Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
I woke up in the middle of the night, wrapped in Hugo’s arms. Tempted as I was to stay there and fall asleep, I could see from the alarm clock in his hotel room that it was almost four o’clock, and I knew Manu and Madame Moreau would be up soon. He woke up just as I was pulling on my shoes.
‘Where in God’s name are you going at this hour?’ he asked, with one eye barely open.
‘I just have to tell Madame Moreau the good news,’ I whispered.
‘Why are you whispering? There’s no one else to wake up,’ he pointed out.
‘Ah, yes, I see you’re just as pedantic in the morning,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek.
‘But it’s not morning,’ he groaned, trying to pull me back into bed.
‘I can’t, I have to tell her, you’ve no idea what it means,’ I said excitedly.
‘I think I do.’
I zipped up my dress and sat back down on the bed, taking his hand in mine.
‘What made you change your mind about everything? I know you’ve told me the story about Arnaud, but selling your apartment, going against your father’s wishes… Why did you do it?’
‘Seriously? You’ve been harassing me for weeks now about being a vulture capitalist!’ he joked.
I gave him a stern look.
‘Many things. In the end I think it was coming to terms with my brother’s death. It’s like I’ve been trapped in someone else’s life since he died. One day something just finally clicked. It felt like my chance to break free.’
‘So what are you going to do with the building now?’
‘Well, I spoke to Manu about it?—’
‘Manu?’
‘He gave me the idea, actually. We got to talking about his great-grandfather, Pierre Moreau, and his legacy of giving shelter to people who needed it.’
Ah, I thought to myself, so that’s what they were whispering about.
‘Manu introduced me to Father Bernard and showed me how they are trying to help the homeless and the immigrant population here. He is hoping to set them up with accommodation but what they really need are jobs. So, I started looking into it and I’ve applied for funding to set up a restaurant as a social enterprise.
That way, people get the training they need and patrons on low incomes have a low-cost place to eat. ’
‘Hugo Chadwick, a social entrepreneur,’ I said.
He shook his head, but I knew he was pleased with his decision.
‘My mother says you’re a good influence on me.’
I had to stop myself from saying ‘yikes’. He’d told his mother about me?
‘Is that so? She sounds like a wise woman,’ I said, smiling.
‘She said that I could choose between being an unsuccessful imitation of my father, or a successful expression of who I was born to be.’
She definitely sounded like someone I’d like to meet.
‘But I think I’d made up my mind long before that,’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’ I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt the warmth of his chest against mine.
He began kissing my earlobe and I almost forgot what we were talking about.
‘When was that, then?’
‘You really need to ask?’ He kissed me softly on my neck. ‘It was the day you made me that hot chocolate, the best one I’ve tasted in years,’ he said, smiling.
* * *
‘C’est un miracle!’ Madame Moreau kept saying, while she hugged Manu and myself until we could hardly breathe. As the elation began to die down, I noticed something.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, sensing that there was something amiss. ‘Where is Monsieur Moreau?’
They both exchanged regretful looks, then Madame Moreau turned away.
‘He only appeared for a few seconds,’ Manu explained. ‘It was different this time. His light burned so brightly, like a kind of golden glow, like never before. Then … nothing.’ He glanced over to where Madame Moreau was standing, arranging some bread pans.
I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder.
‘He’s gone,’ she said in a very small voice.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘I felt a kind of peace. It was as though his promise to me all of those years ago was discharged.’
The basement suddenly felt very empty.
‘But why now?’ Manu asked.
Madame Moreau wiped some tears from her eyes. ‘Perhaps he knew that the bakery will be saved?’ she pondered. ‘Maybe he didn’t need to stay anymore.’
I searched desperately for some words of comfort, but what could you say to someone who was mourning the loss of a ghost? Then I remembered something I’d read online about souls not being able or willing to move on.
‘I think you’re right,’ I said, linking arms with both of them. ‘I think Monsieur Moreau’s instinct to protect you was so strong in life that he could not let go of his role in death. But now the future of the bakery is safe, he can finally let go of you, Geneviève.’
It was the first time I had used her first name, because it seemed a bit too formal at this stage to be calling her Madame Moreau.
‘There’s something else,’ Manu said, his eyes lighting up as he reached up to the long wooden shelf that held all of the spices. He took down a rectangular tin canister and placed it on the work bench.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Open it,’ he replied, a mischievous look on his face.
I prised open the lid and immediately the scent filled my nostrils. I knew what it was before I saw them. Rows and rows of long black vanilla pods.
‘These aren’t…’ I looked to Manu for confirmation.
He nodded.
‘Vanillao!’
‘I knew it! That cocoa flavour mixed with the vanilla, it’s Pierre’s secret ingredient.’ There was something so intoxicating and comforting about that scent, it was unparalleled. ‘But where did you get it?’
‘When Hugo and I were speaking, he asked me about the magic hot chocolate you had made for him.’
I blushed on hearing Hugo’s name and hid my face behind the lid of the canister, which Madame Moreau duly shut, almost catching my nose.
‘It will lose its potency,’ she said, carefully placing it back on the shelf.
‘Anyway,’ Manu continued, ‘I told him about the vanillao beans and how we had no more left. So, he made contact with his friend at the vineyard…’
‘Jean!’ I said.
‘Oui, exactement ?a, Jean. He made some research and found a small grower in Argentina.’
‘Argentina,’ Madame Moreau repeated, suitably impressed.
‘So we can make Moreau’s bakery just as it was before,’ I said, imagining all of the lives that might change course thanks to Monsieur Moreau’s secret ingredient.
And then it struck me –the real secret ingredient was the love he’d had for this place, these people.
That was what had made it so special and that was the legacy they would all carry on.