A few nails and plenty of hammering later, the fence was fixed. It wasn’t the smoothest job I’d ever seen, but it was done.
“Shall we go out for dinner?” I suggested. “I’m not sure I can face another night at home.”
“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” Serge said, and I smiled, hoping this was the start of us getting back in sync.
Serge showered, dressed, and, for perhaps the first time that week, smelled delicious. I nestled into his neck to breathe in his aftershave, and the smell of figs and spices felt warm and familiar. He smelled so good that I almost stripped him naked, but then I remembered that we had plans and composed myself. We were going out for dinner. In town. It was the most excited I’d been all week. I’d even squeezed into a black dress and put on some heels. After wearing tracksuit pants and one of Serge’s woolen jumpers all week, it was fun to get dressed up.
We arrived at the restaurant at 7:45 p.m., and it was dead. Not a soul. Granted it was early, but I thought that maybe because we were in the country and it was the middle of winter, people might eat a little earlier. True to French form, the restaurant started filling up shortly after we’d arrived, but there certainly wasn’t the buzz I’d been expecting for a Friday night.
“What can I get you to drink?” a gruff waiter asked, looking around impatiently.
Serge ordered a bottle of wine à la ficelle, or “measured with string,” which meant that he was given a full bottle of wine and would only pay for what he drank. The waiter went to fill my glass. I said a polite “Non, merci,” and he seemed offended. Taken aback, I told him that I was pregnant, and he looked at me with a sort of disdain before shrugging, filling Serge’s glass and whisking away my own.
“I guess I’ll just drink water,” I joked to Serge.
“Ella, you can have a little glass of wine. It won’t hurt.”
“No,” I said. “Even the French recommend you don’t drink during pregnancy now.”
“But a few sips isn’t really drinking, is it?”
“Of course, it is. Didn’t you read the article I sent you about alcohol during pregnancy?” I asked.
Serge stalled, and I realized that he hadn’t even bothered opening the email. He told me I should just do what I thought was best.
So, I drank water, and we ate terrine out of a large communal dish, followed by lamb stew—the food was delicious, the potatoes particularly divine.
I tried, again, to get Serge to open up about how things were going on the farm, but he wouldn’t say much, opting to maintain his stoic positivity.
In turn, he shifted the focus off his job and onto mine by suggesting ways to make it easier for me to work at home.
“Before we worry too much about my office space, though, Serge, shouldn’t we get onto the kitchen and bathroom renovations? At least paint the nursery.”
“Ella, there is something I think we should discuss,” he said after a moment’s pause. I sat up in my chair. I felt both nervous and intrigued. Important discussions over dinner now tended to give me the heebie-jeebies, but perhaps Serge was finally about to tell me what was on his mind.
“Mmm,” I prompted, not wanting to break his flow.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to renovate the kitchen and bathroom immediately,” he said.
“Huh? Is that why you’ve been avoiding discussing the renovations? Can’t we afford it? I thought we had plenty of money set aside.”
“Our cash is just a little tied up at the moment,” he said.
“Oh, no. Not the Paris apartment again?” I asked, fearing the oncoming disagreement.
“No, because of the farm. I’ve had to replace one of the milking machine attachments. It was very expensive.”
“Oh,” I said. Having seen Michel’s impeccable machinery, I found it hard to imagine any of it needed replacing so soon. I wondered if the “good workman” wasn’t just blaming his tools.
“So, what’s the plan then?” I asked.
“We should be able to get the money back soon, but it’s just taking a while for things to get established.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Sales are down,” he said quietly.
“Really?”
“People out here are very resistant to change. The locals were very fond of Michel,” he said.
“Well, can’t we come up with a way to sell more? Can’t Fanny help? What happened with the department store?” I asked. While I’d anticipated Serge might struggle as a farmer, I never thought he’d actually struggle to sell cheese.
“I’m working on it. And everyone is doing their best,” he said. “But in the country, things can take time. You can’t force people to buy something they don’t want.”
I thought back to the discussion Serge and I had had before I’d agreed to move. If I told him I wanted to leave now, would that even be possible given that our money was now tied up in some milking machine? I wondered how much cheese he would need to sell in order to get back on top of things.
“How long before you’re back in the black?” I asked.
“Not long, Bella,” he said. “A couple months, perhaps.”
“Well, maybe the house renovations aren’t necessary anyway, especially if things might not work out on the farm,” I said.
“You’re not enjoying it?” he asked. He seemed to take my comment as me telling him I was ready to leave.
“Well . . .,” I paused.
“So maybe you’d prefer to be back in Paris?” he asked.
Does he sound relieved?
“We’re still getting set up, I guess,” I said, noncommittally. I didn’t want to crush Serge’s dream of bringing up a family here; but if he wasn’t happy, then I was ready to drop everything and go immediately.
“Bon,” he said, with an expression I couldn’t read.
I tried to remember if I’d ever had a more confusing conversation with Serge but was interrupted by the waiter asking us if we wanted dessert.
