1621

Rickyboxen – you know, if after reading this people inundate you with requests to "fix" their stories you only have your excellent editing skills to blame....smiles. You are my calming voice of reason through the divine madness that is the writing process – and I thank you!

CHAPTER ONE

Dare I stand before you,
In the harsh light of reality?
I think not!
For within me beats the heart of a coward,
Despite the fact that each beat is yours.
Please know, as you make your journey through this life,
There exists a woman,
Who is glad you share with her,
The rising sun of each new day!
Please forgive me my cowardice!
I do not have the courage to stand before you - yet.
But I do have the courage to love you!
It is your touch I crave.
Your heart I cherish.
Feel the whisper of my caress!
And know I give it only to you!

Christina Rhodes knew she would send this poem. The desire to have this man know her feelings was too strong to ignore. She needed him to understand what he meant to her despite the fact that she knew he would probably interpret her words as a schoolgirl infatuation - considering the anonymous source. She had written the poem in English and then spent most of the night translating it into French. Her thoughts would speak to him in his own language. She liked that.

As long as her spirit walked this earth she would never forget the warmth of his twinkling green eyes as he smiled at her from his table at 1621 tonight. The connection she felt was undeniable.

The poem spoke for her when she could not. It would keep her secret but also convey her feelings. She knew the truth of these words but could not escape the clumsiness of their delivery.

"Christ!" she whispered to herself. "I'm 28, not bloody 14. Why don't I just go up to him and ask him out? He has said 'Bonjour' to me at theboulangerie every morning for the last two months. It's not like I haven't already got an in."

When she looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room she didn't feel like she had an 'in' at all. Staring back at her were the eyes of an 80kg woman. Dead eyes. Eyes that lacked the passion to write such eloquent and heart-felt words. How she despised that woman! She cupped her face in her open palms. The tears of frustration followed because she knew she was both the woman in the mirror and the writer of such eloquent and heart-felt words.

On the other side of the medieval village of Locronan, Yann had just arrived back at the home he shared with his brother Fabrice. His bad mood had followed him home from the restaurant and it showed no sign of dissipating when he heard Fabrice and Martine laughing in the living room.

Fabrice obviously brought Martine back home after their dinner date at 1621 and from what Yann could hear of their conversation they were re-capping the incident at the restaurant that was the cause of Yann's bad mood now.

Yann wasted no time in venting his mood on his younger brother. He stormed into the living room and spoke in very loud, rapid Breton.

"Fuck You!!! The woman was an idiot!!! How dare she embarrass me in front of our staff!" He was irritated to see Fabrice's grin growing.

Fabrice reached for Martine's hand to include her in the conversation his brother tried to exclude her from.

He said to her in French, with a grin on his face. 'Martine, my brother speaks Breton now because he knows you do not, and this is his somewhat misguided way of being a gentleman and sparing you from the fact that he just told me to fornicate with myself. It was a shame he didn't extend to the poor woman in the restaurant tonight the same courtesy he just extended you!'

Martine smiled and looked across at Yann in quiet amusement.

His bad temper evaporated, as it normally did with Yann, but not before he aimed a cushion at his brother's head and settled his lanky frame into the seat opposite. His moods never burned hot for long.

He switched to French and said to his brother. "She was a fucking nightmare!! The nerve of her to show me up in front of everyone!"

"She did no less than what you tried to do to her, Yann. You should have known you were outclassed the moment she started speaking French. She definitely wasn't a shy tourist fumbling through her French phrase book. You're just pissed off she wasn't going to let herself be pushed around. It's people like you who give nice Frenchmen like me a bad name!" He grinned.

Fabrice turned to Martine. "Did you even pick up an accent from her?" Martine shook her head no. "Neither did I. She spoke French as if she'd been raised around the corner. It was flawless. The only thing that gave her away as being a tourist was the fact that she spoke to her friend in English, with a New Zealand accent."

"That and the fact she likes her fucking steak burnt!" Yann grumbled.

Martine and Fabrice laughed again but quickly stopped when they saw Yann looking for more cushions to throw.

