by Nell Goddin
Caroline nodded and sorted the files at the same time. “That’s right. Maybe that fish oil is doing something for you,” she said with a chuckle. Tristan beamed at her and took off, his shirt untucked in back and a flurry of papers falling off the desk as he went by.
The remainder of the school day passed without incident and Caroline got to leave a few minutes early. She would still be coming to work, school or no school; her vacation wasn’t until August. But nonetheless it felt like an achievement, getting through another school year, and even though there were still two more days left, she looked forward to getting home and making an effort to celebrate, however underwhelmingly: a kir royale, enjoyed by herself out in her small yard, with her dog and cat for company.
“If I were you, I’d just paint right over it,” said Molly’s old friend Frances, who had come to Castillac for a visit and never left. She was lying back on the old sleigh-bed, watching Molly work.
“I considered that. But see all these seams in the wallpaper? That’s going to look terrible painted over, unless I use some technique other than simply one color with a roller, and I don’t have the patience to learn anything new right now.”
“Don’t you think this wallpaper has some vintage charm? It’s faded in a pleasant, old-fashioned way.” Frances got up on her knees and ran her hand over the wall behind the bed. “Have any of your guests complained?”
“I’ve only had one guest stay here—Wesley Addison. He wasn’t…interior decorating was not one of his subjects. Blessedly. Now call me superstitious…but something about this room gives me the creeps. I call it the Haunted Room, though obviously not to the guests. I’m thinking that a little refreshing of the decor might help lift the creepy factor, you know?”
“Let me see,” said Frances, lying on her back and closing her eyes. “I’m communing with the spirits…remember when we used to do Ouija Board?”
“You mean when you would shove that thing around and try to scare me?”
“Yeah,” laughed Frances. “Man, I miss being a kid. Just thinking about those days makes me miss the Julys of childhood, because they lasted forever.”
“And your mom made really good lemonade.”
“Only homemade will do!” said Frances, imitating her mother’s voice.
Molly laughed. Then she took the scorer she’d found at the hardware store and scraped it over the wallpaper. Then dipped a sponge in a bucket of water and wiped it over the wall.
“Is that really going to loosen the glue?” asked Frances.
“Youtube says so. And youtube is never wrong.”
“Ha.”
“So how are things with Nico going? Give me an update.”
“Well….”
Molly glanced over her shoulder at her friend, who was gracefully raising her arms and legs to imaginary music, as though dancing ballet while lying in bed. “I don’t know, Molls. Love is…tricky.”
“Indeed,” said Molly. She put down the sponge and scraped tentatively at the soggy wallpaper with a putty knife, then put some force into it, making heaps of the stuff go splat onto the old sheet she’d spread on the floor. “Boy oh boy, this is satisfying. Goodbye sinister faded roses that remind me of a horror movie!”
“I thought you were obsessed with roses.”
“I sort of am. But if you knew the movie I’m talking about, you’d be over here helping me get rid of the wallpaper as fast as possible, believe me.”
Frances made no move to get up. “Who’s staying in your gîtes now? I don’t think I’ve met them. Anybody I’d like?”
“I can’t really say. An artist is staying in the pigeonnier by himself—Roger Finsterman. He’s usually out early in the morning, sitting in the meadow with a sketchpad, although once when I peeked at his sketch it was a wild abstract drawing, nothing to do with the meadow at all that I could see. There’s an American couple in the cottage. I’ve barely seen them, though they’ve only been here a few days. They have a car and leave early in the morning and don’t come back until after dinner.”
“I think you should have a party every week for everybody. Nothing fancy, just like…an apéro so the guests can be introduced to each other.”
“Great idea,” said Molly, “but maybe I’ll wait until I have a few more gîtes up and running. A party with 3 guests is a little hard to get moving, don’t you think? Or are you offering to come over every week and provide some entertainment?”
