What Happens at the Beach... (13 page)

By the time she got back, his boat was pulled up onto the sand with its bow out of the water and he had already lit a small fire at the back of the beach, where the sand disappeared into a confused mass of rocks. By the look of it, all it had needed had been a few handfuls of bone-dry pine needles and some equally dry branches. It was burning fiercely, the flames almost invisible in the bright sunshine, and Natalie reflected on just how deadly a forest fire could be in these conditions. All it would need would be a careless cigarette end or a match and a whole hillside could go up in flames. As it was, Rémy had chosen a sheltered spot, surrounded by rocks, a good way from the nearest combustible material. It was also, Natalie noticed, very secluded and out of sight of the restaurant and almost anybody else on the beach. She remembered Dominique's warning about him and determined to be on the lookout in case he tried anything, but it wasn't long before she found she had nothing to worry about.

She picked up her towel, dabbing herself down, and slipped her feet into her sandals to walk up the beach. She noticed that his feet were bare and the burning sand appeared to make no impression on him as he came down the beach towards her.

‘If you'd like to keep an eye on the fire, I'll just clean a few fish.'

Natalie did as instructed while Rémy, stripped to his swimming shorts, knelt in the shallows beside his boat and opened, gutted and deboned the little fish with an experienced hand. In the space of a couple of minutes, he prepared a plateful. Before coming back up the beach, he reached for a rope trailing from the back of his boat and pulled up an old Chianti flask, wrapped in battered straw, that had been cooling in the sea. Where on earth he had got this bottle, in a country as fiercely proud of its home-grown grapes as France, was hard to tell, but it was doing a good job as a fairly robust wine cooler.

He came back up the beach carrying the wine, the plate of fish and an old blackened frying pan. He set this down on top of the burning branches and reached into his bag for a bottle of oil. He poured in a small amount and then followed it with the fish. The pan erupted into a fit of hissing and crackling as he gently stirred the contents with a piece of driftwood. In the space of five minutes, his lunch was ready. He made it look so very easy. Finally taking the pan off the fire, he produced a big fat lemon from his bag, sliced it in two, and then, with his powerful hands, squeezed it all over the fish in the pan. While the anchovies cooled down, he pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and poured liberal amounts of dark red wine into a couple of battered, but serviceable, tumblers. From the scratched and worn appearance of the glass, they had lived in his bag for a long, long time, their only dishwasher the sea. He handed one over to Natalie and raised his own to his lips.

‘
Santé
.' He drained his glass in one go and refilled it, while Natalie sipped hers, trusting that she had built up sufficient antibodies to ward off any possible infection as a result of this homespun dining. The wine was no doubt locally produced, strong and rough, not dissimilar to the man drinking it. He reached into the pan with his fingers and lifted up a couple of anchovies. He held them to his nose, sniffed appreciatively, and then tilted his head back and dropped them into his mouth. ‘Here, try a few. You've never had really fresh fish until you've had them like this.'

Natalie reached over gingerly, finding the fish had already cooled down enough to be touchable without burning herself in the pan. She caught hold of one with her fingers and raised it to her lips. He was right; it was delicious. ‘I think that's the best anchovy I've ever tasted. Maybe the best fish I've ever tasted.'

He grinned and told her to help herself. She took a few more before leaving the rest to him. He produced an end of baguette from his bag and tore off a few ragged pieces that he chewed along with the fish, finally using the remains of the bread to mop the pan. He drained his glass of wine and took a refill, offering it to Natalie. Considering all the Chablis she had been drinking, she shook her head. She chatted to him about the sea, the fish and the beach and gradually came to realise more and more that he was a good man who worked hard to make a living. Although the spear-fishing was the glamorous side of his job, there was clearly a lot of hard graft involved as well, particularly through the cold winter months. He certainly wasn't an ostentatious body-builder who spent long hours in the gym. His muscles had been hard-earned. In spite of his rough-looking exterior, he turned out to be a remarkably gentle character and there was no doubt he had his sights set on Laure.

‘Natalie, you know I asked you about Laure?'

