laughed, feeling a little more at ease.
The driver deposited their cases on the driveway and Guy moved to speak with him.
‘You are hungry, yes? I have prepared something,’ Colette said, taking Emma’s arm and guiding her towards the front door of the house.
Tiled floors and oak beams greeted her inside. The interior of the house reflected modern tastes but it had obviously been sympathetically updated because nothing looked out of place. White walls and light pouring in from every window somehow managed to create a warm, bright, cosy, yet open feel.
The kitchen was state-of-the-art but the large table down the middle of it was rustic and old, a homely red and white checked tablecloth covered it. On the table was a French feast her stomach reacted to immediately. Bread, cheese, ham, grapes… the aromas were heaven sent.
‘You didn’t have to go to any trouble,’ Emma said.
‘It was no trouble. When Guy say he is returning I am pleased. I think it would be months before I see the boy again,’ Colette said, smiling. She pulled a seat out for Emma who sat straight into it.
‘This is such a beautiful house. I had no idea…’
‘He re-build. Tear down the old one and start again.’
‘Tear down?’ Emma questioned.
‘This is where he always live. With that wicked mother of his. He tell me all about her. So much pain and sadness in his life… losing his brother…’ Colette commenced, clutching her chest as she spoke.
Emma looked away from the woman, focused on the food on the table, anything to avoid connecting with the conversation.
‘Such a tragedy,’ Colette carried on. ‘I think that was the turning point for Guy. There was no hope for him here while she was still alive. It forced him to go, to make something of himself.’
‘Colette, you have made food. I said we could do this!’ Guy exclaimed, entering the kitchen.
‘It is nothing. You sit down and enjoy. I will finish making the beds and then I will be out of your way,’ she said. She pulled out a chair for Guy then bustled from the room.
Emma let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding as Guy sat opposite.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, reaching across the table and taking her hands in his.
‘Yes. I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone,’ she admitted.
‘Colette?’
She nodded. What the woman said had brought a flood of unwelcome memories back to the surface. She should have known coming back to the place where everything had happened would do that, but she’d thought of it more as an expedition to banish the bad times, start afresh.
‘She saved me back then. She picked me up when I was so down. I lived with her… after Luc… when I left,’ he explained.
Emma nodded. She picked up the cheese platter and offered it to him.
‘She won’t be here all weekend. She lives in a cottage just a mile away. I bought it for her to thank her. Although, nothing could ever be enough to repay her for what she did.’ He picked up a few grapes and put one in his mouth.
The plate slid out of her hands and she struggled to balance it.
‘Are you OK with being here?’ Guy asked her.
‘What d’you mean? The house, it’s gorgeous from what I’ve seen so far and…’ She paused then let go of the plate, withdrawing her hands.
‘I meant Fréjus. There are a lot of memories, yes?’ he probed.
‘I suppose.’ She dropped her eyes to the table. This was what she’d been afraid of. Coming back to the place she’d left in 2005 was bound to highlight things. She could forgive Guy what had happened with Tasha, even though it gnawed at her. But she still couldn’t forgive herself for her reaction to it.
‘We’re starting again. Something new. We can pretend we know nothing of each other if you would like,’ he said.
She raised her head, saw him smile.
‘I think we’re a long way past a first date,’ she responded.
‘Sorry? What did you say your name was?’ he replied, leaning across the table.
‘I knew you were a ladies’ man. I should never have accepted a weekend away with a stranger,’ Emma played along.
‘I think we have very much in common. Over there on the bookshelf you will see I have the complete works of Shakespeare and books by a rather strange but well-respected author called Chaucer.’ He indicated a bookcase just visible in what she assumed was the living room, partitioned from the kitchen-diner by a feature