After ten seemingly endless minutes, I suddenly realized where I’d seen the handwriting before: on the letter from Françoise.
It can’t be, I thought. How did she even get Serge’s new address?
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d slipped my finger into the envelope.
“Oh, I thought it was for me,” I practiced aloud to myself. Sounds convincing enough, I decided.
I ripped it open. My eyes dropped to the end of the letter. It was indeed from Françoise. I felt the blood rush to my face.
Serge
I heard from Marie that you have returned to the Loire. It’s so nice not to think of you stuck in Paris. The country suits you so much better.
I’m begging, will you please call me? I really need to speak to you about Clovis.
With love, Françoise
I took a breath. What on earth could Françoise want to speak to Serge about now? And if her news is so important, why can’t she just pick up the phone like a normal person? And who the hell is Clovis?
My mind flew to imagining Françoise begging Serge to reconsider their divorce. Does she still love him?
I heard Serge taking off his shoes outside and scrunched the letter back into my pocket. I’d figure out what to do about all this later. I got up and rushed into the kitchen and began flinging stuff out of the fridge.
“Bonjour,” Serge said, wrapping his arms around me. “How are my babies?”
“We’re good,” I said, jolting out of his grip. “I’m just in the middle of making some lunch. You hungry?”
“Always. I just have to call Jacques about some deliveries he is going to help me with.”
“Off you go, then,” I instructed. The letter felt like it was burning a hole in my pants, and it was making me twitchy.
I lit the stove, and as my gaze rested momentarily on the flame, I wondered if I should just burn the evidence. Then I thought about what I would want Françoise to do if our roles were reversed. I paused, immobilized by panic.
As I lit one corner of the paper, I immediately regretted it. I tried to blow out the flame, but by the time I had, the letter was half gone. Shit, shit, shit. What now, Ella?
Serge walked back into the kitchen and asked me if everything was OK. I threw the letter into the sink and told him I’d set my recipe on fire. As he bumbled over to try to fix it, I shooed him away.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
He walked off, looking confused at my intense reaction to a burned recipe, and I continued to cook lunch so as not to arouse any more suspicion.
Now, I’d just need to figure out how I could explain the opening—and partial destruction—of my boyfriend’s mail. Ugh. What a mess!
Convincing Serge that we needed to open the cheese-tasting room looked like it would have to wait until the New Year. Before committing to such a big project in the country, I needed to get to the bottom of this whole Françoise—and now Clovis—debacle.
Chapter
16
WHEN CHRISTMAS EVE ARRIVED, I was all over the place emotionally. On the one hand, I was still excited at the prospect of opening the cheese-tasting room; on the other, I wasn’t even sure if Serge and I would make it through the festive season. We hadn’t spoken about the burned letter; I’d decided never to mention it, although the thought of the contents still hung over my head like a dark cloud.
On a more positive note, I was in that gorgeous stage of pregnancy that up until recently I thought people had been lying about—the glowing phase. I felt strong and beautiful.
In the lead-up to Christmas, I’d cooked a feast. Enough food for at least six people, which when laid out on the dining table looked completely excessive for just Serge and me.
“Wow,” said Serge when he saw it.
“I know, right? What a spread,” I said, taking a little bow.
“Somewhat excessive, non?” he said quietly.
“Serge, I’ll never forget the day you told me there was ‘no such thing as too much holiday cheese.’ It was a life highlight for me. Since then, I’ve applied the decadence theory to all festive food groups.”
He looked at me thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out the best way to reason with a pregnant woman at Christmas. He hugged me and said, “Let’s sit, then.”
So, we sat and ate and laughed. It reminded me of my first Christmas in France, somehow only a year earlier, although it felt like a lot longer ago than that now. I remember I’d been horrified when Mum and Ray had invited Serge, who was still firmly just my cheesemonger at that point, to join us for dinner. If only I could have known that dinner would end up being a turning point in our relationship.
“Can you believe this time last year we weren’t even dating?” I asked him, as I was serving the Yule log and the rather unnecessary—and very dense—Christmas pudding and custard.
“It’s hard to imagine a time before you, Bella,” he replied.
Swoon. Perhaps the romance isn’t dead yet, I reassured myself.
“But seriously, though, talk about moving fast. Last Christmas I was just starting to fall for you. Now we’re living in the French countryside, and we’ve got a baby on the way. It’s almost hard to believe, when you think about it.”
“Almost,” he agreed.
I was on the brink of asking Serge if he’d heard from Françoise recently when Mum called on video chat.
“Ella, darling, happy Christmas. And Joyeux Noël to Serge,” she said, popping up on my phone screen. Since coming to terms with me staying in France for the foreseeable future, she’d started learning some French. It was sweet. And the prospect of a new baby had gone a long way toward helping Mum forgive me for not coming to her wedding. She’d since informed me that we’d be able to celebrate together in France while she and Ray were on their honeymoon, which sounded like a good, if maybe overly intimate, compromise.
