More Than Words Can Say (7 page)

“French heaven on earth,” Brandon answered.

Jacques produced a key ring from one of his pockets and walked to the cottage. After opening the screen door, he turned back toward Chelsea.

“The moment has finally come,” he said. “After so many years, a member of Madame Brooke’s family will at last go inside.”

Before unlocking the door, he thought for a moment. Then he walked back to Chelsea and contritely handed her the keys.

“Perhaps mademoiselle should do the honors?” he asked. “After all, it is your place now,
n’est-ce
pas
? Please forgive my presumptuousness, for old habits die hard.”

Chelsea nodded and took the key from him. Her hand trembling slightly, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it over. As she pushed open the door, its old hinges squeaked pleasantly.

Until this moment, she hadn’t known what to expect. Before coming here she had asked Lucy if there were any pictures of the cottage, but Lucy didn’t know. For lack of any better information, Chelsea had envisioned some primitive shack that was barely livable. But after seeing the cottage’s well-maintained exterior, she had become hopeful.

At last she went inside, followed by Margot. While Jacques and Brandon busily removed the outside window boards, the afternoon sunlight came streaming in. Almost as if she were viewing a slide show, Chelsea watched the various rooms present themselves one by one.

She was standing in the kitchen, where everything, both old and new, positively glistened with cleanliness. The walls were of knotty, polished pine. An old potbellied stove sat in one corner, its narrow black chimney ascending through a high ceiling made of rough-hewn timbers. Allistaire had been right about the appliances, Chelsea realized. Each had indeed been replaced; even the stainless steel sink and faucets looked new. Although the black and white checkerboard floor appeared original, it too was spotless. The old wooden cabinets and countertops were slightly warped from age but seemed serviceable enough. While Margot set the new oven on “warm” and placed the coq au vin inside it, Chelsea walked on into the living room.

Where the kitchen had been an odd mishmash of generations, here only the past prevailed. Both the floor and walls were built from pine, lending the room an unexpected lightness. The living room was rectangular, with one of its longer sides facing the lake. The peaked ceiling was high, and like that of the kitchen, it too had been quaintly fashioned from old beams and rafters. A chandelier made from artfully entangled deer antlers hung from the ceiling’s center beam, and an old dining table with six captain-style chairs was positioned along the left-hand wall. To Chelsea’s right lay the bathroom door, and just beyond that was the door to the mysterious guest bedroom to which Brooke had alluded in her letter.

On the left side of the living room stood a beautiful fireplace that had been fashioned entirely of rose quartz rocks. Chelsea had never seen its like, and the effect was striking. On the slate mantel stood an unfinished portrait of Brooke that had presumably been started sometime before her tragic car crash. A massive leather sofa, its surfaces elegantly cracked here and there with age, sat before the fireplace. A huge vintage radio stood against the wall on the fireplace’s right-hand side, and on the other side there stood an old rolltop secretary and a matching chair. Just left of the desk was the door leading to the front porch.

The far end of the living room held double doors that invited entrance into the master bedroom. Taking the bait, Chelsea walked in and looked around. Here, too, everything was vintage. A large picture window looked out upon the sandy shoreline, the boathouse, and the shimmering lake beyond. A mahogany, king-sized sleigh bed faced the window, as did the matching dresser. A paned skylight in the ceiling let in the afternoon light while also revealing some evergreen branches above it, swaying gently in the breeze.

Still trying to hide her excitement, Chelsea walked back through the living room and at last entered the guest room. It was a small space with a single latticed window, a shiny brass bed, and a lone maple dresser with matching mirror. As Chelsea tried to discreetly peer under the bed, she realized that without actually going down on her knees, she would never identify the three special floorboards that Brooke had mentioned in her letter. The longer she stood looking, the more she wanted to go after them right there and then.

While she remained lost in thought, Brandon approached. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb and grinned at her.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

A bit startled, Chelsea turned to face him. Doing her best to forget about the box, for a few awkward moments she found herself at a loss for words.

