When Lieutenant Bobby Davis received the order from his Captain that they were headed for Sainte Claire, his stomach flipped backwards.
Backwards all the way to 1936.
Young, fresh faced, 18, straight out of school, he had always seen France as the ultimate calling of exitement. Back home, he was Bobby, captain of the football team. He was good at everything; sport, school, a way with the ladies. That was what had brought him here. Here he could be nothing and everything, a chance for something different. The expectations that had settled on his shoulders had begun to feel uneasy. His family couldn't afford college. And he wasn't going to be stuck in the same old town for the rest of his life, ending up marrying the popular girl from school. Sally was a nice girl, but not for him. Not his future. So he had made a plan to get away. He had a job set up for him in San Francisco, but he allowed himself one last summer, with all of his savings that he could spare, to be free. Free. That beautiful, elusive word. As his feet hit the Sainte Claire station floor, he glanced around, a smile plastered across his face.
His mother had backed the idea, she herself having relatives in Sainte Claire. Walking the streets of the quaint little city, he breathed it all in, its sights and its sounds and its smells. The people strolling passed stared at him, curious. They clearly weren't used to outsiders. He checked the small note crumpled in his pocket again, edges worn from the times he had opened and re-read the address written in his mother's fluid handwriting. Glancing at the number, he knocked on the door.
His mother's cousins were friendly enough, offering him the attic space at the fraction of the cost of a hotel room; money only really for the food he would eat. Glancing around his new home, he noted the simple decor and breezy nature. His room was small, the floorboards creaked and the ceilings sloped low, but overall it suited him perfectly. He settled his case at the foot of the bed and unpacked the few things that he needed, placing a photo of his family on the bedside table. It always made him smile, but not necessarily for the right reasons; it was too forced. Here was a picture of the perfect family, when they were anything but. His own face was unrecognisable. His sisters smiled angelically, whereas usually, Margot and Alice were permanently at each other's throats. His father's volatile nature did not exist in this picture, seemingly scrubbed away by the chemicals they used to develop the film. It made him feel sick. Bobby ran his fingers finally over the face of his mother, who wore a smile that he never saw, as she feigned to still be in love with the man who was her husband. They were trapped, but he had been given a chance to escape. As Bobby turned away from the picture, he swore, not for the first time, to be everything his father wasn't.
The first days passed slowly, falling into a gradual routine. Bobby would wake, eat breakfast, then pack a lunch and go exploring. Fountains, museums, fields beyond the perimeter; anywhere he could find to pass his time. When he returned, he would share his adventures, before taking his leave for the evening, exploring each of the bars in town by turn. He was beginning to give up hope of ever finding a comfortable place to pass his time, when he stumbled across La Coeur de Lion at the end of his first fortnight.
The lighting was low, dancing off of the wooden panels, which, coupled with the familiar aromas of red wine and candles, made the room feel warm and cosy. The music from a piano gently wafted through the air, mingling with the soft voices of whispered conversations. He had barely stepped through the door when he was met with a smiling face.
"Welcome to La Coeur de Lion. I'm Katrine, and this is my establishment." The eyes of the older woman before him twinkled, startling blue. She was shorter than him, but clearly in control, her crisp white jacket adding to her presence. She shone like a beacon in the darkened room. As she showed him to a table, he noted her short auburn hair, curled meticulously at the base of her neck, the way she held herself, the way she ignored the odd looks her other customers shot him. Everything was in place, proper, like a masked exterior. When he was seated, she turned, smile radiant as before.
"The first round is with my compliments. It's not often that we get out of town-ers around here. American, yes?" Bobby nodded, taken aback by her confident air and impressive command of English. A waiter scurried towards them at a flick of her wrist, bottle in hand. Supplied with glasses at their table, Katrine nodded and he left.
"So," she set her glass down after a sip, watching as he imitated her. "You know my name, it's time you shared yours."
"Bobby," he stuttered, "Bobby Davis."
"Well Bobby Davis, what brings you here to Sainte Claire?" A look in her eye told him that he couldn't lie to this woman. She would be able to tell; even if he passed off some half-hearted story about 'one last summer', he knew it wouldn't satisfy her. So Bobby told her everything, about home, about the past, and what he was striving for in the future. She nodded her head slowly in acknowledgement and encouragement whenever he paused, but otherwise remained silent and still. Katrine was an easy listener, and Bobby found himself talking half of the night away. She had smiled to the others when they left, but none of them ever approached, seeming to know to keep their distance.
When he had finished his story, and the bottle, Katrine placed a hand gently on his shoulder, smiling.
"Have no fear, Bobby. We're all friends here. The locals will take a while to adjust, that's all. If you ever need anything -" She paused glancing over her shoulder to follow his gaze and to see what had caught it. She found the source of his interest; one of her kitchen staff collecting glasses and plates from the empty tables.
"I wouldn't if I were you. She's got a wicked temper and a right hook to match it." Bobby tore his eyes back to Katrine as the other woman retreated back through the swinging doors. He recognised a soft sadness on Katrine's face, but was unsure how to place it. Patting his arm again, she stood, her smile not reaching her eyes this time.
"You'd best be on your way, it's time to close. Do you wish to settle your bill now, or open a tab?" Bobby considered before nodding.
"Open a tab."
Bobby had just exited the bakers, the small loaf his Aunt had asked him to buy tucked into the crook of his arm. The friendly Frenchman's voice still echoed for him to call again when he saw her.
"Hey!" He called after her. He set into a run, chasing the dark, cropped hair and slight figure of the woman who had caught his eye the night before.
"Hey, wait up!" He danced in front of her, blocking her way. The glare she awarded him as her deep, dark eyes met his was a warning, but he was already too deep to notice.
"Hi," he smiled, out of breath, holding out his hand for her. "I'm Bobby Davis, I'm new around here."
"I do not talk to strangers." Her lilting accent tinged her stilted English and sent his heart soaring, despite its hardened tone. She pursed her lips when it became clear he wasn't going to move out of her way, sighing in exasperation before attempting to walk around him.
"Well maybe if you get to know me I wouldn't be a stranger anymore." He stepped in front of her again, awarding him another glare from those dark chestnut eyes. She sighed, folding her hands across her chest.
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Because you're curious." Whether it was real or an illusion of what he wanted to see, a small smile curled at the corners of her mouth. Emboldened, he stepped forward again, voice soft. "What's your name?"
"Brigitte Tremont." She hesitated at first but eventually clasped his fingers in hers in the handshake he had first offered.
"Bonjour, Brigitte." He watched as the look on her face softened as his perfect French accent tumbled from his mouth. He chuckled slightly, which only caused her to stiffen again.
"Au revoir, Monsieur Davis." She withdrew her hand sharply, this time able to manoeuvre herself away and beyond him, stalking back down the street.
Bobby made to follow her, but held himself back, watching as she walked away. She was different somehow, yet somewhere in the back of his mind he knew her, as if from a dream, forgotten but never gone. Her hair, her eyes, her sweet little nose; the delicate colour of her skin and her small, slim fingers, so similar to someone he was sure he knew. And in that moment, when he saw her glance back over her shoulder, locking her eyes with his, he knew she felt it too.