“Darling, you can, and you will,” Vivienne said. “Of course you’re in love with another man. You’ve French blood now and we French always find love.” Vivienne kissed Chloe’s cheeks. “Jean-Marc planned to give this to you, but life and death had other plans. We know he’d want us to do this for you. It’s all yours. You cannot deny us.”
The tears were impossible to battle.
A car pulled in next to them. “’Allo,” a feminine voice called from the vehicle. Walking toward them with the same sway she’d employed at Jean-Marc’s funeral was the blonde. The mystery woman.
“Beatrice, come, come, meet Chloe,” Vivienne said. “Chloe, this is Beatrice Dupont. She and Jean-Marc were working together on this project when he died. She wanted to know if she should continue to acquire the project or let it go. We told her to get it.”
“I’m grateful.” And ashamed. Of course, Jean-Marc had not cheated on her. “But why are you just now telling me? It’s been nearly a year.” Chloe glanced toward the café and felt peace. So much peace. And to her surprise, the soft touch of a large hand on her shoulder.
Lord, what do I do now?
“That is our fault, Chloe,” Albert said. “In our grief, we didn’t really understand what Beatrice was telling us at the funeral. She finally got in touch with us again a few months ago and we investigated the purchase. Then we knew we must tell you.”
“Shall we go inside and see where you will one day serve delicious croissants and fresh roasted café?” Vivienne extended her arms to Chloe, drawing her close and walking with her inside the stone building.
It was beautiful, if not a bit beat up with dull hardwood floors, stained glass windows, and high-pitched ceilings with rough wood beams. The kitchen was enormous but in need of a total overhaul. Out back was a garden. Given the right care, it would be a lovely place for tables and chairs, for weddings and garden parties.
Chloe wiped a fresh wash of tears from her cheeks. “I—I just don’t know what to say.”
“Say you love it, ma chérie,” Albert said. “We’ve no expectations. We shall love if you keep it and stay, bring your new man. Should you want to go, we will be sad but understand.”
Beatrice handed Chloe a folder. She opened it to find a stack of legal-looking forms. “I can read recipes in French, but this?”
Vivienne gestured to Beatrice, who leaned forward and pointed at the top paper. “This is a copy of the deed to the property. Je suis agent immobilier—that is, how you say…real estate agent. I negotiated the purchase on behalf of Jean-Marc and worked with the notaire in his absence.”
“I heard you at his graveside.” She turned to Beatrice, who on true inspection, did not look like an adulteress. “You said, ‘petit chalet’ and ‘affaire de cœur.’”
“Oui. He loved you so. He told me when you were newly married he made an extravagant purchase he should not have, and he bitterly regretted it. He wanted to make another extravagant purchase, this one for you. The house was for you and your children.” Beatrice’s words were appropriate to the occasion and her tone kind. “He was so excited to share the news with you at your Moveable Feast.”
“The Moveable Feast? But he went to Zermatt instead of the restaurant event.”
“Non, Chloe,” Vivienne said. “He insisted the ski test be early so he could fly back to Paris and be with you.”
Chloe sat down hard in the nearest chair, a rusted wrought iron thing that had once been painted red, and tried to take it all in. She’d been so angry—and so wrong.
“Is that why he crashed?” Her eyes flooded over as she looked up at Albert. “He was in a hurry, rushing?”
Albert’s own sorrow showed in his eyes. “He crashed because the skis were faulty. A degree off on the sidecut in the design. Another degree during fabrication. We are the ones to bear the guilt.”
“Non, mon amour.” Vivienne reached for her husband’s hand. “We agreed we’d not blame ourselves. Jean-Marc would not be pleased.”
Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes. Dear, darling Jean-Marc. Of course, he wasn’t having an affair. That was her imagination running wild with the loose reins of anger and the steel bit of grief in her teeth. “I’m not sure I can accept it.” A wave of love and longing and loss washed over her.
Albert patted her hands. “You can and you must,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It was Jean-Marc’s focus and sole project the last months of his life.” He cleared his throat. “Vivienne is correct. If you’d rather not stay and run it, we understand. We will purchase it from you and hire someone.”
So many emotions swirled through her. Love. Regret. Anticipation. Her tears spilled over like water breaching a dam, slow to get going, but once they started… Her beloved Jean-Marc had planned it all. Their perfect life.
But Sam was her future. Wasn’t he? Chloe walked the café while Albert, Vivienne, and Beatrice stepped outside.
“Jean-Marc, darling, I love you so much for this. But I’m in Hearts Bend now and there’s the matter of Sam Hardy.” Chloe whispered to Jean-Marc as she strolled along the walls, a finger trailing the rough stones. “What should I do? What would you want me to do?” How could she create a future with one hand grasping Sam’s and the other holding onto Jean-Marc? Yet she wanted this café more than anything. She could almost smell the freshly baked croissants coming from the oven, almost hear the chatter of the locals as they sat on the patio or in the garden. Even more, she felt God’s hand on her, and she knew. She knew.
This was exactly where she needed to be. Café LaRue was her home.
18
The therapy, exercises and evaluations had helped Sam keep his mind occupied and not brooding on Chloe back in Paris for the last few days. Perched on his couch with an ice pack on his knee Friday morning, Sam reviewed the health checkup Dr. Morgan had sent to the Raiders. Despite his positive progress, there was a hint of hesitation in her notes.
“…range of motion…tenderness…” and some other doctorly words.
