‘That’s a shame.’ She sniffed and scrabbled for a tissue and realised she’d run out. Luc handed her a fresh box that he’d brought up with the tray.
‘Thank you.’ She shot him a grateful if rueful smile. He thought of everything, which made her even grumpier. She really wasn’t enjoying him seeing her like this – all snotty, flushed and braindead.
‘Yes, although today I saw a glimpse of the old Solange. You should have seen her, giving Fliss orders like a field marshal. And she says you mustn’t worry about anything. Just rest and eat her soup, which I promise is excellent.’
All very well for Solange to say, thought Hattie uncharitably as she wrinkled her nose at the thought of food. ‘I’m not really very hungry.’
‘Try it. She made it specially and she’ll be very offended if you don’t eat it.’
Hattie picked up a spoon. Despite her bunged-up nose she could just make out the smell, but when she took a spoonful of the rich golden soup, she couldn’t help an involuntary sigh. The vibrant taste packed a powerful punch, smashing through her dulled senses. With a surprised half-laugh, she said, ‘That’s lovely. Just what I didn’t know I needed.’ Even with her taste impaired, the tarragon and chicken danced over her tongue in a delicious samba of flavours, partnering each other perfectly.
‘That’s the magic of Solange’s potage.’ Luc twisted and leaned back on the bed against the pillow, crossing his legs at the ankle, making himself comfortable. ‘She always used to make it when anyone in the village was sick. She’d put it in the front basket of her bicycle and Alphonse and I would cycle with her.’ He paused, his eyes crinkling with his usual ready smile. ‘I seem to recall our altruism had a motive. We usually got some sort of treat for the trouble.’
Hattie laughed, imagining Luc as a boy. He was probably as adorable then as he was now.
To her surprise she finished the soup, enjoying every last drop.
She lay back against the pillow, exhausted just by eating, as Luc chatted about his memories of Solange, Alphonse, Yvette and Marthe. When her eyes started to drift shut, he got to his feet.
‘Do you need anything?’ he asked, gathering up the tray again.
‘No, I’m fine, but can you make sure Fliss is okay?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s in her element. Last I saw she had every recipe book out on the table and was poring through them. You should probably stay in bed tomorrow.’
‘I can’t.’ She sat upright. ‘There’s…’
He held up a stern hand. ‘If you take a proper day of rest, it will be better in the long run.’
She sank back down into the pillows, not convinced he was right.
‘Just one day,’ he said.
‘All right,’ she grumbled, closing her eyes. She could always sneak downstairs when he went to the vineyard.
‘I’ll be back later,’ he murmured and she felt his lips brush her forehead. Again!
She kept her eyes firmly closed while her brain took off at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out whether a kiss on the forehead was significant or not. It seemed quietly intimate at the same time as dispassionately brotherly, and for the life of her, she had no bloody idea which was his intent.
The next day he reappeared, cheerful and forthright, bringing her a breakfast tray, complete with a warm croissant and jam, as well as a small vase filled with brightly coloured flowers arranged in a pretty hand-tied posy.
‘They’re beautiful. Thank you, Luc,’ she exclaimed, touched by the gesture.
‘I can’t take the credit, they’re from Pierre the gardener. He heard from Solange that you were unwell.’
‘That was very nice of him,’ she replied over-brightly. Of course they weren’t from Luc. ‘Especially when I’ve never met him.’ She had seen the gardener a couple of times early in the mornings but always at a distance.
‘He likes to keep himself to himself. He’s Solange’s cousin and a bit of a recluse. He would far rather be with his beloved plants than people. Officially he works here two days a week, but I suspect he’s here more often than that. He’s the unofficial gardener of the whole village. Now and then window boxes will appear, or planters outside someone’s home, and he’ll plant seeds in verges. He has a huge greenhouse at the back of his cottage and is always taking cuttings or sharing bulbs. People often find seeds or bulbs on their doorsteps.’
‘How lovely,’ said Hattie, charmed by the idea of a phantom gardener. ‘Is that a local thing?’
‘No, it’s just Pierre. In return the local widows leave pots of cassoulet on his doorstep.’
‘I hope he likes cassoulet,’ said Hattie.
‘I think there’s probably more on offer but he prefers his own company.’
A sudden burst of laughter rose from outside. ‘You have visitors,’ said Hattie, looking towards the open balcony window.