“I can dance,” said Frances, saying ‘dance’ in a terrible French accent. “Or maybe, given your not-so-secret love of detective work, you could put on one of those mystery evenings, where everyone dresses up and plays a part, and tries to figure out who the murderer is.”
“Always wanted to do that. But I’ve had my fill of detecting lately. Right now I want nothing more than to just work on La Baraque, hang out with you and Ben, and enjoy the simple pleasures of a Castillac summer.”
“Yeah, right,” said Frances, smiling to herself as she went downstairs in search of lemonade.
3
On Tuesday the rain came down in buckets and the sky was gray and forbidding. Molly spent the first few hours of the day scraping off the remainder of the wallpaper in the Haunted Room, and then, no surprise to anyone who knew her, she had a powerful hankering for an almond croissant. On the scooter it was just a quick trip to Pâtisserie Bujold—the best pâtisserie in the département—but did she want to risk getting drenched? The rain had mostly stopped for the moment but the skies had that not-quite-done look.
“What do you think, Bobo?” she asked the speckled dog, who was hovering under her feet as she stood in the front doorway. “I know you don’t like being rained on but I don’t really mind. Or maybe I’m just saying that because…there’s an almond croissant at the end of the rainbow. Wouldn’t you run through the rain for a big juicy bone? Yeah, I thought so.” She squatted down and gave the dog a long scratch behind the ears. Bobo flopped on her back and presented her belly, and Molly gave it a rub, trying and failing to get pastry off her mind.
So leaving Bobo safe and dry, Molly put on a slicker and hopped on her dented brown scooter, which looked a little better since the rain had washed most of the dust off, and zipped straight to Pâtisserie Bujold, the best pastry shop in the village, or even the entire Dordogne, her mouth watering all the way.
Not surprisingly, the shop was empty and Molly had the proprietor’s full attention. “Bonjour Monsieur Nugent,” she said, folding her arms over her chest without thinking about it.
“Bonjour, Madame Sutton,” Edmond Nugent answered, grinning broadly and giving her his usual avid once-over. He was not a tall man, with short arms and legs and a small round belly. That day he sported the beginnings of a moustache, coming in nicely.
Molly walked the length of the two cases, looking at all the kinds of pastry available that day. Sure, she had come in thinking definitely almond croissant, but now that she was there, she felt compelled to check out everything and then decide anew.
Then she was struck with an idea. “Monsieur Nugent, I’m wondering—just how difficult is it to make an almond croissant? It’s just puff pastry and almond paste, right? Not too many ingredients?”
Monsieur Nugent looked down at his feet and shook his head, “Oh, my dear Madame Sutton. Are you getting silly ideas in your head? Thinking that you might be able to do what it has taken Monsieur Nugent many, many years to learn?” He lifted his head then and looked into her eyes with such emotion Molly took a step back.
“Well, of course I would never dream that I could do it as well as you. Do you have a lot of helpers? I only ever see you here in the shop.”
“I…I hire, from time to time.” Nervously he paced back and forth behind the cases. “The fact is that my standards are extremely high, as I have always, from the first time you came in the shop, believed you comprehended and appreciated. I trust I have shown you—” Nugent waved a hand at a framed award on the wall behind him, the paper turning brown around the edges. “My
pastry is award-winning,” he said. “Not just any old thing tossed out of an oven without care.”
“I don’t mean to cause offense!” Molly jumped in. “Of course your pastries are the best. The best! I tell all my guests not to even think of shopping anywhere else.” She paused, letting her gaze linger on an apricot tart, each rounded fruit glossy with glaze and vividly orange, not a crumb out of place. “But I just thought…if I were able to pull off even a much less accomplished version than yours, then on a day like this—” the rain thundered down on the roof of the shop and passersby hurried along the sidewalk, umbrellas angled into the wind— “I could just whip up a little something at home, you understand? Just to get by. Sort of like having extra candles for when the electricity goes out.”
