Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  “Chuck! I didn’t realize you were coming tonight,” I said, leaning in to kiss him hello.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied with a grin, and then whispered in my ear: “Great material at these village parties. Always a drama or two that could make for a fun subplot.”

  Mum looked confused. “You two already know each other?” she asked.

  “Mum, this is Chuck,” I said. “We met just after Serge and I moved here. He’s the Englishman I told you about.”

  “Oh, right,” Mum said, although I couldn’t tell from her expression if she remembered the brief conversation we’d had about Chuck that ended with her telling me not to spend too much time with other men.

  “And Chuck, this is my mother and her fiancé, Ray.”

  “So, you didn’t really guess where I was from, then?” Mum asked, seemingly embarrassed at having been so gullible.

  “No, your French is actually very good. Ella mentioned you were coming to help with the café, so when I saw you all come in, I put two and two together,” he said, shooting me a wink. I laughed.

  Mum then proceeded to interrogate Chuck on his life and how he managed living between France and England. If I weren’t already with Serge, I would have worried that she was trying to set me up with him.

  With Mum monopolizing the conversation, I took the opportunity to go to the bar and get another glass of juice. I’d gotten the feeling we wouldn’t be eating for a while, and I needed some energy.

  “So, he’s the one who’s taken over Michel’s old place?” I overheard a lady say in a very animated voice to her companion. My ears pricked up and I snuck a glance at the couple. They were well-dressed, looked to be in their fifties, and if they weren’t gossiping about Serge, I would have thought that they seemed quite likable.

  “Oh, oui,” the man replied. “And I hear it’s not going well. A friend tried the first batch of cheese since the takeover and told me it’s gone downhill.”

  “Is that right?” the lady asked, nodding along, encouraging him to continue. “The new owner apparently had to beg Michel to come back to help him,” he added.

  “Hah!” she laughed. “These city people never last long out here.”

  Clearly they don’t know Serge, I thought. Or me!

  I walked back to our group, eyeballing everyone and wondering if they, too, thought of Serge and me as “outsiders.” Mostly, I was worried for Serge. I was used to feeling like the odd one out in France, but this was meant to be his home, his people.

  Thankfully it seemed as though word hadn’t spread too far, because Serge seemed happier than ever, deep in conversation with Michel and Jacques, probably discussing something to do with the farm. He laughed heartily. It was the most engaged I’d seen him in weeks. Perhaps these past few weeks hanging out with only English-speakers had been frustrating for him. Serge’s English was so good, I often forgot that he wasn’t a native speaker and that conversing in a different language was tiring for him. If I had to speak in French all the time, I probably would have been out the door a long time ago.

  I left Serge to enjoy himself and went to relieve Chuck of any further interrogation from Mum. When he saw me, a look of relief crossed his face.

  “So, how are the renovations going, Chuck?” I interrupted Mum.

  “Splendid,” he said. “I added a bath to the bedroom, under the window. I just need to get it hooked up to the plumbing.”

  Oh, dear, I thought, trying to figure out how a bath in Chuck’s room could be anything other than a decorating disaster.

  “Meanwhile,” he continued, “I’ve been using it as a writing space.”

  “Using what as a writing space?” I asked.

  “The bath, without the water. I’ve added some cushions and it’s actually rather cosy.”

  I laughed so hard, I started wheezing. I’m not sure what it was about the image of Chuck writing on a laptop in the bath that set me off, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. And it appeared to be contagious, because after an unintentional snort from me, Chuck was off and away, too.

  Mum looked at us both like we’d gone mad.

  “I just don’t understand what’s so funny,” she said seriously.

  “I guess it’s hard to picture unless you’ve seen Chuck’s bedroom,” I said, still laughing.

  Mum looked at me, this time so seriously that it stopped my giggles in their tracks, and we were plunged into an awkward silence.

  “Where’s Ray gone?” I asked eventually, hoping she might go off and find him.

  “He’s just over there. You know Ray, making friends everywhere he goes,” she said.

  “Watch out,” Chuck said to Mum. “He’s talking to Franck, the most persuasive real-estate agent in Chinon. Come and I’ll introduce you; he’s a good laugh.”

  Franck was a jolly-looking moustached man, rosy-cheeked and clutching a Ricard. I got the impression it wasn’t his first drink of the evening.

  “Bonsoir, Mesdames, Monsieur,” he said as we joined him and Ray. Definitely French.

  “Alors, Charles, have you thought anymore about my proposition?” Franck asked.

  “You’re selling?” I asked Chuck, feeling slightly panicked. Is this the real reason for the renovations? Am I about to lose my only friend out here?

  “Oh, no,” Chuck assured me. “At least not by choice. Franck’s trying to sell my place from under my feet.”

  Franck laughed off Chuck’s comments before turning back to Ray and bringing Mum into their conversation, asking them what they were doing in France and how long they planned to stay.

  “So, you must be in the market for a little property here,” I heard him say. “A summer château, perhaps?”

  “Oh no,” I heard Mum reply. “We’re happy staying with Ella.”

  Chuck jokingly shot me an apologetic look, and I giggled.