"Yann, why did you have to be such a pompous Frenchman anyway? You should have just cooked her steak the way she wanted it."

"Fuck off! I had a thousand years of French cuisine to protect!!!"

"Don't give me that shit! You were only looking to save your own ass and when that didn't work you tried to embarrass her by throwing her 'ignorance' of fine food back in her face. It would have worked too if she didn't come back with... what did she say Martine?" Fabrice squeezed her hand again.

Martine cleared her throat in mock seriousness as if she was going to make an important announcement. "I believe it was something like 'Okay, that's fine. I'll pay for this steak even if the poor cow still has a pulse. Please make it to take away. My dog loves raw meat. And instead I'd like to try thepoulet roti. Assuming of course I don't have to chase the chicken around the restaurant to get it onto my plate.'" Martine and Fabrice were laughing so hard the tears flowed from their eyes.

Yann had to laugh as well. "Ok, you two, I have to admit: the better person won tonight. I'm off to bed. If she comes back to 1621 I'll give her a bottle of our best French Merlot as an apology but hell will freeze over before another dog eats a steak from our restaurant!"

CHAPTER TWO

Hours later, when Martine had fallen asleep after their lovemaking, Fabrice lay awake staring into the darkness. There was something about this woman in 1621 that really captured him tonight. Of course he had seen her several times before around Locronan. She always had a warm smile for him and over these past weeks he had grown to appreciate it.

He had never heard her speak English before tonight and hearing her New Zealand accent reminded him of his wonderful year in New Zealand when he swapped places with a student at Uxbridge College and Connor Blakely became his best friend. Fabrice was 18 and it was his final year at school before starting at Lavillette in Paris

Was this the reason she captured him so much tonight? He had to admit it had been many years since he had heard a New Zealand accent. He didn't realise how much he missed it until he heard the soft lilt of her voice. Her smiles, her intellect, her wit; the list of things he loved about her was growing. He sometimes saw sadness in her though and pondered on its possible cause. Her body didn't match her spirit somehow and he wondered if this was the source of her sadness.

She was quite blatantly overweight and to Fabrice's eyes this took something away from her somehow. But not in the way you would expect in this day and age where so much importance is put on physical beauty. Fabrice couldn't put his finger on it but he sensed she was lost somehow within herself. She must have been about 160cm and at least 20kg overweight but there was something about her physical body that captured Fabrice. Was it her dark hair that fell in waves to her waist? Or perhaps the sharply intelligent eyes that cast their warm hazel gaze his way every time they passed on the street? He was not usually drawn to this kind of woman. All his past partners, including Martine, were tall and slim. He liked this kind of woman: a woman who took pride in her appearance and looked after her body. So why then was this woman, the exact opposite of his ideal, entrenched so deeply in his mind these days?

Thinking back over dinner he had to admit he was distracted by the conversation this woman was having with her friend. Apparently she had been house-sitting for Mme. Divanach here in Locronan for the past two months.

Fabrice and Yann had known Mme. Divanach since they were boys. She had a strong dislike of Locronan summers, complaining that the tourists were everywhere. Each year her son would advertise online for house-sitters and then she would escape to his holiday place in Nevez for the summer.

From the dinner conversation Fabrice could overhear, Mme. Divanach was due to return to Locronan next week. This woman and her New Zealand friend were planning to travel around Europe for another six months before returning to the seaside suburb of Uxbridge. For a moment Fabrice was stunned at the coincidence. He would have loved nothing more than to ask this woman and her friend to join him and Martine for dinner but then his adorably obnoxious brother came storming out of the kitchen with a look that could wilt flowers carrying what appeared to be the steak the woman sent back. Knowing only too well his brother's bark, Fabrice felt bad for this woman and what was about to happen. How fast the tables turned!

Fabrice and Martine almost choked on their Merlot when they heard this woman tell Yann in perfect French that Mme. Divanach's dog was going to eat well tonight. He didn't know which was more amazing. The fact that his brother was rendered speechless by this quick-witted woman or that she had kicked him in the proverbial balls and survived. A woman who could get the better of Yann and accomplish it with such panache was certainly worth paying attention to. Could it be melancholy he was feeling that she would be leaving Locronan in a few days? He suspected it was. His heart never made a secret of what it was feeling. The fact that it felt the most outrageous things at the most inappropriate times didn't do a thing to stop its rhythmic beat. It did however, cause Fabrice no end of trouble trying to live with the havoc it created by being so blatant in its requests of him.

