Page 16 of Love In Provence
I head back up the track, the lavender either side of me waving in the light breeze as if it’s cheering me on, putting purpose into my steps.
Back in the kitchen, the coffee is nearly ready, filling the kitchen with some sense of normality. I grab a pile of plates and cups and take them outside to the terrace.
Stephanie arrives in her van and walks over to meet me on the terrace.
‘Bonjour!’ We kiss each other and little Louis. Tomas has gone to school with JB, his father.
‘I came to see how you are,’ she says.
I shrug. ‘How are you?’
‘Sad,’ she replies.
‘I know.’ And I hug her. ‘Me too. But he’s here with us. He’d want us to get this harvest in, and that’s what we’re going to do.’
She nods. ‘He would. I’ll come to help after I’ve done my deliveries.’
‘You don’t have to. You could have some time off, with the bistro still closed.’
‘I want to. Like you say, it feels as if he’s here, with all of us, and I want to hold on to that. With the bistro shut, this seems like the closest I can get to him, with Rhi and his friends, looking at the town he loved.’ We gaze out at the roofs and the bell tower on the church where the bells chime.
My throat prickles, but still no tears come. ‘Let’s get the pickers ready. Breakfast, then work.’
We go round and tap on all the doors of our pickers in the barn and Jen’s camper van to let them know that breakfast has arrived.
‘Hi, Ed. Breakfast on the terrace.’
‘Maria? Marco?’
‘Keith and Graham?’
I knock on each of their doors in the barn.
They all seem wary, and I’m guessing they’re wondering what kind of burned offerings I’m going to serve up this morning. Hopefully, the buttery, flakycroissants, still warm baguettes, with pale unsalted butter and homemade myrtle and apricot jam, will be just what they need.
‘I feel I owe you an explanation,’ I say, holding my coffee cup against my chest, which is still tight with tension. I breathe in the restorative steam, which evaporates like the early-morning mist as the group sit around the table, helping themselves to the croissants and bread.
‘Not for me. I think I’m slightly gluten intolerant,’ says Graham, holding up a hand as the basket is passed round.
‘Oh, sorry, I should have asked,’ I say, kicking myself. Usually I would.
‘It gives him gas,’ says Keith, matter-of-factly.
‘Keith! Do you have to be so graphic!’ snaps Graham.
‘Mind if I have yours, then, mate?’ Marco says politely, and reaches for another croissant. ‘Starving after missing dinner last night.’ And I see everyone cringe at the reminder of last night’s disaster.
‘I was just explaining!’ Keith looks hurt, and Graham is cross as he brings out a packet from his rucksack.
‘I have my own crispbreads, thank you,’ he says, ignoring Keith. They shuffle on the bench, turning slightly away from each other.
‘I should’ve thought,’ I say again apologetically. Keith and Graham look like they’re not speaking to each other. I want to make this better – make it fun, like it always has been.
I look at the dissipating mist from the lavender. If only my brain fog would clear in the same way. ‘Like I said, I owe you an explanation for yesterday.’
‘No, no, really,’ says Maria.
Ed shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
