That Woman Next Door E-Book

Harper Bliss

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 384

Beschreibung

Sometimes what you’re running from is exactly what you need

Olivia Chevalier is perfectly happy living a quiet life of solitude with her two cats in the tempestuous countryside of Brittany.

Olivia’s peace is disrupted when heartbreaker extraordinaire Marie Dievart moves in to the holiday home next door after an event at work makes her flee her everyday life.

Olivia hates having a neighbour and Marie is put off by Olivia’s cranky ways.

But maybe these two women have more in common than they first believe.

Best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss brings you a slow-burn opposites-attract story about the power of connection and opening yourself up to the possibility of love.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Special Offer from the Author

January

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

February

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

March

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

April

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

May

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

June

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

July

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

August

Chapter 36

September

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

December

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

January

Chapter 41

The Rain

Acknowledgments

A Note from Harper

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To the glorious, restorative wilds of Brittany

JANUARY

CHAPTER1

MARIE

I kill the engine and stare at the house. It looks so desolate in the middle of winter. Maybe depressing is a better way to describe it. After all, there’s a reason we call it a summer house. Why couldn’t my family have bought a place in Provence, I wonder for the umpteenth time since I started the drive down from Brussels this morning. Along grey road after grey road, with no prospect of any new growth, for months to come. But I didn’t come here for fun. I came to cold, wet, rural Brittany on the first day of the new year with the single purpose of punishing myself. Of looking inside myself to find out if I still have it in me to continue doing what I do after what happened.

I suck in a deep breath and get out of the car. As I lift my suitcase out of the boot, a gust of wind whips up my hair, which I had cut a few days ago to look my best for my self-inflicted exile. To what end? There’s no one here to see me. My mother warned me the internet might be too spotty for a successful Skype connection, after she asked me, again, whether I, a purebred city person, was absolutely certain I wanted to sequester myself in Brittany.

I could have escaped to an exotic beach. Or ventured on a coast-to-coast road trip through the United States. Or embarked on a Scottish castle tour. But I chose wintery Brittany because, for the first time in my life, I’m not choosing excitement. I have to say no to anything thrilling. I have to create the time and space I need to evaluate what has occurred. I need to find out how it could have happened and if it will again.

I know myself. Put me anywhere amongst a group of people and I will pick out the most attractive woman and have her in my bed in no time. Or maybe I’ve lost that skill as well.

It doesn’t matter here. There are no people around. Our house is the only one on this road, although, through the barren trees, I can spot another house around the corner, about a hundred metres away. Distant enough to not have to see or hear the people living there, if anyone lives there at all at this time of year.

I unlock the door and am greeted by a cold blast almost as harsh as the temperature outside. I quickly close the door behind me. At least it looks the way I like—renovated to today’s standards, at my insistence.

I think of my warm, gorgeous apartment overlooking the Ixelles Ponds in Brussels. The light that streams in through the large windows even in winter. I shiver. Up until a few years ago, this house’s only means of heating was a fireplace, which may sound romantic, but is anything but when you run out of logs in the middle of the night. Or when you wake up in the morning and your buttocks nearly freeze to the toilet seat.

But I couldn’t do the kind of penance I’m after in Brussels, surrounded by the luxury of my daily life and the convenience of a city. Something had to be stripped away. Something major had to give. The house in Brittany was the first place that came to mind and here I am, trembling inside my coat, on the dreariest winter day. For some reason, I felt like I needed to arrive on the first day of the new year. As though it matters. As though I have to start an actual prison sentence mandated by the courts instead of this self-inflicted punishment I have chosen.

I switch on the thermostat but keep my coat on. It will take a while before it’s warm enough for me to relax. I transfer the rest of my stuff from the car into the house and unload the groceries I brought. I’ll have oceans of time to dedicate to cooking because there are no food delivery services to the middle of nowhere.

After I’ve dragged my suitcase upstairs and unpacked most of my clothes, I stand in front of the bedroom window. When there are no leaves on the trees, the house around the corner is visible from here. Because I’m already starting to feel like the only person left on the planet, even though I’ve only just arrived, I desperately search for a sign of life inside the house. I don’t see any lights glowing behind the windows, but there’s smoke coming from the chimney. Even though I’ve been coming to Brittany on and off for decades, I have no idea who lives in that house.

