement à un
mariage ridicule et tu ne t’inquiètes pas de connaître ma réponse !
Tu t’imagines sans doute que je vais m’estimer très heureuse de
donner ma fille et ses millions à un intrigant qui devait savoir
parfaitement en te faisant la cour que…
— Ma mère ! interrompit la jeune fille.
Son cri était si douloureux qu’on eût dit que ces paroles l’avaient
blessée.
La marquise remarqua alors les traits bouleversés de sa fille.
Celle-ci, pour toute réponse, lui tendit un papier d’un geste brisé.
— Voyez, lisez, dit Diane d’une voix contenue, comme vous avez
peu sujet de l’accuser…
Quand Mme de Trivières eut fini la lecture de la lettre, elle resta
un moment sans rien dire, la feuille entre les mains, confondue par
la preuve d’un désintéressement qui lui avait paru impossible.
Puis, par l’effet d’un de ces revirements dont elle était
coutumière, la marquise courut à sa fille qu’elle prit entre ses bras et,
appuyant la belle tête brune sur son épaule, elle la baisa avec
tendresse.
— Dianette, ma chérie, dit-elle, retrouvant l’appellation qu’elle lui
donnait dans son enfance, pourquoi n’as-tu pas eu confiance en ta
mère ? Pourquoi ne m’as-tu pas parlé plus tôt ?
— Oh ! maman, vous aviez toujours tant de choses à penser ! Et
puis, savais-je moi-même avant-hier que nous en arriverions là ?…
Vous m’aviez permis d’aller chez sa grand’mère. C’est là que je l’ai
rencontré…
— Et tu lui as écrit pendant un an sans que je m’en doute ?
— Moi non plus, maman, je vous assure.
Je croyais écrire à Hubert ; vous-même m’aviez donné l’adresse.
— C’est vrai ! C’est ton original de tuteur qui est cause de tout
avec ses idées romanesques. Il a bien réussi ! Et nous voilà bien
avancées ! Tu n’épouseras pas son neveu, dont tu ne voudrais
pas… et tu n’épouseras pas davantage ce monsieur qui ne veut plus
de toi…
Te refuser, toi, ma fille ! Cela, c’est trop fort. Ce petit lieutenant a
bien de l’audace !
— Mais, maman, vous lui reprochiez tout à l’heure d’oser
prétendre à ma main et vous lui reprochez maintenant de se retirer !
— Tiens ! ne parlons plus de tout cela ! Je me suis déjà mise en
colère avec ton tuteur. Oh ! je ne lui ai pas caché ma façon de
penser. C’est assez pour un jour. Allons dîner.
Que dirais-tu d’un petit voyage à Vauclair ? Nous serons bientôt à
Pâques.
— Oh ! oui, oui. Allons-nous-en, partons d’ici… Et à Vauclair plus
qu’ailleurs.
J’y retrouverai mes malades, mes occupations. Cela
m’empêchera de trop penser, de trop me souvenir…
Et elle ajouta en elle-même :
« De trop souffrir… »
 CHAPITRE III

Le printemps à Vauclair.
Un printemps coupé d’averses, de gelées, de rafales, mais le
printemps quand même.
Autour de l’hôpital, les crocus et les primevères apparaissaient
sous l’herbe mouillée, les premières violettes sortaient leurs boutons
corsetées de vert tendre et, dans les parterres du château, les beaux
lis blancs, au cœur d’or, sonnaient les alléluias triomphants des
dimanches de Pâques.
Diane de Trivières passait indifférente aux merveilles du
renouveau ; elle ne regardait qu’en elle-même.
Elle y retrouvait sans cesse l’image mélancolique de deux yeux
fiers au regard pénétrant.
Malgré qu’elle eût repris ses multiples occupations d’infirmière,
qu’elle eût revu avec plaisir son œuvre agrandie, en plein essor, rien
ne parvenait à rompre le sortilège malfaisant qui retenait son âme
enchaînée dans un cercle de sombres pensées.
Comme autrefois, elle allait encore du château à l’hôpital aux
mêmes heures ; sa blouse blanche passait dix fois par jour le long
des salles qu’elle inspectait d’un œil vigilant, mais, comme le disait
Rose avec tristesse :
« C’était mademoiselle et ce n’était plus elle : on croyait qu’elle
était là, mais son cœur n’y était plus ! »
Quant à Mme Rose Plisson, elle y était bien certainement et
plutôt deux fois qu’une !
Sa petite personne était devenue fort encombrante, mais on
comprenait que c’était par une cause momentanée.
