Paul drove into Kerdruc. It was always best to sober up and let the wind and the sun wring the night from his body. His old friend Simon had left coffee, milk and pancakes on the kitchen table that morning, along with a bottle of Père Magloire Calvados. One of the chickens had jumped up onto the table and was observing its egg. Despite a quick nap on Simon’s couch, Paul felt as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backward. Maybe he could convince Simon to let him help out in the farm shop. After Simon had stopped going out to sea to work, he had converted his fisherman’s cottage in Kerbuan into a mini-market and now lived with his chickens in the kitchen.

He sold all kinds of stuff to gullible tourists. Ice honey, for example: collected by frost-resistant bees from flowers that grew in glaciated valleys in the Pyrenees. Oh yes. The tourists didn’t need to know that it was just tangy buckwheat honey. Then there was Simon’s scam with the menhir seeds—a paper sachet, emblazoned with a drawing of the fields of megalith stones in Carnac, containing a few crumbs of granite that had trickled from a crack in the outside wall of his house. “Menhirs grow very slowly for the first few hundred years,” Simon would explain to his deferential patrons. It would help if they used some good old Celtic soil from Brittany as fertilizer—which meant he could sell them a handful of dirt from his garden to go with the bits of stone.

But the best thing about Simon’s little store was that there were so many women in summer, and they found everything “nice” and “sweet.” They wore short dresses and dreamed of catching a Breton fisherman and having their very own Lady Chatterley’s Lover moment. Simon didn’t really like talking to all these tourists, especially the sophisticated Parisian women, and he wasn’t keen on pretending to be a rustic hunk. But for Paul, the gathering of so many different women in one place was a delightful occurrence.

He pulled up alongside Simon’s battered Citroën, whose hood was pointing toward Ar Mor’s terrace. “Bonjour, Monsieur Paul,” called Laurine, the young waitress from Ar Mor, as the former legionnaire got out of his car.

Paul went over to stand next to her. “Hello, Laurine.” He peered at the mouth of the Aven, but all he could see was the Gwen II making for the quayside.

“There!” cried Laurine. Her overexcitement made Paul feel slightly dizzy. Simon was standing on the Gwen II, as always. And next to him…

“There!” repeated Laurine. “Yoo-hoo!”

“A woman?” Paul gasped. How on earth had Simon managed to pick up a woman and take her on a boat trip before lunch? The traitor! Hadn’t they sworn last night that women were to play no further part in their lives? No major part, at any rate.

—

Simon preferred to manage the final few yards on his own. He’d enjoyed the smell of Marianne’s seawater-soaked hair. Someone should invent seawater shampoo and market it, he thought. He’d have a word with Paul later about how they could put the sea into one of those plastic bottles. He suddenly caught sight of Laurine on the quayside, and behind her, Paul, with a sour look on his face.

—

Marianne leaned on the railing while Simon was busy docking. She drank in the sight of Kerdruc harbor once more. Her heart clenched at the scene, and she felt as if she were returning home after a long sea voyage.

Nonsense. Nonsense, stop thinking such nonsense!

“Morning, Monsieur Simon!” called Laurine. Simon thought that Laurine could have been a model. He’d once suggested that she move to Paris or Milan and get rich.

She had looked at him with astonishment and said, “Rich? What for?” and she’d meant it. The twenty-three-year-old had the body of a woman, but her mind was often that of a child—too unsophisticated to lie, and too naïve for distrust.

Simon gave Marianne an awkward helping hand out of the boat. “I’ll never touch another drink,” he informed Paul as he stepped off the Gwen II and wound the rope expertly around a bollard.

“Me neither,” Paul lied, glancing at Marianne with a quizzical, charming smile.

“Paul, this is Marianne. She’s German.”

“Allemande, eh?” said Paul, and took her hand in his, pretending to plant a kiss on it. “Zwei brezzelle, beete.” She withdrew her hand, aghast.

Simon nudged him. “Leave her, she’s shy.”

Paul switched into Breton. “I thought we’d come to an agreement about women. Some mate you are. As soon as I turn my back, you—”

“Oh put a sock in it. I was just going for a dip when she came out of the cabin naked.”

“Naked?!”

“With the cat.”

“And then? Did you—”

“Almost drowned me.”

“The cat?”

“Trying to rescue the girl. She fell into the water!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then don’t ask.”

“Have you already had breakfast?” asked Paul.

“Let’s have a game of backgammon and a coffee,” Simon replied. “The loser has to mind the shop today.”

