I’m still behind two days but will try to catch up.
The following is a story that I’ve had in the back of my mind (and on paper in a few places) for several years. I think I’m just going to try to tell it. It won’t be in order, edited, or polished in anyway. But I should just tell it. Polishing and all that can come later. So, there will be backstory and character sketches and all that. Names may change.
In the aftermath of the Battle of Normandy (D-Day) in northern France, a French girl – Marguerite Lavoie, barely 18, fell in love with an American soldier. She had beautiful blonde hair, soft periwinkle eyes, and a small, upturned nose. Marguerite easily caught the attention of many of the soldiers who’d landed on the beach and driven the Nazi invaders back. The one she gave her heart to was George Desrosiers, from Roseville California. When they’d first met, they’d laughed that his name meant ‘of the roses’ and that he was from Roseville. She fond him charming, with his clean-cut, all American boyishness; he found her mysterious and sexy. They’d met in the local tavern. She amused the soldiers and herself by telling fortunes. Her father, the leader of the local resistance, thought George should keep away from his girl and his girl should keep her strange gypsy ways to herself.
Although Marguerite lived in northern France, her mother’s family was from the Rhone Valley and had many successful vineyards. George said he also had roots in the wine industry; his grandfather, before immigrating to the US in the late 1880s, had been a vigneron for Château Lafite Rothschild.
They fell in love quickly and George, when he heard he would be following the front to Germany, gave her a promise ring and said he’d be back.
He didn’t return after the war, and Marguerite grieved. Her father said, “Just as well – now you marry someone French from a good family.” Marguerite didn’t like that answer. She pulled out her tea cup and her tea leaves and determined that George had not perished in the war. She rationalized his failure to return for her by speculating that he’d been wounded. If only she’d wait for a little longer, he’d heal and return and they’d be married.
A year later, she still waited, growing impatient and snippy with the suitors her father presented to her. She met an actual gypsy group, who were returning to the area after hiding from the Nazi invaders. One took her in and recognizing her natural talent at fortune telling and her flare for the dramatic, taught her many secrets and spells.
She used the first spell to find out what happened to George. When she saw him, healthy and happy, through the crystal ball, she knew she’d been forgotten. No one forgets Marguerite.