Chapter 21 #3
On a break from the work, she bought herself some Breton tops from a shop in the village, and ordered some other clothes online from a French company.
Just simple but chic classics – cropped trousers, canvas trainers, ballet flats, plain, short-sleeved dresses she could accessorise with scarves or necklaces.
Wearing them made her feel far more French than English.
But all the time, her thoughts were lingering around the treasure trove of information in the box, and she wondered what she would look at next.
All the cities she’d been brought up in around the world had taught her to love high fashion and glamorous brands, and that instinct had carried her into her job at Glitz magazine.
But that polished, expensive style that made her fit in back in London didn’t work in Cordeval, especially her Manolo Blahnik heels.
They were a sprained ankle waiting to happen on the cobbled streets.
When she’d had her year studying in France, Lucy had experimented with a more relaxed but chic French look, but she’d abandoned it years before for the glamour of city style.
She allowed herself to daydream. What would’ve happened if, after her mother had died, her dad had moved them back to Cordeval?
Lucy would’ve grown up here in the village; it would’ve been her home.
She might’ve gone to school with Sébastien, and perhaps she would’ve taken on the shop while Mémé was still alive, and she’d be behind the counter as the old brass till rang with each sale.
She would’ve sat next to Mémé on the sofa as they’d looked through the memory box together.
But that wasn’t how her life had panned out.
Inevitably, reading so much about the book club, Lucy had been so curious about it that she’d tried to go down to the cellar where they had met.
But the door wouldn’t open; it’d rusted fast. She hid her disappointment, telling herself there couldn’t be anything to find down there; just some dusty insects who’d scuttle away from the light.
Lucy occasionally opened her email and hovered over the offer from Polly, before closing it down again and putting it from her mind.
But she kept in touch with Hannah and Natalie, which eased the pain that still rose up inside her each time Andrew wandered back into her mind.
She told them about the memory box, and Hannah and Natalie were fascinated by the tale that was unfolding.
And her dad phoned her every day, asking when she would be back in London. Her old bedroom was waiting for her.
Soon, she kept telling him, soon.
She didn’t think Mémé had told him about the Resistance Book Club either.
He’d never mentioned it to her. Lucy wanted to make sure she knew the tale well herself before trying to explain it to him.
There were people in that story that he’d known, and there was a risk that what she found out about them could change his perception of them for ever.
Each evening, she crossed the narrow road to eat at Jojo’s. She wondered when she’d see Beatrice, although she was evidently still away.
The dishes that Sébastien brought through from the kitchen were delicious.
He went down to the harbour each day and bought fresh fish that’d just come in on the boats.
He poached fish in local cider or Calvados, or he gently grilled soles with perfect local vegetables.
He made omelettes that melted in Lucy’s mouth, and baked a Camembert in the lightest of puff pastry, which Lucy knew she’d dream about.
He served galettes, which he’d cheekily named his dog after; the traditional, flat, round pastries heaped with fruit, served with a generous scoop of rich, home-made ice cream.
He even baked his own bread, and the scent floated in through the opened windows as Lucy worked through the documents in the box, trying to piece together Cordeval’s story.
The number of desserts he could make with local apples seemed endless, and his traditional Normandy rice pudding was like nothing Lucy had ever tasted before.
Although there was no fancy fuss about his food, there was a certain flair that told Lucy that he had a natural bond with every dish he cooked, as if there was something of himself in every dish.
But, being so busy at his stove, there was never a moment for him to stop and talk, and Lucy wasn’t sure he’d want to speak to her anyway.
The locals knew who she was, and would sit down at her table to talk to her, or caught her as she did her shopping.
She liked it to start with, as it made her feel part of the village, and they were curious to meet Arielle’s granddaughter.
But their questions soon became probing and nosey, and they interrupted her thoughts as she mulled over her latest discovery.
Once, it was a mention that Lucy had deciphered in Margot’s diary, that Joséphine had saved her from some soldiers while she’d tried to hide a book.
Another time it was a furled wanted poster for Chevalier, and Lucy wondered if it was the one that Beatrice had taken with her to the club’s first meeting.
But her train of thought was derailed. When was she going back? What was happening to the shop? Who was going to buy it? And why wasn’t she going to stay?
She was certain Cordeval wasn’t where she should be, or at least not for long. But, as she returned to the contents of the memory box, Lucy began to realise that part of her heart had always belonged here.