CHAPTER 12
The following morning, my phone’s ringtone catapults me upright in bed. I try to acclimatize myself after a night of weird, stressful dreams in which Fabien was running off with Monique, hand in hand, laughing at me, and I was desperately trying to find Henri but he kept disappearing.
It was a hot night and I’m sure few of us will have slept through it. I dropped off in the slightly cooler early-morning hours, my head churning with so many thoughts and worries, my mind playing all sorts of tricks on me in the dark hours before dawn, with only the cicadas’ song for company. Then I slept deeply, thrashing around in my bad dreams, and now – I can’t believe it! – I’ve overslept.
I grapple for my phone, hoping to hear Fabien’s reassuring voice. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t recognize the number. Perhaps it’s the glazier.
I dial it back.
‘?llo? C’est Del ici,’ I reply, when the caller answers. ‘Are you ringing about Henri’s?’
‘Oui!’ says the man’s voice at the other end of the line.
‘Alors!’ I say. ‘I’ll be right with you. Stay where you are!’
I hang up, pull on a linen dress and slip my feet into my flip-flops.
‘Rhi,’ I call, rushing down the stairs as I tie up my hair to keep it off my neck. ‘I have to go to the bistro. The window men are there. Can you start things off here for me this morning?’
For a moment she’s daunted and I worry she’s not up to it.
Then she gives a nod and a small smile. ‘Of course I can. You go and sort out Henri’s. That’s the most important thing. We need to get it open and then perhaps we can hold the wake in it after the service. Carine is going to speak to the mayor and the priest.’
‘Good idea!’ I say, and find myself smiling. ‘We can get everyone together there to celebrate Henri.’
‘I can hold the fort here,’ says Rhi. ‘In fact, I’m enjoying the time in the field. Time to think or not, talk or not. It’s good. It’s helping.’ I’d see her and Jen working in the field side by side as they cut the crop, occasionally sharing stories of their past.
‘You sure? The bakery van will be here any minute. And the coffee machine needs to go on.’
‘I’ll be fine. You go.’ She shoos me away with her hands. ‘Get Henri’s place sorted out. That’s the best thing you can do. We’ll do him proud with a fabulous lunch there for all to say their goodbyes. He would’ve liked that.’ Her eyes sparkle with tears.
‘He would,’ I reply. And once I’m back in the kitchen there, in my happy place, I know my recipes will come back to me, Henri guiding me as he always has. We need to get the bistro open in time for his wake.
I hurry down the dusty drive from Le Petit Mas, as the mist leaves the fields, and wave to the pickers emerging from their accommodation. Jen appears from her camper van and stretches, as if she has an aching back. But she waves back cheerily. Then I wave to Adèle in the bakery van on its way to the farmhouse and gesture that someone will meet her there. Then I head to the pathway that runs along the riverbank, past the clearing under the big larch tree, by the hut where I’ve posted my note, which is still there, and where I bid the men sitting there, playing chess, ‘Bonjour.’ They call that they hope to see me back at the clearing soon. I hope so too, and I feel a bubbling sense of excitement. With the harvest on its way, and the new window about to go in, we can start to move forward and put the world back on its axis, even if there is a hole in it. This is good, I think. Very good. This is progress. Life has to go on, and reopening Henri’s is how I’m going to achieve that.
I reach the end of the river pathway, cross the road, walk up the main street, then down the shady side-street towards Henri’s bistro, the square and the town hall beyond it. I’m still finding it odd with the olive tree missing – like everything else it’ll take time to get used to its absence. But we’ll be opening again soon.
There’s a man outside looking up at the front of the bistro. He’s not quite as I was expecting. He’s there on his own, dressed in light chinos and a white linen shirt. A very attractive man. Well-built and smart. He’s on his phone. I can’t see any sign of the new window or a team of fitters. I slow as I near him. He spots me and finishes his call, raising a hand. He puts his phone into his pocket and waits for me to come and stand in front of him.
‘Bonjour! Je suis Del.’ I put out my hand for him to shake. I’m still glancing around for a van that tells me he’s come with the new painted pane.
He takes my hand.
