Whispering in French Read online

  I was too polite to ask her to curtail that awful habit. If you love a friend, sometimes you just have to put up with some of their less attractive qualities. Although, as far as I could tell, Yowler didn’t really enjoy putting up with my eccentricities. But I was good at putting up with the fact that she didn’t like putting up with anything. I guess that was one of the parts of me that she liked best. What I liked best was her grit, her sense of adventure, her fearlessness, and how she pretended she didn’t like me as much as I liked her. Deep down inside, I knew she adored me—an odd thing in our world. And now that we were best friends, it was funny . . . the thing that I had first been infatuated about—her scent? It just wasn’t as important anymore. It was lovely, still, of course. But it wasn’t as wonderful as everything that was Yowler, the most beautiful, orangiest, softest, most brilliant cat with too many names in the world. Oh, you didn’t know cats have three completely separate names? Well, there once was a famous Two-Legged author on the other side of the pond who wrote all about that.

  “Quilly?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “Is your head in the clouds again? I was talking to you.” “Right. Sorry. What can I do for you, my dearest, darling Yowler?”

  “I was just saying that perhaps you might start trying to like sardines. It’s so much more amusante to skulk around the port in Guéthary, and slink into the boats in search of a lost little fish.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Sniffing the leaves in this garden, hunting those horribly slimy creatures.”

  See? I told you she didn’t like all the parts of me. “Yowler?”

  “Yes?”

  “I would be happy to go to the port with you. Besides, I am worried that the little Two-Legged with the red ribbons in her hair is going to change her mind and try to take me back to that horrible life of the light switches and the indoor running wheel that goes nowhere.”

  “Well, I think it was very smart of the humans in the villa to suggest a trade: you for that pathetic excuse for a canine, Max.”

  “Don’t say that. I sort of liked him. He never tried to bite me.”

  “That’s only because he was too busy sleeping the day away inside. The opposite of a moron if you ask me.”

  Yowler lowered her head to mine. And for a moment, her eyes seemed to glow and soften.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just thought you might be hungry. Come on, let’s go back to the lily patch. Forget the sardines.”

  See? I told you she loved me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The bells rang again. My watch showed ten to four and for once I knew precisely why and for whom they tolled—my beloved sister and Youssef. Long ago, I’d stopped counting and wondering. I loved the mournful, sweet, ancient sound echoing from high on the hill of the village.

  Here, in the garden, now that Magdali and Youssef and the last guests had departed the wedding feast, the doves cooed their contented song, the hedgehog—a few quills peeking from a rustle of fallen leaves near the potting house—napped in the warm shade of the poplar, and Mlle Lefebvre’s huge marmalade cat, tail and whiskers twitching, stood guard whilst she eyed the two boxers with murder on their minds, but cowardice in their hearts.

  Lily’s feet, lighter and faster than all others in the house, were skimming the pea gravel. I turned to wait for her.

  Sometimes now, late at night, between cycles of sleep, in that haze of semiconsciousness, when dreams become dreams and reality creeps in to examine those old trunks still in the attic of my mind, I notice the old pine floor is swept clean; and all the items are neatly arranged in a pretty pattern. Underneath each polished leather lid are mementos and clothes not of this season, lovingly wrapped in tissue. Never to be worn or used again, they are still part of the fabric of my life, part of me, the once fragile and secret parts now outgrown in an era of boldness.

  I am not afraid to look at them anymore.

  They are not beautiful, but I love them in all their glorious, hideous imperfection—sort of like the jagged scars I now carry inside and out.

  And as I watched my beautiful, glorious daughter run toward me, my throat grew tight with emotion. In that moment, I knew. I knew I was the luckiest, happiest person on this sometimes Godforsaken place called Earth.

  “Mom! Mom! They left . . . The major and his children. Didn’t you want to say good-bye?”

  She stopped in front of me, panting, her hands on her knees.

  “No, it’s all right. I already did earlier.”

  She nodded. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? The wedding.”

  “It was.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get the car parked behind the potting house. I’m going to drive to the base of Les Trois Courrones and hike to the top, remember?”

  “Right. I forgot. Is anyone going with you?”

  “No. I want to do it alone. But don’t worry, I’ll be back by the time darkness falls.”

  “Perfect. Can we watch Zombie Apocalypse in French again tonight? Nothing is funnier than French zombies.”

  I hated zombies. “Of course.”

  She hugged me, and the lovely, natural scent of her warm hair made me want to cry again from happiness. What was wrong with me? I had to get a grip. Didn’t I possess any of that cool, French blood at all? Getting used to a full range of emotions would take time.

  “Love you, Mom,” she whispered.

  The tears couldn’t be held back any longer. “Not as much as I love you.”

  THE DRIVE AND climb to the jagged profile of the lady I always envisioned asleep in the mountains was not as difficult as I feared. There was a small path cutting through the pine trees. The low, mournful tones of cowbells echoed off of the mountain the higher I climbed. Breaking through low-lying clouds of mist, I finally reached the granite top of the mountain. Westerly stood the other peaks that made up her profile.

