BUT SIX WEEKS IN PARIS—packing, trying to figure out what I was going to do about work, and arranging to leave—flew by quicker than either Serge or I had been prepared for. And as each passing day brought us ominously closer to our move date, I’d been living all my “last” moments with immense nostalgia.
We’d said our goodbyes to friends and colleagues, and also to the city. I’d walked the streets, lost in thought about how Paris had swept me into her arms when I’d arrived heartbroken from Australia, and about the life I’d managed to carve out for myself since then. When I’d gone to meet Serge in his fromagerie for the very last time, I’d even shed a few tears. Fanny, as usual, had looked at me like I was mad, and that she was mad at me.
Before I knew it, the moving van was arriving and a duo of already dusty men had started stomping their heavy steel-capped boots through our little Parisian oasis. I watched with regret as our apartment was slowly emptied of furnishings and looked less and less like our home.
Feeling useless, I tried to help lift boxes, but Serge was swiftly on top of me, telling me that I shouldn’t be doing anything in my “state.” I protested, to no avail, and was instead instructed to go get espressos and croissants for the movers.
As I walked to the bakery, I thought back over the past few days, and mulled over a discussion I’d had with Serge that had made me realize that his desire to farm might have a deeper meaning than I’d initially understood, or at the least that perhaps it wasn’t born solely from the news of my pregnancy. While packing, I’d been looking through a box of Serge’s old photos when I’d found a particularly cute picture of him mostly naked on a bike. I’d put in on the fridge, hoping it would make him chuckle.
“Did you see what I found?” I’d asked later, pointing out my discovery. “You were quite the cute kid. And who’s the looker next to you?”
“My father,” Serge had said quietly.
I’d only seen photos of Serge’s dad as an old man, and I’d been surprised by how healthy and fit he looked in the picture.
“He was very handsome,” I’d said, sensing Serge’s sadness.
“He was so physical, always fixing things, making things better.”
“Sounds like you.”
“If only I could be half the man he was,” he’d said.
I’d wondered what Serge was referring to. Yes, his father sounded like a very capable farmer, but from what I understood he hadn’t always been the most supportive dad in the world, especially when Serge had wanted to follow his own path. And Serge was so great at so many things—being my favorite cheese-seller, in particular—I hated seeing him doubt himself. I’d hugged him and had reassured him that he was the best man I knew.
“I just wish I could have spent more time with him, especially now,” he’d said.
“He’d definitely be proud of you buying a farm,” I’d said, trying to cheer him up.
“It’s far too late for that,” he’d replied.
The conversation had hung over my head since then, and I’d decided that Serge must have regretted not taking over his father’s farm when he’d had the chance. Perhaps now he was in part buying a farm out of a sense of obligation. I’d tried to bring it up again, but he’d been completely unwilling to open up any further. Father–son relationships were complicated, and I felt completely out of my depth when it came to dissecting them, so eventually, I left it alone.
The truck was fully loaded in no time, and the only thing left to do was sweep up the debris before closing the door on what had been one of the happiest periods of my life. My heart broke a little.
We got into Serge’s little blue Citroën and Clotilde waved us off, promising to come visit us at the farmhouse soon. In a happy turn of events, she’d decided to move back to Paris full-time and had jumped at the opportunity to rent Serge’s apartment.
Knowing she’d be there, keeping the place warm for us, it was even easier for me to pretend that we were just going on an extended country jaunt. I clung to this idea dearly; it was pretty much the only thing stopping me from bursting into tears as we drove through the streets that I’d known and loved so well. But as we got farther out, past neighborhoods I hadn’t even had a chance to properly discover, the full reality of the situation settled in.
I was still feeling a little shell-shocked from the hustle of the morning and couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t come off as being extremely pessimistic. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from our last few hours in Paris, but the words romantic, dreamy, and slow came to mind now. Instead, it’d been dusty, manic, and loud—perhaps a sign of things to come on the farm, I told myself. At least I’d managed a croissant.
Serge finally broke the silence. “I won’t miss the traffic in Paris,” he said, rubbing my leg.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, feeling glum that all we had to talk about was the traffic. Perhaps I should mention the gloomy weather just to round things out.
