The French for Christmas (15 page)

I think perhaps Gina notices our exchanged glance, because she nudges me and says, ‘Our Doctor Didier is a very popular addition to the community. We just hope he’s going to stay on. If only there were something to help keep him here... But I suspect Africa is calling him back. And you, how long are you planning on staying, Evie?’

‘Oh, probably just until the New Year. Then I shall need to get back to work. I’ll definitely be going back to the States in February for the arrival of my sister’s baby. I guess that’ll be a good opportunity to take a look around, think about my future. Maybe I’ll scout for premises for a small restaurant in the Boston area. Working with Eliane in the garden and the kitchen has fired my enthusiasm for cooking again. I’d like to adapt my grandmother’s recipes to give them a modern twist, and use them as the basis for the menu. I might even compile them into a recipe book—I’m thinking of calling it something like
Sensational Seasonal Cooking
!’

‘Ooh, that’s a great idea!’

‘What is?’ chips in Cédric, stooping between us and holding a platter of interesting-looking cheeses steady for Gina. She helps herself to several different slivers and then hands me the knife so that I can follow suit.

‘Make sure you take a slice of the
Trappe d’Echourgnac
. It’s a local cheese, cured in a walnut liqueur. The taste is amazing.’ She turns to her husband. ‘Evie’s going to write a cookbook taking traditional French recipes and adding a modern twist to them
Génial, n’est-ce pas?
’

Didier overhears. ‘Well, I can vouch for the fact that she’s an excellent cook.’

Eliane nods. ‘She knows how to get the very best out of whatever’s available too. I’m already looking forward to our Christmas lunch tomorrow!’

Mireille fixes me with her bright-eyed gaze. ‘Good for you, Evie. But, you know, these days so many people have forgotten how to cook. They think preparing a meal involves putting a plastic pot into the microwave for five minutes. You should run cookery courses too, showing people what can be done with simple, fresh ingredients and a little imagination.’

‘That’s brilliant, Mireille,’ Gina’s face lights up with enthusiasm as the idea begins to gather momentum. ‘And I know just the venue for the courses...’

‘Of course! Château Bellevue. She could run courses there in the winter, when they’re not busy with weddings. You must introduce Evie to Sara and Thomas, Gina.’

‘They’ve got the accommodation, and a huge kitchen. And it’s such a beautiful setting. What do you think, Hélène? Héloise? The twins work there in the summer, you see,’ Gina explains in an aside to me.

‘It could work, yes; it would be wonderful. It would extend the season for them. And cookery courses would be much simpler to organise than the weddings are...’

I pop a morsel of the walnut-flavoured cheese into my mouth. Gina’s right; it’s delicious, a combination I’ve never come across before. I nod slowly, mulling over the idea, the general enthusiasm for it around the table helping fire up my own sense of inspiration. ‘Sounds great. In fact, better than that, it sounds totally brilliant!’

‘And Gina, you could present a session on wine tasting as well,’ suggests Cédric.

‘Even better,’ I beam at her. ‘We could include wine tasting and suggestions for wine pairings with the different dishes. I’m sure I could get a lot of people from London interested. Maybe even from the States as well. A cookery course like that, set in a lovely French château... what a wonderful experience.’

Didier raises his glass, calling for a moment’s silence. ‘I’d like to propose another toast: to our enterprising women. The three generations seated at this
Réveillon
table have used the opportunity for a brainstorming session and come up with what sounds like a winning business plan. Here’s to them all!’

‘Thank you, all of you,’ I raise my glass in return. And all at once there’s such a lump in my throat that I have to swallow before I can speak. ‘Thank you for your friendship and your enthusiasm, as well as for including me in your family party.’ I can’t say any more, because the word ‘family’ has made sudden tears prick my eyes. So I take another fortifying sip of the rich red wine to allow the surge of emotions within me to pass.

Sensing that I’m a little overwhelmed, Gina puts an arm around my shoulders and makes a toast of her own: ‘To friendships, old and new!’

The others echo her, their words reverberating round the room, and seeming to amplify the warmth and light within this little cottage nestling in the snowy countryside.

‘And now,’ Mireille claps her hands, ‘the dessert!’

