Grains of supple sand, caught in between my toes and spilled across my heel, seemed of an endless supply at Tourmaline Beach. I stretched my legs before me, settling into my blue and red striped beach chair. Marcel Pagnol’s works, in his own tongue, lay in my hand. Pressing my wide sunglasses further up the bridge of my nose, I eagerly devoured the novel.

At times I lifted my eyes from my book, to gaze in wonder at the ocean waves; crashing grey foam on the shore, crushing debris, carrying seaweed in its mist. Few seagulls ever flew over the ferocious sea.

Jean Cadoret had just bought a lievre when a shadow engulfed me, chair and all. I did not hesitate in immediately glancing backwards to observe the owner, but when his eyes met mine, I rather wish I had.

“Joelle! It’s been months! We must have lunch, to celebrate.” My heart, weighed down with dread and a fading curiosity, beat a little faster as I hesitated, then accepted.