 Sa figure brunie par les intempéries, ses joues fraîches et
rebondies, ses bras potelés, ne rappelaient que de très loin
l’ouvrière parisienne, la petite fleur du pavé de Montmartre, mièvre et
pâle.
Aujourd’hui, c’était l’églantine des bois, dont le parfum était la
franche gaieté qu’elle répandait autour d’elle, et il était clair que la
fleur épanouie allait porter son bouton.
L’événement arriva précisément une nuit du commencement
d’avril, pendant le séjour des châtelains à Vauclair.
On prévint au matin Mlle de Trivières de la naissance du bébé.
Avant d’entrer à l’hôpital, Diane alla faire une petite visite à sa
protégée.
C’était touchant de voir les précautions que prenait Victor pour
éviter de frapper le plancher avec sa jambe de bois.
Il avait l’air d’un gros corbeau sautillant et maladroit, lorsqu’il
essayait de glisser sur un seul pied en se rattrapant à l’armoire qui
gémissait sous son poids, ou lorsqu’il prenait dans ses grosses
mains le fragile fardeau… Rose le suivait des yeux avec inquiétude
et le suppliait, au nom du ciel, de s’asseoir et de ne rien faire.
Diane trouva la jeune maman allongée, son bébé dans ses bras.
C’était un joli spectacle de la voir à demi soulevée sur son lit
blanc, ses mains pâles sortant de sa camisole festonnée et ses
cheveux bouffants emprisonnés dans un coquet bonnet orné d’un
ruban bleu.
Quand nous disons : « ses cheveux », il est bien entendu que les
frisettes font exception.
Ces folles bouclettes se moquaient de toutes les barrières et de
toutes les prisons. Elles s’épanouissaient sur l’oreiller, s’en donnant
à cœur joie de sautiller de droite et de gauche ! Ici, du côté du papa,
là-bas du côté du bébé, elles formaient, autour du front de Rose, une
charmante auréole, qui accompagnait sa rayonnante maternité.
— Mademoiselle, dit la lingère, je vous avais promis un filleul,
mais ce sera pour une autre fois ! Il faudra vous contenter d’une
filleule.
— Je suis très contente d’avoir une filleule, répondit Diane. Nous
profiterons de ce que je suis à Vauclair pour la baptiser. Avez-vous
arrêté un nom ?
Cette question s’adressait aussi bien au père qu’à la mère.
Ceux-ci se regardèrent l’un l’autre, en souriant.
— Justement, nous en causions et nous nous disputions pour ce
nom quand mademoiselle est entrée.
Victor voulait à toute force qu’elle s’appelle Rose, comme moi. Il
disait, ce grand nigaud, — n’écoute pas, tourne-toi ! — il disait qu’il
n’y aurait jamais trop de Rose Perrin et que, de cette façon-là, ça lui
en ferait deux !
— Il n’y a plus de Rose Perrin, dit Diane.
— Oh ! pourtant, mademoiselle, fit la jeune femme en baissant la
voix, à ma connaissance il y en a déjà eu deux : que mademoiselle
se rappelle !
— Ne parlons plus de cela ; c’est du temps passé !
Et vous ? Comment désirez-vous appeler votre fille ?
— Moi, je voudrais l’appeler comme son père ; cela ferait
Victorine ; c’est un joli nom !
Mlle de Trivières fit la moue, puis elle décida :
— Puisque je suis la marraine, il me semble que j’ai voix au
chapitre. Voulez-vous que nous la baptisions Victoire. C’est un beau
nom de guerre.
Rose battit des mains, au risque de réveiller le poupon.
— Victoire ! c’est très joli. Qu’en dis-tu, Totor ?
Totor était le petit nom d’amitié de Rose à son mari.
L’ex-soldat souriait béatement en approuvant de la tête. Il n’était
guère plus habile à faire des phrases qu’à glisser sur le parquet sans
sa jambe de bois ; mais il était bien heureux, c’était évident ; il voulait
tout ce que voulait sa petite femme ; c’était à elle de décider…
 — Allons ! mademoiselle Victoire, dit Rose, en tournant le bébé
du côté de Diane, regardez votre marraine, votre belle marraine,
vous pouvez en être fière ! Ça n’est pas comme… — elle jeta un
coup d’œil du côté de Victor — comme certaines personnes qui ont
des marraines à revendre, des marraines à la douzaine ; tu n’en
auras qu’une, toi, ma jolie, mais une bonne et une belle !
