More Than A Dream. Emma Richmond

unaware? There was no one to tell her now. Above the simple inscription was a carving of his regimental badge and his number. Not much as a testament to thirty-two years of life. And yet it was more than some had. Looking round her, at the bleak little cemetery, she shivered and began to move slowly along the row. So young, so little of life had been lived, and she began to silently mouth the names, as though it was important that someone, somewhere, remembered them. Not as a mass, but as individuals.

      Most were from the First World War, only a few from the Second. Some were unknown. And in the corner, isolated, were the German war graves. No poignant little messages on these, no soft remembered phrase, just the name and date of death. Feeling depressed, she turned to go back through the little gate. Duty done. The reason for her trip to France. Liar. With a long sigh, she went back to the car.

      Where was Charles now? Still in Deauville? And did she really expect to see him? Yes; the answer had to be yes. Not only expected, but needed. Needed to cure herself of this ridiculous infatuation, because surely that must be what it was? All these years of loving him, wanting him, unable to have a relationship with any other man because it was not him. Yet she had tried. Lord knew, she had tried. Accepted invitations from other boys, men, but none of them had had his smile, his warmth, that underlying streak of ruthlessness that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The strength that could never be disguised. So foolish, irrational—and shaming. Like a schoolgirl languishing after a pop star, an idol. A man who probably rarely gave her a thought, and, if he did, would have been astonished—no, incredulous—had he known of her obsession. Her fantasy.

      Putting the car in gear, she drove carefully along the bumpy track and down into the centre of town. People with obsessions always planned well in advance. She had carefully scrutinised the town map and therefore knew exactly where the harbour was. Knew, or at least had been told, that that was where Charles moored his yacht.

      Finding the marina without difficulty, she parked, and then quickly scanned the line of expensive toys as they bobbed gently, swayed, curtsied, as if in mockery. And there it was, exactly like the photograph she had seen in the magazine at home. The Wanderer. Elegant, racy, exciting—like the man who stood on deck. An unexpected bonus, and she felt the familiar warmth course through her as she stared at dark hair ruffled by the breeze; at strong, tanned arms that were raised as he fiddled with something on the mast; at jeans-clad legs, astride to keep his balance. Slim, elegant, exciting. Charles Revington.

      She stared at him for a long time, felt the jolt she always felt; felt her heart race, swell, and she wanted to do something incredibly juvenile, such as walk past him in the hope that he might see her.

      Wrenching her eyes away, she was disgusted by her stupidity. And it was stupid, and childish, and hopeless. Climbing from the car, she quickly locked it, and, resolutely turning her back, she began to walk along the wooden promenade that divided the long sandy beach from the bathing huts.

      ‘Hey! Melly! Hang on!’

      If you wanted something badly enough you would get it. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she quickened her step, pretended she had not heard the urgent shout. Staring blindly at the wooden boards before her, she fought for composure. Fool. Stop, be casual. I can’t. The longing to see him and the need to escape were equally powerful. She should never have come. And yet, if it was he who chased after her, it would look, wouldn’t it, as though their meeting was accidental?

      The sound of footsteps behind her did not diminish, and it was almost a relief when her arm was caught and she was brought to a halt. Swinging round in feigned surprise, she stared up into the face of the man she had loved since she was a child.

      Laughing grey eyes looked back. A wide smile stretched the firm tanned skin of his face. ‘I would have felt the most awful fool if it hadn’t been you! What on earth is my innocent little friend doing in this den of iniquity?’ he asked with that engaging grin that had been haunting her for most of her twenty-five years.

      ‘Oh, this and that,’ she managed simply. Surprised, after all, at how easy it was, she smiled. Her heart might be racing, her pulse erratic, but, to her intense relief, she sounded ordinary, normal. ‘Hello, Charles.’

      ‘”Hello, Charles,”’ he mimicked lightly. ‘So casual, Melly? You don’t even sound surprised.’

      Cursing herself for not at least pretending, she fabricated. ‘Not surprised, no; more—disbelieving, I think. I certainly didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘that’s what’s so nice about travelling. One never knows who one will bump into.’ And, sounding as though he really meant it, he added, ‘It’s really good to see you.’ His eyes full of devilish laughter, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her smoothly on each cheek, then before she could register the feel of him, the warmth, he steered her towards the only nearby café that was open. In the summer, she guessed, the wide glass panels would be pushed back, and tables and chairs would be placed outside, but today, in early April, and with a cold east wind blowing, they were mostly all closed and shuttered.

      Hooking a chair out with his foot, he pushed her gently into the seat before taking the chair opposite. Summoning the waiter with an ease that she envied, he quirked an eyebrow in query. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Please, white.’

      ‘Deux cafés-crème, s’il vous plaît.’

      ‘Grands? Petits?’ the waiter asked smoothly.

      ‘Grands, merci.’

      As soon as the waiter had departed to execute their order, he continued, ‘So what brings you to Deauville? Not the racing,’ he teased, ‘that doesn’t start till August. The golf? The sailing? The casino?’

      Settling back in her chair, not quite sure she believed this was happening, and that Charles was actually sitting opposite her, a quizzical expression on his strong face, she toyed idly with a sugar wrapper someone had left on the table. Even though hope had been warring with expectancy, she still found it hard to believe that her fantasising, her irrational hopes, were being realised. Glancing up at him, she felt faint. ‘Not the casino, no. The war graves.’

      ‘The war... Oh.’ With a nod of understanding, he slapped the table. ‘Of course, your grandfather. You’re looking for his grave?’ Noting her astonishment, he smiled. ‘I remember your father once telling me that his father had fought and died in Normandy during the D-Day landings. Any luck?’

      ‘Yes. I knew, of course, that it was the Military Cemetery at Tourgeville; it was just a question of finding it. The authorities were very helpful when I contacted them in England—they even offered to take me there.’

      ‘But you wanted to go alone,’ he put in understandingly.

      ‘Yes. I’ve just come from there.’

      ‘Which is why you’re looking so pensive,’ he exclaimed softly, ‘and insensitive Charles Revington has just trampled all over your feelings with his size-nine boots. I’m sorry.’

      With a renewed stab of guilt, because she hadn’t been feeling any of the emotions he expected of her, she protested softly, ‘No need to be sorry, and insensitive is the last thing I’d call you. I was just feeling a little sad, and thoughtful, I suppose.’

      With a gentle hand he removed the wrapper from her fingers, then lifted them to his mouth and kissed the tips. ‘Triste. That’s what the French would say. Have you been to look at the landing beaches? Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha?’

      ‘No, not yet.’ No need to tell him that she had only arrived that morning.

      ‘You should make the time. They’re worth seeing, and the American Cemetery in Saint Laurent. It will bring a lump to your throat. So many crosses, so many dead.’

      ‘Yes, I will.’ With a little smile for the waiter, and a hesitant, ‘Merci,’ she gratefully turned her attention to putting sugar in her coffee and stirring it. He was too near, too charming, too much the man, and she could think of nothing to say, nothing