Thirty minutes later I find myself completely captivated by the town of Lannion. Winding narrow streets, half-timbered houses, charming squares, and grand old churches. A town that looks like times past, right out of a fairytale. Locquirec is very small in comparison, which makes me wonder why Mémé chose it as her second home. But maybe that was it - she had her house in Paris, and in contrast, liked the respite of her tiny seaside village to escape to.

I find a place to park and begin wandering down the adjacent sidewalk. This has become my favorite activity as of late - choosing a random street or route to see what I'll discover. It gives me a sense of freedom - no demands, and a complete stranger to everyone I pass.

Passing a couple of clothing shops, a bookstore, and then a hair salon, I keep my eyes peeled for a gift shop to buy some gifts for Jade and Mom. But a whim strikes me as I pass the hair salon. I hesitate for a moment, peaking through the window at the ladies getting their hair done. On impulse, I push the door open, a tinkling bell announcing my arrival. 

A woman with a sleek bob greets me from the front counter. "Bonjour."

"Bonjour. Parlez vous Anglais?" I ask, hoping she speaks at least a little English.

She shakes her head. "Non. En quoi puis-je vous aider?"

I hesitate, not sure what she said but see a hair magazine laying on the counter. Grabbing it, I  flip through it quickly till I find a picture of a woman with a short shoulder-length cut. I hold out the magazine to her and point to the picture, and then at my hair as a way of explanation.

"Oui. Asseye-vous s'il vous plait," she says, motioning to the chair nearest her.

Sitting down where she instructed, I wonder what has come over me. I haven't changed my hairstyle since middle school. I've always worn it long, mostly because that's how Brett liked it. Out with the old, I think to myself. Besides, I've made the decision, there's no going back now.

Less than an hour later she's done, and as I turn my head back and forth in front of the mirror, I see she's styled it differently and given me a side part instead of my normal middle part. The entire cut and style frame my face better, and I can't help but be pleased with the change. I

"C'est très chic," she says. The other ladies in the salon nod their heads in approval as well.

"Merci," I answer with a smile. 

With my hair now swishing above my shoulders, and a new spring in my step, I stop in at a bakery next door and treat myself. Ordering to go, I continue wandering - a macaron in one hand and an espresso in the other - happy and content.

Rounding a street corner, I come across a large square where there's an outdoor market going on. I plop the remainder of my macaron in my mouth and approach the booths, excited to see what treasures I'll happen upon. My arms quickly fill with bags of dried lavender, some herbs for cooking, handmade soaps, and a couple of things for Jade and Mom. Everyone at the market is a local artisan and I'm thrilled at the opportunity to support local makers.

At the end of the market is a booth selling the most beautiful and unique pottery.  My eyes are automatically drawn to a piece that for some reason looks familiar. I step closer to admire the powder-blue bowl with its small rose pattern etched along the rim. The woman at the booth greets me with a warm and genuine smile. I ask her if she speaks English.

"A little," she answers.

"Your pottery is absolutely beautiful! Are you the artist?"

She nods, happy for the compliment. "Oui. Moi," she motions to herself, "and mon mari...uh, husband."

"Well, you both are very talented." I pick up an exquisite vase the color of the sunrise. The way the colors are captured is remarkable. I think how much Jade would like a piece, but I'm hesitant about carrying it home in my luggage. Before I leave, I ask her if she knows where one can buy paints since nothing came up when I Googled art supply stores.

"Oui. La Boutiques des Artistes. Uh just up the street, left at Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne..."

She smiles apologetically upon seeing the blank look on my face and stops to write something down on her business card. She hands it to me, and I see she's written down the address of the shop.

"Thank you very much. Merci!"

"Avec plaisir," she responds with a smile.

I wave goodbye and plug the address into Google. It's a bit of a journey, but I decide to walk - it's the European way, after all. I'm getting close to my destination when the sky suddenly opens up just as Philippe predicted. Everyone on the street scrambles to take cover against the sudden onslaught.