I’ve always considered my family’s holiday home a house without neighbours. In summer, it kind of is. When the days are long and the nights warm, and you can sit outside in the lush garden until well after dark, neighbours are of no importance. And I’ve never come here on my own. It’s always been with either family or a short-term love interest—the longer-term kind has never interested me until…

I take a moment to remember the last woman I was with. It was the night before the day everything went wrong. I shake off the memory of Véronique—again—although I know I will have to deal with it at some point. After the investigation into what happened in the operating theatre cleared me, the hospital administrator advised me to see someone to help me process the incident. I chose to take a leave of absence instead. I don’t want anyone’s help. I want to solve this crisis of conscience—and confidence—that’s waging a filthy war inside me by myself. It didn’t feel fair to accept any kind of assistance because for the woman who died on my operating table, there is no more help. For her, it’s all over forever. So why should I deserve any kind of help in dealing with what I did?

The light in the cottage beyond the trees flickers on. For an instant, I consider switching the bedroom lamp on and off to signal my presence. Instead, I think I might take a walk over there tomorrow.

CHAPTER2

OLIVIA

My feet hit the treadmill in such a satisfying way today. This is why I run, I think, while my fists pump the air in a rhythmic motion. To feel like I’m flying. To feel strong. To feel like I can do anything. I increase the speed so I can go a little faster, so I can empty my tank. Even though I’ve already run more than seven kilometres, my feet can still easily keep up.

My treadmill sits in front of a window with a view out over the fields at the back of my house. I only ever see animals. Mostly birds and cows. Or my cats, who like to wait for me to open the door for them instead of squeezing through the cat flap—they’re princesses like that.

What the—? Something much larger than Deneuve and Huppert’s furry bodies darkens the window. My already elevated heart rate shoots up a notch. What the hell is happening? I press the red emergency button on the treadmill to make it stop. Who on earth is this person with the audacity to trespass on my property and walk around my house? I’m not expecting any deliveries today. I prefer to group them as much as I can and have them delivered to the supermarket in town, where I can pick them up at my own convenience instead of having my day disturbed by someone showing up at my door.

A woman wrapped in one of those long puffy coats stares at me through the window. She waves as though I’m supposed to know her. I don’t recognise her from the village and I’m certain I’m not related to her—not that any member of my family would show up at my house in the middle of any given Wednesday afternoon.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I feel cornered. My first instinct is to leave the room and hide upstairs. She doesn’t look like she’s in distress, although I guess her car could have broken down, her mobile phone might have died, and my house might have been the first one she came across. Maybe she does need help. I take a deep, shuddering breath to pull myself together.

The woman tilts her head. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t opened the door yet. I suppose I no longer have a choice—as if I ever had one. I drape a towel over my shoulders because I’m dripping with sweat. That’s an excellent run ruined. I’m supposed to be in the delightful throes of runner’s high right about now, but thanks to this intruder, I’ve been robbed of the highlight of my day.

I open the door and greet her with an unwelcoming glare. I’m not the type to give strangers a hearty welcome. A fact that’s been held against me many times, yet I haven’t changed.

“Bonjour,” she says. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your run.” She hardly comes across as very apologetic. She looks Parisian with her expensive haircut and cashmere pashmina, but her accent is different. “I arrived at the house around the corner yesterday and I noticed signs of life here.”

“Yes?” This is not making any sense to me at all. The only other house in a five-kilometre radius is a holiday home owned by some rich Belgians who visit a few times over the summer. I’ve never had any dealings with them and none of them have previously bothered me before.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” The woman extends her hand. “Marie Dievart. Enchantée.”

“Hello.” I give her hand the quickest shake I can. My palms are still sweaty. My body is cooling off too quickly standing in the door like this. None of this is ideal. Least of all this woman who wants something from me that I’m unable to figure out. “Olivia.” As I wipe my sweaty hand on my leggings, a visible shiver runs up my spine. I pull the towel around my shoulders ostentatiously.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t cover up,” Marie Dievart says matter-of-factly.

Duh! All I want is to close the door in her face. Wait? Is she expecting me to invite her inside my house?

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor,” she says, as if that makes any difference.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I need to shower.”

“Oh, okay.” She studies me with an unnerving intensity. “Would you like to come round to my house later for coffee or a glass of wine?”

“What?” Why would she even think that’s what I want? “Who are you again and what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry, Olivia.” She has a very personable manner. She looks like she wants to grab my hand again but has decided against it last-minute—thank goodness. “I’ll be staying at my family’s holiday home for a few months, so I figured that would make us neighbours. I thought it only polite to introduce myself formally.”

