‘You did it!’ I say.
‘Wedid it,’ he says. And we fall into a huge hug. When we release each other, he looks as if he’s about to kiss me, and I am drawn closer to his lips, but before I lose my head again, I pull away. And he follows. There is no way I can ruin this by going somewhere I shouldn’t.
We give a little cough.
‘This is great!’ I say, feeling I’ve shattered the moment, which is good.
‘It is, it is,’ he says, and there’s a hint of awkwardness between us.
‘Now we can start making flour!’ I say. ‘We can bake great bread!’
He nods sagely.
‘What is it?’
He runs his hand over his beard, where droplets of rain have gathered, like diamonds. ‘If only we had that recipe.’
And my heart plummets like a stone to the bottom of the lake.
Chapter 26
‘Quantities. We need to work out the right quantities. I wish I’d learnt the recipe when he was still alive. But if I know my grandfather,’ he looks up at the mill, ‘the answer is in the building somewhere.’
We walk towards the doors of the mill, where the water has run in and I can still hear the drip, drip, drip, where it has seeped through the floorboards and into the cellar.
‘Well, we should find some dry clothes and start work,’ he says.
And the cosy bubble we shared when the wheel began to turn has burst. I can still hear the wheel turning, though, which feels comforting and is driving me to keep moving forward.
Keep paddling.
Laurent leaves, barefoot, his shoes still floating, cut adrift on the lake. ‘We’ll wait for it to make its way to shore,’ he says, of the canoe. ‘It’ll head back to the bank when it’s ready.’
‘Can I lend you something? Some shoes?’ I ask.
He peers at his feet, which must be at least a size eleven or twelve. And then looks at my size sixes. And we laugh. ‘I’ll be fine. I have the car.’
He leaves the mill, picking his way down the bank at the side of the building and carefully dodging random stones. I can’t help but feel there was a moment back there when I could have taken a different route, but I’m glad I didn’t. I’ve made that mistake once since I’ve been here and I’m determined not to repeat it.
‘Shall we?’ In dry clothes and wellington boots, Laurent has returned to the mill and I’m trying not to think about how nice he smells straight from the shower.
We push back the sideboard covering the trapdoor to the cellar. Drops of water are still falling into the ankle-high pond that has gathered there. All my boxes of napkins and tablecloths are soaked. I could cry. But I don’t. That wouldn’t help anyone. They can be laundered. With them are the boxes of detritus I cleared from the shelves, ready to be taken to the dump. But what’s important now is looking for the recipe for Laurent’s grandfather’s flour. We have the mill, the wheel is working. Now all we need is the final piece of the puzzle.
‘It seems as good a place to start as any,’ says Laurent, and as he looks at me, a little flame reignites in my stomach that I try to douse.
‘Let’s get the doors open and help the water out,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Then we can start to work out what’s in here.’ He looks around at boxes of my belongings and the ones full of detritus.
Laurent pushes open the door to the outside and the water starts to find its way out, curling and twisting. He hands me a broom and together we cajole and corral the water out of the door, with long sweeps. By the time the sun is dipping in the sky, we’ve rediscovered the concrete floor and are swishing the stragglers outside, like bouncers in a nightclub, keen to close for the night.
Laurent leans on his broom. ‘At least tomorrow we can sort through what’s here and try to find what we need for the flour.’ He props the broom against the wall. ‘Don’t forget to close up down here before you go to bed,’ he says. ‘And put the sideboard over the trapdoor.’
‘I won’t forget,’ I say, exhausted.
He turns to me, his expression soft. ‘Bonsoir, Juliet.’
‘Bonsoir, Laurent,’ I say, with a faint smile, my joints aching in every single part of my body. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘À demain.’
