Chapter 22
It’s Thursday, five days after our Fourth of July fireworks bonanza, and Jackson and I are at a pizza restaurant in town, grabbing a bite to eat.
We’ve just been to check on the progress on the pavilion—the restoration is coming along, although not particularly quickly.
It’s summer, it’s baking hot: I’m not sure anyone wants to work outside right now.
It’s been a whole week since I last saw étienne.
I’ve reached out to him a couple of times, chasing Louis’s email address—which I could have got from Louis himself via text—and asking if he wants to come and see the pavilion in the daylight.
Both times he took ages to respond and in his last message he revealed that he went to the pavilion earlier this week with Lise.
I tried to start up a text conversation, asked how he was, and he replied that he was busy with work—after leaving me on read for three hours.
He’s left me on read today too. I messaged him this morning to say that I have the contract ready for him to sign, and then I found myself texting him when we decided to come here, suggesting he could drop by if he fancies a pizza. No reply.
I’ve really liked hanging out with him. I thought he liked hanging out with me too. Did Lise say something to him last week to warn him off? His sudden lack of engagement is making me feel kind of sick and uneasy.
I’ve also felt a bit rubbish this week because I know that it’s time I started looking for another job. I’d intended to try to line something up to go back home to, but the thought of leaving France right now is…
I can’t even bear to think about it.
Jackson is talking about the unit price of bottles. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I surreptitiously check my phone again and see that an email has come in from Louis.
“Sorry,” I say, holding up a finger. “Email from Louis with the mock-up design.”
Oh. It won’t download as there’s hardly any phone reception, but he’s also written a long message in French. I almost pass it to Jackson to translate, but I hesitate.
I’d rather ask étienne.
What is wrong with me? I have the undivided attention of the man that I’ve been in love with since I was fifteen and I can’t stop thinking about someone else.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up.
Are you still out? étienne has asked.
My heart thumps as I reply: I’m at a restaurant but I’m going to the market in a bit. Why?
Come have a drink with us, he suggests.
Where are you? I ask.
Text when you’re at the bandstand. I’ll find you. Another message follows: Him too.
I glance up at Jackson. His eyes are steady on mine. They’re such a lovely dappled mix of bark brown and leaf green.
“étienne has invited us for a drink,” I say.
The pizza restaurant is on the other side of town and I thought it was well worth the walk earlier, but now it feels like forever away as we traipse along the back streets, past the casino complex and public swimming pool and into the park where the Thursday-night summer market takes place.
The market is like something out of a dream.
I’ve come every week since I’ve been here and each time I’ve been swallowed up with nostalgia, remembering summers past. Seeing Mellie behind her table with her stoneware bowls and cups laid out so beautifully on her wooden tiered display stand has filled me with overwhelming love and affection.
I feel the same way now as we approach her stall.
“Hang on,” I say to Jackson, putting my hand out.
Tourists and locals swarm around us as we stand in the middle of the path.
“What’s up?” Jackson asks, perplexed.
“I just want to watch her for a minute.”
She’s talking to a customer, her face lit with passion.
She laughs and I swear I can see the blue in her eyes from here.
She’s wearing a pale yellow linen dress and she has her long gray hair tied into a braid that reminds me of Estelle’s.
étienne was robbed of seeing his mother grow old.
And here I am, looking at Mellie, age seventy-six, and knowing that time is extraordinarily precious.
I hate that I have to go home as soon as this project wraps up.
“Are you okay?” Jackson asks as I blink back tears.
I nod. I can’t look at him, but I can sense his concern.
“Don’t you worry about Albert?” My voice sounds husky.
He puts his arm around my waist and guides me off the path. We hover behind one of the stalls, the sound of traditional French music filling the air from the live band.
“Of course I do.”
I look up at him. “You’re so far away, Jackson,” I say softly.
“I know.” His expression is pained.
“Why wouldn’t you move here? Like, now.”
He gives me the slightest shake of his head.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” he admits, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
He rakes his hand through his chestnut hair and gazes at me.
His jaw looks so square from this angle, so perfectly chiseled.
“I won’t always be able to run things from the States.