“Is everything OK, Ella? You seem quiet.”
“I’m just exhausted,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” This was mostly true. I hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep, in part due to my anxiety about leaving behind life in Paris, and in part because I’d been trying to decipher another discussion I’d had with Serge while we’d been packing.
When I’d been looking through his old photos, I’d also found a (very nineties looking) wedding photo of him and Françoise, buried even deeper in the box. Seeing as he’d always been unwilling to open up about her, I’d taken this as the perfect opportunity to ask a few questions.
“Cute tie,” I’d told him, showing him the picture.
“Oh, Ella, put that away,” he’d said.
“No, it’s sweet,” I’d encouraged. “Besides, why do you never talk about her?”
“There’s not much to talk about,” he’d said.
“So why did everyone in the Loire keep asking about her?”
“Well, we were married for years. I guess old habits die hard,” he’d replied.
“And what was Michel asking about her father? Or did I misunderstand him?”
“Oh,” he’d said. He’d seemed to mull things over for a few seconds, as if trying to decide what to elaborate on. “Her father lives in Chinon. Many people there know her and her family.”
“Oh, great,” I’d replied, trying to maintain my composure while wondering how often I’d soon be running into Serge’s ex.
“But Françoise lives down south near the beach, now,” he’d rushed to add. “I don’t think she spends much time in the region.”
“How much time?” I’d asked.
“Ella,” he’d said softly. “You have nothing to worry about. She used to spend her time avoiding her father in Chinon, if that is any consolation.”
“And were you close with him?”
“He is a very nice man but I have not seen him since the divorce. I think he was not happy about the outcome of my relationship with his daughter.”
“Oh,” I’d said, wondering if there was anything else about the divorce that Serge hadn’t told me.
I’d lain awake for hours trying to figure out how Serge could have decided to move us back to where he’d met his ex-wife, a place, no doubt, full of memories of them falling in love. But asking him the question felt futile now. The paperwork had already been signed and our bags were already packed. All I could do was hope that Françoise would stick to her part of France and leave the Loire Valley to me.
After almost half an hour of driving in silence, Serge suggested I shut my eyes.
I sat back and did just that, and by the time we got on the motorway to the Loire, I had fallen into a deep sleep.
I woke up, and we were still driving. I looked over at Serge, so handsome behind the wheel of such an adorable car.
“Where are we?” I asked, groggily.
“We’re nearly there,” he told me joyfully. “You have been sleeping for most of the drive.”
“Sorry I wasn’t better company,” I said.
“You didn’t miss anything,” he said, trying to reassure me.
A fog had descended over the Loire Valley, giving it an ethereal and spooky feel. While this isolation—the picturesque void—might be desirable on weekends away from the city, the prospect of it becoming my day-to-day still terrified me. I cranked the heater in the car and rubbed my hands against the fan to try to keep warm. Winter in the Loire wasn’t shaping up to be a cosy experience. How am I meant to stay warm without nipping into wine bars, shops, or the Métro when I get cold?
We arrived through the mist and haze at our new home. I hadn’t been back to the farmhouse since our first visit and, as we approached it, everything looked starkly different. The trees had all lost their leaves, and there was an unnerving silence that seemed to accompany us as we got out of the car. And then I heard them: the goat bells, the noise that would become the soundtrack to my new life in the country.
I hurried toward the house, keen to get out of the cold, but also keen to see what state it was in. I crossed my fingers, hoping that it was better than the grim image I’d painted in my head.
It was worse than I remembered. Emptied of its former furniture, the cold shell of the walls, ceiling, and floors gave off no life. The wallpaper was faded in sections where it’d been blocked by furniture, leaving what looked like the chalk outlines at a murder scene on the walls. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that the house had been empty for a century. It was dusty and smelled of mold. The cold had crept past the wooden shutters and into the bones of the house, and as I moved between the rooms, it began to creep into mine, too. I couldn’t even have a glass of wine—or a decadent cheese plate—to remind me of how much I loved France.
Thankfully, Serge decided in that moment to hug me. As I nestled into his chest I fought back tears. Why did I agree to move here? What on earth have I done?