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  “I wanna take ya hiiigh-er!” she sings, bopping her head from side to side.

  After another round of the chorus, she feels his eyes on her. She’s about to make a crack about all the American songs Al needs to catch up on… but when she looks up, Al’s dancing in the doorway like the song is playing all around them.

  “Boom lacka lacka lacka, boom lacka lacka lacka,” he says, rolling his fists in a disco move. Talia laughs in surprise, and jumps up from the damp rug to step into the dance. Together they sing out the rest of the song, matching each other’s moves, the horns and baseline of the song resounding strong in their heads. By the end, they’re dancing—arm in arm—one hand wrapped around the other’s back, the other stretched out and clasped together. And Talia’s laughing and laughing.

  “How do you even know that song?” she asks, panting a little after they’ve stopped.

  “I wasn't raised in a cave!” Al insists, and when she gives his bushy beard and topless torso a skeptical frown, he nods and says, “But I can see why you might think I was.”

  “Can you?” Talia asks, her lips pressed together.

  Al dips his head away. “Anyway, it is one of my mother’s favorite songs.”

  “Mine, too! What other disco songs did your mom like?” she asks, hope flaring up due to his use of the word “is” and the fact that he told her even that much about his mother. Maybe she’s still alive and can be called upon to help Al in some way.

  But Al once again deflects her question, this time by picking up the damp rug. “I will hang this on the terrace to dry, oui?”

  She doesn’t answer. Just watches him escape to the terrace as she wonders if he’ll ever be willing to tell her anything about his life before he decided to squat here.

  One day when the sun and breeze are so perfect, they decide they don’t want to be stuck inside. So Al teaches her to shoot an arrow. She can barely pull the bow back at first, but she persists. Even when he offers to make her a smaller bow, she keeps at it with his bow until she figures it out.

  “C’est très bien,” he says, his eyebrows high with approval.

  “Just had to find the right movement,” Talia answers casually, while trying to act like it’s not taking all of her strength to keep the bow string pulled back. “Okay, now what?”

  He shows her how to cock the bow, and aim past the tip of her arrow. “Now slowly draw the arrow back, plant your feet, and when you’re ready…”

  He has her aiming at the tree, but when she lets loose the arrow, it goes flying several meters to the right, over the edge of the terrace.

  “Whoa!” Talia cries, running to peer into the foliage where her arrow might have landed. It’s not there. “Where’d it go?”

  Al points past the trees, into the sparkling ocean water beyond. A thin strip of wood can be seen bobbing near the shore.

  “No more archery for you, ma petite,” he says. “You’ve got a good arm, but terrible aim!”

  Talia insists on shooting one more arrow. This time it drives straight into the foliage, and they hear a thud in the trees.

  “Oh no!” Talia cries, her stomach dropping.

  “Super!” Al runs to the edge of the terrace and bounds over the wall. “Oh, oh Talia. This is bad,” he calls out from the bushes.

  “Oh God, what did I hit?” She’s okay with Al doing the hunting, and helping him prepare the meals, but the thought of taking an animal’s life, well, it fills her belly with acid.

  “It is really bad,” he says again.

  “Oh no…oh no!” Talia drops the bow and starts wringing her hands. She can hear Al returning from the bushes, then his head appears amongst the leaves, then the feathers of the arrow. Whatever she’s just struck and injured or killed, he’s carrying it in his arms. She can’t bear to face it…she covers her eyes.

  “No, I can’t,” she says.

  “You must. It’s your first kill, you have to face it and see what you’ve done. This is a big moment, an important moment.”

  She looks at him between two fingers, and his face is so serious, so grave, she knows there’s no way out. Talia drops her hands, and swallows back her fear.

  “Alright, show me,” she says, wondering if she’ll ever be the same again.

  He comes close so she can see the poor creature he’s cradling in his arms, but when she finally allows herself to look at the round, brown mass, she screams.

  “Al! Why’d you make me think I killed something!?” she yells, and he steps back, laughing.

