Beth leant against the wall and closed her eyes, inhaling the slight breeze carrying with it familiar scents from nearby trees.
As she stood in silence she listened to evergreen leaves rustling in the distance, arousing deep rooted memories of lazy evenings spent in the garden behind her.
Her great-grandfather had built the house when the family business had started to become successful and it had been passed down to her grandfather Charles, the eldest of three sons.
His selling skills were legendary and he had single-handedly made the Yorkshire textile business more successful than anyone else in the family could ever have dreamed of doing.
A man of true Yorkshire grit and convivial charm, he’d made his money through sheer force of personality and by simply never taking no for an answer.
But it was not just his commercial acumen which had made him successful. He’d also had a generous heart, not just towards his family but to those who worked for him.
When Charles had died, the house and the business had not passed to Beth’s father Doug Earnshaw, who was the eldest of his sons, but to Richard, the middle brother with the taste for the high life who’d been in the swimming pool when Alistair had died.
The old poplar trees standing sentinel around the house knew the answers to Beth’s questions.
They had been the independent silent witnesses to the swimming pool accident and the events which had unfolded afterwards, including Richard’s inheritance of both the family business and Highlands and also the great fire that had destroyed pretty much everything – including him.
Standing longingly on the periphery of her former family home, Beth wondered what her Uncle Arthur would have to say to her at lunch the next day.
The youngest of Charles’ three sons, he would surely be able to tell her something to help her finally put all the jigsaw pieces together?
In Beth’s mind Arthur, much more than Ada, held the key to unlocking all the mystery and the intrigue.
She’d only met him a few times during her childhood. He’d moved away and had never been involved in the family business as far as she knew, sensibly making his own money and keeping his distance, maintaining a dignified silence with his wife Louise.
Even at her father’s funeral Arthur had come in quietly and sat at the back of the church and not waited around afterwards to join in with any family conversation.
And that was partly why Beth had been surprised that he had agreed to meet her at all. But she was not in the least bit surprised by the boundaries he had set.
He would only do lunch, he’d said politely but bluntly on the phone, and had made it clear that he didn’t expect their meeting to go on longer than an hour because his Parish Council work simply had to come first. If it didn’t get that done, he told her, he would be letting a lot of local people down.
As evening fell, Beth looked back at Highlands and the new herb and vegetable patch which marked Alistair’s final moments.
A falling darkness and an emotional tiredness forced her to retreat. She had a strong desire to get back to her bed and breakfast in Kepton before it got too late.
It had been to her great joy and surprise that she’d found the French patisserie with rooms on the internet and had booked it without hesitation. France and all things French had always had a special place in her heart.
It was a country which had provided her with an escape after university when she had been at her lowest ebb – jobless and boyfriend-less. In so many ways just going there had finally given her a reason to continue living – just.
Coming back to Highlands made Beth crave food and company, the two things her grandparents had always offered in spades, how she hated being alone.
As she once again wearily put her keys in the ignition, her heart and soul felt empty. There had to be more to life than bitter sweet memories, she thought, a silent wail fuelled by nostalgia consuming her every fibre as she slowly drove away from the place which she could never again call home.
CHAPTER 6: FRENCH BISTRO
After taking a shower and getting dressed for dinner, Beth made her way downstairs to find that the patisserie had been turned into a cosy French bistro serving a simple but delicious menu, including steak with frites, hard and soft cheeses, black pudding, patés and bread.
Small candles flickered on each of the tables as Carla Bruni sang along in the background strumming out her melodic Little French Songs.
And by 7pm the people of Kepton had filled all the tables, given their orders and started to tuck into the mouth-wateringly tasty but simple French food with great gusto – the only nod to Yorkshire being sprigs of early watercress from the nearby town of Pickering.
Whether Olivier was aware of it or not, he had brought a delicious slice of France to this most traditional of Yorkshire villages and fully embraced the Northern habit of starting dinner early and serving good sized portions with minimum fuss.
Having taken her seat at the smallest table in the bistro, when it was her turn to order, Beth asked for a steak – minus the frites – a green salad and a glass of red wine.
“Do you want the steak rare or medium rare?” Olivier asked her, looking up from his notepad with an expectant smile.
“Rare,” Beth replied before adding. “It has to be if I’m eating in a real French bistro.”
“I agree this is the best way to eat steak. I’ll just go and get your wine,” Olivier added, as he momentarily left her table to fetch a bottle of Bordeaux and a bowl of large green olives seasoned with oil and herbs from the kitchen.
As he poured the wine, Beth inwardly shivered at his proximity and spoke to break the embarrassment. “You’re full to bursting in here tonight. It looks like the locals love this place. How long have you been open for?”
“About two months,” Olivier shrugged, ignoring the compliment. “The only problem is that we’re fully booked every evening. Your food is going to take around twenty minutes I’m afraid. Is that ok?”
“That’s fine,” Beth answered. “I’ve brought my Kindle, so don’t worry about me. I’ll sit here and read while I’m waiting.”
