A French Pirouette. Jennifer Bohnet

sighed hearing the downbeat tone to her voice, before putting his arm around her and drawing her close. “Chérie, this has to be for the best. The auberge is too much for you—us—now. Life changes and we have to accept that.”

      “It is not such a big wrench for you,” Brigitte said quietly. “I know you’re looking forward to living in your boyhood home again. But aren’t you a teeny bit sad about leaving the auberge? Our home since the day we married?” Her new home had been such a change from the old farm she’d grown up on down near Redon. She’d loved the challenge of turning the house first into a family home and then later into the Auberge du Canal. Slowly over the years, feeding and looking after the auberge guests had become her raison d’être especially when Isabelle had left home. And now it had been taken away from her.

      Bruno nodded. “Mais oui. It’s hard for you to leave I realise ma chérie, but it was time we retired. Took things easier.”

      “I know, but we lived there for over forty years. All our memories are there. Already I miss it so much after just two days.” Brigitte wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “I can’t help but be sad about leaving. The only good thing is, that it is Libby who buys. I am very happy about that. It will be good having her living here in France.”

      “We bring the memories with us,” Bruno said. “Then make more here together. Life will be better for us in the village, you’ll see. Less work—more fun. We’ll be able to travel a bit. See more of Isabelle. Enjoy the freedom—and the rest of our lives.”

      At the mention of their daughter, Brigitte remembered Bruno’s earlier suggestion of spending time down on the Riviera. “Visit her in Antibes? I would enjoy that. Shall we go soon?” She hugged Bruno back. Maybe there would be some compensation to leaving her beloved auberge after all.

      “Bon. It is agreed; we go soon,” Bruno said.

      Brigitte glanced at her watch. “I’d better go and start lunch.”

      “I have an idea, ma chérie,” Bruno said. “Why don’t we have lunch in the village café? Less work and peut-être it will cheer you.”

      Two hours later and back from lunch, Brigitte thrust the fork into the weed-infested soil and leaned on the handle, catching her breath. Getting to grips with this overgrown jungle of a garden was proving harder than she’d anticipated.

      Gardening at the auberge had consisted mainly of looking after geranium-filled pots, a couple of flower borders and the occasional pruning of the back hedge. Bruno had grown their vegetables in a plot securely fenced off from the ducks and the chickens while the rest of the grounds had been used for guest parking.

      Here at the village mas she had both the land and the free time to indulge herself in what she was beginning to suspect could easily become an obsession.

      There was a lot of work to be done. Bruno had cut the lawn before they moved in but nothing else had been touched for years. Looking around her now she could see primroses, daffodils and miniature cyclamen all at various stages of growth in the old flower beds. The rambling roses over the old arched pergola were already budding up. Closing her eyes she imagined sitting out under its perfumed shade of a summer’s afternoon, enjoying the tranquility.

      The patch of ground she was currently clearing was the sunniest and warmest spot in the garden. A buddleia had spread its branches out along the back wall but there was plenty of space for more trees and shrubs when she’d decided what she wanted. She had to admit to quite fancying an olive tree.

      Bruno had promised he’d clean out the old pond and restock it with some fish. Maybe they’d even get some visiting frogs. Many a summer night Brigitte had gone to sleep listening to the croaking of the canal frogs.

      Outside the kitchen door the old granite trough was filled with compost waiting for her to plant it up with the herbs she wanted. Basil, parsley, chives, sage and thyme were all on order down at the garden centre.

      “Brigitte. Ready to go to the pépinière in five minutes?” As if reading her thoughts, Bruno’s voice startled her out of her daydreaming. She’d forgotten the herbs were ready for collecting today.

      “Better make it ten,” she said, hurrying indoors to wash her hands and change her shoes.

      The garden centre was buzzing as they drove in. Springlike weather over the past few days had infused people with the enthusiasm for sorting out their winter-ravaged gardens.

      While Bruno went to pay for the herbs and put them in the car, Brigitte wandered down through the pépinière to where the large shrubs and trees were. She was standing looking at a willow tree when Bruno found her.

      “D’you think we could plant a willow? It would look wonderful by the pond,” she said. “It would be a real statement in that part of the garden. They’re such an elegant trees. I love the way everything moves in a gentle breeze—like they’re dancing.”

      “Let’s go and find Pascal and see whether he thinks we have the right conditions.”

      “He’s here today?” Brigitte said surprised. Only last week they’d attended the funeral of Gilles de Guesclin, Pascal’s father and Bruno’s childhood friend, and one of the biggest landowners in the area. As his only son Pascal had inherited the estate, which included a small chateau, a couple of farms and the garden centre, which had always been Pascal’s responsibility. “I’d have thought he’d be too busy sorting everything else out.”

      Bruno nodded. “You know how much he’s always loved this place. Was saying just now how being down here with the plants helps him to think straight. It’s his sanctuary from the world—and his mother I think!”

      “Where is he now? Still in the office?” Brigitte said.

      Bruno nodded and they began to make their way up through an enormous polytunnel to the office area where they found Pascal busy checking off a delivery of plants with an assistant, his small dog Lola watching him from her basket under the desk.

      “Brigitte,” Pascal kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

      “Ça va,” Brigitte said. “You? How are you coping?” she asked gently. “Your mother too?”

      “She’s not good but she copes. Now what can I do for you?”

      When he heard what they were interested in buying he left his assistant to finish with the delivery and walked down to help them decide which willow tree would be the best for their garden.

      When they’d settled on a well-established one at about six feet tall Brigitte said, “I have a fancy for an olive tree too. I know it’s a Mediterranean tree but there is a very sheltered part of the garden that gets lots of sun—an olive tree would just be perfect there.”

      “I’m sorry Brigitte but I don’t have an olive tree in stock. I can get you one and there is no reason why it wouldn’t prosper in the spot you describe. You’d have to protect its roots in winter from frost of course but they can survive temperatures of minus seven degrees Celsius.”

      “How long to wait for one?” Brigitte asked.

      Pascal shrugged. “Two, maybe three weeks. Leave the willow tree here and I deliver them both together, yes?”

      “Perfect,” Brigitte said. “Thank you.”

      Leaving Pascal to return to work, Brigitte and Bruno made their way back to the car.

      “Such a shame Pascal has never married,” Brigitte said. “He should really have a wife and family by now. He has to think about his own inheritance too. Perhaps his father dying will finally encourage him to find someone. I would like to see him happy.”

      “You’re forgetting about his mother,” Bruno said. “It will take someone special to cope with her. Someone who is strong enough to stand up for herself.

      Brigitte glanced at Bruno. Sometimes he still surprised her with his insight.