Chapter 4 #2
There was a small swimming pool, considerably smaller than the one she had in Malibu. The property was very French and looked original, from the furniture to the scale and design of the chateau.
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Sabrina was quiet all the way back to the realtor’s office. She was thinking of the rooms she’d seen at the chateau. It had been so warm and welcoming. But the whole idea seemed absurd. What would she do with a chateau in the Pays Basque area in France, near the Pyrénées?
“I’ll let you know what I hear from the owners,” the realtor said, lumbering back to his desk, and Sabrina thanked him and drove away in her rented car.
She didn’t head back to Biarritz but drove the short distance back toward Arcangues, to get a feel for the picturesque quality of the area, and visit the town.
She drove past the gates of the Chateau de Bonport.
They were still open, but all she could see were the trees lining the driveway, far from the chateau.
She passed the monastery. The soccer game was over, and the nuns and children had gone inside, so she didn’t see them, but she could hear choir practice.
They sounded like angels, the children’s voices blending with the nuns’.
Within a mile, she saw the church at the center of the town come into view, the sixteenth-century Church of Saint John the Baptist, and the terraced cemetery with round flat headstones like disks.
She got out and walked around, and the little village had a wonderful feel to it.
In the distance were the Pyrénées. She saw the town hall, the school, and the inn, all with their brilliant blue shutters, distinctive to the village, and different from any neighboring town.
There was a castle in Arcangues too. Although small, the village seemed very complete.
She got back in her car after she’d seen most of it, and drove back to the more worldly splendor of Biarritz.
Arcangues was a relic of the past, and Biarritz had been modernized and brought into the current century.
The two were worlds apart in style and feeling.
And bridging the two was the Chateau de Bonport, historic but comfortable and livable.
She would have liked to curl up with a good book near the fire on a cold winter night.
There was something about the Chateau de Bonport that had spoken to her, as though it was reaching out to her.
She had always believed that houses had a soul, and knew all the secrets of the family who lived there.
She thought Malcolm would have loved it, or would he have thought it utterly crazy?
Part of her thought that too. This was completely different from anything she had envisioned or thought she’d want.
She drove past the chateau gates again, and the monastery, on her way back to the H?tel du Palais in Biarritz. It felt familiar when she saw it. She went to her room and packed her bag, and checked out at the front desk.
“Did you enjoy your stay, madame?” the assistant manager asked her.
“Very much. It’s a wonderful place.” He smiled and took the key from her, and she walked out carrying her bag and put it in her car.
She had a long drive ahead of her, back to Paris, but she didn’t mind.
Driving soothed her, and watching the Basque countryside slip by.
She had a lot to think about. She had a house in Malibu, and a gallery nearby in L.A.
Everything in her life had made sense when Malcolm was there, and made no sense now without him.
Her gallery had been so much fun and brought her so much joy, as long as he was around to cheer her on.
And without him nothing seemed like fun anymore.
She didn’t want to close her gallery. She had lost touch with all her friends in the past year, between Malcolm’s sudden illness and his death.
She didn’t have the energy to see them yet, or the strength or desire to endure their pity.
They might have lent her support in the last year, but she didn’t let them.
She had needed to be alone to process the shock of what had happened to Malcolm so quickly.
She still couldn’t believe it. And with most of their friends their common bond was their children, and all of hers were gone now, moved on to more interesting lives and greener pastures.
She felt as though she had nothing to offer anyone now.
She was too bruised in the deepest parts of her soul to see anyone.
She and Malcolm had had the best marriage of anyone they knew, and now he was gone.
She was sad, but she was angry too, not at Malcolm, but at life.
They had been cheated of the long years they planned to be together. She had been robbed of their future.
She was thinking about all of it as she drove back to Paris.
And as they had on the way down, the seven hours sped by.
She felt like she was coming home, when Paris came into view, all lit up at night, with the Eiffel Tower sparkling to greet her.
It was a magnificent city. Malibu was a sleepy town by the sea where she could hide, and she had the gallery to amuse her in L.A.
Paris was an exciting city and felt alive.
It was late when she got back to the Ritz. She ordered some soup from room service and went to bed afterward. She lay awake for a long time that night thinking about Biarritz, the Chateau de Bonport, and the tiny medieval village of Arcangues near it with its bright blue shutters.
But Malibu was home, and she knew she had to go back there.
Buying a chateau in France was pure fantasy, she reminded herself.
She had almost lost her mind for a minute.
She had felt so at home in the little gem of a chateau.
But it was someone else’s dream and someone else’s home.
Malcolm had wanted her to buy an apartment in Paris, not a fairy-tale castle in Arcangues.
She had her answer and made her decision. She was going home.