The Oyster Farm – Part 2: High Tide

The pier at the end of the farm was a long wooden jetty with a bench and a lantern. At sunset, Rowan carried out a crate of the day's best oysters, a loaf of crusty bread, a pat of salted butter and a bottle of cold Muscadet. The tide was far out, the flats stretched like silver foil, and the sky behind them had turned apricot.

They ate with their fingers, shucking for each other, squeezing lemon, laughing. The wine was sharp and cold. Somewhere in the second bottle, Solène realised she had stopped taking mental notes.

"I should say something," said Rowan.

"Please."

"I would like to kiss you. I have wanted to for three days. I just wanted to be sure that you wanted it too."

"I do," said Solène, softly. "I really do."

Rowan's hands were rough and salt-chapped, and incredibly gentle. The kiss tasted of lemon and sea. Solène slid her fingers into the sun-streaked hair and held on. The tide started to turn. Below them the water began its slow silent return across the flats.

"Come," said Rowan, finally. "The tide will cut off the path. My house is the other side."

"Is that an excuse?"

"It's a tide table." She smiled. "But it also works as an excuse."

They hurried along the sand with their boots in their hands, laughing and splashing. The farmhouse was low and white, with blue shutters and a stove that Rowan lit in two minutes flat. They shed wet clothes by the fire and wrapped themselves in a wool blanket, and what began as warmth became something deeper, slow and mutual and sure. Rain and tide whispered on the windows. A lamp burned.

Solène's review ran the next Sunday. Its headline was The Best Table in France. It named no address, only a bay, a stool and a farmer. At the bottom was a one-line footer, her personal addition:

I'm staying for the next tide.

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