Hélène and Héloise carry in a tray, on which sits the biggest and finest
Bûche de Noël
I’ve ever seen, and everyone bursts out laughing as little Pierre, who has been leaning his sleepy head against his father’s shoulder, suddenly sits up straight, his eyes growing wide with delight at the sight of so much chocolate cake. ‘Well, that’s certainly woken you up,’ grins Cédric, fondly ruffling his son’s fine, dark hair.

Mireille cuts generous slices of the log-shaped roulade, an airy sponge cake which has been rolled up with a rich chocolate mousse. It’s as delicious as it looks, covered with a hazelnut praline that adds a satisfying crunch to the soft textures within.

The cacophony of chatter and laughter falls silent for a few moments as everyone savours the dessert. I look up from my plate. ‘My grandmother always used to say that the best praise for a dish is a silence just like this one... I wonder, Mireille, would you and Eliane agree to be consultants on my cookbook?’ I ask.

Eliane beams, and Mireille nods regally. ‘With pleasure, my child.’

And I guess it’s all that wine and good food, alongside the company and the fact that it’s Christmas Eve, but I feel inordinately pleased to be called ‘my child’ by this wise woman, and to feel—just for a moment—truly a part of this sprawling, French surrogate family.

‘So tell us,
Tante
Eliane, will Evie’s cookbook be a success?’ Raphael asks.

Gina leans towards me, conspiratorially. ‘Eliane has a knack for seeing the future. It’s uncanny, but quite a few of the things she sees really do seem to come to pass.’

Eliane is gazing at me from the end of the table, and I have the impression, once again, that her grey eyes are focused on things the rest of us cannot see. She smiles at me. ‘When Evie spreads her wings, she will achieve many things. She’ll go far from us, but she’ll still return often too. She has roots here now.’

Mireille nods emphatically. ‘That’s right. As parents, we try to give our children two things: strong roots, to give them a sense of belonging, and wide wings, to let them fly when the time comes. Maybe your stay here has given you back those things, at a time when your roots had been torn up and your wings broken.’

I drop my eyes to my dessert plate to hide the tears that well up suddenly. Because she’s right. I miss my mom and dad and Tess and I know I need to go home to them, back where I belong. But I’m also glad that I have found this place and these people. As Eliane says, I have some roots here now too and I know I’ll be back, whatever else the future may hold.

‘Well, that’s good news for us, that you’ll be coming back often,’ Gina smiles, kindly giving me a moment to regain my composure. ‘Sounds like things are about to take off for you. If your cookbook has both Eliane’s and Mireille’s seals of approval, it’s sure to be a success!’

‘And what could be better?’ Mireille says. ‘Preparing beautiful food is nourishment for mind, body and soul. And then sharing it is a wonderful way of expressing the love that’s in your heart, nourishing others.’

Little Pierre looks up from where he’s in danger of scraping the pattern off his dessert plate as he scoops up the very last delicious crumbs of the
bûche de Noël
, carefully licking his spoon and relishing the final smidgen of chocolate mousse. ‘In that case I think
Mamie
must love us all very, very much,’ he announces, and we all burst out laughing at this serious, and heartfelt, pronouncement.

‘
A
u revoir
! A bientôt!
’ Our farewells ring out through the cold night air accompanied by puffs of white breath, as the brothers carefully help Mireille down the path and back into Cédric’s pickup. Gina wraps a warm muffler round her tiny son’s neck and helps him pull on a pair of woollen mittens, ready for his sled ride back to the car at the end of the lane. The only features visible are his little button nose and his dark eyes, shining with excitement at this late-night Christmas adventure, as his big brother, Luc, settles him safely into the waiting arms of his sister, Nathalie, who is going to ride on the sled with him.

‘Here’s my number,’ Gina hands me a slip of paper. ‘Come and visit us once the snow has melted?’

‘I’d love to.’ I hug her, delighted to have found a new friend. Actually, I think I’ve found twenty new friends tonight, but Gina is an especially kindred spirit.

Didier and I say our thank yous and goodnights to Eliane and Mathieu. ‘See you tomorrow, around one p.m.,’ I confirm.

