Page 33 of Love In Provence
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 andangered 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 Ralphjumps 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 throughtesting 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.