When I saw her face, tears threatened to explode out of me, but I held them back. As we were wishing her a happy Christmas, Ray’s smiling face popped up in the background. They were in the garden drinking their morning coffee and eating mince pies. I felt disastrously homesick. To be sitting outside on Christmas morning in the Australian summer sun felt like a dream.
“Ella, let me show you the flowers that have just come out,” Mum said, racing through the garden, causing the video image to freeze. I looked desperately at Serge, as if he’d be able to fix the connection.
“Mum, go sit down, you keep freezing,” I ordered.
“Ella, don’t be like that. It’s Christmas. Is pregnancy making you moody?”
Ugh! Mothers can be so annoying. I must remember not to turn into an annoying mother myself.
“I’m just desperate to chat with you both. The flowers can wait,” I attempted, and she begrudgingly obliged.
We spoke until Mum needed to put her own turkey in the oven. My desire to be there, rather than in freezing Chinon, was so intense that it created a ball of anxiety in my stomach.
“Enjoy your Christmas lunch,” I said, after she told me for the third time she really needed to go.
“And happy Christmas, my love. I didn’t bother sending a gift, but we’ll give some money to charity for you. And thanks for the apron you sent. You really shouldn’t have. We’re too old for gifts now.”
“Never too old for a little love from the other side of the world,” I said pointedly.
“I missed that, sorry, love. The connection seems to have gone again. Talk soon,” she said, and then disappeared.
“Feel better?” asked Serge.
My tears finally made their anticipated debut. I sat and blubbered for quite some time. And then, just when I thought I was fresh out of tears, another round arrived. Maybe I’m more hormonal than I realized.
Serge disappeared into the bedroom, then returned with one hand behind his back. “I was going to wait to give you this in the morning,” he said.
I looked up expectantly.
/> “But it seems like you need a little Christmas cheer,” he continued.
My heart started racing as I wondered what surprise Serge had up his sleeve.
He handed me an envelope and said, “Two train tickets to Paris, a few nights in a hotel, and a prearranged dinner with Clotilde and Jean.”
“When?” I squealed in excitement.
“We leave tomorrow.”
I looked at Serge with relief. This was just what I needed: a dose of my favorite city, time with my dear French friend, and a break from the cold and gloomy countryside. I hugged him hard and raced off to pack my bags. My mood had immediately lifted.
I’m going home! I thought, delighted to realize that Paris still felt like “home” in my mind.
Chapter
17
THE NEXT FEW DAYS LOOKED set to be as magical as I’d hoped. Paris was cold, but it didn’t feel as cold as Chinon, and there were so many cafés and cosy restaurants to visit when my toes got numb that the weather wasn’t going to stop me from having a good time.
Serge had booked us into a hotel in the Marais, and we walked our old neighborhood nostalgically, stopping in to visit friends from the stores around Serge’s old fromagerie and going to see Fanny to pick up cheese.
Clotilde and Papa Jean were well in the festive spirit when we arrived for dinner, and Jean had cooked up quite the Christmas feast. Gaston apparently had a better offer, which thankfully meant that I didn’t have to submit to the awkwardness of seeing him again, especially now that I was pregnant.
As Jean and Serge were in the kitchen discussing—at length—the jus for the roast goose, I got to catch up with Clotilde. She filled me in on life in Paris and downplayed how well the modeling was going.
“And how about you, any developments on the cheese room?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve decided to add a coffee machine,” I said.
“But have you spoken to Serge?” she pressed.
“Not yet,” I admitted.
“What on earth are you waiting for? It’s been weeks.”
“Well, I guess part of me still wonders if it’s a good idea for me to commit to living out there. Regardless of whether Serge is into the idea, I’ll be nervous. If he agrees, it’ll mean we’ll spend longer in the country. If he doesn’t, it’ll mean I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. Other than baby, of course,” I said, rubbing my belly.
“Hmm,” she said.
“And then there’s the question of the cheese itself,” I added.
“What’s wrong with the cheese?” she asked.
“Well, Serge has been very guarded about it. I get the feeling he’s not entirely happy with what he’s produced so far—”
“Ella, you’ve got to speak with him,” she interrupted. “About the cheese, but more important about the cheese room. Even if you do decide to leave the country and sell after you’ve set everything up, it’ll be a good asset for the farm. It would probably help attract potential buyers, too.”
“That’s a good point,” I said.
“But you’re not going to get far if you don’t talk to Serge about it soon,” she said.
I was on the brink of telling Clotilde the other reasons I hadn’t pitched the cheese-room idea to Serge yet—because of whatever was going on with his ex-wife, and because of the state of our finances—when Papa Jean called us to the table. “We’ll talk more later,” I whispered to her as we sat down.
And then we feasted. Jean’s spread was decadent beyond measure. We ate figs stuffed with foie gras before carving the goose, which was accompanied by shredded Brussels sprouts and roast potatoes, crisp from the heavy-handed addition of salted butter. Cheese followed, with a comically large slice of Comté that Jean insisted on being reserved for me and bébé.