As Olivier finished pouring, he unfolded a red paper napkin and handed it to her. As she took it their fingers gently touched, making Beth gulp at the static that the contact created.
Turning away in embarrassment and then back again, Beth caught sight of Olivier’s side-on profile and for a brief second wondered if he had felt something too.
“Ok,” Olivier said a bit more formally than before. “I’ll be back with the food.”
Grabbing at the full glass of deep red wine he’d just given her, Beth took a large gulp. She hoped that the alcohol would make her less jumpy and switched on her Kindle to distract herself.
On instructions from her mother she’d downloaded a number of books about how to outwit manipulators and control freaks like Julian and Melissa.
Opening the first one she’d downloaded, Beth skimmed the introduction. Her mouth dropped open. She wondered how she could have lived for over thirty years and remained blissfully unaware that there were people who got sadistic pleasure from other people’s misfortunes?
Taking a pen out of her bag, she then did a questionnaire to ascertain how likely it was that bullies would manipulate her.
God, she thought as counted up her score. She was the biggest people pleaser on the planet. No wonder the control freaks in her life always got such kicks prodding her.
As she looked up from her Kindle to take another sip of wine, Olivier walked past her table again and smiled. He really was too good to be true, Beth thought as she stared at his sinewy bronzed arms.
Moving her gaze away, to avoid him thinking she was a mad stalker, she caught sight of a glamorous looking couple sitting at a table by the window.
Lying next to them on the stone floor was a silky brown King Charles Cavalier Spaniel with huge watery brown eyes, the colour
of Olivier’s.
Beautiful and immaculately dressed in matching soft Yorkshire tweeds, the couple had obviously made an effort to dress up, which was more than could be said for the rest of the diners.
As Beth sat back and waited her turn to be served, she smiled across at the dog and wondered about the lives of its owners and leant back in her chair.
How wonderful to have found this place, she thought, as she luxuriated in the wonderful mix of aromas that wafted out of Olivier’s kitchen and from the tables around her.
The rich textures brought back memories of her student days in Paris. How many hours had she spent at the local markets wandering around stalls looking at fresh shellfish, different cuts of slowly basting meats, fresh artisan bread, local cheeses and seasonal fruit?
It had been her pastime and her way of connecting to something plentiful and wholesome after a young life lived with unbearable pain.
Returning to her Kindle, Beth continued to read about manipulative people and the distress they cause their victims, her anger matched only by the pangs of hunger for some of Olivier’s delicious smelling food forcing her to look up every two minutes to see if she might be next.
When Olivier finally rushed over to her table with her order she felt a huge sense of desire both for him and his cuisine. “Here you are,” he shouted out above the delighted chatter of the restaurant. “One rare steak served with green salad. Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you,” Beth replied, looking up at him to catch another glimpse of his powerful body and his sexy eyes which shimmied in the candle light.
“You’re sure you don’t need mustard or extra dressing?” Olivier double checked before leaving her table.
“I’m really absolutely fine. It all looks perfect just as it is, thanks,” Beth answered as she picked up her knife and fork to take a first bite out of the steak, which had been lightly cooked on both sides.
How could a plate of such simple food taste this divine? Beth thought as she alternated mouthfuls of steak and lightly marinated salad with small sips of her wine.
As she finished the last mouthful, Beth became distracted by the beautiful couple who were getting up to go. As they paid, Olivier got down on his knees to ruffle their dog and to say goodbye. He seemed to know them quite well.
Smiling at his daftness, Beth decided it was probably best to go up to her room. She didn’t fully trust herself in a fast-emptying restaurant with him after a glass of red wine.
But just as she walked past the kitchen, Olivier emerged with a half-full bottle of Bordeaux and a plate of cheese and bread.
Nodding towards an empty table, he said nonchalantly. “If you would like to join me for a glass of wine before you go to your room you’re more than welcome. It’s not often I have company in the evenings.”
“Yes. I’d love to,” Beth replied instantly, trying her best not to look either too surprised or delighted by the question.
Turning back round, she followed him as eagerly as she’d ever followed anyone in her life to the small table by the window where the beautiful couple had been sitting.
“This glass is on the house,” Oliver smiled, as he sat down at the table and poured them both some wine. “Isn’t that what the English say?”
“Yes,” Beth grinned. “I normally try and limit what I drink to one glass during the week but tonight I feel like breaking some of my rules.”
“Ah, you have rules?” Olivier smiled as he sat down opposite her. “Well, when it comes to food and wine I’m proud to say I don’t have any whatsoever. Life is difficult enough without putting limits on the things I truly love best.”
“Well actually I’m not quite that bad. It’s just that normally on a Wednesday I am working,” Beth joked as she started to relax.
“And I’m working,” Olivier quipped. “But I still like to enjoy myself. In France we drink wine with food. I eat food so I drink wine. I think it is very different here.”
“Yes,” Beth nodded. “People definitely drink just to drink. You’ve probably noticed that already. It’s more of a pub culture.”