He offers me a steadying hand as we make our way from the grit-covered roadway onto the more treacherous snow and ice of the driveway. We peer, briefly, into the barn as we pass, and the white horse gives us a quiet snort of recognition as she stands watch over her foal, sleeping soundly in his nest of sweet hay.

We stop beneath one of the tall oaks.

‘What an evening!’ I throw back my head to look up at the kaleidoscope of stars above us, tipsy on company and warmth, good food and more laughter than I’ve heard in a long, long time.

‘
C’était génial
! Such a wonderful surprise for Eliane, being able to spend
Réveillon
with her family after all.’

‘Did you miss your own family tonight? Being there with all of them?’

He nods. ‘Yes, I did. It was a good reminder of what this time of year should really be about. But I think Mireille was right in her remarks about roots and wings. I think you and I have both been damaged, in our different ways, and it’s taken time, in this safe refuge, to heal. Being surrounded by people who care has helped me too. It’s funny, I came here as their doctor to help them and heal them, and in fact they’ve ended up being the ones who’ve helped me to heal. And you, Evie?’ he smiles. I realise, all of a sudden, that he’s still holding my hand. ‘I think I saw from your expression, once or twice tonight, that you were missing your family?’

‘I have to admit, I did a little. But it’s okay. You’re right; I guess we both needed a little space this year, to heal. And, from a distance, it’s easier to see things in perspective. Perhaps we have to go away so that we know where we want to get back to. This evening has helped me see that I need to go home. Back to the States. Give these roots a chance to fix themselves.’

I work out the time difference between here and Boston. My family will be just sitting down to eat their own Christmas Eve dinner. Mom usually makes a New England seafood pot pie, a family tradition and one of the few dishes she actually makes from scratch; she’ll have stirred a splash of white wine into the sauce, along with clam juice and heavy cream, crammed it full of chunky fresh fish and succulent prawns, then tucked it up under a coverlet of pastry that’ll have been baked to a golden crispness. The table will be set with a white lace cloth and candles, and the light will glint softly on the tinsel strands that garland the Christmas tree sitting in the corner of the room. I think of Mireille’s words:
preparing beautiful food is nourishment for mind, body and soul. And then sharing it is a wonderful way of expressing the love that’s in your heart, nourishing others...
A mother’s love.

On the still night air, floating up from the valley below and gently calling my attention back to the here and now, the faint sound of church bells rings out, peal upon peal, the notes soft but clear.

‘Sounds like Midnight Mass is over. It’s officially Christmas now. Our
Réveillon
vigil is complete.’ Didier squeezes my hand but then, instead of letting it go, he takes the other one in his too.

The waning moon bathes us in her soft light. I look into Didier’s eyes, as clear as a blue winter sky and, for a moment, as the last peal of bells fades away into silence, the whole world holds its breath again. His expression is unutterably tender, and I wonder if he sees written on my face the same things I see written on his: a landscape, the features given us by our parents and yet unique to ourselves, weathered by pain and grief and joy and love, just as the land around us has been shaped by the wind and rain, and the snow and ice, but by the sunshine too. The landscape of our lives, carved through by a strong-flowing river as it makes its journey from the high heartlands to the infinite ocean beyond the far horizon.

He breaks the spell by glancing upwards, raising his eyebrows quizzically towards the ball of mistletoe that hangs just above our heads in the lowest branches of the tree.

His question, unspoken.

‘So, here we are, Evie, two refugees from Christmas who find themselves standing beneath the mistletoe on a perfect snowy night, in front of a stable where a newborn baby lies quietly sleeping, watched over by his mother.’ His voice is a whisper, loath to disturb the peace which seems to have settled over the land. Or maybe the peace is just in our formerly troubled hearts as they begin to heal at last, a quiet reawakening after a long winter’s hibernation.

I follow his glance, in my turn, and then smile. ‘Our own private Christmas story,’ I whisper back. And I lean into the warmth of his body.

My unspoken reply.

And so, in the perfect stillness of that Christmas Eve, while the rest of the world sleeps, two souls finally reawaken after a long, cold winter and find the gift of strength, to open their hearts and love again.

L
ove came down at Christmas
,

Love all lovely, Love Divine...

I
awaken
to sunlight which floods my bedroom, and lie for a moment, trying to work out what’s different about today. And then I remember: everything’s different.