After dinner, we ate sugared chestnuts and drank tea while anticipating what the next year would bring. By this point, everyone—except me—was rosy-cheeked from the bottles of wine that had already been consumed. Jean and Clotilde argued jovially about his possible retirement, with Clotilde protesting that he couldn’t retire because it would make us all seem too old.
“And you two? Any additional plans for the farm?” Clotilde asked, giving me a little wink.
Serge looked at me. “I hope to keep making cheese,” he said.
“Maybe Ella has some ideas,” she suggested.
“Ella?” Serge said, looking at me.
“Oh, I’ve just been thinking about how we could bring in some more business,” I said, trying to maintain a casual tone.
“Ella, don’t be bashful. Why don’t you tell Serge your plan?” Clotilde prompted.
“Yes, Ella, perhaps you should,” he said.
“It’s really nothing important,” I added, reaching across and rubbing Serge’s arm. “At least, it’s not something that can’t wait until next year.”
I gave Clotilde’s leg a little kick under the table and shot her a loaded look, trying to convey that now really wasn’t the time. Things on the farm were already tense enough and I didn’t want Serge to think I’d been plotting behind his back.
“Let’s dance!” Clotilde said, getting the message, as she jumped up and grabbed Jean’s hand. “It’s our Christmas tradition.”
“We’ve never danced at Christmas before,” Jean began to protest, before giving in to the whims of his daughter.
I grabbed Serge’s hand and pulled him up and we danced around the dining table. It was Christmas, after all, and discussions about our future could be dealt with later.
The next morning, we woke late and snuggled. Being in Paris felt so natural, spending time with people we loved in a city we (or at least I) adored. But I think we both realized we couldn’t keep pretending that we lived here. We’d be heading back to the farm shortly and our future was waiting for us.
I still wasn’t overly keen on talking to Serge about the cheese room yet, but Clotilde was right—I had to bring it up with him eventually.
“So, Serge. Shall we talk about last night?” I asked.
“What about it?” he asked. Perhaps he was too tipsy to remember my friend’s less-than-subtle questions about my plans for next year.
“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we can make things work in Chinon,” I pushed on. “Anyway, I stumbled on the idea of getting the cheese room up and running, maybe even turning it into a little café.”
“Shouldn’t you be slowing down with work rather than taking on something new like this?”
“Serge, we’ve spoken about this. I don’t want to slow down,” I said. “Besides, I can’t sit around doing nothing next year. I’ll go mad.”
“You should think of the baby,” he said.
“That’s what I am doing. This project will be good for the farm. It’ll be good for the future. Serge, I’ve planned it all out. I’ve even written up a budget, back at the farmhouse. What have we got to lose?”
“Well, for starters, we might lose more money. Also, I think you remember that one of your conditions for moving to the farm was that we could leave at any time. If we start this cheese room, you will be tied to staying there.”
Huh? I thought. Previously, he would have been thrilled at the prospect of us staying on the farm.
I had a sudden realization.
“Serge, be honest with me, do you even want to stay in the country? Because I feel like you shut down every idea I have to help or improve things.”
He went silent for a moment.
And this was when the real conversation, the conversation I’d been trying to initiate for weeks, finally started.
Like me, Serge had been struggling to adjust to country living and find his feet. Unlike me, Serge had been hiding it—albeit poorly at times—bottling up his anxiety, which had led us to this moment and to the frustrating disagreement that followed. We spoke at length about how difficult Serge was finding running the farm, about how sales had been slow, and a
bout how he was increasingly worried about money.
“I just feel so much pressure to get everything ready and for everything to be perfect, but things move so slowly in the country. It’s almost impossible to get help, and even when it’s an option, I can’t afford it. That’s why I’ve been working all hours,” he said.
I nodded, remembering the list of demands I’d placed on him prior to the move and feeling guilty for having contributed to his workload.
“And I do want to renovate,” he continued. “Especially the nursery, but before then I need to get on top of things on the farm. I need to start bringing in some money before we can start spending it.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on?” I asked.
“Because you never wanted to move in the first place,” he said. “I wanted to give you the perfect country life. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t speak to me about it. Perhaps I could have helped. Maybe I still can,” I suggested.
I wanted to talk more about the cheese room, about the potential benefits it could bring, but decided it was a step too far for Serge considering his current preoccupations.
I rubbed my stomach as a way of apologizing to our little growing baby for the unnecessary stress and uncertainty.
“You do remember the whole reason behind us moving here was so we could spend more time together as a family,” I said.
“Ella, things have happened beyond my control.”
I considered asking about his cheese production but I got the feeling that Serge’s issues ran deeper than that. He seemed dissatisfied with life on the farm and with life as a farmer.
“So, what do you want to do, Serge?” I asked. “We need to find a way to make things work on the farm, otherwise what’s the point of all this?”
“I do not know,” he said. He had a look on his face that seemed like a mix of exhaustion and worry.
I started to feel sorry for him. “There’s no shame in admitting that it might not be what you want anymore,” I said.
Brioche in the Oven Page 12