A French Wedding (28 page)

One Year Later –
Un An Plus Tard

Juliette

J
uliet
te pushes the key into the lock. Outside, the pot
plants are gone, replaced by planter boxes full of herbs and edible flowers and a long stone bench for waiting customers. The paint around
the
window
frames is now glossy black, the sign hanging is black too, with brass letters. The ivy is still there, cut right back, but determinedly re-growing in bright green shoots and quivering heart-shaped leaves. Juliette opens the door to the smell of baking and the sounds of rap, Xuan, shouting along. Chairs are still on table tops, the newly tiled floor clean and shining.

She enters the kitchen and smiles.

Xuan wiping the sweat from his forehead with a corner of his apron and turning down the stereo. His thick black hair sticks up like exclamation marks. ‘I didn't know you were coming in.'

‘Sorry, I woke early and couldn't get back to sleep.'

Xuan nods. It is a baker's curse, the habit of waking before the sun does, a habit that is hard to break even on days off. Juliette has been awake since dawn, watching the light from the window changing colour against her skin. From mauve to gold to ivory, as her thoughts skimmed through memories, dipped into wishes and then went to the pragmatic things. Special orders for the
boulangerie-patisserie
that bore her name, the supplies she needed more of, the emails that had been piling up requiring replies.

‘How are you going? Do you need a hand with the orders?'

Xuan gestures towards a bench with four white boxes on top, their lids open. ‘Done. When is pick-up?'

‘This morning for the
kouign-amann
,' Juliette replies, making her voice steady. This is the real reason she did not sleep. The reason she is in early, though she has tried not to think of it. ‘Lunchtime for the others.'

She surveys the caramelisation of the two
kouign-amann
, the regularity and depth of the score marks. Xuan has learned so much in such a short time; he has the knack for pastry. Juliette shouldn't be surprised, he was practically raised in a restaurant. Every now and then Juliette becomes somewhat fearful Xuan will leave Douarnenez and her
boulangerie-patisserie
, but he doesn't seem to want to, not yet anyway. His loyalty to his family, his parents, is very strong, he is the eldest son now, after the loss of his brother, and he has a charisma that means he is never short of a girlfriend. Juliette reviews the other boxes – a
gâteau Breton
and a large quiche.

‘These look great, Xuan.
Parfait
.'

‘Thanks, Juliette.'

‘Anything else I can do?'

‘Not right now. I'm going to do some glazing and then I'll fill the cabinets.'

‘I'll help with that. If you need me I'll be out front.'

Xuan nods and Juliette scans the kitchen before she leaves, balling up a piece of parchment paper and putting it in the bin on her way out.

After bringing the chairs down off tables, Juliette restocks napkins and folds boxes. She wipes down the cabinets, though they appear spotless, polishes the exterior of the glass so it reflects the light coming in from the window. She stands back and pauses, remembering the way it used to look, all the times she was here as a child, a teen, and an adult. She imagines Stephanie Jeunet behind the counter in her bright red roll-neck jumper, the decorative wicker baskets behind her, calling out to Juliette as she entered. Juliette was lucky the store was still for sale when she enquired, though it was in such a state of disrepair it was unlikely to attract many other buyers. Dust covered everything and underneath the dust, grease, especially in the kitchen which Juliette practically had to build again from scratch. The real estate agent impressed upon her it would be easy to reinstate it to its former purpose, but Juliette knew most of the fixtures – ovens, tables, till – would need to be replaced. Still, she felt the presence of Stephanie Jeunet here, which she wouldn't elsewhere and that was worth something. Worth something to Juliette.

Stephanie's presence gave Juliette courage when she needed to get the electric cabling replaced and when she discovered the ivy had grown into the water supply. It gave her reassurance when bills came in, when Xuan was not yet there for support. It gave her comfort when she felt the loneliness that every business owner feels, the burden of making it all work, of holding it together when things don't go to plan, when nothing goes to plan. Juliette often summons the memory of Stephanie in her usual spot, content in her place in the world, selling brioche and
gâteaux
and bread made in the way she always made them, the way her mother would have made them, smiling, chatting, never rushing. Juliette rushed less these days too. Her Paris self would be appalled at her languid pace, the way she pauses before making decisions, the simple, pared back approach to all her cooking.

The front door opens while Juliette's back is still turned to it.

‘Hi Juliette.'

She shifts to face him. He is wearing a suit. A nice suit, grey, either new or freshly pressed. No tie. Dark sunglasses. A bright, white shirt, the top two buttons open. He lifts the sunglasses from his eyes to the top of his head. She hadn't expected him to come. She thought maybe one of the others instead. Or Helen. Of course she had wanted it to be Helen.

‘Hi Max,' she replies. He is a little thinner than usual. Otherwise he looks the same. ‘You look good.'

‘I scrub up okay,' he replies with a gentle smile. Juliette puts down her cloth. Max gives her a kiss on each cheek.

‘Helen is just picking up flowers,' he says, as though reading her mind. ‘Are you well?'

‘Very.'

Max looks around the room. ‘This is all yours?'

‘
Oui
. Mine and the bank's.'

‘It's magnificent.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Business good?'

‘
Oui
.'

They pause and stare at each other; Juliette lets the silence bloom. She can hear Xuan's music in the kitchen and the metallic sound of baking trays being shifted on the counters.

‘Big day today,' she says, finally.

‘Yes,' Max replies, clearing his throat. ‘I'm not used to being so sober on these occasions.'

‘How is that going?'

Max meets Juliette's gaze. ‘Getting better. A little easier.' His face clouds over. ‘I have been meaning to call you actually. I wanted to …'

Juliette remembers the moment in the stairwell. Feeling cast out. She was not a part of them but they were now a part of her. Needing to leave but not wanting to go. Helen's face behind Max's in the doorway and the sound of her sandals striking each step on the way down.

