DRIVING OVER TO CHUCK’S, I tried to imagine what his grandmother’s house would look like. While I knew his family had money, it was hard to picture him living anywhere too imposing. Since meeting him, I’d always felt that he seemed too artistic—and scatterbrained—for too much grandeur, envisaging him in a loft, or perhaps an attic, tapping away on a typewriter, wearing three woolen jumpers because he’d forgotten to pay his heating bill.
When I arrived at the striking wrought iron gates, I had to double-check the address. I turned off the radio and drove the long driveway in silence, admiring the huge park. I couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like if this were my garden, so much so that I could hear Mum’s voice in my head saying, “Easy, Ella.”
And then I saw it.
Chuck’s modest inheritance was, in fact, a rather spectacular château. It was compact, but only compared to some of the neighboring castles in the region.
Wow!
But, as I got closer, I started to see the cracks. One in particular along the front wall made me wonder how sturdy the whole property was. I counted at least sixteen windows at the front of the house, many of them missing shutters, a few even missing pieces of glass. The château in its current state looked like it was letting out a deep, guttural groan. It looked exhausted.
But, despite the dishevelled façade, the building was still elegant—an old soul who still had the potential to get back to a version of its youth if only the cycle of neglect could be broken. What a project! I felt a little twinge of jealousy.
I spotted Chuck waiting for me on the stone steps leading up to the front door and he welcomed me warmly. “Bienvenue to my humble abode.”
“Chuck, this place is very grand,” I said, still shocked at how much he’d downplayed his “house.”
“Well, you know, it’s a little embarrassing inheriting a château. Especially when I can’t even afford to maintain it properly.”
“That doesn’t matter. Will you give me a tour?” I asked, desperate to find out what else Chuck might have glossed over.
We started with the rooms he actually lived in, which made up only a small percentage of the house. The interiors, like the exteriors, were beautiful but run-down. The furniture, all wood and pretty upholstery, was either covered in tatty sheets or was showing signs of being unloved. It was sad to see such a lovely place suffering from abandonment. But for Chuck, I guessed, it was more of a holiday house. And I knew that inheriting property in France came at a cost, which meant that neglect was common. Running and ensuring the upkeep of a château was expensive. The heating costs alone were too much for some.
Chuck’s outlook on the whole thing seemed very relaxed. As we walked through, he mentioned all the odd jobs he was planning to do, pointing at buckets and telling me he was waiting for the rain to stop, and picking up random building materials that his builder had apparently left behind. Mostly, I got the feeling that Chuck enjoyed living the down-and-out life of an artist in this huge house.
“Eventually, my success will speak for itself,” he told me. “And for now, the château is a good reminder of the work I still have to do. It’ll all get an overhaul as soon as I’m published.”
“So why paint now?” I asked.
“A good question,” he said, leading me into the two rooms where he said he spent most of his time: a cute sitting room with large windows overlooking the park outside, and a tiny adjoining bedroom, with an ornate four-poster bed and requisite velvet frills.
His living areas certainly didn’t scream rich Englishman in France, but the effect was rather cosy, which I assumed wasn’t necessarily easy to achieve in a château. After admiring the old bed, I noticed the piles of paper on the floor and the tattered walls.
“So,” he said, giving me a nod, “I was having a particularly bad writing day when I remembered you telling me about your wallpaper-ripping catharsis. And with you at the forefront of my mind, I hunted for a peeling corner. The rest is history.”
I laughed. “Chuck, how could you? I was ripping off eighties wallpaper. You were probably ripping off something of value.”
“But it felt so good,” he said sheepishly.
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I get it.” I looked at a leftover piece of wallpaper on the ground. It was thick and textured, with an embossed floral motif. Such a pity, I thought.
“I knew you would understand,” he said.
As we began clearing the room, we talked in more detail about Chuck’s plans for the château. It was a long-term project that involved both interior and exterior work, but apparently no major structural changes—I didn’t dare bring up the cracks. He was planning on restoring most of the current furniture, except for his two main rooms, where he preferred to buy some new pieces. Compared to what Serge and I were hoping to take on, it sounded like a huge project. But then again, Chuck had been working on the same novel for years; I didn’t have him down as a rush-job kind of guy.
“And how’s the novel coming along?” I asked.
“It’s going well, but also terribly. I’m stuck on my eighth perspective. And my third generation . . . Or is it the fourth generation? I don’t know anymore. There’s been quite the argument between two lovers. I don’t know how it’s going to pan out,” he said, looking out the window wistfully.
“You don’t have a plan for the plot?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course, I do. I just haven’t gotten around to writing it down. It’s all up here,” he said, tapping his head.