‘Yes, I remember.' She glanced at him over the rim of her near empty glass. ‘You like her, don't you, Rémy?'

His rugged, handsome face assumed the look of a guilty schoolboy. ‘Ever since I first saw her. That was ages ago.' He nodded, looking unusually hesitant. ‘You see, I've known her for a few years now. Every summer she works here and every summer I come spear-fishing at Port Renard.' He took a mouthful of wine. ‘The thing is, I've heard that she and her man have broken up. Do you think that's true?'

Natalie hesitated for a moment, unsure whether she should be revealing secrets of Laure's private life to the fisherman. ‘Erm, I'm not sure. I could ask, if you like.'

He brightened up immediately. ‘Would you do that, Natalie?' He took another sip of wine. ‘You see, if she has broken up with him, I thought maybe I could ask her out.' This unsure, timid demeanour was so unexpected in this rugged figure that Natalie was quite touched.

‘Of course I will. To be honest, I think I heard something about that so it may well be right that they've broken up.'

He beamed at her. ‘If you bring me word that she's available, there's another lobster in it for you.'

‘It's all right, Rémy, no need for bribery. I'll see what I can find out and I'll tell you next time I see you. Okay?'

‘Thanks, Natalie. That's wonderful.'

Chapter 8

When Natalie went into the bar for her morning coffee next day, Alain was waiting. ‘Dominique was wondering if you could help out in the restaurant tonight or tomorrow, or both. Friday and Saturday are always our busiest days.'

Natalie thought for a moment, remembering Mark's offer to take her out for a meal with her grandmother. ‘Tell Dominique I'll give her a call at lunchtime. Grandma and I are supposed to be going out some time this weekend. I'll find out when and let Dominique know, but tell her, yes, I'm pretty sure I should be able to do one of the nights, maybe both.'

Outside on the terrace, she found Laure with a mop and bucket, washing the tiles. Natalie went over to her. ‘Hi, Laure. I was talking to Rémy yesterday. He was asking about you.' She saw immediate interest in the other girl's eyes. Laure straightened up, dropped the head of the mop back in the bucket and leant on the handle.

‘What did he say?'

Natalie told her what the fisherman had said and saw Laure's cheeks colour. ‘So, is it true that you've been through a break-up?' She decided not to reveal that Dominique had already given that secret away.

Laure nodded. ‘A few weeks back. I'm on my own again now. But, Rémy, was he really interested in me?' Her face indicated more than casual curiosity.

‘Very definitely. So is it okay if I tell him you're a free agent now?'

Laure nodded her head vigorously.

‘Leave it to me then. Bye, Laure.'

As Natalie went back up the path to the house she found herself envying the apparent simplicity of the developing relationship between Rémy and Laure. Rémy liked Laure and she now knew it. Laure liked Rémy and, the next time Natalie saw him, he would know that for himself. And that was that. In her own case, things weren't so clear-cut. She knew who she liked, but she really still had no idea what he felt about her, although she was pretty sure how his dog felt. Still puzzled, she arrived at the house and found her grandmother in the kitchen, preparing vegetables.

‘Good morning, Gran, what's that you're doing?'

‘I thought we might have ratatouille for lunch today. Does that appeal?'

Natalie gave her a hug. ‘Wonderful, and I'll do a salad. Fancy me having my own personal ninety-year-old cook; I'm a lucky girl. And, yes, ratatouille would be great.' She headed for the shower. ‘I'm working with Mark at the chateau this morning. I'll be back just before lunch. And, talking of lunch, are you still up for lunch or dinner with him this weekend?'

Colette had been very touched at Mark's invitation and she gave Natalie a big smile. ‘Most certainly, whenever and wherever suits him. Although I suppose maybe we should make it lunchtime rather than dinner, otherwise I might not sleep so well if I have a big meal just before I go to bed.'

‘And if it's
Les Vagues
at Collioure?'

‘Well, that would be wonderful, but it doesn't have to be so expensive. Just going out for lunch will be such a treat for me.'

‘Great. I'll tell him.'