Clutching my purchases to my chest, I quickly duck under what I think will bring enough cover - the overhang of the nearest shop. I slam right into someone coming out of the entrance, dropping my bag with my herbs, the little containers rolling out onto the street.

"Pardon!" The man I bumped into quickly pulls his jacket over his head and runs to pick up my items before I can protest. He comes back with his arms full, and ducks under the awning.

"Je suis désole. Puis-je vous aider ou vous allez," he says.

I have no idea what he said but I respond with, "Oh! Merci, here I can take those." I attempt to take my wet purchases out of his arms.

He says with surprise, "You are not French! I took you for a local."

I look up at the man in front of me. Probably a little older with light blond hair and the bluest eyes. He has an accent but it's not French. Irish? British? I wonder. It's hard to tell.

"Here let me help you carry these. I hope nothing was ruined. Do you have far to go?" he asks kindly.

"Oh, that's ok. I was on my way to get paints. I'll just wait it out." I peer up at the darkening sky and grimace as more storm clouds roll in.

"It might rain for the rest of the day - usually does once it starts. Paints you say?" He points to the building across the street. "There's an artist shop there, is that where you were headed?"

I squint at the building through the rain and barely make out the sign, but that's the one. "I didn't know I was so close!"

"I think we can make a run for it." He smiles and holds his jacket up over my head with his free arm. "Ready?"

I nod in agreement and we make a mad dash into the rain and across the street. Opening the door for us, he tells me he'll be right once we're inside. He returns a moment later with a plastic shopping bag.

"Here this should help," he says, as he transfers all my purchases into the bag.

"Thank you so much, you've been a lifesaver," I respond as I hand him back his jacket.

"No problem. It was my fault for running into you."

"I believe technically I ran into you, but who am I to argue," I joke.

He gives me a huge grin, and I find myself slightly transfixed for a moment; he really does have the bluest eyes, and that dimple... he's incredibly good looking but in a classic movie star kind of way.

"So, you're an artist?" he asks, shrugging his coat back on.

"Oh, well sort of. I used to paint and now I'm getting back into it."

He nods, his eyes on my face. I'm finding myself a little tongue-tied suddenly and can't think of anything else to say. I self-consciously smooth out my wet hair.

He smiles down at me. "Well, I have to get going. But they do sell umbrellas here." He nods his head towards the front counter where a display of umbrellas hangs.

"Great, thank you. And thanks again for helping me. It was so nice of you."

He smiles. "Good luck with your painting."

And then he's gone, moving out the door and dashing across the street in the rain. That was interesting, I muse. He's the first person I've met here that isn't French.

While picking out paints and brushes, my thoughts keep returning to the handsome stranger. His accent was downright dreamy. Secretly I'm hoping he lives locally, and I might get the chance to run into him again.

~*~

That night I snuggle in front of the fire with a glass of wine and debate between reading a book from Mémé's library or attempting to stream a movie on my iPad. Setting my wine glass down, I get up and add another log to the fire. Philippe was thoughtful enough to leave firewood for me before he left today, with a note saying he would see me tomorrow, and to call him if I needed anything.

Gazing into the crackling fire I reminisce about the first time I learned to make a fire, which was while camping with Dad. We used to go camping up at Trillium Lake at Mount Hood every summer. Mom never was one for the wilderness, so it was just him, me, and Jade. It was the highlight of my summers growing up. I always wondered if Dad regretted not having boys, but if so, he never showed it. He just loved to do everything with us. I smile recalling I was the only kid amongst my friends who knew how to fish...

The familiar burning tightness constricts my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut. I wish I could cry it out, to relieve the tightness in my chest, but I haven't let myself cry in a long time. It's even been a while since I've let myself reminisce - it's easier not to. I just wasn't ready to let him go. You aren't supposed to lose your dad at twenty-three years old. If there is one thing I am thankful for in my time with Brett, it's that he proposed when we were twenty-one. Even though he wasn't my forever, I got the experience and the memory of having Dad at my wedding. At least I wasn't robbed of that.

