Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  I’d done an OK job of making our house look a little more charming. Thank God it was winter and the sun had set hours ago, meaning that a little flickering candlelight went a long way to soften the look and feel of the farmhouse. I just had to keep Chuck out of the kitchen, where, unfortunately, I’d been relying on the fluorescent light bulbs to finish dinner.

  “This is Serge,” I said, introducing the two.

  “I’m Chuck,” he said, and then paused. “But you can call me Charles if you like.” I couldn’t help a little laugh, remembering what Chuck had said about the French finding it hard to pronounce his name.

  Serge looked relieved. “Bonsoir, Charles. Welcome to our home,” he said, extending his hand.

  As we all sat in the living room, I realized I felt nervous. I was desperate for tonight to go well, for Chuck to become a friend to me and Serge rather than just an acquaintance of mine. I took a deep breath.

  “So, you’re enjoying the country life?” Chuck asked Serge, who was busying himself serving a couple of glasses of whiskey.

  “Oui, c’est magnifique,” Serge replied, looking up; however, his delivery of the word “magnificent” felt very flat. “And it will be so much better for the little one,” he continued, handing a glass to our guest and sitting down. Chuck looked confused.

  Merde, I forgot Chuck still doesn’t know. Clearly my bump wasn’t as visible as it felt.

  “Ah, yes,” I chipped in. “I’m pregnant. Ta da!” Oh, dear God, shut me up, I thought as we fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  Chuck looked at me carefully; his expression was hard to read. His eyes creased slightly and his shoulders seemed to slump.

  Does he seem surprised or just ambivalent? And why do I care?

  “We’ve moved here to escape the city life and bring our baby up among the trees,” Serge continued. At least he had a way of making our escape to the country sound poetic.

  “It’s not too much of a change then?” Chuck asked.

  I looked expectantly at Serge, wondering how he might respond.

  “Well, it is certainly not like Paris,” he said and then chuckled. “But it has always been a dream of mine to have a family in the country.”

  Before I could get any more clues on how Serge felt about our move, he asked Chuck what he was doing in Chinon.

  “I’m a writer,” he said with conviction, before adding, “Well, at the very least, a tortured artist.”

  Serge looked to me for help deciphering what this meant. I quickly explained to him that Chuck was writing literary fiction, and that this process involved a certain amount of torment and heartbreak. It wasn’t like writing romance novels, I told him, figuring that writing anything less than a literary masterpiece had to be easy.

  “And how is the farming business?” Chuck asked.

  Again, I carefully watched Serge’s reaction, hoping he’d perhaps be more honest with Chuck than he had been with me until this point.

  “Ça va, ça va,” Serge replied, either evading the question or wanting to keep the small talk light. “But enough about business. Shall we eat?”

  Dinner itself was a veritable success. The food—despite my concerns that the menu lacked finesse—was delicious and, maybe due to the freezing temperatures outside, it was well received. We started with a hearty onion soup topped with a cheese-laden crouton, followed by a rich coq au vin with a buttery potato mash and roast pumpkin.

  Serge organized the cheese plate and presented a selection of pasteurized varieties that he claimed were all pregnancy-friendly. The absence of his own cheese among the selection seemed to confirm my earlier suspicions.

  For dessert, I took inspiration from Marie and made a pear tart. The flavor of the fruit was deep and the taste was sweet, almost like candy. And the pastry, which I’d made with local butter, was thick but not heavy, soaking up the pear juice and the sugar that I’d used to glaze the top of the tart.

  Over tea and coffee, Chuck and I fell into a lengthy discussion about the TV shows we used to watch as kids. As we were laughing about one in particular that had encouraged us to do large-scale, and very messy, artworks, I realized Serge’s attention had drifted, and he was staring off into space. I tried to bring him into the conversation but he continued to seem distracted. I decided that he must be tired, so I started to clear the table.

  Chuck gracefully took the hint.

  “Do you mind if I call a cab?” he asked. “I’ve probably had one too many drinks to drive myself.”

  I was about to offer to drop him off, seeing as I hadn’t been drinking, but Serge had already dialed the number.

  Later, Serge asked me what the deal was with Chuck’s writing. I explained again his ambitious, multigenerational, multi-perspective project.

  “Seems a little pretentious to me,” Serge said.

  “Serge, that’s because you’re a farmer now,” I replied.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice catching slightly.

  “I was just ribbing you, Serge. I adore your new rugged ways,” I said, giving him a hug and dragging him off to our room. Thankfully he let my comment slide.

  But, in bed that night, I mulled over the fact that I was now dating—and having a child with—a farmer. In France of all places. Serge had been an integral part of my first year in Paris, but I couldn’t ever have predicted we’d end up here.

  When Billie had convinced me to try going out with a different kind of man, was this what she’d had in mind? I snuck out of bed to call her.

  “Hey, Billie. It’s just me. Do you have time to talk?” I asked.

  “Yep, what’s up?”

  “Why does something have to be ‘up’?” I said incredulously, stalling so as not to immediately bombard her with my question.

  “No reason . . .,” she said, playing along.

  “Well . . . seeing as you asked, I have a few follow-up questions on something we talked about a while back.”

