The French Retreat (Falling for France Book 1)

The French Retreat

Romance & Mystery

Falling for France Series

Book 1

Sue Fortin

Romaniac Press

Copyright © 2015 Sue Fortin

All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to the Internet, photocopying, recording) or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author. This includes sharing any part of the work, on-line or any form.

Sue Fortin asserts her moral right as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names and characters, places and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design www.amygdaladesigns.net

About The French Retreat

With Christmas on the horizon, losing her job and her home wasn’t on Marcie Grainger’s wish list. In a bid to reassess her life, she heads off to the only place she has ever felt truly content - her brother’s farmhouse retreat in rural France.

Marcie isn’t the only one looking to escape. Ex-soldier Will hopes the gentle pace of French life will banish the ghosts of his past and offer him the fresh start he desires.

However, all is not what it seems at The Retreat. Fuelled by local rumours and strange happenings, Will and Marcie are pushed together as they try to discover who or what is behind it all. In so doing, they end up finding more than they bargained for.

The French Retreat is a story of human compassion, hope and love.

Dedicated to the little cottage in Southern Brittany that stole our hearts and inspired the Falling for France series.

Chapter One

Marcie felt such a loser running away to France, but there was only so much a girl could take and when her brother had offered safe refuge at his home in Southern Brittany, she had gladly accepted. Now she could put the rather unfortunate series of events of the last month behind her.

As the ferry docked at St Malo, Marcie was relieved to be on dry land. She had crossed the Channel many times before, but usually it was during the summer season when the sea was friendlier. Travelling at the beginning of November was not turning out to be one of her best ideas. Last night’s crossing had the ship lurching and rolling its way across the sea.

Marcie checked the text message she had just received from her brother.

Got a leak in roof. Need to fix it. Am sending Will to collect you. Black MPV. See you soon.

She had messaged back asking who was Will and how would she recognise him, but so far she’d not received a reply. She could only hope that Will had a good description of her, failing which, he would be standing in the arrivals hall with her name on a piece of card.

Passing through customs without a hitch, Marcie followed the other passengers out into the arrivals hall. She scanned the foyer for the mysterious Will, wondering again how she’d identify him. She hadn’t heard Ben talk about Will. Maybe he was one of Ben’s neighbours? Although, admittedly, the name didn’t conjure up the stereotypical image of a French farmer with a beret perched on his head and peddling a push bike. She dismissed the idea of onions round his neck – that was taking it a bit too far.

The other option was a guest staying at her brother’s retreat, although she couldn’t imagine Ben sending a paying guest to come and collect her.

Marcie loitered around in the hall for ten minutes, but there was still no sign of anyone remotely looking like they were waiting for her. The arrivals hall itself was clear of people coming into the country and was now filling with a queue of people waiting to board the ferry back to the UK. She shuffled through the hall with her pink suitcase.

Outside, Marcie scanned the car park. The tooting of a car horn caught her attention. Looking over, she spotted the MPV and a man striding towards her.

He had dark hair, just long enough to see a hint of unruly surfer type curls, his jaw was set in a firm line, as was his unsmiling mouth, and a pair of sunglasses covered his eyes. He wore a black tee-shirt, a pair of cargo trousers and desert boots.

‘Hi,’ said Marcie as he neared her. ‘Are you Will?’ She smiled at him.

‘Marcie Grainger?’ he said, not returning the smile.

‘That’s right, Ben’s sister.’ She held out her hand to him which, after a moment’s hesitation when she thought he was going to ignore it, he shook firmly.

‘Will Adams.’ He picked up her suitcase and began walking back to the car. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’

‘I didn’t know where to find you,’ said Marcie as she followed on behind. ‘Ben was a bit sparse with the details.’

‘Good job he told me to look out for a dizzy blonde carrying a suitcase, probably pink, and probably the same size as her.’ He opened the side door of the people carrier and slid the suitcase in.

‘He said that?’ said Marcie, not entirely sure she liked the description. Okay, she was blonde and her suitcase was pink and, yes, it was big, but she was staying for several weeks. It was the dizzy bit that bothered her most.

‘Yep,’ said Will, not expanding on the reasoning. ‘Front or back?’

