Sebastian wrinkled his face. “God, no. I’m not much of an outdoors guy—I’m probably allergic to about seventy percent of nature. The one time my dad took me camping was torture.” He swatted erratically at an invisible insect buzzing near his face.
The driveway rose slightly then fell into a curved slope. We stood at the peak and looked down at a sagging jetty where a retro-looking boat with a faded blue stripe was docked.
“Is that a houseboat?” Sebastian said, adjusting his glasses. “I didn’t know anyone even lived in those anymore. My sisters used to make me watch that old movie with Cary Grant and Sophia Loren that was like The Sound of Music but on a boat. Man, what was it called again?”
“Houseboat?”
“Ha. Yeah. I should’ve figured. The one with Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn on a boat was funnier.” He started down the slope, the soles of his city-appropriate Oxfords sliding on the damp ground.
Secretly glad for his investigational bravado, I followed him down. A wool sweater slung over the boat’s railing signaled that someone had been there recently—or was still there.
Maybe this wasn’t such a stupid idea after all.
Just as Sebastian set foot on the jetty, several shrill dog barks fired in succession. A shaggy black terrier jumped from the boat and bulleted at Sebastian, who leaped back clumsily. The dog bounded around Sebastian like its hind paws were on springs while he tried helplessly to escape the exuberant onslaught. I swallowed the tickle of laughter.
“Gus!” A man’s voice called from within the boat’s cabin. “Calm down, buddy.”
A head of dark curls emerged, ducking against the low-set door frame. When the man stood up straight, it was almost like he doubled in height.
“Hi there.” His eyes seesawed between Sebastian and me. “Can I help you?”
Gus trotted back to his owner’s side, his red collar like a flare against his jet-black fur.
“Ah, yeah,” Sebastian said, grateful to be rescued from his excited assailant. “We’re looking for Hugo Beaufort.”
“Well, then you’ve found him.”
Sebastian frowned. “That’s you?”
“Pretty sure it is, yeah.” The man squinted, skeptical. “What can I do for you?”
This guy couldn’t be older than thirty-five and he definitely didn’t sound French. I glanced over at Sebastian who looked as defeated as I felt.
“Sorry, man—I think we’ve got the wrong person,” Sebastian said. “The Hugo we’re looking for would be a lot older than you. Like, fifty years older.”
“Oh,” the man said. “You mean my grandfather?”
“Yes!” Sebastian and I spoke over each other.
The Hugo in front of us bowed his head. “He actually died a couple of months ago.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said reflexively.
Gus cocked his head at the sound of my voice, bypassing Sebastian to run up the hill to me. As I bent down to scratch his floppy ears, the dog nuzzled calmly against my leg.
“Thank you,” Hugo said. “I mean, he was in his nineties, so it was kind of expected.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I said, as much to mitigate my own grief as his.
The three of us stood in silence.
“Wait,” Hugo said, puzzled. “Why are you guys looking for my grandfather anyway?”
“It’s about my grandmother,” Sebastian said softly. “She’s dying too.” He seemed stunned, as if speaking the words finally made them a reality. I recognized the weight of grief in his slumped shoulders, the way he stared at the ground.
“I’m sorry, man,” Hugo said, his tone radiating empathy. He waited for Sebastian to elaborate.
Sebastian looked at me, imploring me to take the lead in the conversation.
I walked closer to the jetty, Gus trotting beside me. “We think Sebastian’s grandmother might have known your grandfather for a time when she was living in Marseille in the mid-fifties.”
It sounded ridiculous now that I said it out loud, more than sixty years later. I was naive to think this trip would achieve anything.
But instead of looking at me like I was crazy, Hugo tilted his head with curiosity.
“Are you talking about … Claudia?”
Sebastian and I stared back at Hugo in disbelief. Gus looked between us, panting in anticipation.
Sebastian stepped onto the jetty. “You know about my grandmother?”
“Yeah—I mean, kind of.” Hugo rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Right before he died, my grandfather said he needed to tell me something that he’d never told anyone. To be honest, I thought he’d killed someone or something like that. But instead, he told me the story of an American woman, a photographer named Claudia, who he fell in love with in France. He said she was the reason he moved here to the United States.”
“That’s Sebastian’s grandmother!” I said, trying to temper my welling hope. “Only, she didn’t know that your grandfather moved here.”
“This is wild,” Hugo said. He’d inherited his grandfather’s angular chin—it suited him. “But if she didn’t know he moved to America, how’d you guys find out he lived here?”
Sebastian pointed a hitchhiker’s thumb at me. “She’s kind of an internet super sleuth.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow. “She is, huh?”
I deeply regretted not brushing my hair that morning.
“Well, my neighbor was the one who found your address,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “But I found a picture of your grandfather among some of Claudia’s old photos and she told me the story of how they met.”
“Wow, I have so many questions. But, first—” Hugo stuck out his hand. “Sebastian, right?”
Sebastian shook it. “Right.”
“Nice to meet you, man.” Hugo turned to me, eyebrow raised again. “And you are?”
I prayed for my cheeks not to burn. “Uh, I’m Clover.”
Hugo’s face lifted into an easy grin. “Like the Etta James song, right? ‘My heart was wrapped up in clover’? I always loved that one.” He reached out his hand. “Great to meet you, Clover.”
As the thickness of his calloused palm pressed into the softness of mine, I felt my whole hand tingle. “You too.”
“Hey, are you guys hungry?” Hugo raked his fingers through his curls, habit-like. “We’re not far from a great pub—maybe we can chat about all this over lobster rolls. I’d love to hear more about Claudia.”
Sebastian shifted his feet stiffly. “I’m allergic to shellfish, but a beer would be great.”
“No problem at all—they do a mean chicken pot pie there too.” Hugo motioned to a decrepit, olive-green Land Rover parked under a tree. “You guys can follow me there in your car.” He looked at me. “You in?”
My smile felt goofy, like it belonged to someone else. “I really love pot pie.”
I cringed, wishing I could channel some of Sylvie’s relaxed confidence instead of being weird and awkward.
More than that, I hated feeling like I needed her.
42
Sitting on a coastal outcrop, the exterior of the Curious Whaler lived up to its seafaring name. Battered by sea spray and salty air, its rusted awnings and peeling paint bore the weathered, world-weary appearance of a crusty old sailor.
Hugo was waiting for us at the entrance, hair blown erratically by a small squall off the bay.
“This was my grandfather’s local—he’d eat lunch here nearly every day.” Seeing me pull my coat tighter, Hugo pushed open the door and guided me through. “I promise it’s warmer inside.”
A crackling fire at one end of the pub delivered on his promise. He led us to a mahogany booth parched of varnish. “Can I take your coats?”
Sebastian shrugged out of his parka, handed it to Hugo, and then slid into the booth. “Thanks, man.”
As I tried to wriggle out of my duffle coat, one of the wooden toggles caught in my hair; Hugo reached over and eased it free. I felt clumsy and inelegant, like the newborn giraffes I loved watching on the Discovery Channel.
“Thank you,” I said, only briefly looking Hugo in the eye. His gaze was steadier than I was comfortable with. I was relieved to see Sebastian preoccupied with his phone—his presence suddenly felt conspicuous.