“A few months? In the middle of winter?” I shiver again. My sweat-drenched top is ice cold against my skin.

Marie nods. “I need the time away from… my life,” she says.

“Okay, well, have a good stay.” I attempt to close the door hoping she’ll get the hint.

“You don’t want to have that glass of wine? I have an amazing Nuits-Saint-Georges waiting to be uncorked.”

A wine snob on top of an abrasive trespasser. I shake my head. “No, but thanks for asking.”

I’m about to close the door on this woman entirely, but she regards me so intently, it’s as though she wants to undo my wish to shut her out just by looking at me. Her eyes are a peculiar kind of green. Her cheekbones are alpine. Oh, I get it. She’s one of those women who is so attractive they’re used to always getting exactly what they want. She probably can’t fathom that I’m not interested in sharing a posh bottle of wine with her.

“I’d hate to have to drink it alone.” Her voice is sweet as honey.

“Shouldn’t have come here on your own then.” I feel something furry rub against my legs. Huppert slips outside and then just sits there, attracting attention—her favourite activity apart from sleeping.

“What a cutie.” Marie crouches down to make Huppert’s acquaintance.

If only Deneuve had decided to come to my rescue. She wouldn’t have any of this. She probably would have swatted Marie Dievart’s perfectly manicured hand away if she’d tried to pet her. But not Huppert, who can’t get enough of the attention. She’s purring, for heaven’s sake. “What’s your name then?” the woman asks my cat, as though she can reply to that question with anything other than a meow.

I need to cut this short. If I stay exposed much longer, I’ll be out with a cold for days, or even worse, bronchitis. Heaven forbid I need to see a doctor. I wouldn’t want to have to call on my new neighbour, while she was the one who made me sick in the first place. That would be too ironic.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” I say, trying to add a polite smile. I can’t help but, very briefly, wonder what I look like to this stranger, with my sweat-drenched clothes and my hair matted against my head. She must be very lonely to be inviting the likes of me to her place.

“Okay. Sure.” She looks like she’s about to admit defeat. She turns to walk away, but before I can close the door properly, she turns to me, and asks, “Is this how everyone here is? Is it a Breton thing, this unwelcoming attitude? Just so I know what to expect for the rest of my stay.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” As I say it, I’m aware of how utterly rude I’m sounding—and being.

“Clearly.” She does walk away now.

I guess that, once again, I failed to make a new friend. I couldn't care less.

CHAPTER3

MARIE

I’ve been in Brittany for five days and I’m already bored out of my skull. I’ve called my mother every day and my sister every other day, making them worried about me because I can go weeks without talking to them.

The only company I’ve had is from my antisocial neighbour’s cat, which has clearly taken much more of a shine to me than its owner. There are the birds in the sky and the occasional cow in the surrounding fields. The other day, a tractor rumbled past and the noise was a welcome relief from all the silence. Traffic is so scant that every car that drives down the road is almost an event. Yesterday, zero cars drove past.

If Cranky Olivia goes anywhere, she doesn’t drive past my house to get there. While I understand I interrupted her run, she could have been a touch more friendly. She could not have been any ruder. There goes my so far only hope for any human contact. On the way back from her house, I had to remind myself that human contact is not what I came here for. If that’s what I’d wanted, I’d have travelled to the south, where people spend winter in the sun and might be more up for a chat.

The problem is that I’m not used to having so much time alone with my thoughts and I have to remind myself that I came here for that very reason. To no longer hide from myself. But I’ve had to resort to taking a sleeping pill every night since I’ve arrived, otherwise I wouldn’t sleep at all. I keep seeing the devastation on the husband’s face when I had to tell him his wife had died on my watch. It’s etched into my brain and his inconsolable grief shows up every time I close my eyes.

Even so, the days have taken on a certain rhythm. I sleep until the effect of the pill has worn off, which is usually well past nine—another new experience for me. When I open the bedroom curtains, I can’t help but see Cranky Olivia’s house and wonder what her deal is. After a leisurely breakfast and shower, I like to drive into Bonneau to buy groceries and go for a little stroll. I spend my afternoons reading, walking if the weather permits, watching excruciating daytime TV and cooking, until I declare wine o’clock at the ridiculous time of five in the afternoon.

Evenings are long and lonely. I often find myself toying with my phone, scrolling through my contacts, daydreaming about what would happen if I called someone and asked them to join me. I haven’t called anyone yet so far, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to stop myself.