‘What?’ said Marcie. She wished he would take his sunglasses off, at least then she would be able to see his eyes. It was good manners to at least make eye contact when you met someone for the first time. He wasn’t bloody CIA for God’s sake.

‘Do you want to sit in the front or the back?’ said Will. His voice was matter of fact and he had an efficient and direct manner about him.

‘Front, of course,’ said Marcie. It would be rude to sit in the back as if he was some sort of chauffeur, although in essence he was. It would also make the three hour journey ahead more pleasant as they could talk properly.

She made her way round the back of the vehicle to the left-hand side, only to meet Will who, after sliding the rear door closed, had gone round the front of the car.

‘You planning on driving?’ he said.

It took a moment before it dawned on Marcie. ‘Oh, left-hand drive. Sorry.’ She gave a small laugh, looking at Will for some sort of smile or chuckle. When none was forthcoming she scurried round to the passenger side and jumped in. ‘I have driven in France before,’ she said, feeling the need to distance herself from the dizzy blonde image she was clearly having no trouble fulfilling.

‘Really,’ said Will with an unmistakable indifference.

As they negotiated their way out of the ferry port and through the town, Marcie tried again. ‘Was the journey okay?’ she said.

‘Not too bad,’ said Will.

‘Thanks for coming to get me,’ she ventured. ‘Ben said there was a leak in the roof.’

‘That’s right,’ said Will. ‘There was a storm last night and it must have knocked a couple of tiles loose.’

Encouraged that Will had actually volunteered some information and this had the potential to turn into a conversation, Marcie replied. ‘Are you staying at Ben’s place, then?’

‘Yeah,’ said Will. He slipped his sunglasses off his head, the sun now behind them. He looked to his right and Marcie was graced with a glimpse of two dark eyes with thick lashes to match his equally dark hair. He looked away, concentrating on the traffic.

‘How do you know Ben?’ she asked.

‘The Army. We joined up together.’

Marcie nodded to herself. Ben’s three year stint in the Army seemed like a lifetime ago. He had been out for over ten years now after meeting his wife, Lisa, and deciding the life of a soldier wasn’t for him.

‘Are you still in?’ she asked.

‘Not any more,’ said Will in such a way that it was clear he didn’t want to discuss the subject. He accelerated out of the town and soon they were on the motorway heading south.

‘How long are you staying at The Retreat?’ asked Marcie in an attempt to clear the strained atmosphere that was in danger of settling between them. ‘Will you be here for Christmas?’

‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Will. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. Marcie noticed there was no sign of a wedding ring. In a cringe worthy moment, it struck her that Will might actually be staying with Ben as a paying guest, one who needed to use The Retreat for its healing qualities.

‘Sorry,’ she said, feeling her face redden with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I was just making conversation.’ She shrank back in her seat and turning her head, looked out at the passing countryside. Will wasn’t here for a jolly to catch up with old friends. Maybe he was in France because he needed to get away from something.

After all, wasn’t that why she was here?

Will felt a bit of a shit. He had been curt to the point of being rude with Ben’s younger sister and she hadn’t spoken another word to him for the past hour. He glanced across to the passenger seat. Her head was against the window and her eyes closed. He couldn’t be sure, but he might have seen her eyelids flutter. He wondered whether she was feigning sleep so she didn’t have to speak to him. He couldn’t really blame her.

He knew he had been tetchy but he didn’t really want to get into the reasons why he was here. He was here to forget the reasons. Not only that, he hadn’t really wanted to come on the six hour round trip to St Malo. If it had been anyone else other than Ben asking, he would have probably declined. But Ben was letting him stay at The Retreat free of charge in exchange for helping out around the place. It was a quiet time of year at The Retreat and it seemed DIY was high on the list of things that needed attending to. Will wouldn’t have minded fixing the roof but Ben had to go into town for supplies and with Will not being able to speak a word of the lingo, it was out of his remit and he was on taxi duty.

Will rubbed at his eyes. He was feeling a bit tired. He probably should have a rest from driving for a while. He was thankful for the ample amount of stopping places the French provided along their main routes and within a few minutes he was able to pull off the road, just before the town of Avranches and into a picnic area.