Marianne stood beside the two men the whole time, lost, her feet close together, her handbag clutched tightly to her chest. She felt defenseless. She could sense that they were talking about her, so she affected her most carefree smile. The cat rubbed up against her legs, and she found its presence calming. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, I…” Her mind was suddenly empty. White noise, but no words.

Laurine leaned forward to give her three kisses on the cheeks. Left, right, left. “Bonjour, madame. I’m Laurine,” she said with a smile.

“Marianne Lanz,” Marianne answered self-consciously. She still felt like a bedraggled cat, and presumably smelled like one too.

“Marianne? What a pretty name! Lovely to see you here. Did your journey go well?”

Marianne didn’t understand a word. Laurine took her by the hand, while Simon and Paul began to lay cushions on the wooden chairs on the terrace, moving with the characteristic slowness of old gentlemen.

“Kenavo,” Simon called after Marianne. That was Breton for “see you later.”

Laurine was terribly agitated, and as always when she was agitated, she whispered. “I’m taking you to see the chef. His name’s Jean-Rémy. He’ll be delighted to meet you!”

Marianne lingered apprehensively in the doorway as Laurine preceded her into Ar Mor’s kitchens. “I…I’m sorry, but…” Nobody was listening to her. Nobody.

It was only when the chef looked at her, pushed back his red bandanna and smiled that Marianne’s embarrassment gave way to relief. It was him! The man with the oysters!

“What do you think you are—a budding Hell’s Angel?” Madame Ecollier had asked Jean-Rémy two summers earlier when he dismounted from his motorbike for a trial session in the kitchen. Black jeans, red shirt, studded boots. He had earrings, and a tattoo under the dark curls at the back of his neck. A case containing his favorite knife dangled from his belt like a revolver in a holster. Each of his leather bracelets represented one of the kitchens he had worked in during the thirteen years since he’d started out as a chef at the age of sixteen.

Nevertheless, Madame Ecollier had taken a shine to his outfit. “I’d prefer it if you resembled Peter Sellers rather than Johnny Depp, but never mind. Just cook and keep your eyes off our female guests—and your hands off my staff. And stay away from the drink, unless you’re pouring it into a saucepan. Keep it simmering, Mr. Perrig.”

Marianne found him delightful. “Bonjour,” she said almost inaudibly.

“Bonjour, Madame,” said the man who had offered her the first oyster of her life, as he emerged from behind the stainless-steel kitchen island. “Nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed the oysters.”

“This is our new chef,” Laurine whispered breathlessly. “Marianne Lance!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” gasped Laurine. “Monsieur Simon fished her out of the sea. We have no idea where she is from.”

Marianne looked confused, and Jean-Rémy caught her eye. Out of the sea? He remembered the impression she’d made on him at the oyster farm the day before: lost, and yet determined to find something very specific. That impression still lingered in her eyes, despite her efforts to conceal it behind a fragile smile.

Now Jean-Rémy looked at Laurine. Laurine, my kitty-cat, he thought, what have you done to me? He had to tear his eyes away from her.

Marianne was hoping uneasily that someone would explain why she was waiting here. She stole a glance at Laurine and Jean-Rémy, who were gazing at each other as if each was expecting the other to speak first. Eventually Laurine turned away and headed outside.

Jean-Rémy stared straight ahead, then slammed his hand down on the table in fury at himself. Marianne gave a start as she saw the chef grab his bleeding hand. He’d slammed it down on the edge of a knife that was lying on the surface. Her handbag fell to the floor.

In the hospice kitchen, the first-aid box had hung in an obscure place behind the door where no one could see it because the door was always open. It was the same here. She took out a gauze bandage, a compress and an elastic plaster, gently cradled Jean-Rémy’s hand in hers and examined the wound—a deep, clean cut just above the ball of his thumb. Jean-Rémy had closed his eyes. She pushed back the red bandanna, which had slid down over his forehead.

She placed her left hand on Jean-Rémy’s palm. She could feel his pain in her own hand, in her arm.

“It’s nothing serious,” she murmured.

Jean-Rémy relaxed and started to breathe more deeply while she skilfully bandaged his wound. She ran her fingers softly over his head, as she would have done with a little boy, although this particular boy was a good foot taller than she was.

“Merci beaucoup, Madame,” the chef whispered.

Marianne turned the largest empty cooking pot upside down and motioned to him to sit on it. She lowered herself onto a smaller pot opposite him. She made an attempt to speak.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she began, leaning against the cool tiled wall. “My name’s Marianne Lanz. Bonjour. Je suis allemande.” She thought for a second, but no further French words came to her mind. “Well…au revoir.” She got to her feet again.

