I briefly considered suggesting we move back to Paris, but didn’t want to push Serge to this conclusion, especially as he seemed to be dancing around it anyway. But if we leave the farm, what about the cheese room? I asked myself. Even though it was still just an idea at this point, it was an idea I’d become rather attached to.
Serge just nodded.
I felt like we were at a stalemate. Serge was struggling to run the farm but didn’t seem to want to accept any help or change anything. I felt like I had solutions to some of his problems, but that they were falling on deaf ears. And then there was my own confusion over whether I actually wanted to stay on the farm. I hadn’t imagined ever getting to this point, and I really couldn’t figure out why I was bothering to convince Serge that we could make things work. But something inside told me I needed to.
Before the discussion went any further, I had to get my own feelings in line.
“Serge, I have a suggestion,” I told him. “Why don’t we both go away for an hour and think about what we want to achieve next year individually, and then come back together to see how we can make it happen?”
“Ella, this is smart,” he said. I blushed. It wasn’t often I could be considered the reasonable one.
“Do you want to go out or shall I?” he asked.
“I’ll go. Baby is asking for a hot chocolate.”
Serge kissed me hard, and it felt like both an apology and a plea.
As soon as I was outside, I called Mum.
“Hi, Lovie,” said Ray’s voice.
I rolled my eyes. As much as I liked my stepfather-to-be, his voice wasn’t the one I needed to hear right now.
“Hi, Ray. How was the rest of your Christmas?”
“Too much Chrissy pud,” he said, and I could tell he was patting his stomach. Another eye-roll escaped me.
“Sorry to rush you, Ray, but is Mum around? I really need to speak to her.”
“Afraid she’s just popped down to the shops,” he replied.
“Shit,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Has something happened?” he asked, concern in his voice.
I paused. I didn’t really want to get into any of this with Ray. But in the absence of Mum, and with an hour deadline to figure out a workable solution with the father of my unborn child, he’d have to do.
“Well . . .,” I said, taking a breath before launching into a rapid-fire explanation of our current situation, detailing Serge’s struggles to settle into life as a farmer, my desire to open a cheese room, and then the overriding questions: Should we just move back to Paris? Was that even enough anymore? Should I just move back to Australia, either with or without Serge?
“Slow down, Lovie,” Ray said. “First, tell me some more about the farm issues.”
So, I told him all about Serge’s struggles with the cheese and the lack of sales, which ended up with me complaining about the man himself. “I get glimpses of the old Serge, but now they’re interspersed with this more vacant, more stressed version of himself.”
“It’s a big change you’ve both gone through,” he said and paused. “Maybe Serge just needs time to iron out the kinks. He’s gone from owning a cheese shop in Paris to actually making the stuff. Big ask, I say.”
“But what should we do? Should we leave the farm? Should I leave Serge? Could I even raise this baby alone?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he replied calmly. He’d swung into problem-solving mode, and while I appreciated his slow and methodical approach, I was on a deadline.
“But I don’t have forever, Ray,” I protested. “Serge and I need to figure out what we’re going to do. And I’d really like to be settled somewhere before the baby arrives.”
“Why don’t I see if we can change our tickets? Come over to France a little earlier and help out with things. I’m sure your mum would love to see you, too.”
“I guess that could help, but it’s a lot to ask,” I said.
“Nothing too big for our little girl,” Ray said, and I smiled. “I’ll call you back after talking to your mum. Hoo-roo.”
“Bye,” I replied.
I sat down in a café and ordered a hot chocolate. My mind was racing, so I pulled out paper and a pen and tried to etch out a bit of a plan for how Serge and I could work things out on the farm. Ray had given me hope, and now I was oscillating between excitement and fear. From experience, I knew that it was possible for both emotions to exist simultaneously, but in general, one eventually became more prominent than the other—I just hoped it’d be the former.
And then Gaston walked into the café. I’d only seen him once since I’d busted him for cheating on me, and then I’d avoided actually talking to him.
We saw each other at the same time, and both of us had a moment where we looked for a way to escape the interaction. But the café was desperately quiet and acknowledging each other seemed inevitable. He walked over briskly, leaned down to kiss both my cheeks, and wished me a happy Christmas.
He sat and we chatted for a few minutes, with both of us clearly eager to go our separate ways but neither of us wanting to appear rude. It was definitely long enough to convince me that I’d made the right decision leaving him behind. He either didn’t notice I was pregnant, or perhaps chose not to acknowledge it, speaking only of himself.
“I mean, it’s exhausting, all those dinners,” he said. “The other day I drank a two-thousand-euro bottle of Bordeaux, and by that point in the meal I was too drunk to even really taste it.”
“Have you thought about a career change?” I suggested, knowing full well that he’d never give up his champagne lifestyle.
“And then there’s the travel . . .,” he continued, clearly ignoring me.
What did I ever see in this man? I asked myself.
After I rather dramatically checked the time—even though my watch battery had stopped working a few weeks prior, and I still hadn’t found anywhere to get it replaced—I motioned for the bill.