  “I never said you killed anything,” he says, laughing some more. “I said you hit something, and it is bad. I don’t think this coconut will ever recover!”

  Thanks to Talia’s impeccable archery skills, they enjoy an afternoon snack of fresh coconut water, and white coconut flesh.

  “We should probably get back to work,” Talia says, realizing this is something she finds herself saying at least ten times a day. But really, she doesn’t care. She’s in no rush, and she’s learning so much from the time they spend not working…about him, and even about herself. It feels like a win-win, even if she still has no idea how to help him.

  Chapter 4

  One day, while washing their cleaning rags and laying them out to dry, Talia says, “You should come back to Terre d’Or with me this weekend.”

  They’ve spent two weeks laughing, talking, and working—two weeks that feel a lot more like two months. And instead of looking forward to her weekends like she used to, she finds herself missing Al already. “My grandfather’s floor is made of dirt, but that won’t stop us from having a good time. You could meet him. We’ll make you some home cooked meals, and we could go to Suzette’s. I mean, you’ve got to be tired of eating nothing but fish and birds most of the time!”

  “Fish and birds are healthy,” he answers with a grin.

  “Yes, I can see that.” Her eyes betray her by running down his Greek god torso before she can stop them.

  Focus, Talia! She forces her eyes back up to his face. “Maybe Papy can help you find…well, whatever it is you’re dealing with. He has a lot of contacts on the mainland, especially since he’s been going over there so much for the demonstrations.”

  If anyone can help Al, it’s Papy, and he’d actually be around this weekend. Lucky for them, because he’d spent the last few weekends at the main castle, protesting the royal construction plan.

  But once again Al deflects, just as he has every other time she’s suggested he leave the castle and go somewhere—anywhere—with her.

  He picks up the bucket and mops they’ve been using. “We should clean the kitchen next.”

  “Maybe you have family back in France?” Talia calls after him, too frustrated to let it go. Even after two weeks of working together, he hasn’t revealed any personal information at all.

  Al continues walking away, which forces Talia to chase after him. Again.

  She catches up with him in the small side yard they’ve been using to dump their dirty water. “You know, Papy has lots of contacts in France, too,” she comments while watching him pour out the mop bucket. “He’s even had me write a few letters on his behalf to that alternative newspaper, Libération this summer. They published one of the letters, and invited him to keep writing more about what’s happening here. He loves helping others. I’m sure if you just met with him, told him your story—”

  She stops when Al suddenly touches her arm. But not in his usual soft and affectionate way. This time, his fingers curl around her upper arm, gripping the flesh as if to make sure she’s paying close attention when he says, “Talia, you are very…kind. But you must stop. I am happy here. Vieux Victoire is good for me, and I feel safe here.”

  “Well of course you do! I mean, it’s a fortress,” she says.

  Al laughs, but insists, “Yes, well, it is much more than a fortress to me.” Then he releases her, and leaves the yard, heading down the rocky path that descends to the beach below.

  Talia tracks his movements between th
e trees. He walks a bit, stops to pick a mango, and disappears behind a large boulder.

  This is how many of their days end, with Al wandering off, vanishing into the landscape. The first time it happened, Talia waited a good half hour for him to return so she could say goodbye before heading home. But now she knows better.

  Truthfully, there is something a bit off about the man. It’s as if living alone here on the island has turned him a bit wild…feral.

  What really bothers Talia, though, is his refusal to accept her help. Or share anything about his past, other than the occasional Royal Navy story—all of which are hilarious. So much so, she’s started to wonder if maybe whatever it is that’s bothering him happened elsewhere, perhaps with the family he won’t discuss? That would certainly explain his refusal to let her know if he even has a family.

  “No, I cannot go, and you must not tell anyone I am here,” he said the first time she mentioned the possibility of bringing Papy here to talk with him. And since then, he’s responded in almost the exact same way whenever she brings up the subject.

