Christmas Reunion in Paris

by Liz Fielding

  Not unwanted junk, but family history.

  There was an overstuffed leather chair, worn on the arms where it had been rubbed by countless hands. Or one set of hands countless times through a long life.

  ‘That definitely won’t fit in the car, James,’ Chloe said, when he sat down to check it for comfort.

  ‘I could have it delivered.’ He took a photograph with his phone and asked the seller for his card. ‘It would look great in the ground-floor club bar at L’Étranger,’ he said, when she looked askance at him.

  He left Chloe turning over some old linens and wandered back to the mirror. They didn’t have anywhere to put it now, but one day they would. A mantelpiece in a house with a garden...

  He called a friend with a van to organise a pickup, sent him pictures of both items and then paid for the mirror and the chair.

  He was looking at a small dark blue vase with a gilded panel of white roses when Chloe found him.

  ‘I get it,’ he said, showing it to her. ‘It’s all about the history. Who owned this? Who gave her the I love you flowers she put in it? A lover? A man she was married to for fifty years? Her children...?’

  ‘You are such a romantic.’

  ‘Guilty as charged, ma’am.’

  The stallholder, sensing her moment, suggested a price that was undoubtedly more than the vase was worth, but he didn’t haggle.

  ‘Now our story is part of it, too,’ he said, when she’d wrapped it and handed it to him. ‘A memory of a day spent together in a French village that I will fill with white roses on the anniversary of this day every year.’

  Chloe blinked. ‘You’d better put a reminder in your phone.’

  ‘I’m wounded that you have so little faith.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s a little test. When is my birthday?’

  ‘Very soon. The twenty-eighth of November,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘I made you a cake.’

  ‘It was in the shape of a book. And you sent me roses. Yours is in April. The twelfth. I made you a cake, too, but nothing fancy.’

  ‘Lemon drizzle. And you gave me a first edition of Escoffier’s Guide Culinaire.’

  For a moment neither of them moved, then Chloe cleared her throat and said, ‘There is so much pretty china here.’

  ‘You see a lot in charity-shop windows. It’s sad, but who uses cups and saucers in the age of the mug?’

  ‘Only the Queen and hotels.’ She looked at him. ‘And tea rooms.’

  She picked up a pink, white and gold cake stand and held it up for him to see. ‘Is your afternoon-tea service going to be all spare, minimalist white china, or can you imagine using this?’ she asked. ‘Tables laid with beautiful vintage china, every person drinking their Darjeeling or Earl Grey out of something original. Individual.’

  ‘It’s a lovely idea,’ he said, ‘but is it dishwasher safe?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ she said, ‘but who cares? You’ll employ some very careful person to wash it.’

  ‘And you think I’m a romantic.’

  ‘This is romance with a USP. Imagine this cake stand filled with pretty little cakes, on your website header. Delicate cups and saucers as bullet points...’

  ‘If I admit that it’s a great idea and buy this,’ he said, ‘will you work with Sally on the design?’

  ‘Me?’ She frowned. ‘No...’

  ‘But it’s perfect, Chloe. You’re going to be part of my life and you have such a great imagination. I want you to hunt down the china, manage the tea service for me. You have all the skills for this...’ He turned to the stallholder to pay for the cake stand, then said, ‘This has been an unexpectedly productive morning. You are going to have so much fun with this.’

  ‘I am not going to do anything of the kind,’ she said. ‘I am going to have lunch and any talk about tea rooms or business of any kind will give me indigestion.’

  * * *

  The entrance to the château was a couple of miles outside the village. Beyond the gate the lane became an unpaved track winding through woodland, but then they were clear of the trees and beyond a pair of majestic wrought-iron gates stood a pink and white château glowing against a slate sky.

  Chloe put out a hand and grabbed James’s arm. ‘Stop!’

  He pulled up between the gates and looked at her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ She looked at the wide sweep of the house, its pink walls, white stucco trim, the dormer windows in the roof and steps leading up to the front door and couldn’t stop a smile spreading from somewhere deep inside until it consumed her entire body. ‘This is the dream house I drew as a child.’

  ‘As in a picture stuck to the fridge door with a magnet, drew?’

  She nodded. Then pulled a face. ‘Obviously not the fridge door, it was pinned to my cork board by my nanny, but yes, I drew it and coloured it in with crayons.’

  ‘You must have seen a picture of it in one of your mother’s magazines. They’ve been hosting weddings and events for years,’ he suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed, although she knew it had to have been in her nanny’s copy of Celebrity, which featured weddings of even the marginally famous.

  ‘I have to admit that from here it looks even better in real life than in the online photographs, which, in the age of digital enhancement, has to be a first,’ James said. ‘Can we go now?’

  She nodded. ‘But slowly.’

  He continued along the drive at a snail’s pace, giving her time to look around, take in an ancient cedar on the front lawn, catch a glimpse of the orangery and, beyond the trees, a small lake gleaming leaden under the grey sky.

  By the time he’d pulled up at the front of the château, one of the double doors had been thrown open and a couple of French bulldogs were followed down the steps by a slightly flustered woman.