I laughed. From what I understood of Chuck’s novel, it seemed elaborately complicated, and I struggled to understand how he could continue without a written plan. I imagined his château renovations would unfurl in a similarly chaotic manner.
“And how was your Christmas break?” he asked.
“Enlightening,” I told him.
“That’s not an answer I was expecting. How so?”
I told him about the surprise trip to Paris, and then about Serge’s and my plan to make things work on the farm. I also told him in detail about my idea for the cheese room and café.
“That’s brilliant,” he said. “After all these years, I’ll finally have a writing spot with decent coffee! When do you think you’ll open?”
“Slight hiccup—I still need to properly pitch the idea to Serge.”
“Why do you need a pitch for Serge? He’s not into it?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“No, it’s not that. We just had a few other issues we needed to sort out before getting to it,” I said.
I was downplaying the situation to Chuck, but there were so many variables that could stop the cheese room going ahead. Would we even stay on the farm long enough to see it open? Would the cheese be worth selling? Would Françoise swoop in and ruin everything?
Mostly I was worried about the financial aspect. Yes, it would involve a small start-up investment, but I’d been cautious with my budget and figured it wouldn’t be a huge stretch. I just needed to convince Serge that it would benefit the farm in general. And us. And me.
“Well, if you need help—financial or otherwise—let me know,” Chuck said.
“Seriously?” I asked, thinking this could be the solution to any possible money concerns.
“As a deer in headlights,” he said.
I thanked him and assured him that I would, although I wasn’t sure how I’d ever convince Serge to accept a loan from Chuck.
“So, let’s see these paint samples then,” I said, trying to change the subject.
Chuck got out a color chart and showed me which ones he was thinking about.
“And are you keeping the bed?” I asked, reaching up to inspect the velvet ruffles on the canopy.
“I hope not. It’s terribly uncomfortable,” he said.
I sat on it. “Hard to disagree with that.”
He sat next to me and sighed. “There’s just so much work to do. So many things to replace.”
I wondered if Chuck had anybody else who could help him. Why is he asking me for advice? Surely there must be someone more suited to the job. Still, I couldn’t help but feel flattered he’d come to me.
“Well, I think a version of white should do the trick. Then you’re not going to be bogged down by finding furniture or decoration to match. A blank slate,” I said.
He patted my leg. “Smart thinking, Ella.”
We sat in silence for a second as his hand lingered. It felt warm but out of place. I hoped my involuntary quiver wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.
“And how about your sitting room?” I asked, leaping up and walking toward the other room. “You may as well paint them both at the same time.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he said, following me into the adjoining room. “I’ve already got a little plan in my head for that space. But first, let’s have tea.”
I agreed.
With cups in hand, Chuck talked me through how he hoped to set up the sitting room, but by then I was finding it hard to concentrate and my heart was still racing from the leg touch. Although it was hard to admit, part of me wished that I hadn’t been so quick to jump up. The idea of being desirable, even now while I was pregnant, was flattering. But I shut down those thoughts quickly. I was probably just being overly sensitive because of my raging hormones. Besides, I was sure Chuck would agree that our relationship was platonic. After all, why would he make a move on a pregnant woman?
Feeling conflicted, I decided I should probably head back to the farmhouse.
“You’re off so soon?” he asked.
“Duty calls. Serge is cooking dinner and I want to talk to him about the cheese room tonight.” And I’ve somehow already been here for two hours, I thought, but didn’t voice aloud.
With Chuck, time seemed to fly. What I’d intended to be a quick trip had turned into hours of chatting. I’m not sure which one of us had enjoyed the distraction more.
“Well, do feel free to pop around any time, now that you know where to find me,” he said.
“And let me know if you need a hand pulling off any more wallpaper,” I said with a laugh.
Later that night, as I was snacking on some Comté in the kitchen, I heard a message come through on my phone. It was from Chuck.
Ella, thanks again for all of your advice today. I’ll repay the favor when you’re ready to start work on the café. Chuck x
Serge looked over at me from the stove, where he was stirring a pot of beef stew. He seemed happy to be cooking me dinner for once, humming along as he moved about the kitchen. His day had obviously gone well.
“Who was that from?” he asked, gesturing to the phone that was still in my hand.
“Oh, just Clotilde,” I said.
Why the hell did I just lie?
I felt immediately guilty. Even though I’d justified the leg touch as a nonevent, the memory of it was still fresh in my mind and alive in my stomach. I guess I was worried that I might start blushing if I mentioned Chuck. And I certainly didn’t want Serge to get the wrong idea.