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” she finally answered. “In its own special way, this is one of the loveliest places I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you visited the porch yet?” Brandon asked. “It’s great.”

She followed Brandon across the living room and out onto the porch. It was deep and long, its right-hand side ending at the joint where the living room’s front wall met the master bedroom. The inward-slanting screened windows provided a marvelous view of the lake. Some old rocking chairs and cocktail tables sat there, and candled hurricane globes hung at regular intervals on the back wall. From here one could hear the sound of the waves and feel the refreshing breeze as it winnowed its way through the screens.

She then shook her head unbelievingly, much the same way she had done in Allistaire Reynolds’s office only four days prior. On first learning that the cottage had become hers, she had been quite willing to sell it sight unseen. But now that idea seemed remote. She was falling in love with the place, and she knew it.

“I’m simply amazed,” she said to Brandon. “I never guessed that it could be so wonderful.”

Without answering, Brandon quietly walked to one of the screened windows, where he stood looking out at the lake.

“It is, isn’t it?” he at last replied softly, as if he were speaking only to himself. “And it’s even better when you have someone to share it with . . .”

When he didn’t turn around, Chelsea went to him and gazed quizzically into his eyes. After a few moments, he at last returned from his personal reverie.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “For a moment or two, it was like you had gone off alone somewhere.”

He smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” he answered. “I was just thinking about someone I used to know. It happens, sometimes . . .”

Just as Chelsea was about to respond, Jacques and Margot joined them. Jacques smiled broadly and placed his meaty fists akimbo.

“So, mademoiselle,” he asked. “Does your vacation home meet with your approval?”

Chelsea laughed a bit. “Are you serious?” she asked. “What could be better than this? I have so much to thank you and Margot for! Without you two, by now this place would be in ruins.”

She almost thanked Brandon too, before remembering his warning from before. She would do so later, she decided, after the Fabiennes had left.

Jacques shot a wink at Margot, who smiled back knowingly. “But there is more,” he said to Chelsea. “You still haven’t seen the boathouse.”

Chelsea smiled. “True,” she said. “But no boathouse in the world could be as lovely as this cottage.”

“No, boathouses are seldom lovely,” Jacques answered. “But yours holds a special surprise that I think will please you very much.”

Chelsea raised her eyebrows. “What is it?” she asked.

“To answer that,” Jacques said, “mademoiselle must accompany me there.”

Ever more curious, Chelsea looked at Brandon. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” she asked.

“Haven’t got a clue,” Brandon answered. “Like I said before, Jacques has always been secretive about it.”

“True,
mon
ami,
” Jacques said to Brandon. “But now it is at last time for that secret to come out. So follow me, you two, and you shall see.”

Jacques and Margot led them off the front porch, then across the sand and toward the boathouse. As she neared, Chelsea realized that it was larger than she had first thought, causing her to wonder why one would need an accompanying building so spacious.

After unlocking the door, Jacques turned back toward Chelsea and Brandon, and he smiled. Saying nothing this time, he unceremoniously opened the door and walked in. Because he and Brandon had already removed the window boards, there was no need to turn on the lights.

The boathouse was cluttered with all manner of appropriate things. An old aluminum rowboat lay upside down atop two sawhorses. A workbench lined one side of the room, and hand tools of nearly every description hung on the wall above it. Nests of tangled fishing line, old lures, antique rods and reels, and a couple of still-deteriorating fishing baskets also clung to the walls. The air smelled of grease, motor oil, and the distant past.

Although the room was cluttered, Chelsea remained at a loss about the special surprise Jacques had mentioned. Hoping for an answer, she cast another quizzical glance at Brandon, but he only shrugged his shoulders.

And then she saw it. There was a solid wooden door in the far wall, allowing entry into what she knew must be the other half of the boathouse. With only a smile, Jacques handed her a silver key chain. After walking across the room, Chelsea unlocked the other door and crossed the threshold. Brandon followed her, as did the Fabiennes. Once inside, Jacques switched on the lights.

