Page 81 of Love In Provence
‘Oh, yes, it’s definitely okay! In fact, I would say doctor’s orders!’
33
We set out the tables and chairs with care for our last supper. There is still the smell of smoke in the air from the fire last night, a reminder of yesterday, but also a reminder to live for today. The mistral did a good job of clearing away the dust as she blew her way out of town, waving goodbye to the chaos she’d caused once more. The skies are clear and blue today, and a fresh start lies ahead, like a clean page in a diary.
Everyone has a job to do, except me. I’m under orders to sit in the shade of the chestnut tree with a glass of homemade lemonade. A jug of it has been put at my side.
‘Over a bit to the left with the bunting,’ I call to Jen and Maria. They look at me. ‘What? I can’t help it! And I am taking things easy!’
Earlier today, after a night in my own bed, I walkedwith Fabien to the bistro … or what had been the bistro. Now it’s a burned-out shell, the roof fallen into what was Henri’s sitting room above the restaurant. L’expérience lies in ruins.
‘It was never about the building,’ I said to Fabien, who was pushing his hair off his face. I gaze at his square jawline. ‘I shouldn’t have let it be about the building.’
I looked at the ruin.
‘No. Henri’s not only here, he’s everywhere in this town,’ Fabien said.
‘And that’s what we must celebrate, every day. He brought people together. Made them feel safe and supported. Made us the community we are. Our past, present and future.’
‘He did.’ He squeezed my hand.
‘He’ll always be part of us all.’
At thebrocante, we light the candles, put on the record player and set the table for whoever wants to join us in our final supper. Ed, Maria and Jen are serving all of Henri’s specialities that I’ve talked them through, with their own twists and side dishes. Keith has been baking with Stephanie, making lavender sourdough and little biscuits to go with lavender ice cream. Graham is on wine duty, making champagne cocktails with Henri’s brandy. Fabien is rigging up lighting, so the walls of thebrocanteare uplit, creating wonderful areas of lightand shade. And there are speakers so the music plays loudly, with JB’s help.
‘They can shut us down after tonight, if they like.’ I laugh.
Oh, and Keith has helpers in Tomas and little Louis, who adore him. He is making sure they help with the baking and laying the table. They are both determined to hand around the baskets of bread.
Now, we just have to hope people come for our final supper club. In some ways it feels like the wake after the funeral, as if yesterday we said goodbye to Henri and today we celebrate everything that was good about him.
And as the church bells ring out for seven o’clock, they arrive – the mayor, Carine, Serge, the shopkeepers, Adèle from the bakery, Samuel and the regulars at the riverside, who helped bring in the harvest. Fabien visited them and insisted they come.
We even run out of chairs and have to find more in the warehouse. There are bundles of lavender hanging from the walls and stems in vases on the table, filling the air with their soothing scent, helping to clear it of the fire.
As we start to serve, I notice everyone is helping, taking long platters of sharing starters to the tables. There is the oven-baked Camembert, soft and melting, drizzled in honey and sprinkled with thyme, little terracotta pots of chorizo and prawns in garlic and olive oil, bite-sized onion bhajis, more of the duckrilletteand cornichons with baskets of bread that Louis and Tomas hand around. There are bowls of spicy salsa made from ripe tomatoes and lemony guacamole from avocados bought that morning on the advice of Renard, at peak perfection.
When we have shared, passed, dipped, scooped and popped the last piece of bread into our mouths, everyone helps clear the tables.
Then we put out platters of spicy merguez sausages, lamb cutlets in garlic and rosemary, and barbecued vegetable kebabs, all cooked by Ed. Jen and Maria serve salads, crunchy carrot and celeriac, dressed in homemade mayonnaise, green salad, dressed in olive oil, red wine vinegar, garlic, mustard and a little sugar, as Henri showed me. There are big bowls of steaming new potatoes, in melting butter and showered with chives. Maria has made ratatouille, of aubergine, courgettes and tomatoes, cooked in peppery olive oil and garlic withherbes de Provence. There is something for everyone, cooked by everyone. Graham has even helped with custard tarts for dessert.
I sit quietly, drinking in the atmosphere. There is a wonderful sound that carries over the courtyard, the music, the conversations, the laughter, the memories and stories of Henri, who is still very much at the heart of our table. We are here. We are at home. It’s not about where you are, it’s about who you are. It’s about where we’ve come from and where we’re going.
Fabien looks at me and smiles. I smile back. Life may have hard times for us ahead, with the bistro gone, but Henri was right: don’t wait for life to stop being hard to be happy. I am happy. Whatever the future brings, I know that this is where I belong, and that Fabien and I belong together.
We eat and drink, then toast a terrific harvest.
‘To friendship old and new.’ Ed lifts his glass and holds it up to everyone around the table.
‘To Henri, for bringing us together, as he always does,’ says Fabien. Maria and Ed are holding hands under the table where they think no one can see them.
We raise our glasses again, and as we do, I spot a figure standing by the gates. I catch my breath. Everyone turns to look in the same direction.
The figure hesitates and I wonder if he’s going to leave.
Fabien is the first to stand and speak. ‘Come in. Everyone is welcome here.’ He holds out a hand.
‘Yes, come in, join us,’ I say, wondering how he’ll respond.