It was summer 2003. Fabrice was 30. He didn't know it yet but his heart had a big journey planned for him. At the end of it he would know only peace, his destiny fulfilled. But first he would see hell – more than once.

CHAPTER THREE

Fabrice Le Gall grew up in Brittany, on France's west Coast. His Parents Louec and Marie raised Fabrice and Yann, in a small village not far from the medieval village of Locronan. They worked hard for their boys and provided them with a home filled with love and laughter, instilling in them a deep respect for their Breton roots and the ability to converse fluently in French as well as Breton. To this day they still lived in the home they raised their sons in.

While the boys were growing up Louec always insisted that only Breton was spoken in their home. It was an odd request that Marie did not understand in the first years of their marriage but as time went on she learned not only to respect his wishes but also agree with them.

Louec had a deep love for his Breton grandmother and as a mark of respect to her memory and the upbringing she gave him he raised his sons to speak her mother's tongue. He could not stop the French language from influencing the lives of Yann and Fabrice, and it was of no interest for him to do so, but he could ensure the language of his beloved grandmother lived on in them as well. He was a man who respected the past but still had hope in his heart for the future - if only for the fact that he was leaving it to his sons.

Breton was all but a dead language when Fabrice was growing up in the 1970s so it was good to see schools in his beloved Brittany offering it as part of the school syllabus now. His Celtic heritage was indeed alive and well and very much a part of Brittany and the 21st century. How wise his Parents were to give their sons the grounding in life only the past could grant them!

Fabrice was tall, at 190cm with piercing green eyes and dark brown hair. The windsurfing he adored helped keep him in shape, leaving him with toned and muscular shoulders and legs that attracted more women than he was aware of. He was a shy and intense man, honest in his approach to life and passionate about the things he loved. He was close to his family but also fiercely protective over his independence. When he completed his architectural degree at Lavillette in Paris, Fabrice left Europe for a few years and moved to New York where he worked for some time as an architect but later returned to school to get his Masters in Business. It was a good few years for Fabrice who used this time well to hone his fluency in English.

While in New York, Fabrice met Sabine, a French Canadian law student who became his first long-term relationship. They were both 24 and neither of them were prepared for the tempestuousness that soon defined their relationship. Looking back on it, at the time Sabine broke it off, Fabrice realised it was a craving for the language of home that led him into Sabine's life. He missed France. He missed the fresh croissants in his Papa'sboulangerie. He missed the sweet cidre with his evening meal. He missed the delicious aromas that always welcomed him into his Maman's kitchen. But Sabine did not quench Fabrice's craving for home, nor did she prove to be a woman he could entrust his heart to.

When Fabrice completed his Masters, his relationship with Sabine well and truly over, he was more than ready to return to the empowering familiarity of Brittany. He didn't regret that Sabine ended their relationship. He felt only relief that he didn't have to do it himself.

At the completion of his Masters Fabrice had been away from Europe for six years with the exception of a brief visit home for the Millennium. When he got back to France Fabrice decided to call in and see Yann in Paris before returning to Brittany. It was January 2003.

Yann was a chef at one of the more elegant hotels in central Paris. He had done well for himself but like Fabrice he was ready to go back to Brittany. During Fabrice's time away the brothers had stayed in very close contact and had often tossed around the idea of returning to Locronan to run a restaurant. The familiar went a long way with these boys despite the fact that neither of them had lived in Brittany for some 10 years.

A week after Fabrice had arrived in Paris, the brothers were united in their plans and Fabrice was on his way to Locronan. He had an appointment with a Real Estate agent to pick up the keys for the home he had just purchased, sight unseen: a four level building that at present was the "Librairie Celtique" in the middle of the town square. Fabrice was looking forward to restoring it back to its original design, with, of course, a few post-medieval additions. It would challenge his architectural skills restoring this fine piece of Locronan's heritage but he was more than ready for it. Yann had handed in his resignation at the restaurant that helped turn him into the best chef this side of the Seine – his words. The Le Gall brothers were returning to Brittany!

