Chapter Text
“Bonne Nuit. Je t’aime, Maman.“
Camille Bordey hung up the phone after telling her mother that no, she wouldn’t be bringing her partner with her when visiting Saint Marie during the Christmas holidays, for the simple reason that they had broken up a week before. She hadn’t seemed too surprised, but then, Camille would readily admit to herself that things had been pointing this way for a while. It had been a few comfortable, happy enough months, but that had been all.
It had neither been her shortest relationship, nor her worst, and really, there were no hard feelings. She could tell that Maman was a little disappointed – not because she still clung to the forlorn hope for grandchildren (they eventually both had had to admit that some things just were not meant to be) but because she didn’t like to think of Camille back in Paris, all alone.
Only she wasn’t alone. She had many friends and colleagues she got along with, she had an apartment in Paris, she had more than enough hobbies to fill her spare time.
Some people simply didn’t settle down in the traditional meaning of the word, and she was one of them. Yes, there had been a time when she had imagined a different future for herself, but she didn’t have any regrets.
Or at least, not many.
She looked out into the Paris night. The snow she’d hoped for had yet to make an appearance, instead, it was raining, a cold, rather depressing grizzle that only one person she had ever known would have enjoyed.
In the eight years since Richard had been murdered, the almost all-encompassing grief that had surprised Camille in its intensity had made way for a gentle melancholy whenever she happened to think of him.
Hadn’t she just thought about the few regrets that would arise even in a life well lived?
Not that there was much to regret, all things considered. They had never kissed – they had never gone on a date – they had never even addressed the attraction between them before Richard had been murdered.
Who knew what might have happened? Maybe nothing after all. Richard might not have been drawn to her as she had imagined, although she had wanted to believe so at the time, he might have gone back to England without either of them having said something, they might have lost touch. Or they might have tried something and it fizzled out like her other relationships.
She would never know.
But she had her memories, and now, she could even smile at how he used to complain about the heat, the food, the French, everything under the sun, really. He simply hadn’t been used to anything but his English ways, but she liked to think that he had learned to appreciate Saint Marie amongst other things, towards the end. Otherwise, why would he have come back?
Even if it hurt a little to consider that, if he had stayed in England, he might still be alive right now.
Yes, he would have loved the weather today. Would probably have walked outside without an umbrella to enjoy the drizzle. And then he would have compared it unfavorably to England, because that was how it worked; she had long come to suspect that he had now and then exaggerated his rants because she’d learned to find them funny.
Reminiscing wouldn’t help her with her packing, though, so she went to do just that.
As usually when she made such trips, she used the time to go through her closet and decide what to keep and what to donate.
There was one hanger she usually avoided though – right at the back; but maybe, she thought, it was time.
She had never made a conscious decision to keep one of Richard’s ties, or at least she didn’t remember it; in truth, she didn’t remember much of cleaning out Richard’s shack, only that she had insisted on doing so herself so they could send his affects to his parents (that reminded her, she should really call Cynthia, as she was wont to do during the holidays… see how she and Andrew were doing) and then collapsed into bed and slept for twelve hours, waking up to Maman making breakfast, smiling at her with red-rimmed eyes (not that Richard would have believed it. He’d never been able to see what he meant to others).
But the point was, when all had been said and done, there had been the tie, the one he’d worn more often than the others, for example on that memorable night where they had been forced to stay at the weather station during the hurricane, hanging in her closet instead of having made its way back to England. Cynthia either had never noticed that one of the ties was missing – and it was more than possible, thinking of how many there had been, even more than Camille had suspected – or had simply not been able to bring herself to care after burying her only child. She had certainly never mentioned it, and so, it had stayed with Camille, as a reminder of a man she had thought so very strange and annoying upon first meeting him, and a slight nod to what might have been.
It was time to let go, however. She had known that for a while. And with her going home for the holidays…
Yes, she would leave the tie on Saint Marie. It felt strange that Richard should have left nothing behind but a few memories. Yes, it might have been a strange idea, but it felt right.
The past was the past. Let her have one last moment of remembrance, and then she would see where her path led her. After all, if she was right, and she usually was, then the newest member of their team had been subtly flirting with her for a week or two…
But first things first. She very carefully – Richard would never have allowed her to crease one of his precious ties! – she took it off the hanger and folded it before putting it in her suitcase. Her fingers lingered on the material for a moment or two. How often during his rants had she contemplated just grabbing whatever tie he was wearing on that day and simply dragging him into a kiss to end their strange impasse one way or another? Not that it mattered now.