  “Oh, dear,” Billie said.

  “It’s just that I’m worried I misunderstood what you meant when you told me to date different types of guys. Did I rush into things with Serge?”

  “Ella, you can’t be thinking like this now. You’re having a baby together.”

  “I know, but it’s just—”

  “Nope.” She cut me off. “This is a very unproductive line of questioning. Are you not enjoying your country château?”

  I looked around the living room unenthusiastically.

  “Just a few adjustment issues, I guess,” I said.

  “Talk me through them,” she said.

  I outlined some of my concerns about our escape to the country—the isolation, the state of the house, my doubts about Serge’s farming capabilities—and as I was finishing the list, I heard the bedroom door. I panicked.

  “Serge?” I called out. “Shit, Billie, I better run. Thanks for the chat.”

  I went back into the bedroom and saw Serge getting back under the covers. Merde! How much did he hear?

  “You OK, Serge?” I whispered.

  “Oui, Bella. Come back to bed.”

  I apprehensively slid back into bed and risked slipping my arm around him. He didn’t throw it off, which seemed like a positive sign, but as I lay there I replayed my entire conversation with Billie, trying to remember exactly what I’d said. The words “Did I rush into things with Serge?” contributed intensely to the growing feeling of nausea in my stomach.

  Chapter

  15

  I WOKE TO FIND THE spot in bed next to me empty. Shoot! I got up to look for Serge but, instead, found a note from him on the kitchen bench telling me he’d gone to the bakery. Is he hiding from me? Running away? It wasn’t the first time I’d feared he’d leave me under the guise of buying a baguette.

  I made myself a cup of tea and sat staring out the window into our barren, unstructured winter garden. Next step in the Ella domestication/country-fication project will have
to be gardening, I said to myself with a sigh, wondering at the same time if the word “country-fication” actually existed.

  Serge’s blue Citroën appeared in the driveway a little later, and I couldn’t help but let out a long exhale. At least he’d come back. I turned on the coffee machine for him and got out some of Marie’s raspberry jam (probably my favorite upside of country living—delicious organic jam, hand-delivered, for free, in exchange for a coffee and a chat).

  “Bonjour, Ella,” he said rather solemnly, laying down a baguette and a bag of croissants.

  “Serge, are you OK? I missed my morning cuddles,” I said to him.

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “And with you?”

  I looked at him carefully, watching for a hint of anger or disappointment that would indicate that he’d heard my conversation with Billie last night, but he gave nothing away.

  “I guess. Just missing home a little at the moment. I think because it’s so cold,” I rattled on. “I actually called Billie last night for a gossip.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Mmm, no real news.”

  Serge nodded. “Is that right?”

  “Yep, all the same, boring as usual in Melbourne.”

  Our conversation felt stilted but I could also have been reading too much into things. Perhaps he hadn’t overheard my phone call at all.

  The coffee machine noisily came to a halt, interrupting the silence.

  “Well, I’m glad everything is going well for your friend,” he said after a long pause. Was that a pointed comment? I wondered. I don’t think he’d ever referred to Billie as “my friend” before. Perhaps she was now in his bad books.

  “So, what shall we do today?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Perhaps we should visit some castles for gardening inspiration.”

  The previous weekend, we’d tried to recreate one of our favorite Parisian activities, and it had been a bit of a disaster. It had been a relatively sunny and warm day, considering it was winter, so I’d set up a picnic rug on the recently mowed grass and scrambled around the kitchen to try to organize a semi-respectable picnic.

  But by the time Serge had come back from the farm, I’d already eaten the majority of the food. He’d joined me on the rug to finish off my leftovers.

  “Ella, this is nice,” he’d said.

  “Sorry I ate most of it already,” I’d told him.

  “No worries, you’re eating for two.”

  “Sure am,” I’d said, even though I knew that the tiny life inside me didn’t actually need half a baguette and almost an entire block of Comté.

  I’d hugged Serge and had been about to tell him how nice it was to do something we used to do in Paris, how perhaps not every aspect of life had to change even though we were now living in the country. But then I’d gotten a waft of goat manure. I’d asked Serge to check his shoes. Culprit discovered. Vibe ruined. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and it had immediately gotten cold. I’d suggested we head inside, and that had been that.

  So, this weekend I wanted to improve on the experience. But Serge wasn’t up for attempting to do something fun. “I need to work, Ella,” he said. He already sounded exhausted.

  “Nooo! We should go and explore.”

  “I can’t stop working just because you have,” he said bluntly.

  I was momentarily speechless. He continued. “I’m having issues with another milking machine, so I’ll need to juggle the line to make sure all the goats get milked.”

  “How about I help? I can milk a goat,” I said with confidence.

  “You can?” He looked at me with raised eyebrows. I guessed my earlier efforts with the animals hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  “Of course. Well, I’ve milked cows plenty of times. It can’t be that different,” I told him. And sure, by “milked cows,” I meant I had milked one cow, and by “plenty of times,” I meant once at a school camp.

  “Great. Shall we go start, then?” Serge asked.