As I stood up, Gaston finally noticed my belly, and I saw his jaw drop. I could tell he was desperate to ask more—perhaps for a second while he calculated how long we’d been separated, he even wondered if he was the father—but I wasn’t going to indulge him.
I simply shrugged, smiled, and walked off.
Serge seemed happier when I got back to the hotel, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“How’d it go?” I asked, getting straight to the point. “Any closer to knowing what you’d like to do?”
He nodded.
“Well? You go first,” I said.
“No, you,” he insisted.
“Same time?” I suggested and he nodded.
“I think I’m done,” Serge said, just as I blurted out, “I think we should stay.”
Chapter
18
SERGE AND I LOOKED AT each other in astonishment. The seconds after he’d told me that he was done seemed to last for an eternity.
I ran through what he meant in my mind. Did he mean done with the farm? Or done with me? Oh God! I started having flashbacks to Melbourne, to when Paul told me he was leaving me to go and find himself. Was Serge about to do a Paul? My heart started beating uncontrollably fast.
I suddenly couldn’t believe I’d been trying to find a way to help Serge succeed when he was planning to leave me. I’d never thought it was possible for things between us to end in the same way as they had with Paul, especially now that I was pregnant.
This time I decided not to dance around the subject.
“Do you want to break up?” I asked.
“Ella,” he said before pausing and looking me deep in the eyes. “Of course I do not want to break up. I mean that I think I’m done on the farm.”
“Oh,” I said, and paused a moment, trying to figure out how I felt. Only weeks earlier this would have been my ideal outcome, but now, spending a few days in Paris had reinforced my desire to get back to our whole cou
ntry-living experiment and work things out.
“Serge, we’ve only been on the farm a month. Where do you want to go? Back to Paris? I thought you didn’t want to have a baby in the city,” I said, my voice laced with a panic I barely recognized. I took a breath.
“I don’t know,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen Serge come close to crying. “I just cannot get things right. My father would be so disappointed. I am a disaster on the farm. I don’t want to waste any more of your time living out there.”
“You’re not a disaster, Serge,” I said, although I wasn’t 100 percent convinced that this was true. “You’re learning the ropes. We’re only just getting started on the farm. These things take time. You’re the one who convinced me of that.”
“But the cheese, it’s no good,” he told me.
It seemed he was finally ready to admit it. “What happened?” I asked.
“I have no idea. It was too acidic, not enough salt. The weather was so cold and wet, perhaps that messed with the aging process. Or the goats were eating the bad grass. I did everything like Michel showed me. I don’t understand where I went wrong.”
“Serge, forget about all that for a minute: If you could make good cheese, would you want to stay on the farm?” I asked.
He nodded. “I love the farm. I just do not love the farming.”
“Well,” I started. “If you want to stay, then you just have to find a way to make the business side of things work.”
He mulled this over before saying, “But before now, you didn’t want to live on the farm. I thought you would be happy to move back to Paris.”
He was right; I had wanted to move back. But now, I didn’t want us to quit so soon. Serge was just doubting himself. He’d told me repeatedly that he didn’t want to raise a child in Paris. Now, he was backing out because he’d got cold feet. I wanted to try making things right. And on a more selfish note, I had a cheese room-cum-café I wanted to open. And a friendship with Chuck that was worth pursuing. Perhaps surprisingly, there were still things I wanted to do in the tiny town of Chinon.
After a few moments, I said, “Well, I guess life in the Loire has started to win me over. Besides, you can’t just give up on the farm, especially if the only thing stopping you is some bad batches of cheese. I think you need to get Michel back to help you.”
“I shouldn’t need help,” he said.
“There’s no shame in getting somebody to give you some pointers. Everyone needs help when they’re doing something new. Look how much help you offered me when I moved to Paris. By teaching me about cheese, you taught me about French culture and history. And then you taught me about love. I wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for you.”
Serge looked at me, still teary-eyed, but now with a hint of hope.
“You don’t think it is weak that I need help?”
“Nope. And if you think I’m not going to need help with the cheese room, you’re crazy. I’m going to need so much help. But we’ll discuss that later. What else do you need to get things back on track with the farm?”
“I’ll call Michel when we get home.”
“Oh, and I just found out that Ray and Mum might be changing their tickets to arrive earlier than planned,” I added casually, not wanting Serge to think I’d orchestrated for them to come early because we needed them. “So we’ll have some extra hands on deck. It’ll all be fine, Serge. Let’s just stick it out until you get a good batch of cheese and then we can re-evaluate.” I still couldn’t believe I was now the one convincing Serge to stay on the farm. What has gotten into me?
He hugged me.
I felt like we’d cleared the air about our issues on the farm, and it was a relief. While the question of Françoise still hung quietly over my head, I wasn’t ready to mention her. Not now that Serge and I had just made up. We sat quietly, wrapped in each other’s arms, for a long time before heading to our old local wine bar for dinner.
