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Map

Dedication

This book was inspired by the people who

walked with us, who welcomed us, and who mark

and care for the Way. We hope it will inspire

others to undertake their own journeys.

Epigraph

There is a time for departure, even when there is no certain place to go.

TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

Midlife is when you reach the top of the ladder and find that it was against the wrong wall.

JOSEPH CAMPBELL

Contents

Cover

Map

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1. Zoe

2. Martin

3. Zoe

4. Martin

5. Zoe

6. Martin

7. Zoe

8. Martin

9. Zoe

10. Martin

11. Zoe

12. Martin

13. Zoe

14. Martin

15. Zoe

16. Martin

17. Zoe

18. Martin

19. Zoe

20. Martin

21. Zoe

22. Martin

23. Zoe

24. Martin

25. Zoe

26. Martin

27. Zoe

28. Martin

29. Zoe

30. Martin

31. Zoe

32. Martin

33. Zoe

34. Martin

35. Zoe

36. Martin

37. Zoe

38. Martin

39. Zoe

40. Martin

41. Zoe

42. Martin

43. Zoe

44. Martin

45. Zoe

46. Martin

47. Zoe

48. Martin

49. Zoe

50. Martin

51.

Zoe

52. Martin

53. Zoe

54. Martin

55. Zoe

56. Martin

57. Zoe

58. Martin

59. Zoe

60. Martin

61. Zoe

62. Martin

63. Zoe

64. Martin

65. Zoe

66. Martin

67. Zoe

68. Martin

69. Zoe

70. Martin

71. Zoe

72. Martin

73. Zoe

Epilogue: Martin

Epilogue: Zoe

Authors’ Note

Acknowledgments

P. S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

About the Authors

About the Book

Also by Graeme Simsion

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Zoe

Fate took the form of a silver scallop shell in the window of an antique store in the medieval French town of Cluny. It was laying on its back as if waiting for Botticelli’s Venus, luring her with a cluster of coloured stones at one end of a white enamel edge. For some reason, I was drawn to it.

Maybe the universe was sending me a message; it was hard to know with my head being in another time zone. I had been travelling for twenty-four hours since I walked out of my home in Los Angeles for the last time, feeling nothing. I guess I was still in shock.

LAX: ‘Just the one bag?’ Yes, and in it everything I owned, besides three boxes of papers and mementos I’d left for my daughters.

Charles de Gaulle Airport: obnoxious male official, trying to give me priority over a woman in a burqa. He didn’t understand my protests, which was lucky, because he was directing her to the European Union passport line.

It moved way faster than the foreigners line he sent me to.

Immigration officer: young man, perfect English. ‘Holiday?’ Then, when I gave him my passport: ‘Vacation?’

‘ Oui. ’ As good an answer as any.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘ Avec une amie à Cluny. ’ Camille, who I hadn’t seen for a quarter of a century. The vacation she had been pushing me to take since we were at college in St Louis, and that Keith had cancelled three times.

The officer half-smiled at my schoolgirl French. ‘Your visa is for ninety days in Continental Europe. It expires May 13. It is an offence to remain after that. ’ I wasn’t planning to. My return flight was in a month. I’d be lucky if my money held out until then.

Riding the train to downtown Paris: Paris. In spite of everything that had happened, I felt a thrill at the thought of studying a Monet at the Musée d’Orsay, immersing myself in an exhibition at the Pompidou Centre and sitting in a Montmartre café sketching an elegant Frenchwoman.