I certainly can’t do everything Albert does.
I’ve lain awake so many nights thinking about it. I know that he’s getting old.”
“Could you leave the distribution side of things to someone in America?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m just not sure that I want to settle here full time. Not yet, anyway. I’d miss New York. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to do after all this?”
“I need to start a new job search,” I reply despondently. “Like, yesterday.”
“Are you in that much of a rush to get back to working at an agency full-time?”
“I don’t want to. I don’t even really have to find a permanent position right away—I could probably get by until spring with what I’ve saved up and with what you guys are paying me—but I’m not one to fly by the seat of my pants.”
He pauses. “What if you didn’t have to go back to the UK? Didn’t you always dream of running your own company? If you’ve got some money to tide you over, couldn’t you stay here and give it a shot? Maybe do some freelance work to subsidize it?”
My natural instinct is to shake my head and dismiss the possibility—I need a safe, secure job that’s going to pay my rent and allow me to sleep at night.
But what job is safe and secure? Do I really want to go back and work at another big, soulless agency? I was exhausted when I came here.
I feel like a different person now. And although I’ve felt a bit down over the last week, it’s not been because of work—work’s been amazing. I’m sleeping better, eating well, my skin is glowing, and the bags are long gone from my eyes. Being here is exactly what I needed.
Who’s waiting for me back in London? Tasha and Ryan are happy on their own. Mum’s abroad. I’d miss my friends, but it’s not as though we see loads of each other. What do I actually have to rush home to?
“We should have talked about this at dinner,” Jackson says as he watches my mind tick over.
“You were too busy discussing the cost of bottles,” I tease.
“And you were too busy checking your phone,” he replies.
Touché.
I involuntarily press my fingertips to my warm cheeks and stare up at him. His smile does not reach his eyes.
“Let’s go and see Mellie. And then I need to text étienne.”
He gives me a curt nod and we venture out into the path of tourists.
After watching Mellie working from afar only a few minutes ago and feeling overcome with emotion, I want to get my fix of her, but she has so many friends and customers popping by her stall that she really doesn’t have time for me.
In the end I text étienne, give Mellie a kiss on her cheek, and tell her that we’re going for a drink. “Do you need some help packing up later?”
“Nope, it’s a well-oiled machine, as I keep telling you,” she says. “Go and have fun.”
We wait near the bandstand. It’s getting on to 9 p.m. and the light is fading fast, but everything still looks so vibrant.
I cast my eyes over the scene, see the golden light spilling from stalls filled with regional produce: artisanal biscuits, local honey and chestnut goods, olives, cheeses and cured meats, plants and candles and brightly colored bottles of herbal and lithotherapy products.
My eyes wander to the group of twentysomethings playing live music in the bandstand, led by a gorgeous singer in a red dress.
I glance up at the tall trees and notice that the lit-up leaves are even more vividly green than they are in the daytime.
I drink everything in and feel a surge of happiness mixed with hope and optimism and the realization that I do not need to go home.
I could stay here. I could run freelance projects, be a digital nomad, live the dream.
I could work with small or local businesses, take an online course to improve my French and maybe speak to some of the family-run companies who’ve underestimated their ability to scale up.
If people are willing to pay five pounds for a bag of artisanal crisps, how much would they shell out for gorgeous candied chestnuts or a jar of delicious chestnut cream?
I have plenty of experience of working with food and drink; this is viable.
This is how I could crack the work-life balance.
My phone buzzes, jolting me from my daydream.
It’s a message from étienne: What are you thinking?
I frown at my phone, and then I glance up and scan the crowd.
I spot him on the other side of the bandstand, wearing a white T-shirt.
His forearms are propped on the railing, his hands dangling loosely over the side.
His dark hair curls down across his forehead and his eyes are hooded as he watches me with a secretive-looking smile on his face.
He appears very relaxed, as though he’s been there awhile.
Either that or he’s had a few.
I give him an amused look as I pocket my phone and tap Jackson’s arm. étienne lazily watches our approach as we walk around the bandstand. Only when we’re two feet apart does he straighten up.
“Bonsoir,” he drawls.