and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realise a longheld dream of quitting her ‘day job’ and writing full time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, where she finds her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at PO Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, USA.
THE SOFT SIGHING of the sea as it kissed the shore should have soothed Jeanne-Marie Rousseau, but it did not. She stared at the expanse of the Mediterranean sparkling in front of her. The sun was high overhead in a cloudless sky. The sweep of beach at her doorstep was pristine white, dotted here and there with sun worshippers on colorful towels. To a stranger, it appeared a perfect relaxing retreat. Off the beaten track, St. Bartholomeus was an ideal spot for those seeking respite from the hectic frenetic pace of modern life. To live here year-round would be the dream of many.
To Jeanne-Marie, it was home. Sometimes joyful, but today it held a lingering hint of sadness.
Today was the third anniversary of her husband’s death. She still missed him with an ache that never seemed to ease. Intermingled with that was anger, however, at the careless way he’d treated life—risking his safety every time he went climbing. Now, not even thirty, she was a widow, a single mother and the owner of an inn in a locale that was thousands of miles from her family. She shook her head, trying to dispel her melancholy thoughts. She had much to be grateful for and her choice of residence was hers to make. She shouldn’t second-guess her decision over and over. But sometimes she just plain missed American food, family discussions and longtime friends she saw too infrequently.
Yet this small strip of land reminded her so much of Phillipe, she couldn’t bear to leave it. They’d spent several holidays together, enjoying the sea and exploring the small village. Or just sitting together on the wide veranda and watching the sunset, content to be together, never suspecting it wouldn’t last forever.
And for him there had been the added attraction of Les Calanques, the cliffs that offered daily climbing challenges to men and women from all over Europe.
Her son, Alexandre, was napping. She was alone with her memories and homesickness. She took a moment to sit on the veranda, remembering happier days. The worst of her grief had long passed. Now she could think about their life together, mourn his death and get on with the practicalities of living.
She would have returned to America after Phillipe’s death, but she wanted her son to know his grandparents. Alexandre was all Phillipe’s parents had of their only child, except for the photographs taken through the years. Her own parents came to visit annually. They spent lots of time via computers between their trips. And they had six other grandchildren. The Rousseaus only had Alexandre.
And it wasn’t as if she didn’t love France. It had been her lifelong desire when younger to attend school here and maybe even work for a while. She’d not planned on falling in love with a dashing Frenchman. But love had won out and she’d been living in France for more than a decade now. Those first years of marriage had been so marvelous.
What prompted a man to risk limb and life time and again just for thrills? she asked herself for the millionth time. Challenging himself, he’d so often called it. Scaling mountains with flimsy ropes and gadgets to minimize damage to the rock. As if a mountain would care.
Living with a loving family was enough for her. She’d never understood Phillipe’s passion, though he’d tried often enough to enlist her in it. Idly she remembered the trips around Europe, always with a mountain to climb as the destination. The few times she’d tried it, scared and inept, but wanting so much to be with him, she’d only caused him to become impatient and demanding. It had ended up being better for him to go on his own and leave her to her own devices.
She swung her gaze to the right—Les Calanques, the limestone cliffs that afforded daily challenges to those who liked free climbing. The spectacular scenery of the sea and coast viewed from the cliffs added to their attraction. Of all the places for her to end up—where rock climbers from around the world came. Or at least those who didn’t want to stay in Marseilles for the nightlife. It was quiet as a tomb in St. Bart most nights.
Phillipe had been a dedicated climber, not for him the wild parties that could impair performance the next day. Many shared his philosophy.
She was grateful for that, she thought, idly studying the play of light and shadows on the nearby cliff. Not every single mother had the means to earn a living and remain with her son full-time. And realistically she knew not everyone who went climbing fell to his death. It still remained a mystery to her why people dared life and limb to scale a cliff.
Well, there were other things in life she didn’t understand. Her moment of introspection was over. Now it was time to get ready for the influx of guests arriving in the next few hours. Seven new reservations would fill her small inn. Business boomed in the summer months, with rarely a single room vacant more than one night. She was frugal and thrifty and managed her money well. While not wealthy by any means, she and her son were definitely comfortable.
She wanted fresh flowers in each of the rooms when her guests arrived. And she’d replenish the flowers in the rooms of those who had already checked in a couple of days ago. All the rooms had already been cleaned and made up with fresh linens. Last-minute touches remained. She’d deal with bittersweet memories another time. She had guests to prepare for.
Two hours later Jeanne-Marie perched on the high stool behind the mahogany counter at the side of the lounge and looked across the open room. Comfortable sofas and chairs were grouped for conversations. Her son played happily in the sunny spot near one of the open French doors. His two small cars and toy truck gave him endless hours of entertainment. Later, after the last guest had checked in, she’d take him for a swim. The sun was lower in the sky now, flooding the front of the inn, making it just a bit too warm, but she had not yet lowered the outdoor curtains that shaded the wide veranda. She wanted the guests’ first impression of the inn to be the best and it looked beautiful when lit by the sun. Every speck of wood glowed with polish. The marble floor gleamed without a trace of the sand that was the bane of her existence. The comfy furnishings begged for travelers to sit and rest. The lounge chairs on the wide veranda in front beckoned with the view of the sea.
She heard a car and looked expectantly to the front. Only her solo male guest remained to check in. Once that was taken care of, she’d be fairly free for the rest of the day.
Glancing out of one of the floor-to-ceiling French doors that lined the front of the inn, she waited. Several were open for the afternoon breeze. She could hear the car door shut, the crush of footsteps on the gravel.
He stepped into view, but instead of coming directly into the inn, he turned on the veranda to survey the sea, then the cliffs that rose to the right.
The counter was set to one side, unobtrusive, not easily seen from the veranda—but offering her a perfect view of the man. He carried himself with an arrogant assurance that usually rubbed her the wrong way. Frenchmen thought highly of themselves. Though this man had reason to. He was a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders, long legs. His dark hair shone in the afternoon sunshine; cut short, it still couldn’t disguise the hint of curl. She’d bet he’d been adorable as a child—and all the fawning over him had probably gone straight to his head.
She checked