  ‘Welcome to Château Bernier St-Fleury, Mr Harrington, Miss Forbes Scott. I’m Marie Bernier. Call me Marie...’ She turned to the dogs. ‘Beau, Felix—heel! I’m so sorry.’

  They scampered around Chloe, sweet but clearly out of control.

  ‘They were my mother-in-law’s dogs,’ Marie said. ‘I’m afraid she spoiled them.’

  Chloe bent to rub a silky ear and its owner immediately rolled over and presented her with his tummy. ‘I can understand why. They’re adorable.’

  ‘They like you, Miss Forbes Scott. Do you have dogs of your own?’

  ‘Chloe, please. I’d love to have a dog, Marie, but I live in a Paris flat and I’m out at work all day. It wouldn’t be kind.’

  ‘And you, Mr Harrington?’ she asked as one of the dogs abandoned her for James and he offered him a hand to sniff before rubbing an ear.

  ‘Everyone calls me Jay,’ he said, ‘and like Chloe I’m a city dweller with a job that keeps me busy for long hours. Maybe in the future,’ he said. ‘When we have a house with a garden.’

  Marie smiled, nodded. ‘Of course. But, please, come in out of the cold.’

  ‘Your name is Bernier, like the château?’ Chloe said, following her inside while James fetched their bags from the car. ‘It was built by your family?’

  ‘My husband’s family built it as a summer retreat in the nineteenth century. When my father-in-law died, my husband had to take over the business here. That was nearly twenty years ago.’

  ‘It’s a magical place.’

  Marie Bernier’s smile was wry. ‘Unfortunately, Chloe, there was no magic wand to repair the roof and there is so much of it...’ She raised a hand in a gesture that took in the extent of it. ‘The property market was in a shocking state after the bank crash and the family went into the hospitality and weddings business out of necessity. We hit the market just at the right moment and it has been a great success, but now it is just me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘W
e should be planning our retirement now, but Henri had a stroke and then a series of heart attacks. I know things are hard for the young these days, but I always say to my young couples that they should not take life for granted. No one ever died wishing he’d worked harder.’

  She indicated the stairs that rose in an elegant curve from the polished wood floor of the hall.

  ‘I’ll take you up to your suite so that you can settle in. There’s a fire in the morning room and everything you need to make yourself tea and coffee. We have just one other couple staying tonight but they won’t be arriving until much later, so you’ll have it to yourselves. Dinner will be served at eight. Just ring if you want anything.’

  She opened a pair of doors and gave them a quick tour of the suite that James had shown her on his phone. There was the pretty blue and white bedroom furnished in the French style, a little sitting room through a curved archway and a huge claw-footed bath in a wonderfully romantic bathroom.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Chloe said, when Marie had left them alone. She was standing at the window looking out over the garden and James came up behind her and put his arms around her. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be to run this place on her own.’

  ‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said.

  ‘You’re thinking about your mother,’ she said.

  ‘And my dad. After Mum died, when we found out what Nick was really like, I blamed her for rushing into a second marriage, but she hated the hotel, blamed the stress of running it for Dad’s heart attack. Nick must have seemed like a gift.’ He noticed her frown and shook his head. ‘It’s history. Nothing to be done...’ Then something caught his eye and he said, ‘Look, Chloe! A swan!’

  They watched as it came in to land on the lake, skimming across the water before settling with a shimmy of its tail.

  ‘Did you know that they mate for life?’ she said.

  ‘So do gibbons. And angelfish...’

  She laughed. ‘Angelfish?’

  ‘It’s true. Check it out.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said, leaning back into him as he pressed a kiss into her neck.

  He was so strong, so sure of himself, of his future. She could go back to London with him, sink into his life the way she was sinking into his arms and know that he’d take care of her. That she’d be safe.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, when she shivered.

  ‘A bit. Let’s go and have some tea.’

  * * *

  ‘How were the lights?’ Marie said, when they returned from Thoiry later that evening.

  ‘Amazing!’ Chloe said. ‘Noah’s Ark, an incredibly beautiful underwater world and an entire Renaissance procession from the court of Henri IV.’

  ‘Ah, yes. He stayed at the Château de Thoiry. It’s a lot older than this one,’ she said, with wry smile. ‘I’m afraid dinner may be a little late. My chef’s wife had a fall and he had to take her to the hospital. She is his assistant and serves—’

  James paused, one foot on the stairs. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Help?’ She shook her head. ‘You are a guest,’ she objected.

  ‘I’m also a chef. Give me a minute and I’ll be with you.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but bounded up the stairs.

  ‘Really, he does not have to do this,’ Marie said, clearly concerned about the reputation of her château.

  ‘You needn’t worry. He’s really very good. He has a restaurant in London.’

  ‘London...?’ She repeated the word as if astonished that anyone in England could cook.

  ‘He trained in Paris.’

  ‘Oh... That is why he speaks such excellent French. As do you, Chloe.’

  ‘Thank you, Marie. I spent a lot of my childhood in France and I’ve lived here for a long time.’

  She smiled, but then remembered their conversation. ‘It is kind of him, Chloe, but he’ll be in the kitchen working, instead of in the dining room with you. No, I’ll manage.’

  ‘Show me,’ Chloe said.