It’s Christmas morning; the snow has melted off the skylight window, letting the sun shine in; and last night I kissed Didier underneath the starlit mistletoe, falling more deeply in love, in that moment, than I have ever done before.

Of course, in the bright light of day there are all kinds of ifs and buts and how-on-earths about what comes next. Real life, as usual, is complicated. But, you know what? Just for today, I don’t care. Today—Christmas Day—is going to be spent with Didier, and our friends Eliane and Mathieu of course, nourishing our newfound love. And whatever comes next, we will deal with it as it arises. Because I know we have the strength to do so. We have deep roots and wide wings, given us by our families and our friends, and so anything is possible.

Stretching my limbs under the luxurious warmth of the bedcovers, I run through in my mind all that I need to do this morning. I’ll stoke the fires, carrying in a good supply of logs to warm the house, then I’ll set the Christmas pudding on the range for its final boiling; the loin of pork, which I’ve rolled around fine shavings of rich, earthy truffle, will go into the oven later on; I’ll prep the vegetables and I’ll set my Christmas table so that all is ready for my guests. And then, at noon here so that they’ll just be getting up in Boston, I’ll climb the hill to call my family and wish them Merry Christmas.

Hearing the clarion call from the rooster across the lane, I jump out of bed, newfound energy fizzing in my veins, and sing as I make my morning coffee, setting a saucepan of water on the range to boil. ‘...All I want for Christmas is you!’ From the top of the apple tree, the robin cocks his head and bows and dips, joining in with his own version of the chorus. The sunlight makes the ribbons of snow along the branches sparkle as they drop soft drips onto the slowly thawing ground below.

A few hours later I stand, hands on hips, and survey my morning’s handiwork. The house is full of warmth, a fire blazing merrily in the sitting room and the range well-stoked, and the low December sun streams in through the window panes of the French doors. Good smells percolate from the kitchen, the roasting meat just starting to crackle in the oven, adding its truffled perfume to the sweetly spiced scent of the pudding which hums merrily to itself from its simmering pan.

Suddenly there’s a faint click from the electric cooker, and its digital clock, dead for days since the storm, flashes on. The refrigerator hums back into life. So we even have power back! A Christmas miracle. Not that I need it. The old range is doing its job well and it adds heart to the home with its iron bulk radiating a steady warmth. But I plug my phone in to give it a little extra charge in preparation for my visit to the office up the hill.

I spread a crisp white bed-sheet over the kitchen table in lieu of a suitably Christmassy tablecloth, as all Rose’s are covered with prints more suited to summer dining al fresco. I take down a few pretty teacups and saucers from the dresser and put little candles in them, setting them in a circle in the centre of the table and weaving glossy-leaved ivy about them to form a centrepiece. Red linen napkins add a suitably festive touch and the glassware sparkles and winks in the sunlight.

I check my watch—the timing of the cooking all looks fine—and pull on my coat and rubber boots. Just before I open the door, there’s one more thing I need to do. I strike a match and hold the flame to the candle on the windowsill. Lucie’s candle. So that it’ll be shining there to welcome me back on my return from the top of the hill.

I grab my phone, and a couple of carrots that I’ve kept back, and step out to cross the yard and give the mare a Christmas treat on my way past. The foal, standing more steadily now on legs that still look breath-catchingly fragile, peeps out shyly from behind his mother as she crunches the carrots appreciatively. His white star glows in the soft rays of sunshine that filter in through the barn door, seeming to shine of its own accord.

The snow is melting steadily, and my boots grip the road more easily as I walk up the hill, following once more in the footsteps of a thousand pilgrims who’ve passed that way before me. I perch on the milestone, surveying the view for a moment and catching my breath. The hollows of the hills, where the sun hasn’t quite managed to reach, are still cushioned with blue-shadowed drifts of snow, but the landscape is starting to become green again, damp and newly washed by the thaw. Far off, the church bell chimes twelve times.

I call Rose first, to wish my friend a happy Christmas. ‘You sound good, Evie,’ she says, after I’ve filled her in on last night’s impromptu dinner party and my preparations for today’s gathering with the neighbours. I leave out the bit about kissing Didier under the mistletoe last night, though: I’ll fess up in due course, but right now it’s a gift I want to treasure alone for a little while longer.

