Read Online The French for Always by Fiona Valpy - Free Book Online Page A

d’Arcachon for a few weeks with the rest of the family.’
    He hauled a picnic basket out of the back of the van. ‘You can carry this,’ he handed her a freshly baked baguette, still warm from the baker’s oven and wrapped in a twist of brown paper, ‘and I’ll bring this.’ He picked up a wine cooler. ‘ Allez, viens!’
    He led the way past the front of the ancient stone mill house and along a narrow path which led to the river, one of the smaller tributaries of the Dordogne. A weir had been built across the river and, on the nearside, a narrow channel of water had been diverted so that it plunged and foamed under the old mill wheel, at rest now after its centuries of work, the sluice gates beside it standing open to allow the water to flow through freely. They settled themselves in the shade of a generous-limbed willow tree that trailed its leaves languidly in the slow-flowing water below the weir.
    Sara gave a small sigh of contentment. ‘Amazing. These are practically my neighbours and I didn’t even know this place was here. What a lovely spot.’
    Thomas busied himself setting out plates and unwrapping little greaseproof parcels of pâté and cheeses. He drew the cork from a dew-misted bottle of white Bordeaux from Château de la Chapelle and poured a little into two glasses.
    Sara held hers up appreciatively. ‘Proper glasses too, I’m impressed!’
    ‘But of course. Only a philistine would drink such a wine as this from plastic. Santé !’
    He tore a generous chunk from the baguette and put it on one of the plates, handing it to Sara. ‘ Sers-toi ,’ he urged.
    Suddenly ravenous, Sara spread a thick slice of pâté onto the bread and bit into it. She hadn’t felt much like eating since Gavin left, and in any case it hardly seemed worth the effort to cook anything for one. Funny how congenial company is by far the best seasoning for any meal, she reflected.
    ‘So you were taking your father to the airport?’ she prompted.
    ‘Yes, he’s off to England for a few days. At the age of nearly eighty he’s found himself a lady friend there. C’est génial ! I haven’t seen him on such good form since my mother left him fifteen years ago. He’s learning to play Bridge and drink tea. It’s given him a whole new lease of life.’
    ‘And your mother? Do you see her often?’
    ‘ Oui, de temps en temps ,’ he shrugged. ‘But she’s often busy with her stepfamily. She remarried you see. Her husband’s a dentist in Bordeaux, retired now of course.’ Sara nodded sympathetically: she knew all about stepfamilies, having two of her own. ‘She doesn’t like coming back to the farm. A guilty conscience, I suppose. The vigneronne’s life was never really for her; she’s a city girl at heart. She was always restless living here in the countryside.’
    Something in the way he said this made Sara glance at his face, trying to read his expression. ‘So are you more like your father or your mother, do you think?’ she asked, sipping her wine.
    He sighed. ‘Honestly? In my heart of hearts I suspect there’s a lot of her in me. My brother, Robert, is just like our father. He’s a wine farmer through and through. Papa always says wine runs in our veins in the Cortini family. His own father came here from Italy to work in the vineyard and then fell in love with the daughter of the owner of Château de la Chapelle. So our family’s link with winemaking goes back generations. But I don’t think I have the same commitment to it that Robert does.’
    ‘But you don’t enjoy your job? You’re very good at it.’
    ‘It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. Just that...’ he paused, and threw a few crumbs of bread-crust into the water, enticing a flurry of tiny silver fishes to the surface.
    Sara sat still, gazing at the river, giving him time.
    ‘Well, it’s just that I feel there’s a whole wide world out there that I’d like to explore.’ His eyes shone as he turned to look at her, his face lighting up.