A cet instant, le papa de la jeune Victoire fut pris d’une quinte de
toux qui l’obligea d’aller prendre l’air sur le seuil de la porte.
Pendant qu’il se calmait, Diane dit d’un ton de reproche :
— Je croyais, Rose, que vous lui aviez pardonné. Pourquoi
réveillez-vous les mauvais souvenirs ?
— Oh ! il faut qu’il se souvienne, mademoiselle. J’ai pardonné,
oui, c’est vrai. Mais, quand on a été trompée une fois, il n’y a plus la
même confiance !… Non, non, il faut qu’il se souvienne.
— Ne vous agitez pas. Je vais dire à votre mari de rentrer et je
me dépêche d’aller à l’hôpital. Vous recevrez, ce soir ou demain, un
petit cadeau pour ma filleule.
Victor entrait à ce moment, osant à peine regarder du côté du lit,
mais Rose eut un geste vers lui, avec un sourire si doux qu’il
s’avança sans nul égard pour le tac-tac de sa jambe de bois.
Avant de sortir, Mlle de Trivières eut le temps de le voir mettre un
baiser maladroit entre les boucles folles, un baiser timide qui
sollicitait un pardon que le sourire de Rose avait accordé d’avance.
Et Diane tira la porte avec un soupir sur ce joli bonheur qui était à
moitié son œuvre.
Elle prit lentement l’allée des sapins. Une buée obscurcissait ses
yeux.
Même cet humble bonheur ne serait point à sa portée ! Elle
haïssait sa fortune qui, d’une façon comme de l’autre, la privait du
seul bien dont son cœur souffrait le besoin.
« Je ne me marierai pas, se dit-elle. Je me consacrerai aux
œuvres, à mon hôpital, aux enfants abandonnés… Puisque ma
fortune m’empêche d’être heureuse, je leur donnerai tout…, tout ! »
 Elle monta comme à l’ordinaire dans la salle vaste et claire où les
malades la regardaient passer dans un silence respectueux ainsi
qu’une lumineuse apparition.
Après son passage, ce jour-là, ils firent entre eux la réflexion que
mademoiselle avait l’air moins triste. Elle les avait regardés avec une
expression très douce, toute nouvelle, et cela les consola un peu de
ne pas voir apparaître la frimousse de Rose, qui chassait toujours la
mélancolie, et de ne plus entendre sa voix fausse qui égrenait, dans
les escaliers et les couloirs, le refrain du Temps des cerises.
Mlle de Trivières se donna chaque jour davantage à sa tâche
charitable.
Elle voulait contraindre son mal à céder, à se fondre dans la
douceur de se donner, de n’être plus que la sœur compatissante des
êtres souffrants, des mutilés de la gloire.
Elle y réussissait à de certaines heures. Mais à d’autres, quand
la solitude la rendait à la vie intérieure, elle retrouvait sa peine aussi
cuisante, son fardeau aussi lourd ; et elle se demandait avec effroi si
elle devrait vivre ainsi des années dans l’amertume de stériles
regrets.
Dans cette lutte secrète où l’âme de la jeune fille s’anoblissait en
se purifiant, son corps perdait de ses forces. Le sommeil fiévreux,
l’appétit languissant, Diane changeait de jour en jour d’une manière
très sensible.
La marquise de Trivières, dont la tendresse maternelle avait été
mise en éveil, remarquait ce changement et s’en désolait.
L’expression résignée du beau visage, les cernes bleus qu’elle
remarquait sous les grands yeux tristes remplissaient la mère
d’inquiétudes qu’elle voulait dissimuler.
Connaissant sa fille pour ce qu’elle était, si absolue dans ses
sentiments, si ferme dans ses volontés, la marquise se demandait si
elle n’eût pas mieux fait d’aider de tout son pouvoir à la réalisation
de ce mariage, y consentir du moins de bon cœur, au lieu de se
réjouir secrètement de la défection du jeune homme.
 C’était trop tard !
Les tourments qui dévoraient Diane avaient encore d’autres
causes que son amour déçu.
Bien qu’elle eût pris la résolution d’éviter tout ce qui pouvait la
ramener au souvenir d’Hervé, elle suivait avec un tremblement les
communiqués de la guerre se rapportant à l’offensive de
Champagne.
Elle lisait chaque matin la liste des tués ou disparus, tremblant
d’y voir le nom du lieutenant de Kéravan. Elle savait que son
régiment prenait part à l’attaque déclenchée entre Soissons et
Reims.