Monsieur Nugent understood only too well. Every so often a wave of do-it-yourselfism swept through the village, and while his business was solid and never threatened as a result, still, it ate at Monsieur Nugent to lose customers, even if only for a week or so. He felt that he had earned the right to be the sole purveyor of almond croissants to Molly Sutton—earned it by his hard work, diligence, and artful talent—and was not disposed to look kindly on anything that might take that away.
He had read of the low-carb craze in America that left local bakeries in ruins, and he shuddered at the thought. And for the non-dieters, one could buy ready-made puff pastry at the supermarket. Undoubtably it was of loathsome quality, but Nugent suspected that do-it-yourselfers might be willing to make sacrifices for the satisfaction of independence. Fools and idiots, he thought darkly, not doing much of a job of hiding his displeasure from Molly.
“On occasion I have banned customers from my store,” he said in a low voice.
Molly took another step back. “What? Are you threatening me, Monsieur Nugent?” Molly had to suppress a giggle. It’s not that she didn’t take pastry seriously—hell, it was a mainstay of her new life—but seriously, he would ban her for wanting to cook something herself every once in a while?
Nugent put his hands on the counter and gripped tightly. He had been up since three in the morning, feeling extra stressed since the humid weather made for certain complications with dough. Of all the things he could have imagined happening that rainy day, losing one of his best customers was on the list.
“I have a better idea,” he said, forcing his tone to sound gentler. “It is not the lost business that concerns me, Madame Sutton. It is that you, a lovely woman who truly appreciates my art, should be reduced to eating the scraps and mistakes that are the inevitable result of trying to learn something so complex. What I suggest is this: that you allow me to give you lessons in pastry-making. That way, you will at least start off on the right foot.”
Molly’s eyes widened. Pastry lessons from a master would undoubtedly be an amazing experience. On the other hand, spending hours alone with Monsieur Nugent in a kitchen—without a counter between them—no. She quickly imagined the process would turn into slapstick, with Monsieur Nugent chasing her around the pastry table and reaching for her with his floury hands. It would never work.
“You are so kind, Monsieur Nugent, but really, it was just a moment’s whim. Would you give me six almond croissants and that delectable apricot tart? I think I will surprise some of my guests with dessert on the terrace this evening, if the weather clears up.”
Monsieur Nugent looked crestfallen. “As you wish,” he said, the light in his expression going dim. He put her pastries in a bag and the tart in a box, took her money, and said nothing further.
That evening the rain finally petered out, and Molly invited her guests over to the terrace for dessert and coffee at ten o’clock. The artist, Roger Finsterman, wandered over from the pigeonnier, his shirt stained with paint.
“That apricot tart looks incredible,” he said.
Molly smiled and handed him a knife to cut a slice. She wasn’t sure what to make of Finsterman—he spoke politely enough, but he always seemed to be thinking of something else, barely even present. “I hope you’re enjoying Castillac? I love this time of year. For one thing—having light this late in the evening is so wonderful!”
Finsterman ate a bite of apricot tart and looked out to the meadow without answering.
With relief Molly heard the chatty Americans, Olive and Josh Mackley, coming around the side of the house. “Hello!” she called out. “Where did your travels take you today?”
“We just got back,” Olive said enthusiastically. “We went up to Brantôme today. The guidebooks call it the Venice of the Dordogne, which is absolutely ridiculous since it has virtually nothing to do with Venice. But—it’s a charming town and we’re glad we went.”
“Thanks for having us over,” said her husband, cutting pieces of tart and then pouring cups of coffee. “Please tell me this is decaf? If I drink regular coffee at this time of night I’ll be up all night.”
“Oh, Josh,” said his wife, rolling her eyes. “You’re so high-maintenance.”
Josh rolled his eyes at Molly and gave her a wink.
Bobo barked and ran around the house. Molly thought she might have heard a car in the driveway and figured it was Ben. She hoped he would come out to the terrace but knew he was something of an introvert with little interest in entertaining her guests, and didn’t hold it against him.
