The cobblestone streets of Lannion are quiet as I stand in front of Le Pigment Bleu. Through the large windows, I admire the clean, open layout of the store that allows the pottery to be the main focus. Did Adelaide make pottery here in Lannion at a time when this shop didn't exist yet? I can't help but wonder. Or am I at a dead end and will never know what transpired between her and my grandmother?

The note on the door, as translated by Google, says they are currently closed but will be open in an hour. Since I have shopping to do for my dinner tomorrow, I set off to those stores first. 

About an hour later, after traipsing all over Lannion, I go back to the pottery shop to find it still closed. Deflated, I start to lug my purchases back up the street to where I parked.

It's then I see a familiar figure coming my way. "Bonjour...uh Chloé?"

There are a man and a little girl with her as well but I'm certain it's the same woman I met at the street market last week.

"Bonjour," she greets me with a look that tells me she recognizes me as well.

"I don't know if you remember me, but I met you at the street market. You gave me directions to the art supply store?"

"Oui," she answers with a nod.

"My name is Lara. I have a question for you, but I don't want to keep you."

She motions to the pottery shop with a smile. "We return now. Please come inside."

"Ok thank you. Merci."

She nods and opens the door and we all file inside. The shop is small and simple with a unique layout - behind the counter is a working studio and the rest of the shop displays the finished pottery for sale.

Chloé motions to the man beside her, "This is my husband Louis." She places a hand on the little girl's head. "This is Madelyn."

"Nice to meet you both. Your shop is amazing!"

I move over to a display with those same beautiful vases I saw at the market that remind me of the sunrise. Next to them is a display of hand-painted bowls in white and blue scenes depicting a French town. A grey cat suddenly jumps up on the table and rubs the length of its body against my hand.

The little girl shyly comes over as well. "C'est ma chat," she announces.

I'm pretty sure she said that is her cat. "Your....chat est adorable," I respond.

She smiles delightedly and picks up the cat. "Son nom est Jacques."

Chloé gently admonishes her daughter, "Anglais s'il vous plaît."

Madelyn wrinkles her nose but obeys her mother. "His name is Jack. He is my best cat."

I grin as she marches to the back of the store with Jacques still in her embrace, his hind legs dangling.  He is a good cat; he didn't protest one bit.

Chloé's husband moves to the back of the shop as well and starts working in their studio space.

I turn to Chloé. "I don't want to keep you. I just had a question about a local artist that may have been making and selling pottery in the 1940s either before or after the war? I'm sorry I'm not sure of the exact time."

Chloé looks at me with a confused look on her face.

I take out my phone intending on using the help of Google translate for what I want to ask.

"Your necklace..." Chloé reaches for my Larimar necklace I'm wearing but stops just short. "Forgive me. It looks...uh...familiar."

She motions to her husband and says something in French. He comes over and peers at my necklace and nods at his wife. Then he disappears through a door in the back of the shop.

"Un instant..er – one moment if you please." Chloé looks at me apologetically.

Their interaction is perplexing, but I smile in acknowledgment and shift my attention back to the pottery. Besides, I'm infatuated with the hand-painted serving bowls. They are too beautiful to pass up.

Choosing a set of three, I bring them to the counter to purchase, and ask Chloé, "The scenes are absolutely charming. Are they hand-painted?"

"Oui. Uh yes, I paint them," she responds with a smile.

Chloé turns her head as her husband returns with what looks like a framed picture in his hand. They talk amongst themselves in French for a moment, and then Chloé hands me the picture and says, "Ma grand-mère."

The frame holds a black and white portrait of an attractive woman in a simple, black Audrey Hepburn-inspired sheath dress, her hair swept up. Looks like the 1950s, I think. I look closer and gasp as I see she is wearing my necklace, or rather my grandmother's necklace. Even though the photo is in black and white there's no mistaking the shape and look of it. It's my Larimar necklace.

"You obtenir...er obtain the necklace, yes?" Chloé asks.

"It was my grandmother's. She left it to me – I inherited it," I respond, still gazing at the picture in my hands.

"It could be a...how do you say...coincidence?"

"Maybe, but it looks exactly the same," I admit. I feel like there's a thread here I'm not grasping - it can't be a coincidence.