Yes, it was time to move on once and for all.
Maman was, as always, happy to see her, and soon after she had arrived at La Kaz, Dwayne, Fidel, Juliette and their two children showed up. Little Rosie – not so little anymore – would undoubtedly be a beauty one day, she already knew that; but since she also had a clever head on her shoulders, Camille didn’t doubt that she would always know what to do, too. Plus, they had made sure she grew into a careful young lady, as Richard would have called it.
Speaking of…
None of them had ever acknowledged why Fidel and Rosie had chosen to call their son Richard. It hadn’t been necessary.
As a matter of fact, he appeared rather contemplative today. “Well, what’s the matter with you?” she teased him, lightly ruffling his hair. Normally, he would be busy assembling the model of the Louvre she had brought him – as Rosie was already lost in her own world with the Mustang kit she had gifted her, since she had always been more interested in cars.
He looked at her and then quietly said, “I asked Maman and Papa where my name came from.”
Oh. She swallowed. “And they told you?”
He nodded. “Papa said the man I’m named after was the best detective he ever met, and that you and he were close, Aunt Camille. I’m sorry.”
That you and he were close. Just like she had never openly spoken to her mother about what Richard had come to mean to her, so she had never talked to any of her friends about what had never been, mostly because well – it had never been.
“It was a long time ago, cheri” she said simply because it was true. “But yes, he was the best detective we’ve ever had. He taught us all a lot.”
He nodded. “Papa says he still misses him sometimes.”
Her throat felt tight. In their calls and during her visits, they only rarely ever mentioned Richard between them. “Yes, me too” she admitted. “That’s just how it is.”
He nodded again. “Still, I’m sorry you had to be sad.”
Sometimes, she envied children their ability to simply state the truth. She had been sad, for quite a long time, and sometimes, she still was. But that, as she had just told him, was just how it was.
That night, in her old room at her mother’s place, she unpacked the tie and hung it over a chair. She told herself to get this over and done with, so that she could properly enjoy Christmas.
The old shack Richard had complained about so often had been torn down years ago, the Commissioner deciding to give the Chief of Police a proper house to stay so they would be more amenable to do so. She doubted Richard would have been much happier regardless, but could appreciate the gesture.
The tie was in her pocket as she walked along the beach, remembering the countless times she had picked Richard up or dropped him off, here, and how near the end, he had asked her in for a drink at the end of the day more and more often.
She reached the place where the shack had once been, and caught herself looking for Harry, even though the lizard must be long gone now.
She pulled out the tie and gently stroked it one more time. Yes, let this be it. One more time remembering Richard Poole and grieving him, and then simply being happy that she had ever come to know him in the first place. Even with the complaining and the unpractical attire and the tea.
She smiled to herself as she imagined what he would have been saying upon seeing her do this to his tie. Undoubtedly she would have heard something about this.
She made sure to bury down deep enough that it wouldn’t be swept away and could peacefully become a part of Saint Marie.
And then, for no reason at all, she looked up and was surprised to still see a few stars out. Richard would have approved…
One of them shone brighter than the others and she thought une etoile de Noel.
She was still holding the tie –
No. She couldn’t let go.
What –
And she couldn’t look down either. What was going on?
And despite everything, she wasn’t scared.
She kept staring at the star until its brightness filled her entire vision.
And then everything went black.
She woke up slowly, feeling relaxed and comfortable.
Until she became aware of the arm wrapped around her and the warm body at her back, that was.
She froze for a moment, then her years of experience allowed her to relax and take stock. She had not spent the night with anyone, she was absolutely certain of that: She had not been drinking enough to forget about it, and she had kept her drink in her sight at all times, so that she hadn’t been drugged.
But then, what was going on?
From the slow, even breaths of the man behind her, it was clear that he was either sleeping or feigning it, and she decided to risk it and try to turn around.
Very slowly, so slowly that it might have been read as an unconscious action if the man woke up, she managed to do just that.
And got the shock of her life.
For in the bed next to her, holding her in his arms, alive and well, was Richard Poole.