Les mots des communiqués relatifs à cette partie du front étaient
les seuls qu’elle voyait. « Le Chemin des Dames, le mont Cornillet,
Moronvilliers », ces noms se détachaient sur les autres en lettres
capitales, et le cœur de la jeune fille battait à soubresauts violents,
tandis qu’elle songeait : « Il était ici, il a marché à l’assaut en avant
de ses hommes, il a dû traverser ces tirs de barrage meurtriers, c’est
lui qui a pris cette tranchée, qui a poursuivi l’ennemi en déroute,
sous un déluge de balles, dans des flots de sang… Hervé ! » Son
amour s’exaltait à ces visions.
Et le pire était encore de ne rien savoir.
Sans être ni épouse, ni mère, ni fiancée, elle vivait la vie
angoissée de celles qui attendaient en tremblant, dont l’espoir
vacillant était à la merci d’une lettre… d’une nouvelle.
Un matin, qu’auprès de Rose convalescente, non loin du chalet,
Diane causait avec la jeune femme assise sous le gros chêne, Rose
tenait son enfant sur ses genoux et surveillait de loin son mari
occupé devant le chalet. Celui-ci, grimpé à une échelle — par quel
miracle d’équilibre ? — debout sur un seul pied, taillait les clématites
et le rosier de la façade.
Rose dit à mi-voix :
— Il va tomber… c’est sûr ! Et après, comment fera-t-on pour le
ramasser ? Mademoiselle l’entend siffler d’ici ? C’est qu’il est
content ! Il a reçu ce matin une lettre d’un camarade de son
régiment. Ça lui a fait plaisir d’avoir des nouvelles.
Mlle de Trivières avait des raisons personnelles pour s’intéresser
au régiment de Victor, puisque c’était le même que celui de certain
lieutenant.
— Quelles nouvelles a-t-il reçues de son régiment ? A-t-il été très
éprouvé ? Était-il aux dernières affaires ?
— Oh ! oui, mademoiselle ! Et ils ont joliment écopé !… Pardon !
c’est des mots de Paris qui me reviennent… Il paraît que c’est leur
régiment qui est entré le premier dans Noyon, pour en chasser les
Boches ; et ils les ont poursuivis jusqu’à une autre ville qu’on appelle
Ham… Il dit, ce camarade de Victor, que c’est un lieutenant de sa
compagnie, un grand, qui a planté le drapeau français sur une
forteresse qu’il y a là et, à cause de cela, on a donné à tout le
régiment le droit de porter la fourragère. Victor m’a expliqué que
c’est un cordon vert et rouge avec des aiguillettes d’or au bout qu’ils
portent sur l’épaule… Et je me demandais si Victor aurait le droit de
la porter, lui qui n’y était pas. Il est vrai qu’aussi, il aurait pu y être, et
qu’il ne serait pas arrivé le dernier !
Rose se rengorgeait d’orgueil ; elle prit sa fille pour l’allaiter.
Une question brûlait les lèvres de Diane. Elle ne pouvait se
décider à parler.
— Seulement, continua Rose, il en est resté sur le terrain ! Ah !
mademoiselle, c’est le cas de dire qu’on ne fait pas d’omelette sans
casser des œufs !… Il dit qu’il n’en est revenu pour ainsi dire pas !…
surtout les officiers.
— Quelques-uns, pourtant ?
— Oui, plus ou moins abîmés. Il n’y a que le lieutenant de
Louvigny, un ancien de mon mari, qui n’a rien eu ; mais, lui… ses
soldats disent qu’il est « verni ». Ils l’aiment bien.
Celui qu’ils aiment le mieux c’est un Breton.
Justement, m’a dit Victor, celui qui a planté le drapeau sur le fort.
— Comment se nomme-t-il ?
 — Le lieutenant de Ki… Kér… enfin, un nom breton dans ce
genre-là !
— De Kéravan, peut-être ?
— Oui, mademoiselle, Kéravan, c’est bien ça ! Le pauvre jeune
homme ! C’était un brave, mais il l’a payé cher !
— Comment cela ? Est-ce qu’il est… il est ?
— Mort ? S’il ne l’est pas à cette heure-ci, il n’en vaut guère
mieux ! Le camarade dit qu’il a reçu un éclat d’obus dans la tête et
un autre dans le côté… On ne sait pas s’il est mort ou vivant.
Diane se leva ; elle manquait d’air.
Elle essaya de marcher, ses oreilles bourdonnaient. Tout à coup
ses jambes fléchirent et elle tomba à la renverse avec un cri étouffé.
— Victor ! Victor ! cria Rose, appelle vite la sœur des Anges.