A rustling noise captures my attention—the smallest sounds do, which is why I often let the TV play in the background. It’s probably Olivia’s cat again, scurrying through the bushes to the side of the house. She didn’t even give me its name. I don’t even know if it’s male or female. Although friendly, the cat hasn’t let me come close enough to figure that out. Maybe today it will. To my surprise, there’s a knock at the front door. That can’t possibly be the cat. My heart leaps into my throat at the prospect of another human calling at my house.

I rush to open the door. To my even greater astonishment, it’s my inhospitable neighbour with a bottle in her hands.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she says. “I was going to leave this at your door, but, um, then I figured I’d give it to you in person.” She thrusts the bottle in my direction. “It’s a locally fermented cider. The distillery that produces it is just outside of Bonneau. You can visit and take a tour of the premises.”

I open the door wide so she can’t possibly mistake my invitation. “Come in.” I make it obvious I won’t take no for an answer. “And thank you.”

“Only if you’re not doing anything important,” Olivia says, but enters anyway.

“You’re very welcome here.” I hold out my hands to take her coat. She peers at them with a puzzled look in her eyes.

“It’s nice and warm in here. Best take off that outer layer.”

“Are those doctor’s orders?” A tiny grin appears on her lips.

“Correct.” I forgot I mentioned I’m a doctor. I’ve never been shy about announcing my profession. The number of women I’ve been able to talk into bed just by using that line is vast. I take Olivia’s coat and hang it up before escorting her into the living room.

“Wow.” She takes in the room. “Those renovations took forever, but they were worth it. I’ve been curious to see the inside of this house ever since.”

“Feel free to have a look around.”

She casts me a wide-eyed glance, as if I’ve given her the keys to a long-lost kingdom.

“I—I actually wanted to apologise for the other day. You caught me at a bad time. I’m sorry I was so impolite.”

“Thank goodness.” I heave an audible sigh of relief. “That’s not who you really are.” I briefly touch her shoulder and she all but flinches. Not the touchy-feely type then. “I’m so glad you came over. I’ve been going a bit stir-crazy.” I lead her to the lounge and invite her to sit.

“Why?” she asks matter-of-factly after she has taken a seat.

“Because there’s no one around. It’s just me.” I study the bottle she’s brought. “Do you want to drink this or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

“Whatever you have open is fine.”

At least she’s not asking for coffee. It’s only four in the afternoon but it’s Saturday and on Saturday wine o’clock comes early.

“Your cat came to visit me a few times.” I go into the kitchen to fetch a bottle of red.

“Huppert likes to wander,” Olivia says, as I return with a bottle and two glasses.

“Huppert?” I cock an eyebrow. “After Isabelle?”

Olivia nods and I get a vibe. That kind of vibe—the kind I’d previously always have acted upon. I take my time pouring the wine. I study her face when I give her the glass, but it doesn’t give much else away.

“My other cat’s called Deneuve, after you-know-who. She’s not as sociable. She’s more like me.” Olivia chuckles as she holds up her glass.

“You’re plenty sociable now,” I say, “I’ll drink to that.” I don’t tell her that I would have invited the postman in for a drink if he ever had any mail for this address.

“Santé.” Olivia takes a sip and nods approvingly. “Not bad.”

“Do you live here permanently?” I look her in the eyes. They’re brown and intelligent.

Olivia nods, but doesn’t hold my gaze.

“Did you grow up around here?” I ask.

“My family are from Normandy, so not too far away. About a two-hour drive.”

“Any particular reason you ended up in Bonneau of all places?”

“Probably the same as you.”

Olivia’s going to make me work for it. Even though chatting is not that big a part of my job, I’m missing the contact enough to put some effort into getting this conversation flowing. “It’s gorgeous here in spring and summer. My family’s been coming down for a long time.” I send her a warm smile.

“Yeah.” She rests her gaze on me for a split second. “This house is usually empty this time of year. Why does a doctor need to get away from her life?” For someone so reluctant to listen, she seems to have remembered all the details of what I said.

“That’s a long story.” I need to do some more soul-searching before I can share my error with an uninitiated party.

“Okay.” She gazes into her wine glass. “Are you expecting any other people or will it just be you?”

“Just me.” At least that’s the plan.

“I’ve always appreciated that you don’t rent out your house to god-knows-who in summer.” She narrows her eyes. Olivia is quite fond of her privacy, that much is obvious. “Where are you from?” she asks.

“Brussels.” The vibrant memory of the life I’m used to stings less now that I have company.

