Last November, it must have been. He and Siân had spent most of that year quarreling, finally splitting up late in the spring, but strife had dogged them at least since his birthday in August last year when her unceasing demands for commitment had convinced him that it would be better to abandon the idea of a week in the house in Normandy together. Siân had no other friends there at the time, and without much French she was thrown back entirely on him, which he doubted their relationship could take at that moment. So they had never come and collected the note, walked in his mother’s healing garden, nor eaten a last supper in the Pays d’Auge.

He smiled now to think of her: three months on the road had softened his anger. She was so strikingly unusual—not to everyone’s taste, but thus, somehow, doubly so to his, and he suddenly felt an unanticipated longing for her physically, as though aware for the first time of the blank space beside him and in his heart. But setting passion aside—the passion that had been the nucleus of their relationship—he knew he had been right to end it. Their love was springtime, and the skies had changed. He was not forgiving and pragmatic like Alex, nor always a finisher of what he started, and he could never be the husband she wanted—the achiever, the man to shop with on Sundays at the Conran Shop, the lover who would sell his Ducati and buy a Volvo. Having declared a passion for his wildness, she had sought from the beginning to tame him. He was happy to cook for her, make her laugh, sing to her, and make love to her as no one ever had; but he knew he could never dissolve his personality to silence the strong political opinions he held, which always led to violent arguments with her mindless girlfriends and their docile partners. Ultimately he couldn’t inhabit her safe—and in his view, bland—world. He was committed to experience life, whatever the cost.

He flipped the card over. It was the Great Rose Window at Chartres. His mother had painted it often, from inside, from out. She loved the light through the glass—the way it almost stung your eyes with its brilliance, penetrating the gloom.

He toyed with his cell phone for a moment. It was now charged and, without taking his eyes from the image on the card, he texted his brother.

Have at last invaded Normandy! U’ve been here l8tly? Sailing from Caen 23:15 tonight. Will call you B4. Much to ask U. W