We sat facing each other in the middle of the bed. I grasped his hands firmly between mine, unsure if my death grip was meant to keep him calm or provide myself with the support I needed to spit the story out.
“Vincent, are you even hearing me? There is a guérisseur. A long line of guérisseurs, actually, who have had a special relationship with revenants. I am positive that Gaspard doesn’t know about them. Because the healer said it had been centuries since her family had even seen a revenant. This is new information. She might actually be able to help us.”
“Kate, how could you even think of doing something like that without me? You could have been in serious danger. This is my world we’re talking about here. A world where death is always present.”
“It’s my world now too.”
That shut him up. And I took advantage of his silence to tell him the whole tale, beginning with finding the references in the books to tracking down the shop to seeing the signum in the guérisseur’s bowl and what followed. As I finished my story, I saw the glimmer in his eye. If it wasn’t an actual glimmer of hope, it was at least a glimmer of interest.
“Okay, Kate. I agree that this could be promising. But I wish you had told me about it before. I can’t help but freak out when I think of you going alone to see someone who could have been a complete wacko. You could have been hurt . . . or worse. And I would never have known where to find you.”
“Jules came with me,” I said, trying to sound firm, but the confidence that I had begun the conversation with was quickly fading.
“JULES?” Vincent responded, incredulous. “Jules took you to see this guérisseur?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly know where he was taking me—or why—until after it was all over.”
My heart sank as I recognized the expression on Vincent’s face. It was a look of betrayal, as he realized that his best friend and his girlfriend had done something behind his back.
“Vincent, stop!” I insisted. “I talked Jules into it. If there’s anyone you should be mad at, it is me. If it helps at all, Jules was furious and said if I didn’t tell you about it, then he would. I did not do this with the express purpose of deceiving you, Vincent. I did it to help us: you and me.”
“I am already doing everything I can to help us.” Vincent’s eyes flashed with anger.
“What? What is it exactly that you are doing?” I said, my voice rising. “Because from what it looks like to me, whatever you’re doing is causing you more harm than good.”
“That’s because you don’t understand how it’s supposed to work,” Vincent shot back, rubbing his temples in frustration.
I touched his knee. “Then explain it to me.”
Our eyes met, and we held the gaze for a long while before he exhaled. “Fine. Just give me a little time to think. But we’ll talk tonight, I promise.”
THIRTY
THE MORNING PASSED QUICKLY, WITH THE FOUR of us wandering lazily through the little town and across the abandoned winter beach. After a lighthearted lunch, during which Geneviève banned any serious or depressing subjects, we headed to the harbor to where a sleek blue speedboat was moored between massive luxury yachts.
“Wow, I wonder whose that is,” Charlotte remarked. Then, leaping over the railing, she plopped herself down in the driver’s seat. “All aboard!” she yelled, and then cracked up when she saw my expression. “Don’t worry, Kate, it’s ours.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come on!”
We spent the next couple of hours speeding up and down the coast, the landscape shifting rapidly from magnificent beaches to vertiginous cliffs towering over the sea. Vincent leaned toward me at one point and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this ecstatically happy before.”
“It’s the closest thing I can think of to flying,” I admitted.
“To-do list with Kate,” he said to himself, looking satisfied. “More speedboats.”
After dinner that night, Vincent stood and took my hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I’m going out with Kate,” he told Geneviève and Charlotte. We walked down the steps from the terrace, past a covered swimming pool, and through a gate into the trees. After a minute, we reached a rocky outcrop with a perfect view of the bay.
“I’ve been coming here as long as I’ve known Jean-Baptiste,” he said, settling himself on the edge of the cliff and lifting his hand to pull me down next to him. “It’s his favorite home-away-from-home. He had it built in the 1930s, after he saw photos of Le Corbusier’s buildings. The house is amazing, but I’ve always come here—to this spot—when I needed to stop and remember what life was about.” He wrapped an arm around me and we sat quietly, our legs dangling over the side of the rocks, watching the lights of the boats shimmer on the water.
“Close your eyes and tell me what you hear,” he said, and waited.
I smiled. “Is this a game?”
“No, it’s a meditation.”
I shut my eyes and calmed my breathing, letting my senses take over. “I hear waves crashing. And the wind in the trees.”
“What do you smell?”