We ate baskets of bread with a rich olive tapenade, a creamy fish pie, and far too much truffle ham with thinly sliced Gruyère. For dessert, we shared a dark chocolate and raspberry tart, and Serge let me steal a few sips of his espresso. It felt good to be out in Paris with Serge, and I felt optimistic about the New Year. Spring was just around the corner, and reinforcements were on the way. I was feeling positive.
When we returned to the farmhouse, Serge and I both had a renewed sense of energy. We “celebrated” New Year’s Eve by staying home, eating hearty winter food and drinking lots of tea. We made resolutions and plans to get things back on track, including our relationship, which had suffered from the pressure of the move, the pregnancy, and all that had gone unsaid as we’d both struggled to settle into our new life away from Paris.
As soon as the public holidays were over, Serge called Michel and invited him over to the farm for lunch. Perhaps the least surprising thing to come out of their meeting was that Michel was rather bored in his retirement and the prospect of helping Serge perked him up immensely. He was already full of stories and tips. And Serge’s openness to lean on him and finally accept some help seemed to be a relief for all of us.
Knowing that Serge was safe in Michel’s hands, I opened my laptop to do some research on the cheese room. No sooner had I set myself up than my phone rang.
“Bonjour,” I said.
“Bonjour, ma fille.”
“Oh, hey Mum. What’s up?” I asked.
“Well, I was speaking with Ray, and he filled me in on your little chat.”
“Actually quite an important chat, but continue . . .”
“Yes, yes. Well, we’ve changed our tickets. We’ll arrive early March. Is that OK?” she asked.
“Sounds perfect,” I said. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been so relieved at the prospect of seeing Mum.
“We couldn’t let you have a breakdown and leave our Serge now, could we?” she said.
Our Serge? I sighed. Some things would never change.
“You’ll be able to help me set up the nursery,” I said, changing the topic.
“About that. I’ve got a few little bits you could have. I fished out some of your baby clothes. They’re in surprisingly good condition. I’ll bring them over, yes?”
“I didn’t know you’d kept any of that,” I said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever need to pull them out of storage, but there we go. They’re clean and packed.”
I couldn’t resist smiling. I was looking forward to sharing this time with Mum.
“I can’t wait to see you guys,” I told her. “It’s awfully quiet here.”
“You still haven’t made any friends?” she asked.
“Well, I met this one English guy. He’s an author. Although he doesn’t live here full-time,” I rattled on. “He’s working on the most fascinating project—”
She interrupted me. “Easy, Ella. Don’t go complicating things by spending too much time with another man.”
“Oh Mum, don’t be ridiculous,” I said, laughing.
“Well, in my day—” she started to say, but another call came in and I told her I had to run.
“Bonjour,” I said again.
“Ella. Chuck here.”
Speak of the devil! I thought.
“Why, hello! Happy New Year. How was London?”
“Oh, fine. Good. I’m back now, though. I want to keep working on the novel. I made a resolution to finish it this year.”
“Nice. You think it’s doable?” I asked.
“Who knows! Really, all I can do now is press on,” he said.
I laughed. I felt like “All I can do now is press on” was my current motto for everything in life.
I’d press on to make a life in the country.
Press on to have a baby.
Press on to open a café—
“Anyway,” Chuck said, interrupting my thoughts. “The reason I’m calling is to see if you can come help me
choose a color to paint a couple of my rooms. I’ve decided it’s time to start giving my house a bit of a refresh, and I don’t really know where to begin. Would you mind terribly?”
“Would I mind? I love choosing paint colors. I’ll be over in a flash.”
Chuck gave me his address, and I left a note for Serge letting him know I was heading out.
“I’m off to help decorate my friend’s house,” I sang to myself cheerily.
The New Year was off to a good start. Things were looking up for Serge and the farm, I was back working on my plans for the cheese room, and I had the beginnings of a social life.
As I drove over to Chuck’s, I remembered Mum’s “back in my day” comment and chuckled. Soon enough, she’d get a sense of how lonely it could be in the French countryside and would understand why I was keen to pursue any offer of friendship.
Chapter
19
DRIVING OVER TO CHUCK’S, I tried to imagine what his grandmother’s house would look like. While I knew his family had money, it was hard to picture him living anywhere too imposing. Since meeting him, I’d always felt that he seemed too artistic—and scatterbrained—for too much grandeur, envisaging him in a loft, or perhaps an attic, tapping away on a typewriter, wearing three woolen jumpers because he’d forgotten to pay his heating bill.
When I arrived at the striking wrought iron gates, I had to double-check the address. I turned off the radio and drove the long driveway in silence, admiring the huge park. I couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like if this were my garden, so much so that I could hear Mum’s voice in my head saying, “Easy, Ella.”
And then I saw it.
Chuck’s modest inheritance was, in fact, a rather spectacular château. It was compact, but only compared to some of the neighboring castles in the region.
Wow!
But, as I got closer, I started to see the cracks. One in particular along the front wall made me wonder how sturdy the whole property was. I counted at least sixteen windows at the front of the house, many of them missing shutters, a few even missing pieces of glass. The château in its current state looked like it was letting out a deep, guttural groan. It looked exhausted.
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