  The dining room was a large and elegant room with French windows that in the warm weather would open out onto a terrace. A long, dark table with a magnificent silver epergne at its centre had been laid for four with heavy silverware and fine glasses that gleamed in the light from two chandeliers.

  Unfortunately, despite the fire that had been lit in the hearth, it wasn’t very warm.

  ‘It’s lovely in the spring and the summer,’ Marie assured her. ‘The windows open onto the terrace and the lake. Our other guests are here to look us over as a wedding venue...’ The strain was beginning to show and Marie, despite her determination to soldier on, was close to tears. ‘The rehearsal dinner in here. The reception in the orangery...’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Chloe said, putting an arm around her. ‘I can see how it will be in the spring and so will your other guests when you show them but, since there will only be four of us this evening, perhaps we could find somewhere a little cosier?’

  She frowned. ‘Cosier?’

  ‘Is there a table in the kitchen?’

  She bridled. ‘We have a commercial kitchen for guests.’

  ‘But you have a family kitchen?’

  ‘Well, yes, but that isn’t, I couldn’t possibly...’

  ‘Let me see.’

  At her insistence, Marie led her through the hall to an old-fashioned family kitchen. On one wall was a huge dresser loaded with china and copper pans. There were herbs drying on a pot rack hanging from the ceiling and a range oven that was throwing out blissful warmth. And in the centre of the room stood a solid wooden table that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years.

  ‘Marie, this is perfect. I’ll just go and wash up and then I’ll come and help you set up.’

  She met James in the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry. This was supposed to be the perfect romantic evening,’ he said, ‘but she was clearly about to crack.’

  ‘I love that you stepped up. I love you.’ Before he could even think of a response to that, she kissed him. ‘The dining room is an ice box. We’re cooking and eating in the family kitchen. I’ll be down to help as soon as I’ve washed up.’

  * * *

  Jay, aware that he was grinning like a loon, watched Chloe run up the stairs but then, as headlights swept across the glass panels on either side of the door, Marie appeared, back in control and looking every inch the chatelaine.

  ‘James... I am indebted to you. To you both.’

  ‘On the contrary, Marie, believe me when I say I have every reason to be grateful to you. The kitchen is through here?’

  ‘It is. The menu is on the blackboard. There are no special dietary requirements.’

  ‘Then look after your guests and leave the food to me.’

  He was checking the menu against the ingredients when Chloe joined him. ‘What have we got?’ she asked, reaching for an apron and tying it around her waist.

  ‘A soufflé Suissesse, smoked salmon pâté, duck with glazed parsnips, cheese, and then a tarte Tatin with quenelles of home-made vanilla ice cream. The pâté and the ice cream have been prepared.’

  ‘That helps, but you don’t have time to make a tarte Tatin from scratch. The pastry needs to rest for an hour.’

  He smiled. ‘Since when were you the expert?’

  ‘I don’t just wait tables in the bistro. I help out in the kitchen when I’m needed and tarte Tatin is a staple.’

  He held her gaze for a moment, then said, ‘Marie has already made the pastry, or we’d have had to improvise. Since you’re such an expert I’ll leave you to peel the apples and line the dish with the pastry while I make the caramel so that we can get it in the oven.’

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  Ten minutes later, the tarte was ready and, once it was in the oven, Chloe peeled parsnips while James made a start on the bechamel sauce for the soufflé.
>
  Marie joined them and began setting up the table for four.

  ‘You should eat with us, Marie,’ James said.

  ‘Impossible. You will need someone to serve.’

  ‘You’re on your own here?’ Chloe asked, concerned.

  ‘The bookings came in late and the girl who usually helps is away. I could have called someone else, but I thought with Claud and his wife here I could manage.’

  ‘It’s the butter-side-down law.’

  Marie laughed. ‘Always. I should have known that once the first thing went wrong today the rest would collapse like a house of cards. It is always the way.’

  ‘Something else has gone wrong?’ Chloe asked. It wasn’t just the missing chef and his wife?

  ‘A wedding cancellation. A bride with cold feet. Or maybe it was the groom.’

  ‘I imagine you had already put a lot of work into the planning.’

  ‘It’s not about the work, and I keep the deposit in the event of a late cancellation,’ she said, ‘but it always makes me a little sad. All those hopes and dreams for a future that will never happen.’

  ‘They might get back together,’ James said, looking at her. ‘People do.’

  ‘Yes, they do...’ She desperately wanted this to work, but he suffered from selective hearing... ‘Lay another place, Marie. We’ll eat like family. You can relax and talk to your guests about their wedding plans and we’ll take our time between courses so that we can all eat together.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked.

  ‘Open a bottle of your finest white wine?’ James suggested.

  She went through to the cold room and returned with a bottle that immediately dewed in the warmth of the kitchen, opened it and poured them each a glass.

  ‘To rare and special guests.’ She raised her own glass to them. ‘Always welcome. A vôtre santé!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHLOE WAS AWARE that Fiona, the Scottish bride-to-be, had been looking at James all evening. She’d done her best to distract her but, finally, she said, ‘Your face is so familiar, Jay. Have you ever been to Edinburgh?’