Chapter 41
B y the time I’m back at the mill, the tea dance is ending. People are taking their chairs, plates and cutlery and weaving their way back to town. As they leave, they wish each other and me a ‘ bonne soirée ’.
The place is spotless. You would never think there had been such a party here. I brush away any stray tears and take a deep breath, hoping the quiver has gone from my voice.
‘Day off tomorrow, Madame B. It’s needed,’ I tell her firmly, and she agrees. I know she wants to say something, but we’re interrupted.
‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll talk business,’ says the mayor, carrying his record player. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing the plans for this place.’
My heart plummets. The only plan I have is to put it back on the market.
As the villagers leave, my phone pings.
It’s Annie’s husband, texting news I wanted never to hear but knew would come some day soon: It is with deep sadness I have to tell you that my darling Annie passed away peacefully this afternoon.
The following morning, I’m red-eyed from crying and lack of sleep.
I take my coffee and sit outside. In no time at all, the kingfishers reappear.
The message from Annie’s husband seems to have put everything in perspective.
Laurent’s prank with the baguette, our argument – it all seems irrelevant and stupid now.
What’s the point in holding a grudge about something, when none of us knows what’s around the corner?
All I can think about is Annie, her husband and children, robbed of their future together.
‘Thank you for being here,’ I say quietly to the kingfishers.
‘You have been my constant company when I needed you.’ I’m choked thinking about Annie.
It’s too soon, too unfair. I wish I could have done this for her, like she told me – to go and live life.
But I couldn’t make it work and I feel wretched.
I message the family WhatsApp group and tell them the sad news about Annie, and that I’ll be leaving France soon. I can’t wait to see them all.
I have the key in my bag to the boulangerie , ready to return it to the mayor. Then I will have to explain to Madame B that I’m shutting up shop and leaving.
I drive up to the square, ready to hand the keys to the bakery van back to Laurent.
As I turn towards the boulangerie to park, I wonder if I’m seeing things: there are tables and chairs outside, clearly from yesterday’s lunch, with people sitting at them.
They seem to be chatting, drinking coffee, eating bread – and it’s more than just the locals, I notice.
Just then, Laurent comes out of the boulangerie with a tray of coffee and a couple of the brownies from yesterday and puts them on the table. He’s wearing a black baker’s hat, white T-shirt and black jeans. He looks more than handsome. He stops and stares at me, making my insides leap.
I slide down from the driver’s seat and shut the door.
Everyone, it seems, is at the boulangerie , either helping or sitting and enjoying the early September weather, when the sun shines lazily, without June and July’s ferocity.
I walk across the square to where Gilles, his wife and friends are sitting together, drinking coffee and eating bread and butter with homemade jam.
The fisherwomen, with their husbands and children, are there.
The square is full of life as the children play and families gather with coffee and chat to one another.
Even Bibi and the mayor’s cat have made friends and are snuggled up together in the sun under one of the plane trees.
‘I thought I’d told Madame B we wouldn’t be opening today,’ I say to Laurent, as I look at the busy space in front of the boulangerie .
‘It seems the baker and the people wanting your bread had other ideas. When the van didn’t turn up, they came here to buy it. I brought the coffee machine over. I thought it might be useful. For your customers and the till.’
‘But what about the tabac ?’
‘This village can’t survive on coffee alone. It needs both: bread and coffee. The perfect partnership. Maybe even some British cakes.’ He smiles.
I shake my head. ‘But … I’m leaving.’
‘Not if we’ve made enough money,’ he says. ‘And not if you don’t want to.’
‘And,’ I say tentatively, ‘would that be okay with you?’
‘More than okay. Like I say, it’s time the past stayed exactly where it is. And I take the kingfishers as a sign that it’s time for a new, hopeful beginning. What about you? Can you forgive me for leaving that baguette?’
I can barely breathe I want this so much. I know what Annie would say: Forgive him, forget what doesn’t matter, and seize the day. Life is for living.
I nod and smile. ‘A line in the sand. Today is a new beginning.’
Then he takes my hand and leads me to the till, which he opens with a ping. Madame B is standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning expectantly.
‘Shall we?’ he says, and thrusts a handful of coins into my palm.
We start to count out the money, but as we’re nearing the end of the takings, I know it won’t be enough. ‘If I hadn’t had to give that money to Claude, we’d’ve made it.’