  “Chuck, while I have you alone,” I said to him. “I just wanted to say thanks again for your help with the café. I should be able to pay you back shortly after we open.”

  “Anything for a decent cup of coffee in this town,” he said with a grin. “But seriously, don’t mention it again.”

  I smiled. I’d never been great at accepting help, and Chuck didn’t seem great at being thanked for helping. Not discussing the loan any further seemed like the best outcome for the both of us.

  “Now, shall we go sit down?” I asked. “It looks like they’re getting ready to serve dinner.”

  “Yes, let’s get a spot overlooking the dance floor. It should be good entertainment,” Chuck suggested.

  I tried to find Serge in the crowd, thinking I should probably sit with him. When I did, however, he looked like he was still having a good time with Jacques, so I left him to it. Besides, this was the kind of event that needed careful deconstructing from the sidelines, and I got the feeling that Chuck was just the man for the job.

  As the entrées went out, I eyed the plates of oysters and the glasses of Muscadet enviously, but more than made up for my sacrifice when it came time for the pig roast. All around me, cheeks got rosy from the flowing bottles of Chinon, and then the dancing began. Hair got let down and shoes got kicked off. From my vantage point with Chuck, I was finding everything both wonderful and hilarious.

  And then I ran into Mum in the toilets.

  “Ella, thank God I can get you alone for a minute.”

  “Why? Is everything OK?” I asked.

  “You tell me,” she said. “What’s going on between you and Chuck?”

  “Huh? Nothing’s going on. Chuck’s a friend. One of my only friends out here.”

  “Are you sure he doesn’t have other designs?” she asked.

  “Seriously? With a pregnant woman?” I wondered if Mum had perhaps had one too many glasses of wine, but the look on her face told me that she meant business.

  “I saw the way he winked at you. And the way you laugh at his jokes. You really shouldn’t be l
eading him on. And right under Serge’s nose.”

  Oh. My. God! I thought. Typical Mum, always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  “Mum, please don’t get involved in this. I’m more than capable of having a platonic relationship with a man.”

  “That’s how many relationships start out,” she said.

  “And sometimes, that’s how they continue,” I said.

  “Darling, I know it’s normal when you’re going through a stressful period to look for distractions outside your home, but I don’t think you understand the implications. Or how it looks for a pregnant woman to be spending her time with a man who is not the father.”

  “So, what would you rather I do? Spend all my time alone? Or with you?” I asked. “And what about when you go back to Australia?”

  “Well, maybe it’s time you started to think about moving back, too,” she said.

  “What about Serge? And the café?” I asked. “Should I just drop all that and come back?”

  A lady walked into the bathroom, which put a halt to our conversation. I was relieved and frustrated—happy to get away from what had turned into a futile discussion about a platonic relationship and annoyed that it had happened in the first place.

  “Well, perhaps you should just consider it. I can talk to Serge if you like,” Mum suggested as we walked out.

  “You will do no such thing, Mum,” I whispered angrily.

  I went back to sit with Chuck, but while I’d been gone he seemed to have entered into an animated discussion with Ray about the country property market. I was left to think over what Mum had said, with her comment about moving home to Australia playing on my mind.

  Eventually I saw Jacques and Marie leaving, which was when Serge came to find me. He sat down.

  “I’ve hardly seen you all night,” he said.

  He sounded disappointed, although I couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t a huge party; if he’d wanted to find me, he wouldn’t have had to look far.

  “Serge, would you ever leave France?” I asked.

  “Oh là! What’s brought this on?” he asked.

  “I’ve just been thinking about it. Do you think you would?”

  “I don’t think I could leave France, no,” he said. “Look around us. It’s my home.”

  Since we’d started dating, Serge and I had never really spoken at length about where we’d spend the rest of our lives. After my near-decade with my ex, Paul, I hadn’t wanted to think about anything too long-term because it just stopped me from enjoying the present. And then there had been Paris to fall in love with, and then the baby and the farm to focus on. I’d just assumed that if I were ever desperate to return to Australia, Serge would follow me. But perhaps this wasn’t the case.

  “Do we need to decide this now?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. It’s just—” I started saying.

  “Good,” he interrupted. “Then shall we dance? You’re too beautiful not to be on that floor.”

  As he twirled me around in time to the music, I laughed on the outside but on the inside I couldn’t help feeling a little trapped. I knew I’d been the one who had chosen to come to France and even to move to the countryside, but I hadn’t ever considered that it would be a life sentence.

  For the first time since leaving Australia, I felt like my future depended on a man, and that scared me.

  Chapter

  23

  AFTER A COUPLE OF WEEKS of spring rain, the sun came out, just in time for the soft launch of Ella and the Goats—the café name still a work in progress for want of Serge, me, Mum, and Ray agreeing on a better idea.

  It’d been a mad race to the finish line—of course—and, with a last-minute burst water pipe slowing our progress, we’d worked late into the night to get everything done. The result, thankfully, exceeded expectations. We’d found two perfect brown leather couches, and I’d sourced some huge vintage posters to add pops of color to the walls. The cheese cabinet had arrived just in time—after more than a few phone calls to ensure the express delivery—and Serge had carefully filled it with a selection of his cheeses.