It's then I notice that most of the pottery in this shop are different shades of blue. And the shop itself is called Le Pigment Bleu...

Biting my lip as I glance around, a specific vase catches my attention. It's a familiar shade of cobalt, with that same rose design around the base. It looks exactly like the pottery pieces in Mémé's house. Flipping the vase over, I don't expect to find anything, but sure enough, the initials A.D. are etched into the ceramic.

Surprised, I look over at Chloé. "This vase, did you make it also?"

"No," she says, "Ma grand-mère...she...make it."

"Your grand-mère had the initials A.D.? What was her name?" I hold my breath; it has to be, I think.

"Adelaide Dubois."

I look at Chloé, dumbfounded. I was right! A.D. and Adelaide Dubois are one and the same.

"I can't believe this!" I exclaim a bit too loudly. "Sorry, I'm just... is she...is your grand-mère still alive?"

"No," Chloé answers sadly.

My face falls. She's not alive anymore. I pause, thinking about how I want to ask my next question. "Did you know, or did you hear of a woman named Elise Bisset? She was my grandmother."

"Oui!" This time it's Chloé's turn to be surprised. She looks again at the necklace I'm wearing. "You are Elise Bisset's petite fille...er granddaughter?" Her eyes are wide as she stares at me.

"Yes, I am. Did you know her? My grandmother?" I ask eagerly.

"Uh no but I have heard...the story."

"The story?" I repeat. I can't believe my luck; I'm speaking with Adelaide's granddaughter!

Chloé frowns. "Hmmm... it is très triste...er very sad."

My heart sinks at her words. "The story is very sad?"

"Uh yes, they were...uh how to say...bosom friends?"

"I thought that might be the case. I found a letter from Adelaide to my grandmother, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. I would love to hear anything you know."

"Ma mère – my mother, she always say my grand-mère...she died from a broken heart."

Died from a broken heart? What does that mean? I wonder.

"I know a little, ma mère, she knows more," Chloé continues.

"Can you ask her for me? It's important to me to find out this part of my grandmother's life. I hope that makes sense."

Chloé nods her head with understanding. "I will ask. Uh, can I.."

She grabs her phone out of the pocket of her dress and hands it to me. We exchange phone numbers and she promises to contact me the minute she talks to her mother. I try not to get my hopes up, but I can't help it, I'm so excited at the news. 

"I will call. Promise," she says.

I nod with a smile, "I appreciate that. Merci."

A couple of patrons enter the shop just then, and I realize we've been talking for a while.

"Here, I don't want to keep you. I'll take these," I say, motioning to the bowls on the counter.

I purchase the bowls and after they're wrapped up I wave goodbye to Chloé and her family as I exit with all my bags. What a lovely little family and such a wonderful shop they have. A husband, a daughter, and a cat. And a home business to boot. I can't help but feel a pang of wistfulness. I'm not sure I'm ready for marriage again or love for that matter. I'm desperately afraid of making the same mistakes I did with Brett all over again. But I can't help but long for the life I just witnessed.

~*~

When I arrive home, I'm forced to park behind a car in my driveway I don't recognize.

Strange.

Getting out I take a peek at it. It's nondescript - possibly a rental as it's the same make and model as mine, but there's no one in sight. I find my front door is still locked, thankfully. But if someone were going to burglarize my home they wouldn't have parked in the front driveway. Opening the front door, I glance around inside.

"Hello?" I call out.

No sign of anyone. And all the windows look intact. Still feeling uneasy, I go back outside and follow the path around my house to the back.

I come to a sudden halt.

Down on the beach, looking out over the ocean is a familiar, tall figure. His hair has grown out a bit I realize as I see it move slightly in the breeze. Is it really him or are my eyes playing tricks on me?

I walk down to the beach, feeling nervous. My palms become sweaty as I get closer. It's simply because I don't know what to expect, I tell myself, swallowing hard.

I come up silently beside him. He doesn't move at first, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze straight ahead looking beyond the waves. He's wearing the dark forest green sweater I gave him last Christmas - the one that brings out flecks of hazel in his eyes. He still has a five-o'clock shadow, and it really does suit him.

I clear my throat and look sideways at him.

He turns to me slowly with a slight smile, his eyes unreadable. "Hi, Sloan."