To my relief, Serge suggested we share a tarte tatin. I adored the fact that he was always willing to go halves.
“So, what color do you want to paint the baby’s room?” he asked rather cunningly after the waiter disappeared, knowing that it was a topic close to my heart. The one good thing about having a house in the country meant that the baby could have their own room, which meant I could have fun imagining what it would look like. And after Serge had seen my wallpaper-removal technique, I assumed he was keen to make the room more presentable.
“Are you sure we have enough money for paint?” I asked, only half joking.
“For paint? Of course,” he said.
Driving home that night, I felt like a lot had gone unsaid at dinner. What was clear was that we wouldn’t be doing any big renovations immediately. But perhaps none of that mattered, because I felt like Serge had hinted at going back to Paris. Or was I reading too much into things?
Chapter
13
I SPENT THE NEXT DAY preoccupied with thoughts of Serge not being able to sell cheese. Every time I’d try to do some work, I’d get distracted trying to come up with a plan to help. I toyed with the idea of calling Fanny (who, to this day, had never once shown any willingness to help me, despite my multiple attempts to win her over) or maybe getting Clotilde to ask Gaston to write an article for his paper’s food column on Serge’s venture (too awkward to even contemplate further). These were the only two people I knew who might be able to help promote Serge’s cheese, and I didn’t have a good relationship with either of them. Shit, I thought, wishing there was something I could do. The afternoon flew by as I researched the best ways to sell cheese and to establish a brand.
Later that afternoon, Tim called.
“Ella, I’ve got some news,” he said in a tone that immediately made me nervous.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I have to cut back your hours.”
Tim had never been one to
beat around the bush.
“Oh,” I murmured, my heart beating loudly in my ears. “Did something happen?” I couldn’t help but think about how little work I’d done since Serge and I had moved. Was I being fired?
“Not really,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve found someone local who can take up the slack. It’ll be easier with this person in the office. I know it’s perhaps not ideal . . .”
“Right,” I said, desperately trying to figure out a way to convince Tim that I needed this job.
“But I can keep giving you occasional freelance jobs if you’re interested,” he said, as though this would be a good consolation. “And that way you can keep your work visa.”
“OK, yep,” I told him, tears welling in my eyes.
“And soon you’ll have your hands full with the baby anyway,” he added.
“Not for a few months,” I said.
“It’ll come around quicker than you think, or want.”
“I guess,” I said. My mind was spinning, trying to come to terms with what was going on.
“Anyway,” Tim said. “How’s life in the country? Are you guys loving it?”
The sudden switch to small talk threw me. “Serge is warming to it, I guess. What’s the adjustment period from cheese guy to farmer?”
“Probably not that different from you getting used to the country.”
“So, interminable,” I suggested, attempting a laugh despite wanting to cry.
“At least you’re still sleeping through the night,” he said. “Wait until you start questioning all your life decisions when you’re severely sleep-deprived. Enjoy the pregnancy while you can. Babies are much easier in than out.”
Hanging up, I felt numb. Almost as easily as I’d got the job with Tim, I’d lost it. Yes, I realized that things hadn’t been going particularly well, but I would have found my feet eventually. I was devastated that I could be replaced so easily.
On top of wondering what I was going to do with myself now, my biggest concern was worrying about how Serge would take the news. I wasn’t bringing in a lot of cash but it was a dependable income, and with cheese sales being down, it was probably an important contribution.
I decided not to tell him right away, until I’d figured out another way to make money. He had enough going on down on the farm. He didn’t need to worry about me, too.
What else can go wrong at the moment? I wondered.
The following week, my panic at having lost my job and at having zero new work prospects on the horizon had to be put on hold. Clotilde and Chris were both scheduled to visit, and I’d promised to show them a good time.
Clotilde arrived in her father’s convertible, armed with treats from Paris. Spying a bag of pastries from my favorite bakery, Du Pain et des Idées, I said to her, “You do know we have bakeries out here, right?”
“But do they have the sacristain?” she asked.
The sacristain was my favorite pastry. I’d previously firmly been a croissant—regular, almond, or chocolate—for breakfast kind of girl, but the sacristain changed all that. The baton-shaped combination of puff pastry, almond, and vanilla was delicious and the perfect shape and size for dipping into coffee. I was thoroughly converted, and now it took the flakiest of flaky-looking croissants to woo me back. I’d yet to find a better example of the sacristain than the one from this bakery by the Canal Saint-Martin.
“I have more goodies in the trunk, too.” She smiled.
“So, did you finally get a job with Uber Eats?” I asked.
“Very funny,” she said as I took her inside.
I walked her through the house, telling her that we’d decided to hold off on renovating for a while.
“It actually looks much better than I remember,” she said.
I watched her closely, trying to figure out if she was just being generous.
“Seriously,” she said, noticing my look. “Your furniture works surprisingly well in here. And it’s much cleaner now. Sort of has a retro-chic look about it, too.”
