Chapter Thirteen
The church where Ben and Sophie were to have their marriage ceremony overlooked the village square: a cool, silent refuge that smelt of incense and lilies, its brass gleaming and fresh flowers on the altar.
Véronique crossed herself as they entered and knelt in a pew, while Juliette stood quietly at the back, absorbing the atmosphere and imagining Ben and Sophie making their vows in a few months’ time.
Sophie had tried on her mother’s dress earlier that morning: a cream silk empire-line gown gathered under the bust, which, they had to admit, looked something like a tent on her slim frame.
‘It’s awful!’ Sophie had had tears in her eyes. ‘I might as well wear a flour sack.’
‘That’s because I was pregnant with you,’ Véronique had told them. ‘My mother was mortified but everyone pretended not to notice.’ She laughed, shaking her head. ‘Times were different then. Never mind; I’m sure we can get it altered.’
They drove home to pick up Sophie and her father, and then headed on to the winery, twenty minutes further east. Heading towards the mountains, the land became increasingly rocky, its slopes covered in vines.
‘I wouldn’t have thought grapes could grow up here,’ Juliette said, craning around to look.
‘No, the vines love these conditions,’ Jean told her. ‘Plenty of sunshine and ventilation, and the stony soil means all the plant’s energy goes into producing grapes, not leaves. Stressed vines make the best wine.’
‘My father is a wine bore,’ Sophie said affectionately.
‘Well, I certainly enjoy drinking it,’ he replied. ‘You know what they say: cheese is the heart of France and wine is her soul.’
The wedding menu had already been decided.
After gazpacho and smoked salmon canapés, they were going to eat rib of beef, dauphinoise potatoes and ratatouille, with goat’s cheese tart for the vegetarians; simple but delicious.
And then after the cheese, a traditional croquembouche wedding cake, its tower of cream-filled choux pastry puffs held together with spun sugar.
Jean had already ordered the champagne and white wine but the crucial C?tes du Rh?ne to accompany the beef had yet to be decided.
‘I’ve heard the 2016 vintage is wonderful,’ he said. ‘So long as they have enough in stock; that’s the only question.’
‘The suspense is killing me,’ Sophie said.
He laughed, squeezing her knee. ‘You love a trip to the winery, and don’t try denying it.’
The banter made Juliette miss her own kids more than ever.
Only another few months, she reminded herself, and they’d all be together.
And in the meantime, she was falling in love with Provence; she felt truly at ease, liberated from the stress of life in Paris.
If only Nico had been there, it would have been perfect; she couldn’t wait for September, when they’d all be together.
‘You know, we’re on the way to Chateau Albertine,’ Véronique said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Maybe we could go there this afternoon? At least we could see if it’s the place in your photograph.’
Juliette protested that she didn’t want to take them out of their way, but the Lafleurs insisted it was no trouble; they could find somewhere en route for lunch and visit the chateau afterwards.
She felt a surge of excitement that refused to be quelled and found it hard to concentrate as Lucy, who ran the vineyard, explained its history.
Her parents had bought the land thirty years before, attracted by the fifty-year-old vines and the land on which to build a house and a state-of-the-art winery.
She took them down a spiral staircase to see the vast stainless-steel tanks, ceramic vats and oak barrels in which the crushed grapes would ferment, and then they sat on high stools at a counter to taste samples of the various vintages – apart from Véronique, who was driving.
‘Climate change has worked in our favour,’ Lucy said with a wry smile. ‘We never have a bad year now; they’re either good or spectacular.’
And 2016 was agreed by everyone to be outstanding; the only problem being that there were only four cases left.
This seemed like more than enough to Juliette, given that no more than fifty people would be sitting down to eat at the wedding reception, but Jean decided to play it safe with a couple of cases of the 2019 as well, because it would be a long day and running out of wine was unthinkable.
Everything was about abundance and generosity, Juliette thought, and a half-forgotten line of poetry came back to her: something about a beaker full of the warm South, and dance and Provencal mirth.
The Lafleurs probably had no interest in visiting some random chateau an hour’s drive away from home, but they wanted to please her because she was their guest. Their kindness moved her, and she resolved to be more open-hearted herself.
There was still time to change, wasn’t there? Everyone was a work in progress.