‘Marcie,’ he said leaning across and giving her arm a gentle shake. ‘Pit stop. Thought you might need to stretch your legs. Grab a bit of fresh air.’

When she opened her eyes they were clear and alert. It confirmed his suspicions; she hadn’t really been asleep.

‘Okay, thanks,’ she said looking around. ‘I’ll just use the toilets.’

‘Good luck,’ he said and offered a small smile.

She looked at him for a moment before returning the smile. ‘Yeah, I know, they’re a bit grim, aren’t they.’

Will got out of the car and headed for the toilet block himself.

Afterwards, he decided a stretch of his legs was indeed needed. He noticed a footbridge crossing the motorway they had just been belting down and wandered over to it. There was a white bollard painted with a red star and a notice board behind it. He stopped to look at it. ‘
Voie de la Liberte 1944
’. It was something to do with D-Day Landings but it was all in French. Will had no desire to read it anyway. He’d seen enough war first hand.

Will crossed the bridge and found himself at a vantage point. From there he could look across the Normandy countryside. There was a fixed telescope for tourists to get a closer look at the scenery. Will lowered his head and peered through the lenses.

‘Nice view,’ came a voice behind him. He stood up and turned to see Marcie walking over. ‘Didn’t expect to see a beauty spot like this on a motorway loo break.’

‘Yeah, it’s not bad, is it?’ said Will, consciously injecting some enthusiasm into his voice. He stepped back from the telescope.

‘Did you see that bollard back there? About the Allied forces in the Second World War? It’s a commemorative way to mark the route they took when they landed on D-Day,’ said Marcie. ‘Hard to image what went on here. All those men marching their way across the country.’

Will turned to look at her. She was peering through the telescope as she spoke.

‘There’s nothing very glamourous about war,’ said Will.

‘Oh, I wasn’t glamourizing it,’ said Marcie straightening up. ‘In fact, I hate war of any kind.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You’re probably the wrong person to be saying that to, but I can’t for the life of me imagine why people want to kill each other.’

‘No one particularly wants to kill each other, but it’s an inevitable part of the process,’ said Will. He could feel his hackles rising as they always did when he had to defend his former profession. ‘It’s not about killing. It’s about saving.’

‘How do you work that one out?’ said Marcie, there was definitely a challenge in her tone. ‘You think of all the men and women who have died in the wars. It’s such a waste of life.’

‘I agree. On an individual scale, yes, it’s pretty damn shit. But look at the bigger picture. The greater good. People have given up their lives fighting for the liberty of others. That’s what the Allied forces did in World War Two. That’s what the British Army have done in more recent history, The Falklands Conflict, the Gulf War, Afghanistan.’

‘I still don’t agree with it,’ said Marcie. ‘There are ways other than killing.’

‘I don’t think some of the dictators in history were up for much of a chat,’ said Will. ‘What do you suggest the powers that be do instead? Do you think Winston Churchill thought he’d invite Hitler round for a chat over circle time?’

‘You’re taking the mickey now,’ said Marcie.

‘No, I’m not, actually. I’m being serious,’ said Will. ‘Don’t tell me you’re some sort of peace warrior.’

‘What if I am?’ snapped Marcie. 

Will laughed out loud. ‘Jesus, just what I need.’ He headed off towards the bridge. ‘Time to get moving,’ he called back over his shoulder.

He heard Marcie run to catch up with him. ‘Have you been to war?’ she said as she reached him.

Will stopped walking. He measured his response. She was, after all, Ben’s kid sister and they did have another couple of hours in the car together.

‘Look, Marcie,’ he said. ‘Let’s just leave it there. We obviously have very differing views on the subject. And I’m actually on your side in this instance.’

‘You are?’

‘Yeah, I’m taking the pacifist stance. I don’t want to get into any conflict with you,’ he said. ‘So, let’s call a cease fire. Deal?’

She looked like she might want to argue some more but her shoulders dropped and he recognised the sign of compliance in her body language.

‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘Deal.’

He conceded a smile. He really didn’t want to get into a conversation about Afghanistan. That was the very thing he’d come to France to get away from. It was just a shame he couldn’t dismiss his thoughts and memories of that time with such ease.

Once back on the road, the tension from earlier oozed away with every mile they covered and, for a time, they sat in companionable silence.