  Talia doesn’t know which is crazier: that Al expects her to keep him a secret, or that she hasn’t told anyone, including her grandfather, that there’s a homeless French guy holed up at Mamy’s castle.

  God, what’s wrong with him?

  What’s wrong with her?

  One morning, Talia can’t find Al anywhere.

  After a few minutes of frantic searching, she finally spots him stalking through the palm trees on the other side of the wall, armed with a bow, and a quiver of arrows strapped across his bare back. She watches as he skirts the edge of the property, then slides down one of the tree-covered slopes to the rocky shore below.

  Talia drops her mop back in its bucket, and runs to the terrace edge. She narrows her eyes, peering hard through the brush. At first he’s hard to locate through the thick foliage. But there, she sees him now. His movements are lithe and panther-like as he silently approaches a tiny inlet surrounded by low scrub. Three black sea ducks are paddling peacefully until one of them senses his presence. With a furious bout of quacking, the birds are suddenly airborne, flapping their plump bodies through the nearby maze of oversized leaves.

  Two ducks make it to the sky above the tree line, but the third falls onto the terrace with a soft thud, only a few yards from Talia’s feet. The shaft of an arrow protrudes from its downy, black breast.

  “We will have a good lunch today, non?” Al calls out to her. He’s grinning as he lopes back up the hill, his bow slung snugly across his chest.

  “You’re quite the hunter,” she says, staring at the felled duck. She can’t even begin to imagine one of the guys in her law school class actually shooting a duck out of the air with a simple bow and arrow.

  “Oui, bien sûr. All the men in my family are. Your family doesn't hunt, I presume?”

  Talia tilts her head to the side. “Oh, they hunt real estate sometimes. Depending on the market, it can get pretty cutthroat in Connecticut. But otherwise…”

  He responds with a quizzical look. “You are sometimes very strange, American girl.”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m the strange one,” she responds. “Because I can’t clean my way out of a paper bag, but I sure can debone the hell out of anything that moves, and I know how to shoot a flying duck right out of the sky with my trusty bow and arrow.” Talia pauses dramatically. “Oh, wait a minute…that’s not me, it’s you!”

  “Ok…maybe you have a point?” Al chuckles and pulls a guava off a nearby tree. He bites into it, then holds it with his teeth so he can more easily lift the fallen duck by its webbed feet. After casually wiping his free hand on the side of his shorts, he uses it to remove the fruit from his mouth.

  “You know, Talia,” she loves how he says her name: tah-LEE-ah, “it’s strange to think I have never slept with an American girl before. Your countrywomen always seem too loud, too dramatic, and, uh…how do you say it? High-pitched? You know…when a person seems to speak through the nose?”

  He looks at her expectantly and, in spite of the surprisingly loud thumping of her heart, Talia quickly finds the word she thinks he’s searching for, “Nasal?”

  Al somehow manages to snap the fingers of the hand still clasping the guava, and points at her triumphantly. “Oui! That is the word. Nasal…like,” he glances down to the duck dangling in his other hand, “Well, like a duck. But now…”

  Suddenly his voice deepens an octave and his entire demeanor changes. After all these weeks, Talia still can’t quite figure out how he does it…shifting so quickly from laid back island guy to rugged outdoorsy guy to smoldering sexy guy. Regardless, smoldering sexy guy has her stomach doing backflips while her brain wonders, not for the first time, exactly what kind of handsome might be hiding beneath all that beard and wild hair.

  “Now…I am rapidly reconsidering my position on this matter.”

  And just as things appear to be getting interesting, he’s gone again...vanishing back into the castle with the duck he shot right out of the sky with his bow and arrow. Of course.

  Okay…seriously? Who is this guy?

  It’s not the first time she’s asked herself this question. And Talia can’t help but wonder when she’ll finally have an answer. Or if she ever will.