Mademoiselle vient de se trouver mal.
Une heure plus tard, Mlle de Trivières, transportée au château,
voyant au pied de son lit la marquise en larmes, lui dit doucement :
— Maman, ne pleurez pas…, venez près de moi.
Voyez-vous, la vie est si triste que je voudrais mourir. Au ciel on
ne doit plus souffrir !
— Diane, mon enfant adorée, que dis-tu ?
Si tu te sentais malade, pourquoi ne me l’as-tu pas dit plus tôt ?
La jeune fille secoua la tête tristement.
— Je ne me sens pas malade… J’ai de la peine.
— Je le sais, ma Dianette, toujours la même cause. Mais, mon
Dieu ! qu’y faire ?
— Rose ne vous a pas dit ce qu’elle venait de m’apprendre, là-
bas, tout à l’heure ?
— Non, elle a dit seulement que vous parliez de la guerre et que
tu t’étais trouvée mal tout à coup.
— Rose venait de dire qu’« il » a été blessé, mortellement
blessé… Oh ! maman… je voudrais savoir.
 — Nous le saurons, ma Dianette, je t’en supplie, reste calme ! Je
vais faire rechercher où ce jeune homme a été soigné. Bon ami est à
Paris, il s’informera… Je lui écris à l’instant…
— Vous ne me cacherez rien ?
— Non, à la condition que tu seras courageuse.
Tiens, voici ce bon docteur qui vient te voir.
Bonjour, docteur ! je vous attendais avec impatience.
Le vieux médecin de Vauclair, qui avait vu naître la jeune fille,
comprit à demi-mot ce qu’on ne lui disait point.
De l’anémie, de la tension nerveuse, des points au cœur ; il
prescrivit beaucoup de calme, une potion et des distractions.
Il partit en affirmant à la marquise qu’il ne voyait rien d’inquiétant
dans l’état actuel de sa fille, mais que, cependant, il serait prudent
de ne pas laisser se prolonger cette situation.
Mme de Trivières écrivit au général d’Antivy pour le prier
instamment de faire toutes les recherches possibles afin de
retrouver les traces du lieutenant de Kéravan.
Elle terminait en disant : « Et quand vous aurez retrouvé ce jeune
homme, cet oiseau rare qui se permet de refuser deux millions et
une fille comme la mienne, j’espère, général, que vous saurez lui
faire entendre — si le pauvre garçon est toujours de ce monde ! —
qu’il se doit au bonheur de cette enfant dont il s’est fait aimer…
Hélas ! où est le temps où vous compariez Diane à certaine idole
hindoue !… Elle souffre maintenant d’avoir le cœur trop sensible, oui,
trop sensible !… Ma pauvre chérie, général, elle vous ferait pitié !
Prévenez-nous vite par un mot si vous avez des nouvelles. »
Dans la soirée, la malade reçut une autre visite qui lui fit du bien.
Ce fut celle du bon curé de Vauclair, qui venait, de lui-même,
prendre des nouvelles, ayant appris l’indisposition de Diane par le
médecin.
C’était un prêtre rustique dont la simplicité n’excluait point une
grande finesse naturelle et une connaissance approfondie des âmes
qu’il avait puisée dans son long sacerdoce.
 Celle de cette jeune fille, qu’il avait jugée longtemps énigmatique,
l’avait, depuis un an, rempli d’étonnement d’abord, puis d’une
profonde admiration.
Pas à pas, il avait suivi son évolution, et il avait été heureux de
constater dans cette âme pure, mais longtemps fermée à la charité,
une floraison éclatante de vertus que la guerre avait fait éclore.
Suivant avec intérêt le développement de l’œuvre de la Biche-au-
Bois, il s’en était institué l’aumônier volontaire et il n’était guère de
jour où il ne passât y faire une petite visite.
Sa conversation fit le plus grand bien à Diane, qui passa une
soirée et une nuit assez calmes.
Le lendemain, vers midi, Mme de Trivières reçut un télégramme
ainsi conçu :

« Trivières. Vauclair. Sarthe.

« Mea culpa. Commence recherches. Aurez bientôt nouvelles. —
d’Antivy. »
 CHAPITRE IV

Jacques de Trivières était venu attendre sa mère et sa sœur à la

sortie de la gare Montparnasse.
Très grand dans son costume de saint-cyrien, il s’était
étonnamment fortifié durant son année d’école. Ses traits avaient
pris une expression virile que complétaient son regard sérieux et sa
fière tenue.
