Kiddie Pool (Finale)

25 years later…

“How was your day, Monsieur Larousse?”

“Same old, same old,” the man replied, his voice strained from hoisting himself aboard.

“Ha!” Simon exclaimed, “You haven’t changed at all.”

Monsieur Larousse scowled and silently watched as Saint-Honorat Island fell below the horizon, dipping under the sea to reunite with the eternal Mediterranean sun.

There were nights when he longed to burn down the hotel, sacrificing its guests to the gods to purge his mortal soul of all the memories. But he remained tethered to the laughter, warmth, and kindness he had occasionally been privy to over the years. The good memories were admittedly sparse for such a strenuous existence but too strong to ever wish to forget. In fact, they were tethered to him.

The day he returned this institution to the foundations of the old Cistercian monastery would be the day he came to his senses. But his trial had ensured that day would never come.

“If you had any sympathy for this old man, you would just take the lodgings at the hotel and let me retire in peace,” Simon groaned, his arms already shaking from maneuvering the boat.

“No one’s stopping you, Simon,” the cold man replied, matter-of-factly.

“There was a time you called me Monsieur,” Simon chided like a schoolteacher reprimanding his student’s impertinence.

“There was a time you called me Omar,” Monsieur Larousse retorted.

Simon scoffed and turned his attention back to his task. “You’re not the boy I knew.”

If Monsieur Larousse had picked up on the blabbering fool’s discrepancies, he did not make it apparent. He merely shrunk himself further on the bench and brushed a hair through his graying curls. It was only then that the darkness under his eyes became apparent to Simon with a flagrancy that he could no longer ignore. And for the first time in his life, he took pity on a man more powerful than himself.

“I can’t sleep,” Monsieur Larousse revealed. “I can’t sleep in Monsieur Leblanc’s bed.”

“Then, change it,” Simon shrugged, dismissing the man’s concerns.

“But I would still be staring at the same bedside table, the same walls, the same ceiling, the same gaudy chandelier,” the man carried on lamenting.

“Then, change them all!” He waved his hand like a madman, unnerved at the man’s unwillingness to see that his peace of mind was well within his reach.

“It would be far less expensive to simply torch it all,” the man replied, impassive.

“You’re a funny one, Monsieur Larousse.”

“Besides, I would no longer have an excuse to leave.”

“Every single one of you,” Simon began. “You’re all the same.” He shook his head, parking his boat along the quay. He motioned for Monsieur Larousse to step off, ignoring the man’s inquisitive brow. The man begrudgingly rose from his seat and reached for Simon’s arm, using the old captain’s last remaining strength to land on solid ground once more. He trudged away without looking back, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and shoving his free hand in the pocket of his trousers.

“Monsieur Larousse!” Simon shouted from across the docks. He jogged towards him and produced a small box from inside his vest. “A gift for the little Océane’s birthday.”

Monsieur Larousse opened the box to discover a gold bangle, adorned with fine filigree flowers and geometric patterns. It reminded him of the bracelets his mother and sisters wore for special occasions, like a cousin’s wedding or—

Special occasions had proven sparse and that had mainly been his fault.

“Thank you, Monsieur Simon.”

“It’s my pleasure, Omar.” Simon hesitated, before clearing his throat and holding out his hand for his employer to shake. “Omar Laaroussi.” He pronounced the name in a hushed tone like it was imperative for it to remain secret. Like only he knew the truth behind the man with the unexplained wealth who purchased the once illustrious Grand Hôtel de Lérins from the Leblanc family, ruined in both money and reputation. But Simon had been there when Omar had arrived, dressed in a finely tailored suit to the grand re-opening. Albertine Leblanc had all but passed out on the limestone steps, her sister left with no choice but to drag the feeble woman away.

There once was a time when everyone knew Omar Laaroussi, the 20-year-old cabana boy, the tender-hearted young man who made every guest smile and a few of them swoon. There once was a time when everyone knew Omar Laaroussi, the most-hated man in France, whose murder spree had loaded the verbal bullets of the government and had nearly pushed the country into a civil war despite his efforts to shed everything that made him different.

But Omar Laaroussi was dead.

And now everyone knew Omar Larousse, the man whose hardened gaze bore no resemblance to the mythical pool boy. But his peculiar gait—a left-legged limp that every news outlet under the sun had captured upon the release of the baby-faced man who had terrorized France—was unmistakable.

And it was a testament to a most extraordinary occurrence: as soon as a hotel employee or guest recognized the man who had saved the walls that surrounded them, they seemed to forget all about the terrible Omar Laaroussi.

Simon swiveled on his heels to return to his boat, but Monsieur Larousse grabbed his arm. “What did you mean by it? Who do I resemble?” He interrogated with more urgency than he would care to admit.

“Christophe Leblanc,” Simon replied, pronouncing the name like a guilty verdict.

“But if he wanted to leave, then—”

“Then, what? You’re still here.”

“For now,” he warned.

“Don’t go kiddin’ yourself, Omar. You’re never leaving this place. You never have and you never will.”

“Why not?” All traces of the stony man had vanished, having been replaced by the innocence of the boy who had stepped on the secluded island beyond the horizon so many years ago.

“It’s the only place where you can exist.”