“Ah, the city the wealthy French love to flock to in droves,” she says. “Or so I hear. I’ve actually never been.”

“You’ve heard correctly. Brussels is full of French people. It’s like a much cheaper version of Paris, minus a lot of the charm, of course.” I give a quick nod. “I lived in Paris for a while, but things didn’t really work out for me there.”

“What kind of doctor are you exactly?”

“I’m a neurosurgeon.” For the first time since I qualified, it feels strange to say it. Of course, I am still a surgeon. I’m still qualified. I wasn’t even suspended. I could go back to work tomorrow if I wanted to—if I hadn’t suspended myself.

“Oh, wow.” Olivia’s eyes grow wide—the usual reaction. “Cutting into people’s brains?”

“If you want to put it like that.” I’m keen to change the subject—also a new sensation for me. I’ve never been the humble kind of surgeon, if one even exists. It takes a lot of confidence to, as Olivia just put it, cut into another human’s brain. “What do you do?”

“I’m a translator. English to French. I do a lot of crime.”

I chuckle at how she expresses herself.

Olivia looks at me funnily.

“It sounded like you’re the one committing the crimes,” I clarify.

“Oh, uh, right—” She seems a bit thrown. “No, I don’t commit them. I just translate novels about them into French.”

Perhaps our senses of humour are not exactly the same. Maybe because she’s French and I’m Belgian. Or maybe she doesn’t think a lot of things are funny.

“Working on anything gruesome at the moment?” I ask.

She pulls her lips into a tight smile. Good heavens. Even if that vibe I briefly caught earlier is correct, I’m not sure she’s someone I want to deploy my charm on. She seems like she would be far too much hard work. Before, I might have risen to the challenge, I might have even relished it, but part of my mojo seems to have died along with the woman on my operating table.

“I’m actually working on a romance at the moment. After ten years of almost exclusively translating crime fiction, I thought I’d try my hand at a lighter genre.”

“And? Is it raunchy?” Ha. I surprise myself. Maybe the incorrigible part of me simply can’t help it. I perk up even more.

Olivia’s cheeks redden. Because she comes across as so guarded, it’s definitely the most adorable sight I’ve seen this year so far. “Quite. It’s an adjustment. Some words… I have to look them up because I’ve never heard of them.” She takes a sip of wine and hides her face behind her glass as best she can.

“Straight romance?” I might as well take the opportunity to see if my earlier hunch was correct.

“Gay. Two men.” She gives a full-blown chuckle now. “It’s kind of funny, actually, because I spent the better part of last week working on a chapter that involved a lot more penises than I like to deal with in my life.” Her gaze skitters away, then returns. “I’m a lesbian and, um, not very well acquainted with the male, um, organ.”

I hadn’t expected her to just come out and say it, but why the hell not? Maybe this wouldn’t be so much work after all. Maybe I can have some fun with Olivia. It feels like the clouds have opened and cleared a huge patch of blue sky, especially for me. I’ve seduced many straight women in my life, but put a lesbian in front of me—or better yet, in my lounge, in this remote house in Brittany—and it’s like a red flag to a bull.

CHAPTER4

OLIVIA

For reasons I will spend the rest of the weekend analysing, I want to make an impression on this woman. Perhaps my subconscious flagged her as very attractive when she showed up on my doorstep unannounced the other day. Admittedly, right now, it’s not just my subconscious anymore. Marie Dievart is hot in that glamorous, outgoing, chic way I’ve always had a soft spot for because, to me, it’s all so utterly unattainable—both for me to be like that and to ever be with a woman like that.

Granted, I haven’t spoken to another person since I chased her away from my property and it’s about time I fulfilled my weekly quota of chit-chat, but it’s not just that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have just told her I’m a lesbian. I wouldn’t have made a penis joke—but I guess there’s a first for everything.

I gulp back some wine, nearly emptying my glass, to settle myself. I came to apologise for my manners the other day, not to ogle my new temporary neighbour. Although, I guess, in the grand scheme of things, and the tiny scheme I’ve devised for my life, there’s nothing wrong with some innocent ogling. I usually only encounter women like Marie on television in glossy shows about high-powered lawyers.

A wide smile plastered on her face, Marie reaches for the bottle. “Refill?” It sounds more like a command than a question so I hold out my glass. I get the distinct impression not many people ever say no to this woman. And she’s a bloody brain surgeon. I should give up all hope of ever impressing the glitzy doctor right about now—it was fun while it lasted.