  I stared out at the empty car park, which Ray had landscaped beautifully, creating a line of shrubs that he promised would soon grow into a hedge. I was proud of what we’d managed to create but I still wasn’t sure how it would resonate with a French crowd. I felt both nervous and excited to find out.

  With the early-morning fog lifting and rays of sunshine streaming through the windows, it finally felt like we were ready to go. I arranged the scones and tarts, and set up a sample cheese-tasting plate for some promotional pictures. As a finishing touch, I placed the congratulatory bouquet of wildflowers that Serge had picked for me that morning next to the coffee machine. He came over and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Congratulations, Ella. You did it!” he said.

  All we needed now were customers, or at least some friends, to come and help fill the space.

  Thankfully, Chris was catching the train from Paris with Clotilde to be with me in time for the opening. To my surprise—and perhaps Clotilde’s—Chris had recently decided to take a break from pursuing French women, having had his heart broken “more times than was worth counting,” in his own melodramatic words. He was focusing on himself for a while, which also worked in my favor because he was able and willing to teach me to make coffee. Clotilde, as always, was just excited to be involved in an activity that was away from cameras and catwalks. While I didn’t have many friends out here in the French countryside, my friends from Paris managed to take up the slack.

  After I gave them a quick tour, we got to work—Chris on my coffee-making skills and Clotilde on our social media presence. She promoted the cheese room as a destination for Parisians looking for good coffee and good vibes outside of the city. As she went outside to take photos of our goats to highlight the farm-to-table aspect, I double-checked if Chris’s romantic feelings toward her, which were as strong as a pungent slice of Munster when I was still living in Paris, were also on pause.

  “Ella, I will always love Clotilde. But now is not the moment,” he told me.

  “Have things really been that bad?” I asked, and he nodded gravely.

  “I’ve decided I need to wait for the right person. Perhaps the female version of Serge,” he said.

  “I’m sure she’d be magnificent,” I joked. “But seriously, nobody is ever perfect.”

  “Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

  “Not so much trouble, just some roadblocks,” I said.

  “Well, Ella, what did you expect? You haven’t done things the easy way,” he replied.

  And Chris was right. Serge and my honeymoon period had been hacked into like a wheel of Camembert at a party. After a few months of uneventful bliss, we’d been placed under an increasing amount of pressure, from the unexpected pregnancy and the move to the farm to starting a business. It had been an intense period. Perhaps I should cut Serge more slack, I thought.

  A dozen trial coffees later, and after a few decaf versions for me, we still didn’t have any customers beyond Marie and Jacques, who had arrived at eleven o’clock and had been slowly sipping two espressos in an attempt to fill out the tables until lunchtime. Although we’d distributed flyers telling people in Chinon about the “grand opening,” they were obviously holding out on stopping by.

  I thought back to the conversation I’d overheard at the village party and wondered if people weren’t coming because they continued to think of Serge and me as outsiders. But I wasn’t about to let some hesitant locals cramp my style. If all went well, the cheese room would become a destination. People would travel to come and visit us, and we wouldn’t need to rely on our more small-minded neighbors. And for now, at least there were enough of us to make it look like we were having a relatively busy day to anyone who drove past. Everything will be fine, I kept repeating to myself, although as the minutes ticked by, my nerves intensified.

>   In true French style, some customers arrived for lunch at midday on the dot. Two women in their late sixties looked around, mouths agape, at the cabinets and the imposing coffee machine. I quickly stepped in to explain the concept of the cheese room, something that should have been obvious but, in country France, was actually quite original.

  “It’s a melange of a cheese-tasting room and an Australian-style café,” I told the pair. “We also have cheese tarts, salads, or maybe dessert if you prefer something sweet. And coffee, of course. Good coffee,” I clarified, smiling, although perhaps the nuance was lost through my French.

  “And do you have a lunch formule?” one of the women croaked.

  Merde! I thought. How could I have not thought to have a formule? The French love their entrée–main or main–dessert combo.

  “Of course we do. It’s fifteen euros for main–dessert,” I ad-libbed.

  “Quite reasonable,” they said, nodding, and went to sit down.

  I looked on desperately as the women ate goat cheese tarts with lettuce from Ray’s makeshift garden, followed by a peach cobbler. When they initially refused an espresso, I told them it was on the house to celebrate our opening. They begrudgingly agreed.

  “I’ll be up all night,” one said grumpily as I dropped the cups off at their table.

  “I’ll probably have heartburn all afternoon,” said the other.

  The coffee was met with stern approval.

  “Très bon,” one said, as the other murmured either enjoyment or disdain; it was hard to tell.

  Once the ladies had gone, I rubbed my hands together and looked at Serge.

  “Not bad for our first lunch,” I said.

  “You think?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s not a very big village. Word will spread,” I reassured him.

  “And they liked the goat cheese in the tart?”

  Crap. I’d actually forgotten to ask.

  “They said they enjoyed everything,” I replied.

  Serge forced a smile, but I could tell he was disappointed at the lack of customers.