We turn off the main highway onto a narrow two-lane road, hemmed in by golden fields and rows of towering poplars. The landscape is quilted with vineyards and sunflower patches, each turn revealing a new postcard view.
Soon, the road winds us into a quiet village—cobblestone streets, slate roofs, and white stone walls washed in the soft light of early afternoon. There’s a small square with a fountain in the center and a café where two men sit playing pétanque.
It feels suspended in time.
Spencer slows to a stop near a weathered sign that reads:Bienvenue à Saint-Rémy-sur-Couronne.
No traffic, no rush.
Just the sound of birdsong and the occasional clink of ceramic cups from the café patio. I step out of the car and breathe in something that feels impossibly clean, like warm stone and lavender and fresh bread.
“This way,” Spencer says.
We walk slowly, hand in hand. He points out a narrow stucco building with blue shutters and window boxes overflowing with geraniums.
“That’s where I stayed,” he says, gesturing to a small ground-level door tucked beneath a flowering trellis. “Modest living space, a small kitchen, a little bedroom, and a bathroom. Small but sweet and... safe, somehow.”
He pauses, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“The landlord lived next door with his big ugly dog, whose name was Chocolat’ and growled every time I saidbonjour. I don’t think he liked my accent.”
I laugh, picturing him here, limping down these quiet streets, learning the rhythm of another life. I can feel how deeply this place lives in him. And strangely, it begins to live in me too.
Around the corner, we pass a tiny épicerie with dusty wine bottles and jars of honey in the window. Just beyond that is the bakery.
It’s a low stone building with ivy creeping up the walls and faded red shutters. The scent of warm bread drifts toward us before we even reach the door. A hand-painted sign swings gently above the entry: Boulangerie Henri.
Everything about it feels like a memory I never had.
And just like that, I’m back in my own living room—watching Esme on the floor, barefoot in her pajamas, carefully lining up the wooden croissant, baguette, and pain au chocolat from theBoulangerie Esmeplay set Spencer sent.
She presses the toy croissant to her lips, grinning as she declares, “Yummy! Yummy!”
Her voice echoes through me now, warm and high and certain, as if it’s stitched into the walls of this place I’ve never been. My heart aches for missing her.
A bell jingles as Spencer pushes the door open, and we’re instantly wrapped in warmth—and the scent of butter, caramelized sugar, and something nutty baking in the back.
“Henri! It’s me—Spencer!” he calls out, his voice bright with affection.
A little round man with a gruff voice and a generous dusting of flour on his shirt emerges from the kitchen, spectacles sliding down his nose.
“Only an American would barge in, interrupt a man’s work, and announce himself like royalty,” he mutters—but there’s a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
Before I can say a word, Henri pulls Spencer into a brief, firm hug, clapping him once on the back.
Spencer straightens. “Henri,” he says, “this is Rhea.”
Henri’s demeanor softens. He steps forward, takes myhand in both of his, and presses a light kiss to the back of it. His eyes study me for a moment, curious, like he’s solving a mystery.
“Rhea,” he says, drawing out the name like a melody. Then he turns to Spencer and murmurs, in French, “Pas étonnant que ton cœur ait été si brisé par son absence.”
I assume Henri doesn’t think I can understand every word.
No wonder your heart was so broken by her absence.
He brings us pastries—almond croissants, pain au chocolat, and a dense little tart he says is made with mirabelle plums from his wife's recipe.
We sit on the patio behind the bakery, beneath a wisteria vine just beginning to bloom. The table wobbles, and the plates are mismatched, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.