“Full disclosure.” She leans back and slings one leg over the other. “I’m a lesbian as well. Just so you know.” She rests her intense green gaze on me.

“Really?” I couldn’t sound more uncool if I tried.

She nods slowly as though drawing a conclusion in her head already. This visit has taken a turn I find hard to process.

“Are you in a relationship?” Marie asks.

“No.” It comes out a little abrupt because I’m trying to sound defiant, which is hard to accomplish when you only have one short word to work with.

“Me neither,” she says, turning this conversation into a spectacle of innuendo—and making me very uncomfortable. The silence that follows is unusually deafening to my ears.

She’s the first one to speak again. Maybe I didn’t respond to her statement the way she expected me to—it’s the story of my life. It’s why I live on my own in the middle of nowhere. “So, it’s just you in that house?” Marie asks.

“And Huppert and Deneuve.”

“Of course.” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “You don’t get lonely?”

I shake my head. “I prefer my own company. It’s how I want things to be.”

“Whereas I’ve been going nuts after five days by myself.”

“You’re probably not used to it.”

“You can say that again.”

“You live with someone in Brussels?” Some of the earlier tension has melted away and I feel like I can breathe normally again.

“I don’t, but let’s just say I don’t spend a lot of time alone. I work long hours and I’m never starved for company, if you know what I mean.”

I have no idea what she means, but I nod anyway.

“I welcome any tips for living a life of solitude.” She regards me over the rim of her glass as she drinks.

“You have to want it. People shouldn’t be alone against their will. That’s what makes you lonely.” I tilt my head. “You clearly came here to be on your own, but you don’t really want it yet. It will take some time to get used to. Especially because it’s really quiet here this time of year.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“There’s a bar in Bonneau, but…” I try to make my shrug casual. “I’m pretty sure it won’t be your scene.”

“Do you sometimes go there?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

“As long as I can enjoy a glass of wine in your lovely company.” She drinks again, then puts her glass down. “I should be just fine.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know how to say she shouldn’t expect me to come round every other day and share a bottle of wine with her. That’s not how I live my life. I only came here to apologise. And, maybe—but the jury is still out on that—to check if she was really as attractive as I remembered her in my flustered post-run state. Now that I know she is, I definitely won’t be calling round much anymore. I’m staying well away from that kind of temptation. Although, now that I’m here already, I think I’ll stay a while longer.

“But what do you do all day?” Marie asks. “To fill the time? Before I arrived here, I never realised a day could feel so long.” She has opened another bottle of wine. She seems to be able to hold her alcohol well.

I haven’t eaten anything since my run earlier and the wine is starting to go to my head. But I’m still here and I’m not going to stop drinking now.

“I have a routine and plenty of activities,” I say.

“Examples, please?”

“It’s different for me. I live here. This is my life. For you… being here in this house that isn’t your home, away from your regular life, everything will feel different.”

She arches up her eyebrows as if to scold me for dodging her question and stating the obvious.

“I run. I work. I cook. I write. I play the piano. I watch TV. I work in the garden. I read.” Summed up like that, it sounds a little dull, even though that’s the opposite of what my life feels like.

“Maybe you’ll cook for me some day?” Marie says. That’s her reply to what I just said? I thought she was after practical tips, not that I offered many of those. I just drily listed my daily activities, but still.

“Maybe.” I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.

“Did you say you write? Or do you mean as part of your work?”

“I, uh…” In hindsight, I shouldn’t have included that particular activity in my list. “Yes, I do some writing on the side.”

“What do you write?” Maybe it’s because I’m the only other person in a five-kilometre radius, but Marie’s interest in me seems heart-warmingly genuine.

“Just some poetry.” I try to sound aloof. “Nothing fancy.”

“Are you published?”

“God, no.” My writing is not something I ever talk about. Never. With anyone. I’m not about to change that now.

“So, you’re saying that there’s nowhere I can read my intriguing new neighbour’s poetry?” She juts out her bottom lip in a faux-sulk.

Intriguing? Is that what I am to her? I’m about to shake my head but even more than being extremely shy about my poetry, I suck at lying. I have zero talent for it—even for the little white lies. I can’t knowingly claim a falsehood. My life would have been so much easier if I had found a way to be better at lying, but the capacity to do so successfully has forever remained elusive to me.

“I do post it online. Instagram poetry is an actual thing these days.”