I get up quickly to refill my wine glass, closing the vault on my memories. It's easier that way, to not indulge in remembering, it's the only way I've survived. Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders with a sigh, I'm suddenly tired, but decide to take a peek at Mémé's books anyways.

Her study is a little stuffy and dusty, and I make a mental note to air it out tomorrow. Bookshelves line the walls, filled to the brim with books, both old and new. I brush my hand over the volumes, reveling in the fact that my grandmother's chosen books are now left for me to pick up and read. After surveying the many books, I choose an incredibly old copy of Lady of the Lake with a beautifully engraved cover, the pages gingerly held together by its old spine. Being a lover of poetry, Lady of the Lake has always been on my "to read" list, but still, I grab a couple of newer novels as well in case it doesn't strike my fancy.

Books in hand, something familiar catches my eye on my way out the door. Over on a side table near the window sits a beautiful blue vase. Moving closer to examine it, I realize along the vase's base is the same rose pattern that I saw on the pottery at the market earlier today. And not only that but it's the same beautiful cobalt blue. Setting my wine and books down, I carefully lift the vase, to look at the bottom. As expected, initials have been carefully etched into the ceramic by the creator of the vase.

A.D.

The initials are A.D.

I think for a moment, and then having an idea, pick up my wine and books and go back into the living room. Wondering what the name of the ceramic artist is that I spoke with at the market earlier today, I search for her business card in my purse. Finding it, it reads:

Le Pigment Bleu / Louis & Chloé Moreau

Chloé Moreau. The initials don't match. I was expecting it to be her work of art, but I'm sure many local artisans sell pottery. It could be a coincidence that the pattern and color are the same. Maybe it's not unique to use in this area, I surmise.

Settling back into a cozy position on the couch, I'm about to start reading when my gaze falls on an emerald-colored vase by the fireplace. Not sure exactly why my curiosity has been piqued, I get up to inspect this piece as well. Sure enough, the same rose pattern adorns the ceramic, and the initials etched into the base are A.D.

Being completely taken over by curiosity now, I move throughout the house to check every piece of pottery I come across. And every single one has the same signature pattern and the same initials.

Collapsing back onto the couch after my hunt around the house, I conclude that Mémé must have been a patron of a local artist. This doesn't surprise me, she always loved art as much as me, although instead of creating she loved to collect.

I try to return to reading, but feel distracted. I wish I had known about Mémé's life here, it makes me sad that I didn't even know this place existed. When she and I would catch up it was always over mutual things, and when she did talk about herself it was always about her fabulous Parisian life. She never once mentioned a home in Brittany. But maybe that was our relationship and what we spoke of.

Grabbing my phone, I shoot Jade a text. *Did Mémé ever talk to you about her house here in Brittany?*

She texts back right away. *No but didn't Mom say she knew about it? What's up?*

*Nothing. Just thinking. I can't remember Mémé saying she had a friend or knew an artist with the initials A.D., do you?*

*No, I don't think so. She had a lot of artist friends in Paris though. Why?*

*Just wishing I knew more about Mémé's life here. Ok, I'm heading to bed. Love you. Let's chat soon.*

*Love you too. Sweet dreams!*

Yawning, I put my wine glass in the kitchen and put one more log on the fire before heading to bed. Grabbing the blanket off the couch to take with me, the books that were sitting on it fall to the ground. As I reach to pick them up, I notice a piece of paper has fallen out of the volume of Lady of the Lake.

Curious, I scoop it up and see it's a letter, browned on the corners, the handwriting is beautiful and scrolling penmanship. It's in French so I can't decipher it, but I see it's addressed to Elise, my grandmother. My eyes zero in on the signature at the bottom. Adelaide Dubois, it looks like.

A.D.

What are the chances?