‘You’ve come about Henri’s, oui?’ I ask, regarding the sad boarded-up window, the closed dark-wood shutters above and the empty space where the olive tree once stood. The chairs and tables that are a feature of this alleyway are still stacked outside where we put them when the mistral blew in and caused its havoc. It’s a miracle the board is still there and we haven’t had any attempts at a break-in. ‘I need to get this sorted as soon as possible. Quickly,’ I say firmly to the man. ‘Très vite!’
He nods. ‘I agree.’ He has sunglasses on but there’s something familiar about him. I wonder if he’s eaten here before.
‘The mistral took down the tree and we haven’t been open since,’ I say, ‘and now we need to reopen.’
Again, he nods.
‘People are missing the restaurant being open. It’s very popular with the locals,’ I insist. ‘And we have a special event to organize.’
He nods again, irritating me now. ‘It does need to be addressed as soon as possible,’ he agrees.
‘Are you actually here to fix the window? What was your name? I didn’t catch it,’ I ask, once again looking for a large piece of glass to replace the chipboard.
He looks at his phone, then up at me. ‘I’m not here about the window.’ He smiles, pulling off his sunglasses. It’s a very attractive smile, and again, I’m familiar with it.
‘Oh?’ I frown.
‘I got your number from the card in the window. You’re Del, you said?’ He looks almost pleased with himself.
‘Yes.’ I’m confused. ‘I thought you said you were here about Henri’s.’ I feel niggled.
‘I am.’
‘Well, I’m Henri’s partner in the business. How can I help?’
The smile drops from his lips. ‘I’m Zacharie, Henri’s son,’ he says. I stare at him. It’s like a flashback in a film to a younger Henri, before the silver-grey set in, the stomach filled out, the laughter lines appeared and the hairline receded.
‘Of course! I can see the resemblance now.’ I throw open my arms and step forward. ‘I’m so sorry about your dad. We all are. I’m so pleased you’re here. We’ve just been talking about arranging a service for him.’
I wrap my arms around him and wait for him to hug me back. But to my surprise, and slight awkwardness, he doesn’t lean forward to me at all. I draw back, and feel as if I’ve been drunkenly hugging a lamppost. I cough and clear my throat.
‘Like I say, we were just talking about arranging a service, so I’m glad you’re here.’
He looks at the bistro, then back at me and says drily, ‘That’s okay. I have it all in hand.’
‘Okay, I’ll let everyone know. I think everyone needs it. Especially Rhi.’
‘Rhi?’ He sounds distracted. It’s probably grief, I think. Being here, at his father’s home.
‘Rhi. His partner. She’s staying with me.’
‘Ah, yes. The woman who was with him when he died. The solicitor told me. I couldn’t remember her name. In that case, I’d like to meet with her.’
‘Of course. Come to my farmhouse for lunch. She’ll be there. And don’t worry about the window. We’ll have it fixed in no time. I’m getting the writing done just the same.’
‘Don’t worry. There’s no need for a new sign.’
‘Oh, but I think we should have one. It looks so good. And, as I say, I’m a partner in the business.’
He turns to me with piercing blue eyes. ‘But not in the building,’ he says flatly.
‘Pardon?’
‘A partner in name only … in the business but not in the building. I own that now. Me and my sister.’
For a moment my jaw waggles up and down. I’m not sure what to say or even if I’ve heard him right. ‘Well, no. Okay. If you don’t want the name on the window, I’m sure we can work around that. I mean, people know where we are. They know Henri’s.’
Carine is hurrying towards me. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you,’ she says, through gritted teeth.
‘Sorry, I’ve been here with Zacharie, Henri’s son.’
‘Yes, we’ve met,’ she says, giving little away.
‘You have?’ I’m wondering if he is one of Carine’s romantic encounters. I look between the two of them. Zacharie is smiling. Carine isn’t. Although he’s very attractive, it isn’t a warm smile. There’s an atmosphere that I can’t read.
‘We were just talking about the business, getting it up and running again,’ I tell her.
‘You were?’ She attempts a frown, not very successfully.
‘Actually, you were talking about that,’ says Zacharie. ‘I was talking about the building. The one I own now. I’m having it valued.’
Despite the heat of the day, I’m suddenly very cold.