“Instagram.” She nods as though that’s an app only her much younger nieces and nephews—or her children, who knows?—would use. “I’ve never really had time to explore social media. Maybe that’s what I’ll do now that I’m here.”

My cheeks start burning again. The thought of her reading my poetry is unbearable. Another reason to stay away.

“I guess I’ll need your username.” She reaches for her phone. “Actually, maybe we should exchange numbers, in case there’s an emergency.” Again, it sounds more like a command than a suggestion. “You can text me the link to your poetry later.”

Fat chance of that happening. And how do I get out of giving her my number?

She hands me her phone. “Here. Put in your number. I’ll give you a buzz later so you’ll have mine as well.”

There’s no way out except typing in a wrong number, but that’s not something I’m capable of either. It won’t be too much of a nuisance though since I never pick up my phone, unless it’s my mother calling—and even then, I have to think about it.

I give her my number, and a few seconds later my phone beeps from my coat pocket in the hallway. I guess, on some level, it can’t hurt to have a direct line to a hot doctor.

“I look forward to discovering your poetry on Instagram,” Marie says. “I’m curious.”

“What are your hobbies?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“That’s the problem. I don’t really have any hobbies apart from…” A mischievous smile appears on her face.

“What?” I cock my head.

“Women, I guess.” She catches my gaze but it’s not possible for me to return her confident stare. I have to look away. Wait. What did she just say? Women are her hobby?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I like to date. Show my date a good time. Flirt. See where it goes. Not get enough sleep for a woman my age.” She grins. “Spending the night with a woman has always given me more energy than an extra hour of sleep.”

What the hell? Have I been beamed to a different universe in which people actually say outrageous things like this? Did she spike the wine before she poured it? Heat creeps up my neck and settles on my cheeks. “Your hobby is… sleeping with women?”

“I guess. If you wanted, that could very well become one of your hobbies, too, Olivia.” Did she just waggle her eyebrows? Is she coming on to me now? I need to get out of here pronto. But there’s still something I need to tell her. Although I guess I could text her later now that I have her number.

“It couldn’t,” I say drily.

“Not much action around here, I gather.”

“No.” I shuffle to the edge of my seat. What will she think of me if I get up now? Does it even matter? Maybe a little, but I’m not sure I can stay. Maybe Marie finds this amusing—this is her hobby, after all—but I don’t. “I should go. The cats will want their dinner.” I realise how utterly ridiculous that sounds. But that’s what I am—the perfect example of the proverbial cat lady.

“What? No, no, no!” Marie straightens her posture. “Don’t go yet. I’m sorry if I was being too forward. It’s just how I am, but it doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t…” She gives a quick shake of the head. “Trying anything.”

I’m glad that’s settled then.

“I promise,” Marie continues. “I am enjoying your company so much. Please, stay.” She acts as though I’m leaving her alone to freeze in the Arctic instead of sip the rest of her expensive wine in this deluxe cottage in Brittany.

Despite her desperate plea, I’ve reached my limit. She’s a lot to handle. I’ve become too ill at ease to enjoy staying any longer. I get up and say, “I’ll text you later.” Although what I will send her will not be what she’s expecting. “Thank you for the wine.”

She stands and walks towards me. “Stop by any time.” She briefly touches her hand to my shoulder and my muscles tense.

I head into the hallway to fetch my coat. I say a quick goodbye and practically flee her house. I hurry home, needing the safety of my own space, of my cats meowing at me as though I’ve been gone for days instead of an hour, of not being around someone as direct and brazen as my new temporary neighbour.

As I shut the door behind me and double-lock it, I consider that Marie Dievart won’t last very long here in the middle of winter. It’s too cold, too grey, too boring, and too lonely for someone like her. I can’t see her relishing the beauty of it any time soon.

After I’ve fed my ravenous cats, I send her a text.

Thanks again for the wine. I forgot to ask that you don’t show up on my doorstep out of the blue again. I’m not very good with that. Thanks. Olivia.

FEBRUARY

CHAPTER5

MARIE

“Do you know Olivia?” I ask Yvette.

Yvette shakes her head and points at my empty wine glass.

“Sure. I’ll have another.”

She promptly refills my glass because she doesn’t have a whole lot else to do. At the other end of the bar, two men are perched on stools drinking beer as though their lives depend on it.

“I don’t know her either, to be honest,” I say. “About as much as you can know about another person from a few texts.” Thank goodness for Yvette and this bar, which Olivia claimed wouldn’t be my scene. Not that I would normally frequent a bar like this, but nothing about my current situation is normal. That’s the whole point. And it’s actually quite cosy in here, with the rain lashing the windows outside.