“Well,” Olivier replied. “The people who come here seem to quite like the French way. I never expected my food to be so popular. But it seems to be.”
“Well that’s because it’s so good,” Beth gushed. “This is a great little place you’ve got. But why on earth you did you decide to open a French patisserie and bistro in Kepton? It’s the last place in England I expected to find somewhere like this.”
Olivier gave her a Gallic shrug and avoided her question, pushing his longish curly hair behind his left ear without answering before taking another sip of wine.
“I mean it’s not a criticism. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out you were here,” Beth continued, trying to make up for Olivier’s lack of response. “I love France but …”
“Well,” Olivier finally replied. “It’s a long story. You don’t need to know why I’m here. And it’s not really important that I ended up in Kepton.”
“Ok if you don’t want to tell me why that’s fine,” Beth replied as casually as she could whilst feeling strangely hurt that he didn’t want to share the reason with her.
“It’s not really about ‘Why Kepton?’ I could have opened up this place anywhere to be honest. What is important for me,” Olivier continued, “is that I am working really hard. And that’s the best way I know of taking my mind off the reason why I left where I was before.”
“It’s interesting you should say that,” Beth replied, playing with her wine glass stem – aware that she had probably just stirred up a hornet’s nest. “I used to live to work too.”
“I think it’s a good survival mechanism. It works for me. Why don’t you live to work anymore?” Olivier asked.
“Something happened which changed my whole perspective,” Beth went on. “I still have to work but I’m taking a week or so out right now just so I have time to think.”
“Ah, but I don’t want to think. That is what I am trying to avoid,” Olivier scowled, filling his glass with another sizeable slosh of red wine. “I hate thinking. Thinking makes me go crazy. I cannot imagine not working every day. I have to work. It stops me from going totally insane.”
Beth sat back in her rickety wooden chair and watched Olivier intently as he spoke. Studying the lines etched into his face, she became momentarily mesmerised by both the perfect symmetry she had noticed earlier and now its dark intensity.
“Well, if working all hours means you’ve created something as wonderful as this, then I guess it’s worth it,” Beth enthused, deciding that a compliment may help smooth things over.
“Thank you,” Olivier cried in between bites of bread and pate. “That’s exactly what I want my customers to think. I don’t want you to focus on why I’m here and not in France. I want you to just love the experience.”
“Ok,” Beth nodded. “I won’t ask. But I will tell you that opening a successful French patisserie and bistro in Kepton is pure genius. I would never have imagined anyone being able to pull that off here in a million years.”
“Ah,” Olivier said, rebuffing her compliment. “It is just a small enterprise. I’m lucky the locals here seem to want to come.”
As he continued to eat his supper Beth gazed at him, surprised that this divine Frenchman had no concept of the magnitude of what he’d really done.
He had achieved a modern day miracle by getting the villagers of Kepton to eat French food on a Friday night rather than fish and chips, or meat pie and mushy peas.
“What are you doing in Kepton?” Olivier finally asked as he stopped eating and sat back in his chair.
“That’s not fair,” Beth replied. “You want to know my story but you won’t tell me your own.”
“That’s because I don’t want to bore you with my life,” Olivier said, leaning forwards again. “Other people’s lives are much more interesti
ng and positive than mine.”
“God,” Beth sighed. “Maybe other people who are not me, I have the least interesting life out of anyone I know and I’m not sure how much of it is positive either.”
“Ok,” Olivier said. “But you must be here for a reason.”
“The short version is that my family has had connections to this area for generations,” Beth answered, trying to be as brief as she could. “And I’m here to see some of them.”
“Interesting,” Olivier said. “Do they come from Kepton?”
“Some of them still live nearby,” Beth answered, not wanting to expand. “None of them live in Kepton now. But I was born here.”
“Whereabouts?” Olivier asked.
“A few minutes up the road. I lived at a place called Highlands,” Beth replied, assuming he wouldn’t know where she meant. “And then we moved to another much smaller house near Harrogate.”
“You lived at Highlands?” Olivier responded sounding surprised. “What, you mean the really big stone house up the road?
“Yep, that’s the one,” Beth answered, looking down into her lap wishing she had kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want any questions about the house or about her past. She was trying to impress him. How could she continue the conversation without seeming totally tragic?
“I know that place,” Oliver said, offering an explanation for why he was so interested. “I got asked to cook there the other week when the owners had a big dinner party. Are you related to the family who live there now?”
Beth’s face fell. Oh God, she thought, how the hell did she answer that one? She dug her nails into her palms which had started to sweat profusely, trying to figure out how much she should tell him.
“No,” Beth said more definitely than she would have liked. “No my family doesn’t live there anymore unfortunately and neither does anyone related to me.”
“Ah ok,” Olivier replied, looking slightly puzzled. “I thought this must be the case, because the people who own it now were sitting at this very same table this evening and I didn’t notice you talking to them.”
The Family Affair Page 4