  It starts raining soon after Al shoots down the duck, so they decide to gather all the silver in the castle and polish it. Soon the main dining room table is covered from end to end with silver platters, soup tureens, pitchers, goblets, flatware, serving spoons, sugar baskets, gravy boats, vases, trays, bowls, creamers, butter dishes, candle holders, and a variety of other items Talia can’t identify. If they ever get through this pile, they’ll tackle the copper pots next.

  They sit together at one end of the long table, catching what they can of the graying light by the window.

  “I wonder…why didn’t they bring all this stuff to the castle on the mainland? What’s that place called again?” Talia keeps her voice casual, and continues polishing the small squat container that Al insists is a mustard pot.

  “You are referring to le Châteauneuf Victoire. It means, ‘the new castle of Victoire.’” Al gestures toward the huge jumble of silver collected on the table in front of them. “As for all of this…I am certain they have no use for these old things at the new castle.”

  Talia laughs, and shifts her eyes towards him in a sideways glance. “And how would you know?”

  “Well, the items here were commissioned by a very unpopular family. This family came into power shortly after les Iles de la Victoire were colonized by the French. It was no secret to anyone that the family did not want to be stuck out here in the middle of the ocean, on a remote and savage island, far from their beloved France,” Al answers, in that easy way of his. Like he’d been a history professor as opposed to a Royal Navy guy before deciding to cop a squat in this castle.

  “So,” he continues, “This family—the Verdelhans—were from a very ancient aristocratic line. But even so, they were not well regarded in Paris. You see, Lord Verdelhan got himself into some trouble while playing cards. You might say he had a bit of a gambling problem. In fact, he was in so much debt, his creditors and others who he owed money to were demanding he be sent to debtors’ prison. Lord Verdelhan arranged to speak with his government connections. Eventually he gained a brief audience with the king and somehow convinced His Majesty it would be very bad form to allow something to happen to a fellow aristo, especially one whose family had done so much to financially support His Majesty’s massive rebuild of his former hunting lodge at Versailles. Of course, when Lord Verdelhan discovered exactly how the king planned to save him, rumor has it his screams could be heard clear across la Manche—the English Channel.”

  Al pauses to chuckle and shake his head. He appears to be savoring the story the way she enjoys hearing a frequently shared bit of quirky family lore from her parents over dinner.

  “Wow. But…I still don't understand…" Talia murmurs.

  Al sho
ots her a sharp look she’s seen several times before, mostly on the faces of former teachers when they ask students to be patient and pay attention. “So…much to his horror, Verdelhan and his immediate family were banished to Victoire. He was given the title of Duke, but it mattered little because he lived here in exile. If you care to pay visit to the library, you will find this entire story, written in his memoirs. He was subsequently crowned as a puppet ruler who acted on the orders of the king. As you can imagine, he was not happy.

  To top it off, he and his wife had absolutely no experience running a country. They were horrible rulers, and were largely despised by most of the populace, and even by their household staff. Instead of taking the time to get to know the native population, their only interest was in the islands’ natural resources, and how they could profit from them. They opened quarries and mines, and spent every sous sent from France on fine, beautiful things to fill up the castle.”

  “How long were they in power?” Talia asks, now genuinely curious about the Verdelhans.

  “About fifteen years, until Duke Geoffroy was assassinated by a member of his own court, and the queen died shortly thereafter of complications related to what was probably malaria. Their children, two adult daughters, quickly fled back to Paris, in fear for their lives. The duke had been so widely disliked that the person who ordered his assassination took over the throne with no objection, and ever since, Victoire has been a peaceful nation. Even when we claimed our independence from France, it was a peaceful transition.”

  Talia’s eyes widen as she looks at the silver in a new light. “So what you’re saying is no one wants this silver because it was commissioned by the first ruling family who nobody liked.”

  “Correct.”

  “But…then why is it here? If nobody wants it, why don't they sell it and like, I don't know, build a new school or five? Or melt it down?”

  Al’s eyes meet hers. “This is part of our collective history. We can't just melt down a piece of our past.”