A Year at the French Farmhouse(109)

‘It’s not just that,’ he’d said, taking her hand. The candle between them on the worn antique table had flickered as he’d moved. ‘It’s… I want it to mean something.’

‘It does! It’s lovely!’ she’d said.

‘No, not that,’ he’d said. ‘Although, thanks. I’m glad you like it. But what I’m trying to say, I suppose, is thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For waiting. For believing in me.’ He’d sighed and looked around the kitchen. ‘For all of this really. The dream.’

‘My dream.’

‘No,’ he’d said. ‘Our dream. That’s what I want you to think when you look at this.’ He shook the globe, sending white fluffy pieces tumbling. ‘I’m not here just because I love you. Although I do of course. I’m here because I want to be.’

‘Oh Ben.’

‘Wait, there’s more,’ he’d said, with a small smile. ‘I just… I want you to know that all the times we spoke about it – the move, I mean – over the years, well, I wasn’t pretending. I loved the idea of it – of being together, somewhere completely new, working for ourselves. Stepping outside all the day-to-day stuff and having an adventure.’

She’d smiled.

‘It was only when it came to it – when push really came to shove, I got scared. I… well, I wasn’t well. And it felt like too much, you know? It felt like it would always be too much.’

She’d squeezed his hand. ‘I know, it’s OK.’

‘Anyway, I just wanted to make sure that you know I’m here for the long haul, whatever that turns out to be. Here because I love you. But also here because every day I’m beginning to love this life more and more. I’m… well, happy – happier – I guess. And it’s because of you…’

‘What, my rogue eBay activity?’ She’d grinned.

‘No,’ he’d said, all seriousness. ‘Because you showed me what it meant to have courage; you took the first steps out here for me. And because I discovered when you left that the only thing in life I’m really afraid of is having to live without you.’

At that, she’d put the snow globe, with its tumbling flurry, down on the table between them, then leaned forward to pull him in for a kiss.

She smiled at the memory, then reached to turn the key and start the engine. But before she could pull away there was a knock on the window. Frédérique’s face smiled at her through the glass. She wound it down, smiling. ‘Bonjour, Frédérique,’ she said.

‘Bonjour, et bonnes fêtes.’

‘Merci, toi aussi.’

It had taken a few weeks for them to re-establish some sort of friendship. But in October she’d seen him with a woman on his arm, whom he later introduced to her as Frances. He seemed happy, and his happiness had helped her release the last bit of guilt at her rejection of him.

‘I think it will snow for your first Christmas in France, oui? It will be very cold. Have you enough fuel?’

‘Oui, merci, we had a delivery yesterday and we’ve got plenty of wood.’

‘That is good to ’ear,’ he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled widely at her.

‘And you? What are you doing for Christmas?’

‘Ah, I am seeing my mother and father, but also my grandmother is coming, eh? Per’aps you and your ’usband will meet ’er and tell ’er about the ’ouse.’

‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

‘So, Merry Christmas to you, Madame Buttercup,’ he said, with a wink.

‘Merry Christmas!’ she said.

She wound her window up and began to drive, realising as she did that she was smiling. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought this year could come to a close in such a wonderful way – in a new place, with family and new friends, and happier than she’d been for years.

They both finally had their residence permits, their business was fully registered and in January the website would go live. Although she was a little nervous about actually taking bookings, she was excited too. Somehow on the cusp of things, ready to take a tentative step into something brand new and thrilling.

As she neared Broussas, a few flakes of snow began to hit the windscreen and she watched the automatic wipers spring to duty. By the time she pulled up outside the house, it was falling more heavily – highlighted diamond-bright in the glare of her headlights. She turned the engine off and looked for a moment at the house that had begun to feel just like home – only better. Inside she could see Ben, reaching to add another bauble to the tree, his skin reflecting the coloured lights. Ty was there too, holding a box of decorations.

She watched as Ben put an arm around his son and said something, at which they both laughed.

Opening the car door, she stepped out into the cold night, feeling the flakes against her skin and breathing in the icy cold air. And feeling not the closing of the year, or the sombre mood that sometimes engulfed her when winter’s curtain of darkness fell, but that this was the start of things – of possibilities and adventures and years of life ahead in which to live her dreams.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





I have so many people to thank for their help both in supporting my writing and generally putting up with me over the course of getting ‘A Year at the French Farmhouse’ to publication.