“Actually,” Yvette says. “If you mean Olivia Chevalier, the translator, I do know of her. She’s lived on the outskirts of Bonneau for years, but no one ever sees her. It’s like she’s not real.”

I nod vigorously. I seem to have downed most of a bottle already. “That’s exactly right. I can see her house from my bedroom window, yet I never see her. How is that possible?”

“She’s a very private person, I suppose.” Yvette shrugs as though it’s perfectly normal to hardly ever leave your house. “Have you read any of the books she’s translated?” Yvette asks. “She did this detective series set in Ireland. It’s very gripping.”

Because I’m tipsy, I can’t keep my mirth to myself. I was already picturing Yvette reading a gay male romance behind the bar. Yvette just rolls her eyes at me. She’s used to much more rowdy crowds than little old me.

“I haven’t read any of her translations because up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know her last name.” The only piece of additional information I managed to squeeze out of Olivia via text is her Instagram handle. “I’ve been her neighbour for more than a month now, Yvette, and she’s never even given me her full name.” Every morning when I wake up, I check Olivia’s Instagram to see if she has shared anything new. She only posts a new poem once a week, I have learned, interspersed with the occasional picture of one of her cats or the rugged landscape behind her house.

“What’s with this Olivia? What do you want with her?” Yvette is the kind of bar-owner who has seen it all, dealt with every kind of person, and has the gruff attitude to show for it. She doesn’t take any nonsense, not from any drunkards, nor from me.

“I don’t want anything from her. Or not that much, anyway. Maybe that she pick up the phone when I call. That would be nice. Or that she stop by my house once in a while, because heaven forbid I drop by hers unannounced.” I huff out some air. This cheap wine is going to give me a headache in the morning, but I have nothing better to do than to nurse a hangover. “She’s always busy when I text her. How is that even possible? How can a woman who lives alone with just two cats always be busy, Yvette?” I address her directly because I don’t think she’s actually listening to me.

“Beats me.” Yvette polishes some glasses, as if any of the men I’ve seen here care one bit about how shiny the receptacle for their beverage is.

One of the guys at the other end of the bar bursts into raucous laughter, making me wish I had someone to laugh with like that. Yvette isn’t going to help with that. Nor is Olivia, whom I’ve been thinking about a disproportionate amount because there’s nothing else to think of—except the one thing I don’t want to think about, even though it’s the main reason for me being in this godforsaken village in the first place.

“Maybe I should just leave,” I say, even though Yvette has just disappeared from behind the bar.

“What was that?” she asks when she returns.

“What am I even doing here?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question since the first time you walked into this bar,” Yvette says, not a smidgen of irony in her tone.

“I don’t mean in your bar, specifically. I mean in this village.”

“You’re good for business, so you won’t hear me complain.” She grins at me. “Sometimes, you’re even mildly entertaining.”

I burst into a chuckle. “Oh, Yvette. You do crack me up.”

“Hm.” She goes back to polishing glasses.

“Maybe I will get out of here,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. I’m just trying out the words. Even though I’ve been in my self-imposed exile for over a month now, my hands still shake whenever I imagine scrubbing in for surgery. My breath catches in my throat. My brain—the organ I’m supposed to specialise in—shuts down, sending me into a state of utter panic.

“Don’t forget to settle your tab before you go,” Yvette says.

I finish the last of my wine and get out my purse. The first few times I came here I never had enough cash on me and Yvette doesn’t take card payments.

I pay for my drinks and include a large tip. Yvette thanks me with a quick nod of the head.

“You’re not driving, are you?” she says.

I look out of the window and sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to walk.”

“You’re out of your mind.” She hurries from behind the bar as though I’m about to pass out. “I’d drive you home myself but I have these two.” She points at the men at the bar. “Can you wait until they’ve gone?”

“It’s not that far, Yvette.”

“It’s at least five kilometres. It’s pouring with rain. Have you seen the shoes you’re wearing?” She shakes her head vehemently. “I can call someone, but it might be a while before he’s available.”

“How about some coffee then?” Rain drums against the window.

“Coming right up.” Yvette leaves me to find my seat at the bar again. “You could call your neighbour. Olivia Chevalier to the rescue.”

“That will be the day.” I shrug. “She never picks up when I call.”

“Give me her number. I’ll give it a go.”

“Try your man first before we resort to that.”