‘Apologise,'
Juliette
finishes.
She
knows
it
is
part
of
a
rehabilitation
program
to
apologise
to
those
you
have
wronged.
She
assesses
him,
his
face
troubled
and
serious,
and
nods.
She
is
pleased
he
is
following
through
with
it.

‘Yeah. I –'

Juliette interrupts, ‘You don't have to apologise, Max. Things worked out well for me. I'm happy here.' She pauses. ‘Happier than I guessed I might ever be in Douarnenez.'

‘Well …' Max glances around again. ‘I'm really happy for you. It suits you. You know, I went to
Delphine
last week.' He leans towards her. ‘The
kouign-amann
was nowhere near as good.'

Juliette laughs. ‘You are a charmer, Max. Always a charmer.'

‘It's the truth,' he protests.

‘Speaking of which, you've come for your order, right?' Juliette says. Max nods. Juliette goes to the kitchen and closes two of the white boxes. She carries them out stacked one on top of the other.

‘
Kouign-amann
for a wedding cake,' she says, coming back out of the kitchen to Max. ‘That's a first for me.'

‘Can you think of anything better?' Max asks.

‘Not really.'

Max pushes a set of keys into his trouser pocket and reaches out to accept the boxes.

‘What do I owe you?'

Juliette shakes her head. ‘It's a wedding gift.'

‘I want to pay.'

‘I said it would be a gift, so it's a gift. I promised. Don't argue with me or I'll get angry,' she says, jokingly.

Max tips his head and laughs. ‘That I'd like to see. Are you sure?'

‘Take them.'

Juliette waits for him to leave but instead he hesitates.

‘Are you coming today? You're invited. We weren't sure if you …'

Juliette takes a breath. Carrou, Stephanie's niece, had become Max's housekeeper. She had been telling Juliette how the garden had been tidied, all the flowers in bloom, the boxes of fine champagne that had been delivered. Never married herself, Carrou was giddy with the details. A celebrant from Rennes, a jazz singer – from Paris! – chairs hired, lanterns and candles for the evening, a caterer – she would hardly have to do a thing. Just a tidy up here and there, the bathrooms and bedrooms for the guests, fresh towels, pass around a few canapés. Carrou had even bought a new dress from one of the expensive tourist shops in Locranon. Coral pink with a lace collar. Juliette had been imagining it, them, the whole morning as dawn broke and sleep evaded her. Eddie and Beth and the new baby. Sophie, older now, standing next to Etienne, who, Mari had informed her over drinks at the local bar, was madly in love with the pretty English girl he wrote to, every word painstakingly translated into English. Rosie, wearing jewellery she had made herself, looking strong, looking elegant. Carrou, to one side, in the dress the colour of flamingo feathers. Helen.

Juliette almost winces.

‘Maybe,' she replies.

‘Come,' Max urges.

‘We'll see.'

Max nods, understanding, and half-turns to leave. ‘I'm sorry all the same, you know, whether you need me to be or not. I was selfish.'

‘Thank you, Max,' she replies.

Juliette thinks about her own selfishness, about how much she wishes Helen had come instead of him. Knowing it would be a kind of torture to see her in person, rather than in the sleepy daydreams of her mornings, the half-formed imaginings she had when business was slow. Half-hoping and half-dreading that if she saw her the thoughts and fantasies would evaporate.

Juliette had last seen Helen in
Musée de l'Orangerie
, Juliette's favourite museum. Inside, the haziness and colours of Monet's huge works were soothing, the space was light and quiet and unknown to many of the tourists that flooded the other museums. It had serenity. Juliette had stood with Helen in front of one of the massive, concave paintings, staring at the pale greens, soft blues, violets. Wishing she could reach for her hand.

‘I'm not asking for anything,' Juliette had said, calmer than she imagined she might feel. ‘I just want to be honest. I need to be honest.'

Being with Helen in that space, confessing, had felt like the times Juliette had written messages and stuffed them into bottles, casting them out to sea with her father on one of their Sunday beach walks. Both of them with their hands above their eyes, squinting at the vessel bobbing on the waves, watching till it disappeared, knowing it was unlikely to reach someone but trying all the same. Hoping, simply because there was joy in it, because there was nothing to be lost.

Juliette and Helen had walked slowly around the same gallery once, twice, Juliette lost count, with those magnificent, blurred waterlilies in the backdrop, as Juliette explained it all, just as she had promised herself in the kitchen that she would. She confessed her past and confessed her secrets. She told Helen all of it. Violette. Celine. Maman and Dad. Regrets. Sadnesses. Hopes. Desires. Helen had listened, just like a priest she had listened and when Juliette was finished, when all Juliette had wanted was to pull Helen towards her and hold her, Helen had stood at arm's length and whispered, ‘It's too much.' Her voice had been shaking with tears
.

As Max leaves Juliette watches him through the windows, wedding cakes in his arms, sunglasses returned to his face. She follows him until he is out of sight and then returns to the kitchen to help Xuan bring the trays of food to the counters. Juliette distracts herself with the work, making rows of buns and tarts, elevating cakes onto stands, stacking baguettes into the bread bins. Xuan chats while Juliette listens and quietly quality-checks all the goods Xuan has made, though she doesn't really need to. When all the food is laid out Juliette stands back and assesses the display before heading out to snip herbs from the planter box for garnishing.

A woman with dark hair sits with her back to the window on the stone bench. She is wearing a plain, white silk top and narrow, light grey trousers, the same colour as Max's suit. Her hair, loose, is much longer than it was before and wavy. She is, of course, beautiful. As beautiful as Juliette remembers. It sends a shiver through her. Juliette feels her name in her mouth, hesitating before saying it out loud.