‘I
am
good,’ I say.

‘Well, that’s the best Christmas present I could possibly have.’ I hear the smile in her voice. ‘Oops, sorry Max, of course I mean the second-best present after yours! He’s given me a new pair of walking boots. Which I thought wasn’t exactly romantic, until he told me to look inside one of them and there was the booking confirmation for a holiday in the Italian Lakes in the spring. Quite imaginative,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘Full marks to Max. Give him my love, and to the boys too. See you soon. Merry Christmas to you all.’

I smile as I hang up, and then call my parents’ number. Tess picks up, with a shriek of joy. ‘It
is
her! Mom, Dad, it’s Evie! Wait, I’m putting you on speakerphone...’

We exchange our news, our Christmas wishes, our love, the miles between us melting away like the thawing snow.

‘I’m the size of a whale now; I’ll email you a picture. And are you really coming back in February?’

‘You betcha, Tess; wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’

‘We can’t wait to have you home, sweetie,’ says my mother. ‘And now the rest of you go start breakfast. I’m just going to have a word with Evie on my own. There, that’s better, now I can hear myself think. I have some news for you. Good news, I think...’

Finally I hang up, sitting for a moment longer, gazing back down at the red-tiled roofs of Les Pélérins from which the last crusts of snow are now disappearing fast. And then I stride out, back down the hill to change out of my jeans and into something a little more suitable for Christmas entertaining, accompanied by the chuckle of the little stream which has thawed out now too and splashes along cheerily beside me.

D
idier arrives early
—as I’d been hoping he would. He steps into the warm hallway and wraps his arms around me, immediately dispelling any possibility of awkwardness between us, confirming last night’s kiss with another which, if anything, holds even more certainty: a promise of a future where love is more than just a possibility. We stay in each other’s arms for a while, then he draws back and smiles. ‘A Christmas gift for you,’ he reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a half-bottle of golden wine. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get you something more
à propos
.’

‘You just gave me the gift I was wishing for, Didier: that kiss. There’s no need to give me anything more.’ I scrutinise the label on the bottle and gasp. ‘Château d’Yquem! The best sweet wine in the world. Don’t tell me, another gift from a grateful patient?’

He nods. ‘How did you guess? I thought it might be a suitable accompaniment to the famous Christmas pudding?’

‘It’ll be perfect. You surely do have friends in high places!’

He sniffs the air appreciatively as we go through to the kitchen to set out the aperitifs for Eliane and Mathieu’s imminent arrival.

‘Now,’ I say, as I busy myself putting champagne flutes onto a tray. ‘Before they come, I have a gift for you too. A while ago I emailed my mother about your anaesthesia machine. She has some contacts in the medical field in the States, through her fundraising work. So she spoke to someone who put her in touch with someone else... anyway, long story short, there’s a guy who wants to talk to you. He’s the CEO of a not-for-profit organisation which deals with healthcare in developing countries. They fund projects concerned with new medical technologies and they think your machine sounds really interesting. My mother says it’s a shoe-in. I’ve got the guy’s contact details. He wants you to call him as soon as possible after the holidays. They’re really excited about the machine’s capabilities and a possible tie-in with
Médecins Sans Frontières
. They’re already talking in terms of you heading up the project, which would mean spending time in the States and in Africa too. Other countries in the future as well, if it goes to plan.’

Didier’s very handsome jaw has, quite literally, dropped. He rakes his fingers through his hair—enhancing that Bradley Cooper look again—as he takes in what I’m saying.

‘But how...? When...? What...?’ And then, his eyes shining as realisation dawns, ‘Why, Evie, it’s a Christmas miracle! The best present you could possibly have given me.
Merci
, from the bottom of my heart.’

Just then there’s a knock at the door and I leave him where he’s sunk down onto a kitchen chair, still shaking his head in disbelief, to go let Eliane and Mathieu in.

In the sunny sitting room we open the bottle of champagne with a celebratory pop and raise our glasses to toast Christmas and friendship and other miracles, as Didier explains his machine—and the new possibilities for it now that there’s a promise of funding—to our elderly neighbours.