  “No time like the present,” I told him, stuffing half a croissant into my mouth, while thinking to myself, This should be interesting.

  Down in the milking shed, my freezing hands were soon squeezing the life out of a poor goat’s teats. I felt quite proud watching the tiny squirts of milk shooting into the bucket—until I looked over at how efficiently the machines were doing the same job. I considered coming clean to Serge about my incompetence, but he seemed happy enough with how things were going, so I decided to persevere.

  I managed to build some momentum and was actually quite enjoying myself when suddenly my hand cramped, causing me to clamp the teat, causing the goat to start, causing me to start, causing my foot to knock over the bucket.

  “Merde!” I screamed.

  “Ella, what happened?” he asked, rushing over.

  I burst into tears. The tension from earlier that morning, plus my inability to milk a goat—plus an irrational fear that by being unable to milk a goat, I would be unable to feed my own baby—had officially gotten to me.

  “Serge, I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I hate these damn goats.”

  “So do I, sometimes,” he said wearily.

  “You do?” I asked, feeling like he finally might open up to me.

  “Of course, I hate them at times,” he said, straightening himself. “But farming isn’t meant to be easy.”

  “No, but is it meant to be miserable?” I asked.

  He ignored my question. “And don’t you worry about the milk. We’ve got plenty more. It was more important that the goats don’t get engorged.” He put his arm around me and wiped the tears from my cheeks.

  It wasn’t the confession of Serge hating farm life that I’d been hoping for, but it was a glimpse into his current frustrations. I shouldn’t forget that his life had changed pretty dramatically, too.

  We both agreed that my time would be better spent cooking (again), so I walked back up to the house, wondering how much longer Serge would endure managing the farm on his own, and at what point he might consider that he needed help beyond what his farming-incompetent girlfriend was able to offer.

  When I got back to the house, I was surprised to find Chuck sitting on one of the rickety chairs out front. He must have come to pick up his car. Just the sight of him was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

  “It’s a nice pond,” he said, when I got closer. “Perhaps you could get some ducks.”

  “Good idea! And where does one buy ducks?” I asked.

  “I’ll look into it for you. A housewarming and welcome-to-the-country gift,” he said, making me smile for what felt like the first time that morning. With Chuck I felt relaxed and calm, like the pre-farm version of myself.

  “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?” I said, happy at the prospect of some company.

  “Yes, I’m as parched as an Australian camel in the outback.”

  In the warmth of the house, with a cup of peppermint tea in my hands, I told Chuck about the disastrous morning I’d had. As I got into the story, I couldn’t help letting a few leftover tears escape.

  “Ella, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to cry over spilled milk?” he said, a little stiffly but with a chuckle.

  I smiled. “It’s a little more complicated than the milk, though. Let me explain.”

  I went on to tell Chuck that I felt Serge was out of his depth on the farm. I told him about my conversation with the cheesemonger in Chinon, and that sales were down. I explained how any money we’d set aside to renovate was now being used to fix farm machinery. I’m not sure that I meant to open up to him so fully, but his gentle encouragement made it all too easy.

  “It seems like you’re harboring a lot of resentment for this move,” he said.

  “Part of me, yes, but then I did willingly agree to it. And recently, I’ve sort of come around to the idea of staying.”

  “Well, that’s good news, at least for me,” he said.

  “I’ve had a few
ideas on how we can make things work on the farm, but every time I try to talk to Serge about them, he just changes the topic or claims that he’s got things under control.”

  “So, it’s more a relationship issue than a farm issue,” he said, at which point Serge walked in.

  I shelved Chuck’s comment for later.

  “Charles, nice to see you again,” Serge said, stomping over to the couch in his work boots. They shook hands.

  “Anyone for more tea?” I asked.

  “I should probably be going, sorry,” Chuck replied. “I’ve got some writing I need to finish this afternoon, and I’m already running rather behind.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” I said, and then more quietly, “And sorry for chewing your ear off.”

  “And thank you both for dinner last night. I’ll have to pay you back in the New Year,” he said with a wide smile, before leaving Serge, me, and a weird vibe hanging over the house.

  “So, what did you end up cooking?” Serge asked.

  Shit, I thought. The only thing I’d made since coming up from the farm had been pots of tea.

  “It’s a surprise. Go jump in the shower, and it’ll be ready soon,” I said, thinking I could sneak a frozen quiche out of its box and shove it in the oven.

  Serge watched Chuck’s car drive off and then went to the bathroom. I got the feeling that he wasn’t as into our new friend as I was. But friends, let alone English-speaking friends, weren’t easy to come by in the country, and I certainly wasn’t going to let this one go.

  The next morning, things at the farmhouse went from being a tad awkward to completely awful when I checked the post. Bills, bills, spam, and a handwritten letter addressed to Serge.

  Huh? I thought, flipping it over to see if there was a return address. No . . .

  I slipped it into the pocket of my maternity jeans and walked back to the house. Serge was out on the farm, again, so I was alone with the letter and my thoughts—which proved to be a terrible combination. I was sure that if Serge had been there to open it in front of me and tell me who it was from, there wouldn’t have been an issue, but the longer I was left alone, the more intrigued I became.