Madame B comes to stand beside me. ‘When someone loves you as much as you love them, don’t let them get away,’ she says quietly to me, and carries on outside into the sunshine, leaving me with Laurent.
‘It isn’t Claude or his bread or his vending machines that we all love around here. It’s you. We want you to stay. Whatever it takes.’ Laurent slides his hat from his head. ‘Tout le monde ,’ he says, as he steps out into the sunlight, addressing the customers.
‘No, Laurent, really, please don’t,’ I call after him.
But he takes no notice and begins in French: ‘I may not have been the most welcoming of neighbours when Juliet first arrived in our village. In fact, I was pretty confident she wasn’t going to be sticking around and even left her an unwelcome gift on the doorstep to let her know so.
I was furious when the mill was sold, but I’ve come to realise it couldn’t be in better hands.
Between the mill and the bakery, this village finally has its heart back. ’
I look at Madame B blushing, standing next to the mayor. And I wonder if the confirmed bachelorette may be changing her mind about life outside her apartment.
‘This bakery will only carry on if we all pull together, and we need to help Juliet here to make sure that happens, for the bakery van to keep doing its rounds … unless you’d rather go back to a vending machine for your daily bread.’
‘ Non, non! ’ I hear.
‘There is a story about an old man who had nothing. He put on a pan of water to cook over an open fire and put a stone into it. A neighbour passed and asked what he was cooking, and he said it was stone soup. The neighbour was intrigued, and offered to bring some vegetables to add to it. Another neighbour passed and also offered a contribution. And so it went on, until there was a delicious pot of soup for everyone to share, at which point the old man took out the stone. Stone soup is about the community.’
He reaches into his top pocket, pulls out a euro and drops it into the hat. And then the hat is being passed around, and as well as can the coins being dropped in, I see notes too.
Laurent smiles at me. ‘One euro can get you out of a lot of trouble.’
‘Or into it,’ I say, and giggle.
The hat comes round again and is handed back to Laurent. ‘I’m pretty sure that will cover what went to Claude.’
‘Wait. I haven’t put mine in. How much do you need?’ says the mayor, raising a hand.
Laurent proffers the hat.
Mayor Bertrand puts in a euro. ‘And if you need any more, I have a jar of lucky euros for just this kind of moment.’ He beams. ‘We all want you to stay, Juliet, if you will,’ he says.
I look at Laurent. ‘Say yes,’ he says. ‘Say oui !’
‘And if you want to turn the mill into a salon de thé , you have my permission,’ calls the mayor.
‘I think,’ I say, ‘I’m happy being a baker’s assistant and driving my van.’
‘If you’re looking for another baker’s assistant,’ Vivianne, Claude’s wife, steps forward, ‘I know my way around a boulangerie .’
‘That would be marvellous,’ I tell her.
‘And, erm … I was wondering how you’d feel about expanding into coffee and hot chocolate?’ asks Laurent.
‘But the tabac ?’
‘Better that we work as a team. I could make sandwiches for customers here too.’
‘Excellent idea,’ I say.
He leans in. ‘May I?’
‘Forget the etiquette, just kiss me.’ And he does.
Suddenly there is a loud bang. It’s Monsieur Martin, in his electric car, reversing and hitting the vending machine.
‘Looks like we’ll all need to get our bread from somewhere else,’ says Laurent.
A cheer breaks out among the crowd gathered there, and we hear the slam of a car door as Claude parks his white van and gets out, furious with Monsieur Martin.
‘I know a good miller,’ I say.
‘The miller and the baker should always be good friends, very good friends.’
‘What about more than friends?’
‘In this case, definitely more than friends,’ he says, and kisses me again. And I know I’m exactly where I want to be: at the heart of this little French village.
‘Ouch,’ I say, as I lean into him.
‘What’s up?’
I reach in and pull the euro from my top pocket. It was pressing sideways into me. ‘Someone once told me I should never be without one. It’s my lucky euro.’
‘You never know when you might need it,’ he reminds me. ‘Or where it might take you!’
He kisses me again, and it’s as if I’m waking after a long winter hibernation, emerging where bright, brilliant sunshine bounces off the lake and there is always a flash of the kingfishers’ blue to remind me of good things to come.