Yann and Fabrice were taking over the lease of a local restaurant two doors down from their father'sboulangerie. They wanted to re-name it '1621' after the year Fabrice's house was built. Their father agreed it was a good name. But then he was a man who had great respect for the past.

CHAPTER FOUR

His name was Fabrice. Christina had savoured his name on her tongue every moment since she discovered it. M. Le Gall, the lovely man in theboulangerie, called him into his shop one day while she was there and she heard him introduce Fabrice to a Breton woman who needed help getting her purchases into her car. He called him "mon fils". Fabrice was his son. Fabrice Le Gall. Fabrice Le Gall. Fabrice Le Gall. She knew his name.

Christina awoke early for her last day in Locronan. She had not ventured out since the night at 1621 with Alison. That was three days ago. Alison had left straight after dinner that night to stay with friends before flying to Paris the next morning. Christina was going to meet her there tomorrow for the start of their six-month tour through Europe.

Christina was glad of this time to herself. She had hoped as soon as she wrote the poem that she would find the courage to deliver it into the hand of Fabrice, the man with the smiling green eyes. But now, on her final day she was disheartened to realise the courage was nowhere to be found. She felt completely disgusted with herself. These beautiful words that carried so many truths for her were going to be reduced to insignificance because she didn't have the strength to stand by them. But then what was the alternative? She couldn't go to him – not yet.

She took a deep breath and rolled towards her nightstand to retrieve the poem. As she read it one last time she sent a silent cry to her destiny to fill the void left by her cowardice. Her body lacked the conviction of her spirit and as the tears returned she realised Fabrice was too important to let go. The day was fast approaching when her body and spirit would be one. On that day she would no longer be haunted by the woman with dead eyes but until then she had nothing to give him – nothing except the poem.

As she caught her reflection in the dresser mirror the woman with the dead eyes looked back at her with a mocking grin. The writer of the words would ensure Christina's destiny was fulfilled but the woman with the dead eyes would ensure Christina saw hell first – more than once.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Fabrice. Wake up! Papa is on the phone."

Yann threw the portable onto the foot of Fabrice's bed before padding off to the shower.

Groggy, as always in the morning, Fabrice clumsily retrieved the phone.

"Papa, what is it? It's the middle of the night!"

His Papa's rich laugh boomed down the line. "Mon fils, c'est midi pour moi!!"

Fabrice smiled as he rolled over and looked at his digital alarm clock. It said "07.30".

His Papa, the clown! Of course it was midday for him. He baked bread for a living!!

"Papa, next you'll be calling me a bum and telling me to get a real job."

"Ahh...you are Breton! You can't be a bum and Breton! It is not possible."

Fabrice smiled once again. "What is it, Papa?"

"You have a letter here; an envelope someone left at the front door of the boulangerie. They must have delivered it while I was in the back making the bread. It smells of lavender."

Fabrice was suddenly wide awake. "I have no idea what that could be, Papa. But I'll get some clothes on and come and pick it up now."

"You don't want to wait until morning, do you? It's still the middle of the night where you are, isn't it?"

Fabrice could hear the teasing smile in his Papa's words. "I'll be there in five minutes Papa and my croissants better be ready!" He rung off with a grin then leaped out of bed, more than a little curious about this letter.

He got to theboulangerie just as his father was unlocking the door for the two customers already waiting outside. Fabrice greeted his Papa with a kiss. Louec Le Gall drew his son into the shop and waved his customers in before closing the door behind him. He directed Fabrice to the letter behind the counter before moving to serve the newly returned Mme Divanach and her son. Fabrice greeted them both before picking up the envelope.

When he picked it up and turned it around in his hands he was even more curious about it. All it said was "FABRICE Le GALL." There was no stamp and no return name or address. The handwriting was exquisite on the soft lavender scented envelope. He quickly tore it open.