Worst Impressions

Bonus Chapter - Ten Years Later

The waves crashed in against the shore with a tumultuous roar, driving foam up over the sodden sand. It was the height of summer, early in the morning, and three figures left a trail of footprints in their wake as they walked with purpose to their destination. Overhead, dark clouds drifted lazily across the sky, coasting on the last vestiges of twilight before the break of a new day.

It had been six months since they'd last visited this part of the country. A place that held a special place in the hearts of all who'd been blessed enough to know of it. Although it was little more than a beach, some shops, and charming cobblestones, the people and the atmosphere made it so much more. It was the scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery, the cries of seagulls overhead, the laughter of children running from the tide, the comradery of friends, the affirmation of love, hope, and joy.

It was, quite simply, home.

The man crouched, and the child clambered onto his back. He took the lead, climbing the well-worn path in the cliff's side to its peak while the woman followed, one hand raised and ready just in case the precious cargo should slip and fall. Together, the trio arrived at their destination, all three trembling against a sea breeze still carrying the whispering chill of night. Soon, the child was down, and the woman had hold of their hand. The man shrugged off his coat, spread it over the wiry grass, and gestured for his family to join him atop it.

'You know,' William Darcy said to the child once they were settled, 'that there's a legend about this place?'

The woman smiled, remembering the morning that she'd told him the same thing almost ten years earlier. William brought their daughter into his lap and secured his arms around her, wary of the dangers of being on a cliff and ensuring that she couldn't run to the edge. Beth leaned against her husband's side and rested her head against his shoulder.

'Like a story?' Charlotte – Charli – asked.

Already at six-years-old, she was a bright and inquisitive girl, with her mother's stubbornness, her father's logic, and a great deal of promise from them both. She leaned back against Will's chest, her dark brown hair tickling his chin while she stared out across the dark horizon.

'Yes, like a story,' he said. 'My favourite story.'

'What kind of a story?'

'About mermaids,' Beth said, 'and surfers.'

'Surfers like uncle Eric?' Charli wrinkled her nose. 'Is it a rude story? Auntie Poppy says that all the stories about uncle Eric are rude.'

Beth stifled a laugh behind her hand.

'Only the ones from before he met auntie Mandy,' Will said. 'He stopped being rude after that.'

'Because auntie Mandy doesn't take poop from anyone.'

Both of them laughed. Until recently, Charli had been saying crap, but Will had decided that this was a gateway swear and had been trying to train her out of it. To date, no one had confessed to teaching her this word, but Beth suspected that Freddie may have been behind it. He never taught her swears in French because it would give him away, but she'd always learned some interesting new phrase after a visit to the Parisian loft he shared with Meg whenever their relationship was back on.

It was an apartment stuffed with books from the floor to the rafters. One might accuse Meg of taking her work home with her given that she worked in the Bibliothèque Mazarine, a position of which she was immensely proud.

Strangely, whenever they were in Paris, Will and Beth never could quite find the time to visit with Madame Courtenay or Cosette. As far as they knew, they were both much as they'd ever been, and they only had themselves to blame for it.