This other room was windowless. In the middle of the floor, a boat lay in a heavy steel cradle that hung from the ceiling. In the floor directly below the boat lay twin, closed doors that presumably opened up and over to lay flat on the floor on either side, thus exposing the water below. A series of electrical wires ran from a motor on the far wall to a wall switch. Chelsea could easily deduce that when the switch was activated, the cradle would gently lower the boat down onto the waves below it.

The boat itself was covered over with an old canvas tarp. Wasting no time, Jacques and Margot walked over and pulled off the tarp. As they did, Brandon gasped.

“My God, Jacques!” he said. “She’s beautiful! How long has she been in storage like this?”

As if he were showing off his first newborn child, Jacques beamed with pride.

“Since the day the cottage was closed for good,” he answered. “She hasn’t seen the light of day since. The engine was prepped for long-term storage, and twice a year I have polished her wood and chrome and conditioned her leather. She still looks good, no? There are few remaining like her.”

Then he turned and looked at Chelsea. “And now, mademoiselle,” he said softly, “she’s yours.”

Although Chelsea knew nothing about boats, even she realized that this was something very special. As she neared it, she became entranced. Clearly, this craft was a product of a more elegant age.

“It’s amazing,” Chelsea said. “I’ve seen boats like this only in magazines.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Jacques boasted, “because they’ve become so rare. She’s a 1941 Chris-Craft. One of only three hundred seventy-one made that year. Because of the scarcity of raw materials during the war years, no more were built until 1946. And soon after that, boat makers began using fiberglass. Your great-grandfather bought her new and had her shipped here. Madame Brooke loved her, and she went out in her nearly every afternoon. After her accident, she ordered me to carefully put her in storage to await another day, and so I did.”

Wide-eyed, Chelsea circled the boat. The graceful craft was sixteen feet long; her shiny mahogany hull, topside, and chrome trim positively gleamed. There was a cockpit both fore and aft, each of them fashioned with plush leather seating and able to accommodate two persons. In between them was the housing for the inboard engine. The steering wheel was huge and boasted a chrome horn ring, like that of an antique car. Her long, pointed bow was elegant and built for slicing through the waves, and a two-part, low-slung glass windshield lay before the driver’s cockpit. When Chelsea walked around the gracefully tapered stern, she smiled. The name of the boat had been painted there in gold lettering.

“
Beautiful Brooke . . . ,
” Chelsea murmured, almost to herself.

“Your great-grandfather named her after his only child,” Jacques said. “If the mademoiselle would like, I know a shipwright in Serendipity who can activate her again. I could tow her to his shop, where he would do all the work. It would probably be pricy, but he’s the only one I trust to do it right.”

While still staring at the beautiful boat, Chelsea nodded.
Beautiful Brooke
was far more than just some marvelous antique. In her heart, Chelsea somehow knew that this craft would prove to be just as much a link to her grandmother’s mysterious past as would the cottage itself, or whatever lay inside the tin box. Although she had never been the outdoors type, she suddenly wanted to enjoy this boat, to experience it just as Brooke had done those many years ago, when she had still been a healthy and spirited woman. But there was more to it, Chelsea knew. To her continuing astonishment, with every passing moment she was feeling more and more a part of this wonderful place.

“Yes,” she said. “Please arrange it.”

Jacques nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he answered.

Margot looked at her watch. “It is becoming late,
mon
cher
,” she said to Jacques. “Time for us to go.”

After everyone left the boathouse, Jacques handed all of the keys to Chelsea. Then the four of them unloaded the groceries that the Fabiennes had brought, and they stored them away. Margot gave Chelsea a quick tour of the kitchen, showing her where she could find things. Finally, Jacques gave Chelsea their home phone number and a small packet that contained all of the paperwork on the lovely old Chris-Craft.

At last, the Fabiennes stood ready to go. As Jacques respectfully removed his beret again, a rather sad look overcame his face.

“If there is ever anything you need,” he said, “you have but to call us. And you have a good neighbor in Monsieur Brandon, who can also help with things. In the meantime, I will contact you about picking up the boat.”