  A gust of wind slid off her massive nose, enveloping me as I stood on her lips. I imagined her gasping and whispering in French her first little words of wonder upon finally coming awake for the first time in a very long time. I was suddenly cold, but alive, dancing inside with the frenzy of the wind and the fast-moving clouds sweeping past me.

  I feel everything now.

  And yes, it’s a wildly empowering sense of freedom from any kind of fear.

  But perhaps that’s what it means to be alive. All the pieces of me are coming back together in a different, more vibrant pattern now mixed with new pieces—and I’m at ease with all that might come my way in its own time. Yes, I was home. And I was awake at last.

  The earth trembled. Roots groaned.

  I ONCE MET a woman on a night flight to Paris. And in one bizarre instant, I allowed myself a brief moment of intimacy with a stranger. Intimacy is not something most men do well, if you must know. But there was something about this woman that resonated. It was in her expression, her posture, her inability to focus on anything for longer than a minute or two. She was teetering on the edge.

  Just like me.

  Coupled with anonymity, that made her safe.

  And so I asked her. I asked her the question that I’d asked myself a thousand times before I boarded that plane to the Old World. What are the boundaries of family obligation—of one human to another? She was as clueless as I, even if she wore some doctoral badge of professionalism like a Band-Aid on a sucking wound. But I had to admire her for her brutal honesty, whether she knew I overheard her or not. It’s absurd how a brief encounter with a stranger can change a life.

  But does anyone really know how to live a good life?

  I still don’t know. I only know that the answers in life are different shades than just black or white, and that trying to figure out the best color for any given moment is life’s work and journey; resilience its drive.

  The top of this unusual mountain peak on the French-Spanish border I was climbing was a mere forty-five minutes of rough going, tops.

  The
re was a hazy shadow of someone else up there through the swirling mist.

  The earth suddenly shook and I grabbed the trunk of a sapling just strong enough to bear my weight. Rebalancing myself, I gazed up.

  The figure was gone.

  P. S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

  About the Author

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  Meet Sophia Nash

  About the Book

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  Story Behind the Book

  Read On . . .

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  Also by Sophia Nash

  About the Author

  Meet Sophia Nash

  SOPHIA NASH was born in Switzerland and raised in France and the United States, but says her heart resides in England. Her ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave.

  Before pursuing her long-held dream of writing, Sophia was an award-winning television producer for a CBS affiliate, a congressional speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO. She lives on the coast of the Pays Basque and in the Washington, D.C., suburbs with her two children.

  Sophia’s novels have won twelve national awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award, and two spots on Booklist’s “Top Ten Romances of the Year.”

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  Story Behind the Book

  An important question most people ask themselves at some point is: What is the purpose or meaning of life? It’s usually during a dark hour, when life appears most bleak. Socrates at his trial for impiety claimed “the unexamined life is not worth living.” He believed that the first step toward finding the meaning of life is to know and deeply understand ourselves. But when people get stuck at the juncture of major change, and reflection yields little, sometimes taking a small step toward the new and unknown launches a journey of discovery.

  The Pays Basque, the mystical land half in France and half in Spain, has always been the place I go for reflection. The traditional Basque houses reflect the importance of nature: whitewashed and trimmed in red to signify earth and blood, or green to reflect the crops and mountains, or blue to denote the sea and the sky. Steeped in history, inhabited by Basques and a slew of nationalities, it is, in this author’s view, one of the most beautiful and poignant places on Earth. Specifically, the stretch of coast from Hondarribia, Spain, to Biarritz, France, and the breathtaking Pyrenees are the backdrop and inspiration for Whispering in French. Whilst all the characters and events in this story are fictional, this part of France is, indeed, my homeland. I find inspiration here as have hundreds of painters and writers before me. Indeed, this is the stomping ground of Hemmingway and Picasso among many others. It is almost impossible not to be moved by coastal walks on the littoral, swims in the freezing Bay of Biscay, or hikes to little known peaks in the mountains. But by far, my favorite view has always been that of Les Trois Couronnes—the Three Crowns in the Pyrenees near the coast. It appears to change every day, and in every type of weather. As a child, I loved to imagine that the slumbering lady draped over the peaks would one day wake up and go on to fulfill her centuries of dreams. Hence, a full story was born nearly forty years later.

  Occasionally, readers ask me why I write. It’s so simple. To write is to be on a journey of discovery. Often challenging and infuriating, storytelling is also sometimes, if one is very lucky, uplifting for writer and reader alike. All is fair in love and storytelling. Yes, I always hope to entertain, but the goal is to inspire and question life’s purpose. I do so hope Whispering in French accomplishes that goal by reconciling some of life’s harsh realities so that redemption might be found.

  Read On

  Also by Sophia Nash

  The Once and Future Duchess

  The Duke Diaries

  The Art of Duke Hunting

  Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

  Secrets of a Scandalous Bride

  Love with the Perfect Scoundrel

  The Kiss

  A Dangerous Beauty

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

  WHISPERING IN FRENCH. Copyright © 2017 by Sophia Nash. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover photograph courtesy of the author

  Cover image © Picsfive / Shutterstock (ribbon)

  EPub Edition August 2017 ISBN 978-0-06-247179-6

  Print ISBN 978-0-06-247178-9

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