In the morning, Helen rose early, showered, started the coffee and went to the bakery for a baguette and croissants. As she ate, the orange cat appeared, watching her silently. She went to speak to him, reaching out to let him smell her fingers. He stretched to rub his cheek against them and Helen rubbed his head. Unlike many of his fellows, he was clean and shiny and the sun had warmed his fur. She felt a connection begin between them and withdrew her hand. 'I can't,' she thought, 'I can't dare trust you either.'
She cleaned up and went downstairs again, now along the beach, walking briskly, now in the deeper sand, now on the damp, packed sand below the tide mark. The early sun was warm on her body, the water chilly on her feet. There were only a few people about, some jogging, some walking. One of the men trotted past, said "Good morning" and ran on. Belatedly Helen realized he'd spoken English.
The sun grew warmer as she walked. After a stretch of deep sand, she walked out into the water to get the grit off her feet and legs, dipping into the chill, salty water. When she came back on the beach, the man who had spoken English came trotting back along the sand. This time, he spoke French.
"Good morning, may I ask you a question or two?" He was about Helen's age, a little taller and good looking with rather wild, light brown hair. His body was firm, though not athletic. He took in Helen's body with the same assessing glance she had used.
"Pourquoi moi?" Helen asked both him and herself. Then, amused, "Pourquoi non?" And after another brief thought, "Or would you rather speak English?"
"Well, that's fine with me, but I'm happy in either language. I'm American. You?"
Helen smiled and began walking back toward the city. "I guess I'm American, too. That's one of my passports: I'm a citizen by birth. Usually Americans can hardly speak English, you know." She smiled at him, but he just shrugged at her jibe. She went on. "But I'm really just European - an EU citizen. Dad was American, mother Swedish; I grew up in France and Germany, and that's the way I am. Hardly ever been in America." She repeated, "Why are you asking me questions?"
He fell in beside her, walking with the sun in their faces. "I've seen you walking here a lot. Even when it's cold and the wind eats you alive. I guess you live here."
"Yes, and I like to walk this beach," Helen answered. "It makes me feel good. Even when it's crowded in the summer. I love this place. Why are you here?"
"Well, I live here, too. In Cap d'Agde, that is. I come here because I like to be nude and to run, get some exercise. And, my store is over there," he gestured inland, "so it's convenient."
"What store is that?" Helen looked in the direction of his gesture, but there was nothing visible except the dunes, and behind them, the scattered trees of the campground.
"I call it 'Entrepôt-à-Louer' - 'Rent-A-Shed'. It's an adaptation of an American idea. You can rent a storage space for as long as you want. You pay by the month. Private access: only you have the key. I'm hoping it will be just the thing for people who vacation here. I came here some time ago and found I had to buy stuff and then either take it with me or abandon it. If I could have stored it, I would have come back more often."
"I think I saw your sign last night, when I came back from Sète. You're new, I guess."
"Just got the sign up yesterday. I moved here about a year and a half ago. It's taken all that time to get the planning and permits approved and start construction, but I think I'll be ready to open for this season. I moved into the apartment over the store this week. Uh, may I ask your name? I'm Sandy Duvin." He pronounced it Dove-in and extended his hand.
Helen shook his hand. "Helen Wallace. Sounds interesting, Sandy. If you're there later today, maybe I'll drop by." They had reached the main market arcade, and Helen turned in, ending their conversation by heading for the newsstand. Sandy went off toward the main gate.
At home, the orange cat had curled up on the balcony lounge. She picked him up and put him back on the railing, giving him a push to send him off. He moved about a meter away to where Helen could not reach him and settled down, watching her. He began to speak to her at some length (in cat, of course) and seemed to be communicating something of importance … to him, at least. Helen shook her head.
She immersed herself in preparations for the meeting in Geneva the next day. She worked until hunger distracted her and she had to go into the kitchen. She opened a can of paté, smeared it on some leftover baguette, and went on with her work. A little later, she heard a noise and realized the orange cat was cleaning out the paté can. He had somehow managed to climb up on the table without her noticing. She picked him up and put him back on the rail.
"Thief," she accused him, admiring his clean and shiny coat. She could not resist stroking his rugged back and he lifted himself into her caress. When she stopped, he spoke to her briefly, in a form of thanks, and began a thorough wash. 'I don't know what to do about you,' she thought, 'you may be sorry you chose me.'
Eventually, she realized the light was failing and she was about to miss dinner. She finished her work, threw on a light dress against the evening chill and ran downstairs to August's bar and ordered something to eat. When she came back, the orange cat had disappeared. She still had to pack.