“Bonsoir Molly!” said Pierre Gault in his deep voice, appearing in the dusky light. He walked towards them slowly and deliberately, as he always did. Pierre never seemed to be in a hurry. “Excuse me for interrupting. I’ve just now left the Lafont’s. It’s late but I thought I’d come over to see that barn you were telling me about.”
“Would you forgive me?” Molly said to her guests. “Pierre is the best mason in the Dordogne, and he’s so in demand it can be very hard to get a few minutes with him.”
Finsterman was chewing thoughtfully and still looking out at the meadow, and said nothing. Olive and Josh assured her it was no problem at all as long as she didn’t mind risking coming back to an empty tart plate.
“Would you like some?” Molly asked Pierre, but he shook his head, and they went off in search of the crumbling barn.
“The work you did in the pigeonnier has been a smashing success,” said Molly, who found Pierre a bit hard to talk to. “Almost everyone has commented on the windows you made out of the nest-boxes. I’m not sure you’ll be able to make magic out of this barn—it’s such a ruin I didn’t even realize it was here until Bobo led me over this way. Pretty sure the realtor didn’t know either since it was never mentioned when I was buying La Baraque. You’ll see—it looks like a small hill of underbrush more than anything.”
“The countryside is littered with broken-down stone buildings,” he said. “Some are worth repairing, some not. Have you considered building any new structures for guests?”
“Yes, I’ve thought about it. But people really seem to love the old buildings—which I understand, I love them too. If I built something new, it would have to stand out somehow—I mean, make a gain in another direction what I would lose by not having the character of the old, you see what I mean?”
Pierre nodded. “I suppose. A gimmick, in other words.”
“Yes! Like…gîtes off the grid, or with frescoes, or…or something.” She stopped and whistled for Bobo. “It’s right over there,” she said, pointing at a dark blob in the fading light. “I hope it’s not too dark to get an idea.”
Pierre waded into the underbrush, then ripped some vines off something that might be a wall. He walked farther, muttering something she couldn’t understand, and disappeared into the foliage.
“It’s a real wreck!” she called after him.
Molly stood looking around in the half-dark, inhaling the sweet summer air, listening to Pierre crashing around and the night-birds singing. Before long he was back. “Sorry to say—that would be quite a project, Molly. You’ve only got three walls and no roof, and one of those walls is only about four feet high. To get a really clear idea of what would be involved,
I’d have to come back when the light was better and clear off enough of the vines to see the whole thing.”
“Oh.”
“But the good news is that the part of the wall I got a look at is in decent shape. It was built right, and the stone has held up, as it usually does. Also, it’s a big structure, so have you thought about how you would want to use all that space? Do you just want to divide it up into rooms, with a standard kitchen and bath? Possibly two separate gîtes in the same building? Or do you have some other idea?”
“So you’re saying you could rebuild it?”
“I can rebuild anything, Molly. The only question is whether it’s worth it to you to pay for it.”
“When could you start?”
Pierre barked out a sort of laugh and they turned back towards the house. “I won’t be done at the Lafont’s for another six weeks at least. I’m making a circular stairway out of stone, it’s a bit problematic, and the first try didn’t work.”
“I’ll work on the design, and then we’ll talk again in a few weeks, maybe you could give me an estimate?”
Pierre nodded.
“It was nice meeting your wife the other night,” she said, as Bobo snuffled nearby.
Pierre made a sort of grunt. “See you in a few weeks,” he said, and went back around the house to his truck, walking in his slow deliberate way.
“Pierre” means stone in French, thought Molly, watching him go. I can’t believe I never put it together that he has the perfect name for a mason.
The guests had disappeared to their dwellings and Molly found an empty terrace save for the orange cat licking up crumbs from the apricot tart.
It was after eleven. She wondered why Ben had never shown up. They hadn’t made a plan, but he had been coming over most evenings, and she liked it. She liked him. And this life in Castillac—it was turning out to be better than she ever would have imagined.