All of a sudden, the lid of the pot in which the court bouillon was simmering on the gas stove began to dance and the stock boiled over, causing the flames to spit and hiss. Without thinking, Marianne went to the pot, turned the heat down and lifted the lid.

“Vegetable stock?” She took a spoon, scooped up a little liquid and swirled it around her palate. “It’s…I don’t want to offend you, but…” She found the pot of Guérande salt, gave it a shake and said, “Too much. Dearie me.”

“Dearie me, yes. Laurine. Dearie me,” groaned Jean-Rémy. He felt dizzy.

“Laurine?”

He shook his head, patting his heart as he did so.

“Oh, the salt was because of Laurine…” A pining cook could bring a restaurant to its knees in no time.

Marianne glanced around. She found what she was looking for in the cooler. Raw potatoes. She quickly began to peel and dice ten of them before tossing them into the court bouillon. Jean-Rémy watched from his seat and waited to see the results. After five minutes, she spooned some stock into a tasting dish. He tried it and glanced up at her in surprise.

“Starch. It’s just the starch in the potatoes,” she mumbled awkwardly. “We’ll take them out again in ten minutes, and if it’s still too salty, we’ll throw in five hard-boiled eggs as well. No more dearie me. Dearie me gone. And now me too.”

“Well done, Madame Lance.” An idea began to form in his mind.

“What’s going on here?” Marianne heard the woman’s booming voice before she saw her. Her upright bearing indicated that she was the boss, as erect as a statue, her face lined and weathered by sixty-five years of life.

“Bonjour, Madame,” said Marianne hurriedly. She was tempted to curtsey.

Geneviève Ecollier ignored her and stared at Jean-Rémy instead. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Jean-Rémy!” Her voice rang out like a gunshot. The tasting dish in his hand began to tremble, spilling a little court bouillon. “Oh for heaven’s sake, what have you done this time?”

She ordered him to ladle more of the stock into the dish. Some diners had complained the previous weekend, and even if Geneviève didn’t take these Parisians seriously, she couldn’t stand it when their grievances were legitimate. She had tried the tuna dish, thon à la Concarnoise, after clearing the table, and yes, the sauce was so salty it shivered her timbers.

Court bouillon, made with carrot, shallot, leek, garlic, celeriac, herbs, water and Muscadet, was the heart and soul of Breton cuisine. Langoustines blossomed in it, and crabs drowned in bliss; skinned duck or vegetables simmered in it to perfection. The stock grew stronger with each use and would keep for three days. It formed the base for sauces, and a shot glass of sieved court bouillon could turn a mediocre fish stew into a regular feast. Always assuming, that was, that you didn’t over-salt the base itself, something Jean-Rémy had made an unfortunate habit of doing in recent weeks. Eight liters of court bouillon, good for nothing but tipping into the harbor to poison the fish!

Geneviève tasted the stock. Mon Dieu, praise be to all fairies! He’d kept a steady hand this time.

Jean-Rémy only just managed to catch the tasting dish that Madame Geneiève threw back into his hands. Then he explained to her how Madame Lance had saved them from having nothing but steak frites to serve their guests that day.

“Are you the chef we’re expecting for interview?” said Geneviève, turning to Marianne with a rather friendlier demeanor than before. Oh please let it be her, she thought, please.

When Jean-Rémy realized that Marianne hadn’t understood a single word, he answered for her. “No, she isn’t.”

“She isn’t? So who is she?”

Jean-Rémy smiled at Marianne. One part of her expression begged him to let her leave, but another part—one of which she might not even have been conscious—wanted to stay. “She came from the sea.”

Madame Ecollier studied Marianne: her hands looked as if she was used to working. She seemed to be neither coquettish nor especially worried about dolling herself up. Nor did she avert her eyes when you looked at her, something to which Geneviève Ecollier took exception.

Marianne squirmed under the restaurant owner’s gaze, wishing she could simply disappear.

“All right then,” Geneviève said in a calmer tone of voice. “You seem to have hurt yourself, Jean-Rémy, and anyway, you could do with a helping hand, whether it comes from the sea, the sky or elsewhere. Give her a seasonal contract. Laurine can show her the Shell Room in the guesthouse. We’ll see how things work out.” Then, with a curt nod at Marianne, she said, “Bienvenue.”

“Au revoir,” Marianne answered politely.

Madame Geneviève barked at Jean-Rémy, “And teach her some French!”

With a satisfied grin, he turned to Marianne. “Have you eaten yet?”