Up at the chateau, as usual the dog was waiting for her at the kitchen door and gave her an effusive greeting. She said good morning to Madame Lenoir and then went through to the study, the dog at her side, nuzzling and nibbling her fingers. Mark turned towards the door as she came in and gave her a big smile. ‘Good morning. I can always tell when you've arrived because I hear the dog going bananas in the kitchen. I think Barney's developed a soft spot for you, Natalie.'

‘And the feeling is totally mutual. He's a lovely dog. So, how was your trip to the UK? All a bit of a rush, I suppose. Who did you fly with?'

He looked a bit sheepish. ‘To be absolutely honest, I flew over and back in a private jet.' He caught her eye. ‘Don't ask me about my carbon footprint. I should be ashamed and I am ashamed, but it was the only way. Normally I take a couple of days and use commercial airlines, but I only learnt about the meeting on Wednesday morning, just before we set off for Béziers.'

‘We could have rescheduled.' Natalie didn't even want to think how much the round trip by private plane might have cost.

‘I know. It wasn't that. The people I had to see were just on a brief stopover in London en route from Toronto to Seoul.' He gave her a little smile. ‘It wasn't as glamorous as you think. We sat in an aircraft on the tarmac for five hours, discussing terms. Anyway, it all went well and I was back home again by nightfall. What about you? Did you spend the day lying around on the beach?'

Natalie nodded. ‘Part of the time, but I was also thinking about your book. You know you were saying you wanted there to be some sort of treasure map, or at least talk of a treasure that the goodies and baddies in your book start investigating?' He nodded. ‘And you wanted me to come up with an idea of where they could have found that sort of document? Well, I've been thinking about it and I've got a suggestion for you: the Inquisition.'

‘The Inquisition? You mean the Spanish Inquisition? How big a part did they play in the crusade?'

‘Not really the Spanish Inquisition. That developed later, but interestingly enough, it was the crusade against the Cathars that saw the birth of the Inquisition, and the originator of it was indeed Spanish.' He looked up in interest as she explained. ‘A saint, no less. Dominic Guzman, later to become Saint Dominic, who founded the Dominican order; it was they who became the inquisitors.'

‘Monks in a holy order actually became torturers?' Mark sounded appalled. ‘So you're saying they might be the source of the secret document?'

‘The inquisitors kept meticulous records. They actually supplied most of the documentation we have today about the Cathars. There are interrogations, confessions, sentences and so on. For your purposes, the records of the Inquisition could well be the source of the information about the treasure.'

‘That sounds brilliant.' He was thinking hard. ‘Maybe my main character could be a history professor who happens upon something as he's going through some old records and that sparks the whole thing off. The baddies get to hear about it and he finds himself on the run.'

‘Or
she
finds
herself
on the run.' Natalie couldn't help throwing that in for balance. He looked up in surprise.

‘Of course, that's it. Brilliant idea, Natalie. Stuff Indiana Jones. My main character's going to be a woman.' He glanced across at her, a light smile on his lips. ‘In fact, she could be a tall, very beautiful, half English, half French girl with the lightest blue eyes.'

Natalie liked the sound of
very beautiful
, but she did her best to keep her face expressionless. ‘Of course, this being a novel, there could be no reference to real people in it, for fear of legal action? Or am I wrong?'

He was smiling more broadly now. ‘All right, she can be a five-foot-nothing brunette with hairy arms and brown eyes. Would that do?'

She was smiling back at him by now. ‘You're the writer. You call the shots.'

Natalie loved the way that she and Mark shared the same enthusiasm for their subject and she realised how much she had missed that with David. He had had his focus and his law career and neither of them had ever discussed each other's work in any depth. Being able to sit here and discuss things with Mark was a true breath of fresh air.

They spent the rest of the morning poring over the map. He had scribbled out a rough list of the sorts of locations he wanted for his story. One had to be a spectacular castle, perched on top of a high mountain, and one a mysterious little village, with an ancient church, narrow streets and stone houses. Then there had to be caves, rivers, gorges and forests, as well as historical buildings in big-name places like Carcassonne and Toulouse. Fortunately, Natalie knew the region really well and by lunchtime they had compiled a list of places to visit the following week. It promised to be very interesting for both of them.