La génération des hommes très jeunes, au début du plus
effroyable cataclysme qu’aura connu l’humanité, a été mûrie par les
circonstances.
Les préoccupations qui s’agitent sous les fronts de vingt ans sont
si différentes de celles que connurent leurs aînés, qu’on peut dire
que cette époque aura vu des adolescents posséder le jugement et
le tranquille courage des hommes faits, tandis que des jeunes
hommes ont acquis l’expérience de vieillards.
En voyant paraître Diane auprès de sa mère, dans son costume
de voyage en drap sombre qui accusait sa pâleur, Jacques fut
frappé du changement qui s’était opéré en sa sœur depuis leur
dernière rencontre.
Il s’en inquiéta, mais la jeune fille répondit hâtivement qu’elle
n’était pas malade, qu’elle se portait très bien et s’informa de suite
si, depuis sa sortie, le saint-cyrien avait revu leur tuteur.
Jacques l’avait manqué la veille, étant allé chez lui pendant que
le général se présentait à l’hôtel de Trivières et demandait ces
dames.
— Il n’a rien laissé pour nous ?
— Il a laissé dire qu’il reviendrait demain matin et a paru content
d’apprendre que vous rentriez ce soir.
 Après une nuit passée dans l’anxiété, Mlle de Trivières se leva
avec la certitude que cette journée ne s’écoulerait point sans lui
apporter la réponse qu’elle désirait et redoutait à la fois.
Vers dix heures, le général se fit annoncer. La marquise n’était
pas encore sortie de sa chambre.
Diane descendit seule au salon.
Quand il la vit paraître, mince et blanche comme un lis, son
visage torturé par la pensée intérieure qui brûlait comme une flamme
dans ses yeux ardents, le vieillard lui trouva une physionomie
tragique, un air de douleur résignée, dont la grâce touchante lui alla
au cœur et le remplit de remords.
Pour un peu, il se fût pris pour un assassin en face de sa victime.
Il vint à elle, lui saisit les mains, mais elle ne le laissa pas parler.
— Vous savez… bon ami ?
— Oui, je l’ai retrouvé.
— Vivant ?
— Vivant !
Si le général avait encore douté des sentiments de sa pupille, il
les eût compris à ce moment.
Il la conduisit à un fauteuil, car elle se soutenait avec peine.
Elle dit très bas et vite :
— Parlez ! parlez, bon ami ! Est-il gravement blessé ? où est-il ?
— Il est ici, à Paris. Oui, son état est très grave. Mais… Allons !
allons ! ma petite fille, fit l’excellent homme, en tapotant les cheveux
de Diane qui pleurait sur son épaule, sois forte, que diable !
Comment pourrai-je te dire le reste, si tu…
— Le reste ? Ce n’est pas tout ?
Le général ne répondit pas.
Comme lorsqu’il était ému, il fit un tour dans le salon, les bras
croisés derrière le dos, l’air sombre.
 Enfin, il eut pitié des grands yeux qui renfonçaient leurs larmes
pour l’interroger.
Il revint à la jeune fille, et lui prenant de nouveau les mains, il les
serra avec force.
— Diane, mon enfant, puis-je compter que tu seras plus qu’une
femme courageuse…, que tu auras la fermeté d’un homme ?…
Ses lèvres blanches articulèrent avec peine :
— Oui, bon ami !
— Eh bien ! va mettre un chapeau. Je t’emmène ; nous allons le
voir !
Diane jeta un petit cri qui était presque de joie et retrouva des
forces pour courir à la porte.
— Et maman ? dit-elle en se retournant.
— Je préfère que tu viennes seule d’abord ; ta mère viendra plus
tard… si tu le désires.
L’auto roulait vers un quartier lointain de Paris : Cours-la-Reine,
le long du fleuve tranquille, boulevard Saint-Germain, où Diane
s’étonna de voir des gens à l’air paisible marcher, parler sans émoi,
alors que son cœur, à elle, battait à lui faire mal.
Maintenant la rapide voiture montait la pente du boulevard Saint-
Michel jusqu’à une petite rue que Diane reconnut : la rue du Val-de-
Grâce, avec l’hôpital militaire de face, au fond.
Tandis qu’ils descendaient cette rue, le général, qui n’avait guère
parlé pendant le trajet, dit, avec inquiétude, en regardant les yeux
secs et brillants de sa pupille :
— Tu seras courageuse ? Tu sauras maîtriser tes nerfs ? Je l’ai
vu hier. Je connais son état. Souviens-toi qu’il n’est pas hors de
danger, et qu’une émotion trop violente le tuerait…
Diane baissa la tête sans répondre.