I looked at the kitchen and squinted, wondering if Clotilde needed an eye test. Perhaps I’d just started imagining it to be worse than it actually was?
“Are you just saying that because we haven’t started the renovations?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she confirmed. “It’s a good thing; at least you don’t need to rush.”
Even if Clotilde was just being nice, it was good to know the farmhouse wasn’t a complete disaster.
“Coffee or tea?” I asked.
We sat, and Clotilde pulled out a box of meringues from Aux Merveilleux de Fred. The little parcels of whipped-cream-filled meringues were as light as air while still managing to burst with the flavor of coffee, chocolate, or cherry. As I bit into one, it dissolved on my tongue, and I was taken back to the time when Clotilde had first introduced me to them and we’d eaten an entire box while lying in the park near our apartment.
Full of sugar, I suggested we head into town for a spot of shopping, but Clotilde had a better idea. “We’ll go to my favorite castle. Perhaps you could get some inspiration for the remodeling,” she joked. “Besides, you can’t live in the Loire and not know les châteaux.”
We arrived at Château de Villandry after a quick drive. The approach from town was nothing short of spectacular. We walked around the perfectly manicured gardens—which looked more like large-scale artworks—admiring the impeccable lines of hedges and the artistic use of vegetables in the garden beds. Clotilde was right—being surrounded by such beauty was inspiring. I felt a kind of peace as we walked through the castle grounds, imagining a very different kind of life.
Clotilde interrupted my thoughts of joining a royal family somewhere and started grilling me on what had been going on. She must have sensed that there was something on my mind.
“So, how is everything out here, Ella? Are you terribly bored yet? How’s work?”
“I’m actually winding down my hours at Food To Go Go. Tim is going to keep me on the books, but more on an occasional freelance basis.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“No confirmed paycheck each month,” I said.
“Damn. So, what’s your plan?”
“Well, I’ve been mulling things over,” I said, feeling things out as I spoke.
“And?” she asked.
“The way I see it is that I have two options. I could look for a job in town—”
“Mmm, something in tourism perhaps,” she suggested, cutting me off.
“Or . . . I was thinking I could help Serge on the farm,” I said.
“On the farm?” she repeated, seemingly as surprised at the idea as I was.
“Sort of,” I confirmed. “But more in a sales and marketing capacity.”
“OK,” she said, clearly trying to keep up.
“I’m hoping to get the cheese-tasting room up and running. You know where we tasted Michel’s cheese that first day we visited the farm,” I said. “Well, the other day I had a vision of me standing behind the bar, wearing a cute little apron and serving cheese, and it got me thinking.”
It felt weird expressing my plans aloud. Even though it wasn’t a particularly wild idea, I would be taking a risk—and committing myself to actually staying on the farm.
“Tell me more,” she said.
“Well, I figured I could help Serge actually sell some cheese, help get his name out there. It’d be sort of like running a fromagerie, so Serge would be able to lend a hand with the set-up. And then I could work there.”
“OK,” she said.
“Well, what do you think? Is it a terrible idea?” I asked.
“No, not terrible. I’m just wondering what kind of market you’d have out here for something like that.”
“I still need to run the whole idea by Serge, anyway. And if he’s not keen, perhaps I could just help him with the goats while I look for something more suitable.”
She chuckled a
nd took my arm in hers. “Ella, I think one day on the farm will be enough for you to realize that you’re not destined to be a farmer.”
Clotilde helped me figure out a way to gently introduce the idea of the cheese-tasting room to Serge. She’d convinced me that a coercive approach would be more effective than a bombardment.
“Especially if he’s got a lot going on at the moment,” she’d said after I’d explained to her that Serge often worked from sunrise to sunset. “Best to go in slowly so he doesn’t just dismiss it as being too much work. Perhaps join him on the farm for a few days and then magically ‘stumble’ on the idea. Make him feel like it’s a joint venture.”
It was a good plan, of course. Clotilde had a knack for being right.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Serge asked when I suggested I could help him feed the goats after Clotilde had gone back to Paris.
“Actually, Tim has asked me to work on specific projects for a while, so it looks like I’ll have some more free time now,” I said, figuring I could explain the financial implications of this when I pitched the cheese-room idea to him.
I thought he’d ask more questions but he just looked relieved.
My intentions to help Serge, however, went out the window when Cecile tried to attack me. Things had been going relatively well all morning. I’d managed to move a few wheelbarrows of feed for the kids and had even attempted a pat. This last move, however, had been a mistake, something I only realized when Cecile—a rather large goat with one lazy eye—decided to intervene, and chased me almost the entire way back to the house.
I rushed inside, looking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t about to barge through the door. If ever I needed a sign that I shouldn’t be a farmer, Cecile had just given it to me.
Serge came in shortly after.
“Ella, where did you go?” he asked.
I quickly ushered him in and shut the door. “Serge, thank God you’re back. Cecile is loose. She nearly attacked me. I think she might have rabies or something. I’m pretty sure I saw her foaming at the mouth.”
Brioche in the Oven Page 9