Page 8 of The Little Provence Book Shop

‘It’s nothing.’ Monique turned from the fridge with three glasses of cinnamon-topped chocolate mousse on a tray. They both looked at the little nest Lili had made on the armchair in the corner, her tucked-in legs and arms, her tousled hair, her closed eyes.

‘Perhaps we will save hers for tomorrow,’ Monique said.

‘Yes, I think so!’ Adeline replied, draining the last drops of her red wine. It was a heavy blend, rather bitter, but had gone well with Monique’s mushroom quiche and green vegetables.

The meal had been Monique’s idea – a way to mark the end of Adeline’s first week at La Petite Librairie. ‘We can go to the cafe, or perhaps to my place?’ she’d suggested.

They’d opted for Monique’s flat above the shop in the end; Adeline had felt it would be easier with Lili – her little girl seemed exhausted by her first week of schooling. Not weighed down as much as spent – she’d run and coloured and sung and created to her heart’s content, and bedtime stories at their littlehouse had turned into relayed events from each of their days. After nibbling the crust of her quiche, she’d quietly gone to the armchair and curled up and they hadn’t had the heart to admonish her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Adeline had said, looking at the wasted food.

‘No, it is fine. She needs to sleep; it’s important.’

It was half past eight and the April sun had just begun to set, spilling orange rays across the roofs in the square, dusting the buildings with a warm, fading light. The courtyard was dark, the fountain silent, the patisserie closed. Downstairs, the books were neatly arranged on shelves, new releases filed, packages wrapped for the Saturday morning, but for now everything was silent there too.

Monique placed the cold mousse in front of Adeline and sat in the chair opposite. They both dipped their spoons in and, almost as if it had been synchronised, closed their eyes as the rich chocolate flavour flooded their mouths. ‘This is delicious!’ Adeline said.

‘Merci; it was my mother’s recipe.’ A shadow of sadness flitted across Monique’s face – the kind that, if you weren’t familiar with her habitual expressions, you might not notice at all. Adeline wondered, not for the first time, how old Monique might be. Sometimes she estimated her at fifty, other times closer to sixty. Was it rude to ask someone’s age in France? Possibly. ‘I added the cinnamon for protection and good fortune.’

‘And flavour?’ Adeline joked, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

‘Perhaps its scent,’ Monique said thoughtfully. She looked at Adeline. ‘You are uncomfortable. But people have used cinnamon for centuries for warding off bad luck, encouraging good luck and healing. I have cinnamon sticks close to the door.’

‘And do they work?’

Monique shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But what I do know is, they cannot harm me.’

Adeline nodded; it was a good point. She wasn’t sure about some of Monique’s ideas, but they were harmless if nothing else. ‘Plus, handy to have plenty to sprinkle on mousse!’ she joked, taking another spoonful of the delicious dessert. ‘How long have you lived in St Vianne?’ she asked.

‘Oh, many, many years,’ Monique said, flicking her hand dismissively as if the effort of counting would be far too much. ‘I was quite young when I arrived, and I had been travelling. I had no thoughts to stay. Yet here I am.’ She laughed. ‘Sometimes life makes the decisions for us.’ She touched the stone around her neck.

‘So you’d been travelling?’

Monique shrugged. ‘Yes, perhaps you could call it this. But I was not one of those children who go on to a gap year, a break in studies. It was not pleasant like that. I was running away, trying to find somewhere to make a new start. I stayed in some places where I felt lost or afraid. Then I came to St Vianne and in time I was made to feel welcome – at least most of the time.’

‘So you stayed.’

‘So I stayed.’ Monique looked at Adeline, her pupils rapidly moving as if she were studying her face closely. Adeline felt herself get red.

‘You said most of the time?’ Adeline prompted.

Monique laughed. ‘Ah yes. Well, there were moments. And who can say whether it was my fault. I was impetuous then, hot-headed. I wanted to do things my own way. And not everyone liked this. Some of the people were suspicious of me, a stranger from Paris. People say Paris is the capital of France, but in reality, from here, it feels like another country.’

Adeline nodded. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Some people – perhaps some of the older people in particular – did not warm to me at first. And when I opened my shop and began to sell books in my own way, not everyone liked this either. But I told myself that this was OK. As long as I was being true to myself and I wasn’t hurting anyone, it didn’t matter if they liked me.’

‘That’s amazing; I wish I could feel like that,’ Adeline began.

‘Mais attends!’ Monique said. ‘This is what Itoldmyself. But I did not alwaysfeelthat way. In reality, it took a few years for me to feel that this was my home. And to realise that even though people resist change sometimes, it doesn’t mean they won’t accept it after a little more time. People don’t like to be shaken up; they want the world to stay small, predictable. But what we want and what we need, they are not always the same.’

Adeline grinned. ‘Yes. I see that.’

One or two of the customers had been a little perturbed by her presence in the shop this week. Some walked past her as if she were invisible, going straight to Monique. Others had eyed her suspiciously. One or two had opened the door but changed their minds. But most of the people had been friendly, interested. Perhaps, like Monique, in time, she would begin to feel less on edge, more capable.

‘What were you running from?’ she added.

‘What?’

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