Le général ajouta :
— Ce que nous faisons-là était défendu… Il ne devrait voir
absolument personne !
 Mais, à cause de toi, j’ai insisté auprès du médecin en chef. On
nous permet d’entrer pour dix minutes seulement.
Ils descendirent devant la grille.
Diane se souvint de l’avoir franchie une autre fois au côté de
l’officier, du héros, qui, peut-être à cette minute, agonisait derrière
ces murs.
Déjà un an. Comme ses sentiments pour lui avaient changé !…
Mais non, il lui parut qu’elle l’avait toujours aimé ; elle ne se
souvenait plus de rien de ce qui n’était pas lui.
Appuyée au bras de son tuteur, elle se laissa guider à travers les
couloirs compliqués ; ils arrivèrent enfin devant une salle dont elle
reconnut l’entrée.
C’était celle où Diane avait entrevu le malheureux Jacquet, le
camarade d’Hervé.
Elle croyait comprendre la nature de son mal. Si on l’avait mis
dans cette salle où l’on soignait les maladies de la face, c’est qu’il
était défiguré.
C’était cela que bon ami redoutait pour elle ; pour cela qu’il lui
recommandait du courage ! Ah ! qu’était-ce auprès de la douleur de
le perdre pour toujours !
Qu’il vécût seulement !
Qu’importait la beauté de son visage si son cœur n’avait point
changé !
Mais Hervé n’était pas dans cette salle.
Bon ami alla un peu plus loin. Il s’arrêta devant une petite porte
vitrée recouverte à l’intérieur par un rideau blanc.
Là ils durent parlementer.
M. d’Antivy présenta à l’infirmier une carte d’admission écrite de
la main du major-chef. L’infirmier s’inclina et tourna doucement le
bouton de la porte.
Le général dit à voix basse :
— Veux-tu entrer seule ? Si tu le préfères, je t’attendrai.
 — Peut-il me comprendre ? Me reconnaîtra-t-il ? demanda-t-elle.
— Oui, madame, répondit l’infirmier. Il n’y a que douze jours qu’il
a été trépané ; il ne parle presque pas, mais il reconnaît ; il y voit un
peu. Surtout, ne restez pas longtemps et appelez-moi si quelque
choc n’allait pas.
Diane se tourna vers son tuteur :
— J’entre seule… Voulez-vous m’attendre ?
Le regard qu’elle jeta à son vieil ami était si beau d’espoir, de
tendresse, de pitié, que ce dernier, pourtant bronzé par des mois de
campagne, se détourna soudain vers la petite fenêtre ouvrant sur les
jardins et ne put prendre sur lui de retourner la tête tout le temps que
dura la visite.
Diane s’était glissée sans bruit dans la chambre presque
obscure.
Le lit étroit, tout blanc, faisait tache au fond.
Elle s’en approcha en retenant son souffle.
Le silence l’oppressait et aussi la vue de ce long corps étendu,
dont elle ne voyait que deux mains exsangues, aussi pâles que le
drap, et le bas du visage immobile dont toute la partie élevée
disparaissait sous des linges.
A voir cette immobilité, elle se crut en présence d’un cadavre.
Était-il vraiment mort ?
Le lui avait-on caché jusqu’à ce moment ?
Non… une telle cruauté ! Bon ami n’aurait pas fait cela !
Elle éprouvait le besoin de se rassurer et, n’osant appeler, elle
toucha légèrement la main du blessé.
Il fit un mouvement. Elle respira.
Puis il se tourna un peu, très peu de son côté.
Alors, elle s’aperçut que la moitié seulement de la face était
cachée par le pansement. Sauf dans le haut où le bandage faisait le
tour de la tête et encerclait le front.
 Il fixa sur la jeune fille son œil unique, fixe, qui paraissait sans
pensée…
Cela dura un certain temps… Diane n’osait bouger.
Peu à peu, la fixité du regard se détendit, l’intelligence y reparut
comme un rayon de clarté au-dessus d’une eau trouble et, sans
étonnement, le blessé prononça son nom :
— Diane…
C’était la première fois qu’elle le lui entendait dire. Ce nom — son
nom ! — dans sa bouche, à cette heure, elle le reçut comme l’aveu
du plus brûlant amour…
Des larmes emplirent ses yeux pendant qu’elle parlait tout bas :
— C’est moi, Hervé, vous me reconnaissez ? Je suis venue…
— Diane !
— Je suis venue pour vous guérir et vous consoler… parce
que… je vous aime !
