CHAPTER 13
‘Now, you mentioned lunch?’ He gives a wide, attractive smile, reminding me of Henri. I thaw a little. ‘Give me the address and I’ll be there.’
My hands shake as I describe how to get to Le Petit Mas. He’s Henri’s son, I remind myself. He’s in shock. Henri would want me to welcome him.
‘I’ll see you there,’ I say, hoping we can sit down and talk about Henri over a glass of wine and some bread and cheese. I really hope he enjoys hearing how fond we all were of Henri and how much Rhi loved him.
‘Oh, and, Del?’
‘Oui?’ I say, turning back to him.
‘Les clefs? The keys. I’d like to take some time to look around my father’s home, if that’s okay.’ He gives me another smile, reminding me again of Henri, and holds out a hand.
‘Of course!’ I say quickly. ‘Take your time. It’s a beautiful home. So much like him.’ I rummage in my bag and pull out the keys.
I’m about to tell him there’s a spare set under the geraniums to the right of the door, but he turns to Carine and says, ‘Will you join me?’
‘Oui, bien s?r,’ she says, shrugs in her usual way and looks at me.
I can’t read her expression – perhaps that’s down to the Botox. But I wonder if this could be the start of something and back away. ‘I’ll make myself scarce,’ I tell her.
They can spend some time talking about Henri. It’ll be good for them. We can discuss his service over lunch at Le Petit Mas.
Zacharie must be hurting. Henri would want us to look after him. He and Carine may be good for each other.
‘Your father’s things are just as he left them,’ I say. ‘You can feel Henri’s presence as soon as you walk into the apartment, like Rhi did. Finding comfort in just being there. Actually, I need to look through his paperwork, get it into order. Find out who the insurers are for the window.’
He nods. It must be a lot for him to take in right now.
Besides, he probably needs to get the place valued for probate or whatever they have in France. It will all be part of the process. Carine is the best person to be there for him right now.
‘Your father was very proud of this place,’ I say, feeling comforted by talking about Henri. Little steps. ‘I’m looking forward to you seeing it up and running again.’
‘Hmm, me too,’ he says, this time without a smile. But why would he? His father has just died, and not just any father: Henri.
‘I’ll see you at Le Petit Mas for lunch.’
‘See you then,’ he replies, turning from me. And Carine kisses me on both cheeks, with more affection than she would usually show. Usually Carine barely touches your cheek when saying goodbye or hello. This time as she does, I get a slight jab from her high cheekbone against my cheek and I’m hoping that now we can all start to move forward. Get the bistro running again, money, which I really need to keep the pickers fed, coming in, and soon, hopefully, the harvest will be over and Fabien will be home. Little steps, I think again, but good ones, moving forward. I turn up the alleyway, leave them to it.
I text Fabien as I walk, letting him know that Zacharie is here and how I’m hoping this will mean we can arrange a service for Henri and start to move on with our lives. I add that I’m missing him.
Fabien doesn’t reply.
Lunch in the open-side barn is a quiet affair. It’s hot, and getting hotter, when the pickers come in from the field and head to their accommodation for showers. The barn is welcomingly cool.
I’ve told Rhi that Zacharie is here and excited to meet her. She feels the same. I go to greet him when he arrives.
‘Let me show you around.’ I hold out an arm to Zacharie.
‘This is where we’re harvesting first.’ I show him the field, wishing once again that Fabien was here to speak to him. He knew Henri for far longer than I did. If Fabien was here he’d find common ground. He has a way of doing that. And suddenly I’m thinking about him and Monique, again, finding their common ground … when they used to hang out together as youngsters, members of a cool band. I shake myself. Is this all in my head? Has anything happened to make me think he’s reconnecting with Monique? No! She just called him to go for lunch. Just like I’m here having lunch with Zacharie. It means nothing. Stop it, Del! It’s the shock of Henri’s death, reminding me that nothing is for ever. But we have today! The here and now.
‘It was this view I fell in love with,’ I tell Zacharie. And I’m transported back to when I first arrived. ‘Actually, I didn’t think there was any way on earth I could live here. I was a complete fish out of water. But something big, a break from my past, made me see how beautiful this place is. I could imagine the field being full of lavender again. Like this. But it’s taken time to get here. Things do, don’t they? Little by little. Next year I hope to have a still in one of the barns,’ I tell him. I’m determined to make it happen, once Fabien is home and the harvest is over. The money from the sale of the lavender could go towards it.
I have no idea if I’m saying the right things or helping Zacharie in any way.
‘I lost my mother just before we came to live in France. Although I was an adult, I felt lost. It made me look at myself, I suppose, and where I was in life.’
He says nothing. Not the common ground I was hoping for. My mouth feels dry. I can’t think about my mother on top of everything else right now. I cough to try to ease my tightening throat. ‘What do you do for a living, Zacharie?’
He looks at me steadily. ‘I’m a chef,’ he says evenly.
I brighten. ‘Like your dad?’
‘No,’ he says, stony-faced. ‘I said I’m a chef. Trained. In Paris. Not a self-taught cook, like Henri. I offer French cuisine. Not something out of my grandmother’s kitchen.’
I feel as if I’ve been slapped. Tears sting my eyes as my cheeks burn. I’m embarrassed, hurt, shocked and angered by his comments about the food that means so much to me. He’s grieving, I remind myself. I swallow hard and point in the direction of the barn where the pickers are gathering.
‘We should go and meet the others,’ I say firmly, searching for a distraction while I bite my tongue.
‘Woof! It’s hot out there today.’ Marco takes a bottle of beer from the fridge and pings off the cap on the side of the table, making me wince.
