Page 50 of The Resistance Book Club

With the sea wind in her hair, Lucy headed up the stony cliff path toward Sébastien’s cottage. She turned to take in the view of the village, admiring the narrow streets that ran down to the harbour where fishing boats bobbed and the lighthouse looked out at the sparkling sea. Then she carried on, enjoying the heat of the sun and the sound of the seabirds as they cruised on the thermal currents like paragliders.

Sébastien had invited her to visit him at home in his clifftop cottage to talk about buying the bookshop. She paused again for a moment when she reached the ruined cottage where she used to play as a child. A thought occurred to her – had this once been the Professor’s home? She thought of the loose sheets of paper where Margot had written about the cellar that had once been full of the photos of his lost family, and the radio that had made Margot unable to ignore the possibility that he could be a German spy. But now it was only stones, the moss and grass growing over it slowly absorbing it back into the cliffs.

She continued along the path and, behind arow of trees, she found Sébastien’s home, an old timber-framed cottage. Herbs grew in terracotta pots by the front door, and wooden shutters hung on either side of the twinkling windows on the ground floor. Dormer windows peeped out from the tiles on the sloping roof, and two old stone chimneys rose up from either end of the house.

There was a view of the village from up here, with the sea sparkling below, and, as Lucy paused to take it in, an image came back to her: the photograph in the box of Esther and Daniel, standing in a garden.

The lighthouse at the harbour lined up perfectly. An old tree stood to one side of it, but Lucy realised it had to be the mature version of the young one in the photo. The notebook had said that Esther lived in a cottage up here, and time seemed to fall in on itself as Lucy realised that this must’ve been her home. She’d have to ask Sébastien what he knew, but she wasn’t sure how. What would he think about her telling him that a woman had been shot dead in his home, years before?

Lucy knocked on the old, wooden front door and called, ‘Hi, Sébastien. It’s me!’

‘Let yourself in!’ she heard Sébastien shout, a moment before Galette gave a welcoming bark from inside. ‘I’m in the kitchen!’

Lucy opened the front door and stepped straight into a stone-flagged hallway. If this had once been Esther’s cottage, then this had to be the very spot where she had confronted Lauterborn. But there was no sign now that a woman had been killed here. Instead, she was in the hallway of a warm, friendly home. A flight of wooden stairs, painted sea-green, led upwards, and a row of coat hooks displayed Sébastian’s jackets and scarves.

Then she spotted something hanging by the door: a small wooden plaque with Hebrew writing painted on it.

Something smelt delicious, and Lucy followed her nose intothe kitchen, where she found Galette wagging his tail as Sébastien cooked busily. The room vibrated with the sound of loud electric guitars and pounding drums. Lucy hadn’t known that Sébastien was a fan of metal music, and it seemed so incongruous in a classic Normandy cottage. But at the same time, very Sébastien.

The kitchen was cosy, with a stone-flagged floor, and occupied one end of the house. It had a mixture of new kitchen cabinets with old dressers and cupboards. Herbs hung down from a rack overhead, and a row of brass pans shone from a shelf above the stove. Colourful vintage tin advertising signs, for variousvins andsirops, hung on the walls. Tins and jars stood on shelves made from uneven pieces of reclaimed wood, and Lucy wondered if Sébastien had made them from wood he’d found on the beaches while walking Galette. A large wooden table, with a scrubbed and worn surface, stood at the centre of the kitchen, surrounded by an assortment of mismatched wooden chairs. This was the kitchen of a man who loved to cook.

‘That smells absolutely delicious!’ Lucy told him. For a moment, she tried to picture what the kitchen would’ve looked like when Esther and Daniel had lived here – a simple range, a dresser and a kitchen table, perhaps. ‘Is it Camembert?’

‘Local Camembert and honey from the back garden.’ Sébastien called out a command to his phone and the volume of the music dropped. ‘Fresh-baked bread to dip and a good old Normandy tart to finish up!’

‘You’ve got your own bees?’ Lucy was impressed. The honey would taste amazing with the orchards and wildflowers surrounding Sébastien’s cottage. ‘I’ve never met a beekeeper before – we don’t have many of them in London!’

‘You mean London doesn’t have everything after all?.’ Sébastien grinned. Then he nodded towards the fridge. ‘Got some good wine too, if you want to pour?’

Lucy went over to the bright-red fridge and found a bottleof local Pinot Gris white wine. She poured it into the wine glasses that were already on the table and took a sip.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a vineyard as well as beehives!’ she teased Sébastien. She felt so comfortable here, even though thoughts of the past occasionally tugged at her.

They sat down to eat at the kitchen table and, as they tucked into the beautifully creamy Camembert and the crisp, warm bread, they discussed Sébastien buying the shop. Lucy had spoken to her dad, who liked the idea of selling to a local, as it’d mean a quick sale. But he didn’t want Lucy to get sentimental and sell the bookshop for less than it was worth.

Lucy liked the thought of Sébastien buying it, though. He was Cordeval down to his bones, and even his cooking seemed to capture the place; his honey was even made by Cordeval bees. And there was the book club that she’d just restarted, too. She knew he’d keep it going once she’d gone back to London, and she was sure an outsider wouldn’t.

She told him where she’d read up to in the notebook. The original book club risked their lives just to meet up, and she knew Sébastien, like her, would understand just how important it was to get the book club running again.

‘Do you know who used to live here before?’ Lucy asked him as she sipped her glass of wine. ‘Only I found a photo in Beatrice and Mémé’s box, and it looked like it was taken in your garden. The view down to the village is pretty much identical.’

Sébastien cocked his head to one side and asked, ‘How long before is before? You mean in the war?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes. I thought maybe Esther and Daniel had lived here – it’s them in the photo.’ She wished she’d brought it with her to show him.

‘Yeah…’ And just like that, Lucy knew that Sébastian was well aware of what had happened here. ‘I was just sitting here wondering how to tell you that this was their cottage. This is where…well, you know.’

Lucy swallowed. ‘Poor Esther. You know, I think she’d like the fact that you’ve made this cottage your home – that it’s so warm and friendly. I noticed the plaque by the door with Hebrew on it. Is that why you have it, for Esther and Daniel?’

‘It was a gift from Granny and Arielle; it’s a blessing. They wanted to honour Esther and Daniel.’ Sébastien picked up his napkin and wiped his hand, and Galette leapt to his feet, anticipating an outing. ‘Come out to the garden; there’s a bit of history you might like.’

Curious, Lucy got up from the table and followed Sébastien and Galette outside. They headed to the tree that had been so young in the photo of Daniel and Esther. Apples were swelling on the old branches, turning red in the summer sun. The windfall apples on the ground below gave off a scent that reminded Lucy of autumn.

On the trunk, she saw, a heart had been carved into the bark, and in it were the lettersD+E. AnIhad been added later, it seemed. The carving looked old, the bark around it split with age as the tree had grown.

‘D and E…Daniel and Esther,’ Lucy said. ‘And Isabelle!’ She smiled at Sébastien, so pleased to see this tangible memorial left by Daniel and Esther themselves. But what had become of Daniel and his little daughter? She would have to keep burrowing through the memory box and see if anything in it would tell her.

‘They must’ve been so happy here,’ Lucy said, gazing back at the cottage. ‘It’s wonderful that we can eat apples from the same tree as they did.’