Il ferma cet œil pitoyable où l’on entrevoyait, telles des ombres,
se disputer la mort avec la vie…
Sa pauvre bouche disloquée essaya un sourire. Il pressa
faiblement la petite main qui avait pris la sienne ; elle lui dit
doucement :
— Je vous fatigue… Ne pensez pas !
— Je ne pense pas… Je suis heureux !
Une grosse larme coula le long de sa joue. Il tourna sa tête avec
effort du côté opposé et dit d’une voix lente, embarrassée :
— Diane…, si vous voyiez ! Je n’ai plus… figure humaine !… Je
suis hideux !
— Vous êtes, répondit-elle en se penchant au-dessus du lit, vous
êtes celui qui m’aime… et que j’aime, le fiancé, l’époux que j’ai
choisi !
— Je vous… ferais horreur !
 — Non… Je ne désire qu’une seule chose : c’est que vous viviez,
et que je puisse me dévouer à vous toujours.
Avant qu’elle ait eu le temps de prévoir son mouvement, il avait
écarté le bandage et découvrait une affreuse plaie à peine cicatrisée
partant du front, traversant la paupière droite et descendant sur la
joue, du côté de l’oreille où elle finissait.
— Regardez !
Diane ne tressaillit pas ; elle regarda en face l’horrible cicatrice
rouge, à peine fermée et, sans rien dire, elle se pencha davantage,
elle appuya lentement ses lèvres sur la plaie…
En se relevant, elle répéta, les yeux rayonnants d’amour :
— Je vous aime, Hervé. C’est pour la France que vous avez
souffert. Vous serez toujours, à mes yeux, le plus noble et le plus
beau. Hervé, c’est moi qui vous le demande humblement : m’aimez-
vous ?
— Oui… Diane, je vous aime !
Le silence était très profond dans la petite chambre. Avant d’y
entrer, le général toussa doucement, puis il s’approcha à petits pas.
Il ne savait trop, dans l’obscurité, de quel côté se tourner, quand
la voix de sa pupille dit près de lui :
— Venez, bon ami, que je vous présente mon fiancé.
La guérison miraculeuse du lieutenant de Kéravan fut un
étonnement pour le corps médical qui n’y comptait plus.
Les médecins l’attribuèrent à une nouvelle méthode qu’ils avaient
expérimentée à cette époque. Nous croyons plus simplement que
Diane et Hervé rééditèrent la jolie aventure de l’Amour médecin, ou
que Dieu voulut conserver au monde une noble figure de héros.
On prétend que les Bretons ont la tête dure. Le fait est que le
trépané s’en tira à peu de frais. La balafre qui lui barrait le visage
n’intéressait pas directement l’œil droit. Il put bientôt l’ouvrir et y voir
presque aussi bien que de l’autre. Enfin, la cicatrice elle-même,
traitée par la nouvelle méthode qui fait revivre les tissus, ne servit
bientôt plus qu’à parer son mâle visage et à le marquer d’un
souvenir glorieux.
Il arriva un moment où Diane retrouva complètement la
physionomie grave et douce, le regard profond qu’elle aimait tant.
Trois mois après sa sortie de l’hôpital, le lieutenant de Kéravan et
sa jeune femme partaient pour Vauclair, où ils allaient passer leur
lune de miel et célébrer la Victoire.
Quinze jours plus tard, ils voyaient arriver la marquise de
Trivières, qui déclarait ne plus pouvoir se passer de son gendre,
Mme de Kéravan et sa fidèle Corentine, puis le général d’Antivy et
son neveu Hubert de Louvigny, — le vrai ! — en congé de vingt
jours. Il devait repartir avec les troupes d’occupation.
Ce dernier se jeta avec effusion dans les bras de son ami :
— Ai-je besoin, demanda Hervé, de te présenter à ma femme ?
— Nous nous connaissons déjà, dit Louvigny, mais notre
connaissance date de loin.
— Pas tant que cela, plaisanta la jeune femme. Oubliez-vous,
monsieur, qu’une certaine Rose Perrin vous écrivit une charmante
lettre que vous avez dédaignée ?
— Me le pardonnez-vous, madame ? demanda le jeune homme,
d’un ton malicieux.
Diane rougit, et souriant à son bien-aimé, elle répondit :
— Rose Perrin ne vous le pardonne pas…, mais Diane de
Kéravan vous en remercie.

FIN

PARIS. — TYP. PLON-NOURRIT ET Cie, 8, RUE GARANCIÈRE. — 28525.