As I pass round a plate of light-as-air cheese
gougères
, I can’t help stealing frequent glances at his face, even more handsome when it’s so animated, rejoicing that his dream is a step closer to becoming reality. I see Eliane notice, with her clear gaze, how often our eyes meet and then how he hugs me to him as he tells them about the funding, and I know she sees it all. I wonder what she sees in our futures... or maybe she saw it all last night and none of this comes as any surprise whatsoever. I’d love to know: is this the start of something lasting? Do the new paths that are opening up before us run alongside one another? Or will they take us off in different directions? I’m sure she knows. But I’m equally sure that, for Didier and for me, the adventure will be in finding out, taking our time, stepping out on these new paths and seeing where they lead. Letting Fate do its thing, spreading our newly mended wings like fledglings as we learn to fly again.

I pass round the plate of aperitifs, urging Mathieu to take the last of the cheese puffs, and then go into the kitchen to heat the chestnut soup.

Suddenly, rudely interrupting the comfortable flow of chat next door as Mathieu and Eliane quiz Didier about his experiences in Africa, a strange noise drowns out the gentle bubbling of the pudding in its pan and the peaceful roar of the fire in the belly of the range. It’s a loud and insistent beeping, underlain by a deep rumble that seems to make the very walls of the house shake. We crowd into the hallway. ‘What on earth...?’ I say, bewildered.

Flinging open the front door, we’re confronted by the slowly reversing bulk of a vast truck that’s edging into the yard, its tall sides catching the oaks’ branches, causing the mistletoe to toss alarmingly, and sending a flurry of broken twigs cascading to the ground.

‘The driver must be lost,’ says Eliane, shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘What
does
he think he’s doing? He’ll upset the horses.’

‘On Christmas Day of all days too,’ Didier exclaims.

The driver’s door opens and a stout, balding man jumps down from the cab, giving us a cheery salute. And then my jaw nearly hits the muddy ground. Because the passenger door opens and out clambers none other than that famous celebrity chef of the moment, my own estranged husband, Will Brooke.

‘Thank goodness for satnav, hey, Dylan? We’d never have found this place without it. Surprise, Evie! Oh, and a very Merry Christmas to you all. Are we in time for lunch?’

For a few moments, all I can do is stand and gape. Is this another one of those dreams, where everything has been going so wonderfully and then suddenly, out of nowhere, Will turns up and throws cold water over it all, bringing me back to a reality that I’d really rather not confront? But no, Didier, Eliane and Mathieu are definitely real, standing there in the doorway behind me. And Will and the driver look pretty darn solid too.

My husband strides towards me across the yard, crunching through the crust of melting snow, and engulfs me in a warm bear hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a slight flurry of movement as my three neighbours tactfully retreat into the house, giving us a moment. But what must Didier be thinking? And my own thoughts are a jumble of confusion as I struggle to make sense of what’s happening here...

I draw back so I can see Will’s beaming face. ‘But what...? And how...?’

He laughs, delighted that the surprise has totally flummoxed me. ‘Dylan, come and meet Evie.’ He ushers the truck driver forward. ‘Evie, this is Dylan Burke, trucker extraordinaire and knight in shining armour.’

I shake Dylan by the hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, although I have to admit he makes a somewhat unlikely ‘knight’: with his cheerful, pudgy face and short stature he bears a more-than-passing resemblance to Danny DeVito.

‘So this is the famous Evie,’ he beams, pumping my hand up and down with enthusiasm. ‘Will’s told me all about you on the drive down.’

‘Nightmare journey,’ Will chips in. ‘I got your email, Evie, and it made me realise how crazy this is, us being apart. So I jumped in the car as soon as I could get away. Managed to get as far as Orléans and then the snowstorm struck. The car’s still stranded in a motorway service station. I had to sleep in it the night before last, bloody freezing it was. I kept turning the engine on so the heater would work, otherwise I might have died of hypothermia. Anyway, the next morning the whole place was completely snowed in, the car half-buried in a drift. Battery completely dead. I met Dylan here in the café. We waited until they’d ploughed the
autoroutes
—Dylan was listening in on the radio so he knew what was going on. Spent last night sleeping in the spare bunk in his cab. Then this morning he reckoned it was safe enough, so we set off again. What a hero; I wouldn’t be here without you, mate.’