Brioche in the Oven by Victoria Brownlee

Author:Victoria Brownlee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Love stories
Publisher: Chicago Review Press
Published: 2020-05-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter

17

THE NEXT FEW DAYS LOOKED set to be as magical as I’d hoped. Paris was cold, but it didn’t feel as cold as Chinon, and there were so many cafés and cosy restaurants to visit when my toes got numb that the weather wasn’t going to stop me from having a good time.

Serge had booked us into a hotel in the Marais, and we walked our old neighborhood nostalgically, stopping in to visit friends from the stores around Serge’s old fromagerie and going to see Fanny to pick up cheese.

Clotilde and Papa Jean were well in the festive spirit when we arrived for dinner, and Jean had cooked up quite the Christmas feast. Gaston apparently had a better offer, which thankfully meant that I didn’t have to submit to the awkwardness of seeing him again, especially now that I was pregnant.

As Jean and Serge were in the kitchen discussing—at length—the jus for the roast goose, I got to catch up with Clotilde. She filled me in on life in Paris and downplayed how well the modeling was going.

“And how about you, any developments on the cheese room?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve decided to add a coffee machine,” I said.

“But have you spoken to Serge?” she pressed.

“Not yet,” I admitted.

“What on earth are you waiting for? It’s been weeks.”

“Well, I guess part of me still wonders if it’s a good idea for me to commit to living out there. Regardless of whether Serge is into the idea, I’ll be nervous. If he agrees, it’ll mean we’ll spend longer in the country. If he doesn’t, it’ll mean I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. Other than baby, of course,” I said, rubbing my belly.

“Hmm,” she said.

“And then there’s the question of the cheese itself,” I added.

“What’s wrong with the cheese?” she asked.

“Well, Serge has been very guarded about it. I get the feeling he’s not entirely happy with what he’s produced so far—”

“Ella, you’ve got to speak with him,” she interrupted. “About the cheese, but more important about the cheese room. Even if you do decide to leave the country and sell after you’ve set everything up, it’ll be a good asset for the farm. It would probably help attract potential buyers, too.”

“That’s a good point,” I said.

“But you’re not going to get far if you don’t talk to Serge about it soon,” she said.

I was on the brink of telling Clotilde the other reasons I hadn’t pitched the cheese-room idea to Serge yet—because of whatever was going on with his ex-wife, and because of the state of our finances—when Papa Jean called us to the table. “We’ll talk more later,” I whispered to her as we sat down.

And then we feasted. Jean’s spread was decadent beyond measure. We ate figs stuffed with foie gras before carving the goose, which was accompanied by shredded Brussels sprouts and roast potatoes, crisp from the heavy-handed addition of salted butter. Cheese followed, with a comically large slice of Comté that Jean insisted on being reserved for me and bébé.

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