‘This is Marco,’ I tell Zacharie. ‘He’s from Australia, here to help pick the lavender.’
He raises his bottle and Zacharie nods, seemingly unimpressed with this informal style of greeting.
As everyone arrives and is introduced, they take the bread out of its bag, the cheese and ham from the fridge. Jen washes the large ripe tomatoes and dries them, then slices them, drizzles them with dark green peppery olive oil and tears basil over them. Ed cuts the bread. Maria folds and curls the ham onto a plate and Graham sets up the wine, while Keith makes sure there are enough seats and cushions for everyone. The scent of the lavender is weaving its way to us from the drying barn where Rhi has been bunching it. It’s in the cushion covers, our clothes, and on the warm summer breeze.
‘Please, take a seat,’ I say, pointing to the best chair and cushion. But Zacharie doesn’t move. He’s watching as everyone puts plates and glasses on the table. Brightly coloured and mismatched glasses, worn patterned plates and an assortment of cutlery, some of which is heavy and expensive, the rest cheap and cheerful.
‘Would you like wine?’ Graham asks, holding up the jug and a pretty little one-off glass with a short stem.
Zacharie eyes the jug as if he’s been offered cyanide and holds up a hand in refusal. He turns to me and asks, ‘Where is Rhi?’
‘She’s coming now,’ I say, pointing to her. She’s pushing her sweaty hair off her face, pulling off her gloves and running an arm over her forehead as she comes straight from the barn where she’s been hanging the bundles of lavender.
‘Rhi, this is Zacharie, Henri’s son. I told you I’d met him this morning.’ I’m trying to warn her with my eyes that he’s a bit prickly.
She stares at him for a moment and then, much like I did, flings her arms around him in his cream jacket and doesn’t let go for some time.
Finally, he steps back, peeling her arms from around him with what can only be described as horror on his face, and brushes at his jacket.
‘It’s so good to meet you,’ Rhi carries on enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling, taking in the resemblance. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from Henri.’
‘Really?’ he says, still dusting at his jacket, and Ralph jumps around excitedly, kicking up more dust from the driveway. Zacharie waves a hand in front of his face to clear the air. ‘In that case, you’ll know that Henri and I have been estranged for some time. We were not close,’ he says, still brushing traces of her hot, sticky body from his jacket.
‘But,’ Rhi frowns, ‘he was your father. He loved you. Whatever differences you may have had …’
‘That was between me and Henri, who now can’t comment,’ he says.
I can see the shock on Rhi’s face. His use of Henri’s name seems so pointed and wrong. Rhi looks broken all over again. I think she was hoping to find some comfort in meeting Henri’s son, a joyous piece of a puzzle to slot into its place and make this easier. But no.
‘Here, sit, please. Let’s eat.’ I’m trying to ease the tension, and the group around the table help me by sitting down, picking up plates of meat and cheese and passing them to each other.
‘Actually, when you suggested lunch, I wasn’t expecting a peasant’s picnic,’ Zacharie says. ‘Please, enjoy. I can see you have the palates of tourists.’
There’s a sharp intake of breath. The pickers look at each other and shift uncomfortably. Suddenly I’m not in the mood for bad manners, however difficult Zacharie may be finding this. We have all been through testing times, but that is no excuse for rudeness. I lift my chin. ‘There is no need to be rude.’
He sniffs, infuriating me further.
‘These are my guests. You should either sit and join us, or leave, if you can’t be polite.’
‘Willingly,’ he sneers, and I’m suddenly burning with anger. How dare he? I roll my hands into tight balls. I feel hot tears in my eyes.
‘Your father wouldn’t have wanted this kind of behaviour,’ Rhi says.
‘And how would you know what my father wanted? You were just his bed-warmer!’
There’s another sharp intake of breath and I squeeze my fists even tighter.
‘Hey, now,’ says Graham, sharply.
‘How dare you?’ Jen cuts in.
I had not seen our lunch going like this. ‘I think you’d better go,’ I tell him.
‘I shall. Enjoy your picnic.’ He turns to Rhi. ‘But first – Rhi, is it?’ I’m sure he knows her name but is just doing it for effect. ‘You have something that belongs to me?’
I glare at him. ‘She does?’
He stares at me with ridiculously familiar eyes, the same shape and colour but lacking the maturity, sense and kindness of his father.
‘Yes. My father,’ he says, and Rhi’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Could you hand him over, please? I’ll be arranging a proper funeral. I’d like his ashes.’ He holds out a hand.
‘About the funeral,’ I say, as calmly as I can. ‘We will all want to be involved with that. We have some ideas. Favourite music. Perhaps we could get someone to speak about the work he has done in the town, the people he has helped. And open the bistro so that people can come back there for canapés and drinks. Reopening Henri’s with Henri right there!’ I try to mend the cracks that have quickly appeared between us.
‘I have a meeting to be at. Now, his ashes?’
Rhi walks to the farmhouse, and we stand in silence as she returns with the urn, holding it tightly to her, sniffing but more composed.
‘As I said, I had some ideas about his funeral. Perhaps we can meet for coffee and discuss them.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Thank you,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, it won’t be necessary?’ I ask.
‘I’ll be arranging a quick and very private service.’ He’s prising the urn away from Rhi. She clings to it before she lets it go. He holds it out in front of him, like a piece of decaying fish.
‘A private service?’
‘Yes, a family one. Just us.’
‘Wait. You can’t do that!’ Rhi says angrily.
‘I think you’ll find I can. My sister and I want a small, quick service so we can move on with our lives. I suggest you do too.’
With that, Rhi runs into the house, tears streaming down her face.