The night before, Juliette had managed to find Chateau Albertine online, although she couldn’t tell from the pictures whether this was indeed the place she’d been looking for.
It had been bought the year before by a British couple, Matt and Alison, who were hoping to turn it into a wedding venue.
The early posts about their ‘chateau journey’ were full of excited anticipation; rentals and a spa were planned and chickens arrived, along with sketches for a deluxe henhouse.
Yet after the first few sightings, the chickens were no longer to be seen pecking in the kitchen garden, and no further mention was made of a henhouse; in fact, no posts at all had been made for several weeks.
Juliette had sent Matt and Alison a message that evening but she wasn’t expecting a reply.
‘I’m not sure two o’clock on Saturday afternoon is the best time for a visit,’ Véronique said as they headed up the sweeping drive. ‘They’ll either be away for the weekend or having a siesta. Still, at least we can check out the front door.’
The chateau lay deep into the Alpilles, almost at the foot of the mountains, and was built from creamy stone under a terracotta-tiled roof, with four windows on each side of the massive front entrance: two above and two below.
A circular tower crowned by a turret stood at each corner of the building, with windows facing towards each point of the compass.
Juliette and Andrew had probably visited this house but she had no memory of it – only of the vineyard she glimpsed rising up the hillside beyond.
‘No chance of sneaking up secretly,’ Sophie said, unbuckling her safety belt. ‘But it looks like somebody’s at home.’ Two cars and a builder’s van stood on the gravelled forecourt.
Juliette was first up the long flight of steps, phone in hand.
The door in her mother’s snapshot was made of two tall slabs of oak that met in the centre, each divided into three panels with distinctive carving: a crisscross lattice on the top and bottom sections and a double rectangular frame in the middle.
The door in front of her was identical, down to the heavy latch that held it shut. She gave the others a thumbs-up.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice behind her, and she turned back to see Alison – a familiar figure from Instagram – looking at her quizzically from the doorstep. She wore denim shorts and a T-shirt streaked with cobwebs, and her sandalled feet were grubby.
Flustered, Juliette launched into a garbled explanation of why they were there, waving her phone to show Alison the photograph and finishing, ‘I sent you a message last night but you probably haven’t had a chance to look at it.’
‘No, I haven’t, and now isn’t a great time.’ She was already closing the door.
‘Sure, I understand.’ Briefly, Juliette explained the situation to Sophie, standing beside her, and started to retreat down the steps.
‘Wait.’ The door swung open again. ‘You speak French?’
‘Well, yes,’ Juliette replied. ‘And Sophie here speaks pretty good English. Can we help you?’
‘I bloody well hope so,’ Alison said, standing back. ‘Come in, please.’
She ushered all four of them into a square entrance hall, about the size of Juliette’s entire apartment in Paris, with a vast fireplace to one side. Male voices speaking French and English floated down from above: faint but unmistakably exasperated.
‘The builders are here,’ Alison went on. ‘At last. They’re making the usual excuses and we’re at our wits’ end. Would you talk to them, tell them to get a move on? They don’t seem to realise how urgent this work is.’
‘I’ll try,’ Juliette said, ‘but I’m not making any promises.’
They climbed up one side of the double staircase to the second floor, Juliette’s heart sinking as the voices became louder and angrier as they approached. She’d been let down by an electrician in Paris during her bookshop renovation and knew how easily tempers could flare in those situations.
‘Excuse the state of me,’ Alison said, bounding ahead down the corridor. ‘I’ve been crawling about in the attic. And mind your step – the carpet’s worn in places and it’s a death trap.’
She led them into a room halfway along: large and airy, with a high ceiling and a vast four-poster bed in the centre, draped in gauzy curtains and piled with cushions in various shades of cream and sand. Two fluffy sheepskin rugs lay on the whitewashed floorboards, one each side of the bed.
‘Welcome to the Romance Suite,’ she said. ‘Not very romantic at the moment.’
Three men turned to look at them, all with the same stance: legs apart, chests thrust forward, arms folded.
Juliette recognised Matt, in the plaid shirt he always seemed to be wearing on Instagram.
He wasn’t smiling now, though. The other two wore khaki pants with heavy boots and tool belts at their waists; they, she assumed, were the builders.
‘Who are these people?’ Matt asked Alison, staring at the newcomers.
‘They’re kindly going to help translate,’ she replied tersely.