We’ll see in the morning (by Heather)

On a whim you have travelled abroad to be reunited with your old school flame who you have recently been corresponding with on Facebook - what happens?

Claire slipped the latch on the heavy old door, letting herself out into the courtyard. She’d had a concern that she might not be able to figure out the lock, but smiled to see that not only was the door not locked, it didn’t even HAVE a lock. There was no sign of Julian about; he must be up because the sofa that he’d slept on last night (insisting that she take his bed) was vacant and neatly made up. She herself had wakened at 4:00 am, due no doubt to lingering traces of jet lag.

She wandered slowly down the sandstone path, her heart singing in response to the warm spring morning. Near the longest day of the year here in the northern hemisphere, the sun had been up almost since she’d awakened.

She slipped her camera out of its case and paused to take several shots of the wonderful old shepherd’s hut, a small perfectly round fieldstone structure, its ragged slate roof caved in near the top. It was at least 400 years old, Julian had told her last night.

She strolled down the curving cobblestone street, her photographer’s eye enchanted. Here she had a view of the hills beyond, fiercely green in the morning light. Here a trio of donkeys grazed near an old shed, one with a damaged ear flopping down. Here a garden radiated with nasturtiums, bluebells and iris behind a low stone wall. Here a field flamed with red poppies. Here a cobblestone bridge crossed a mossy stream.

“Themines,” she said aloud. Tay-MEEN. She was in a tiny French village called Themines, unprepared for the impact that a place this old, beautiful and picturesque could have on her.

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until Julian would be serving breakfast. In anticipation of a meal as remarkable as last night’s – who’d have guessed a man could cook like that!? – she turned around and set a brisk pace back.

As she walked, her eyes dropped to the paving stones beneath her feet. The camera stayed in its case. The trip back was reserved for thinking – about Julian.

Julian. He held the special spot of First True Love. Flying out here to see him was the most impetuous thing she’d done since, in a moment of spontaneous combustion, she’d lost her virginity to him over 30 years ago. About eight passionate months later, Julian had disappeared to New York for his obligatory gap year (though it wasn’t called that back then), while Claire, who had no travel funds and was as well more conservative by nature, had stayed behind to go on to Uni.

Their last correspondence was some two years after he’d left, when he’d written and said he’d Met Someone.

And that was that. The next word between them was when Claire had discovered him on Facebook. She’d Poked him, he’d written on her Wall, and eventually they got into real communication on the good old telephone. He’d explained how when his wife became ill twelve years ago, they’d moved from New York to Themines, her birthplace in France. She had died a couple of years later, and he had stayed on, turning the big old family home into a B&B. Claire had blithely said something about having always wanted to go to France, and he’d said, well, come then, it’s a beautiful time of year. She was empty-nest, post-husband and mid-career-change, and couldn’t think of one good reason not to just go.

And here she was, lifting the latch and walking into the big old kitchen. Julian was there, minding poached eggs and warming croissants. His eyes lit up as she walked in.

“How was the walk?”

“Well,” she said, “I took photos all the way to the old bridge and wondered what I’m doing here all the way back!”

“Ah,” he said, “so you have become a voyeur. And a ponderer.” He placed the eggs on a platter already laden with cheese and grapes.

“I too have been pondering,” he said. “I thought about you all last night.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about you ever since we connected on Facebook,” she laughed.

“WELL,” he chuckled, “I can trump that; I’ve been thinking about you since the summer of 1977!”


After breakfast, they had toured his garden, then sat on the steps while the sun strengthened. At some point he had touched her check and said, “You are just the same.”

“Au contraire,” she said, using up most of her store of French. “Much water has passed under my bridge! I am very different.”

“You are not the same,” he corrected himself, smiling, “and yet you are strangely familiar!” He paused. “Will you stay for a while at least, Claire? I know this is too soon to ask, but…”

She turned toward him. “Let’s do this one day at a time. Each morning over breakfast, we’ll look at each other and decide for the day. And some morning it will be hard to meet each other’s eyes, and then it will be time for me to go.”

“Or not!” he smiled.

“Or not,” she agreed, and took his hand.