“How is she?” Serge asked. “What did she do to give you that big smile on your face?”
“Nothing much. She was just telling me how she fell over on a photo shoot and bruised her ego,” I said, wincing as the story flowed out of my mouth.
Serge laughed and came over to kiss me on the head. I put my phone face down on the bench. What’s gotten into me? I thought. Perhaps all the fresh air had finally gone to my head.
Over dinner, I pitched the cheese room and café idea properly to Serge, explaining that the focus would be on his produce but that we’d also serve good coffee and some simple country-style food.
He nodded, and I took this as my cue to keep going.
“I think it’ll help on so many levels. It’ll bring in extra income. It’ll help people get to know your cheese. It’ll bring us closer together.” I thought about Serge and his father setting up the Paris fromagerie and how it had helped rekindle their relationship. “And even if we do decide to leave the farm eventually, it should increase the resale value dramatically,” I added.
I waited, holding my breath for Serge’s reaction. I knew the idea wasn’t a total shock to him, seeing as we’d briefly discussed it over Christmas in Paris, but I don’t think he’d realized how serious I was about it. It had been a while since I’d wanted to take on a project that was so different. The last time I’d done something this foreign was when I’d moved to Paris. I’d felt the same apprehension then as I was feeling now.
“I love it,” he said. “It’ll be a wonderful way to help.” I looked at him with a mix of gratitude and relief. But then he addressed the—pregnant—elephant in the room. “But what about the baby?” he asked.
“What about it?” I asked, as I pulled out the budget and the design and marketing plans I’d prepared.
Serge must have seen the determination in my eyes and thankfully decided not to bring up the idea of me slowing down again. After all, growing this tiny human was one of the most natural things in the world.
“Let’s talk numbers then,” he said. I couldn’t help but grin a little.
I talked him through the budget and as soon as I was finished, he asked me straight up: “How are you going to fund it?”
“I figured we’d have enough money for at least the basics,” I stalled. “And if we need more, I could always ask Mum and Ray for a loan.” I was ad-libbing. I also remembered Chuck’s offer to help out, but I didn’t want to bring that up with Serge just yet. Regardless of the eventual source, I was sure I could come up with some extra cash.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I will not take money from your mother.”
“Leave that to me, Serge. Let it be my problem.”
He eventually agreed to let me look after securing the additional funding.
Having cleared that hurdle, I asked Serge if he had any more feedback.
“Not feedback, but a suggestion. I still think you’ll need to allocate more money,” he said.
“Oh?” I asked, looking back over the budget pages.
“The sums look good,” he said. “But there are a few things you’re forgetting. A few French things that maybe you don’t know about.”
I let out a generous exhale. Of course, there are French things I don’t know about. If I needed a reminder that I was doing something well out of my comfort zone, in a different country, I could trust the French to make that apparent.
“What should I add to the list?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure.
“You’ll need a license. Then insurance, registration, and you’ll probably need permits. I don’t know everything that will be required, though. I’ve only set up a store, and in France, that doesn’t qualify me to open a café.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“You’ll probably want to hire a lawyer. A specialist, so we don’t end up getting fined.”
“Fined?” I asked.
“Yes, if the authorities have it in for you, you will get fined. You must have seen it on the news.”
I looked away, thinking about how that sounded like exactly the type of news segment I’d roll my eyes at or at least stop listening to. I’d already had a taste of what dealing with French administration was like when I’d applied for my work visa and it resulted in a pile of paperwork, multiple tellings-off, and hours waiting in lines at the visa office. None of which I wanted to repeat. But the cheese room . . . Ugh! Why are the most appealing projects always the hardest?
“Will you help me find a lawyer?” I asked.
“Of course. We’ll ask around. Perhaps Marie and Jacques know somebody,” he said, and I cheered up slightly.
“And you’ll do my taxes?” I asked.
“That I can help you with,” he said.
“Good, OK,” I said, feeling like we were getting somewhere.
“Because in France there are many taxes,” he continued.
Ugh! I thought again; the prospect of giving away even more of our potential earnings was an unpleasant one.
“But you think it could work? Will it help?” I asked, and Serge shrugged that quintessential French shrug. It didn’t instill much confidence.
“Let me do some sums of my own, and I will tell you how many coffees and how much cheese you will need to sell to make this little venture profitable.”
“Deal,” I said.
“So, what will you call it? Maybe ‘Ella’s’? Or ‘Ella and the Goats’?” he suggested, chuckling, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
“I haven’t even gotten that far,” I admitted.
I’d been expecting Serge to come up with greater opposition to my proposal. But now he came to mention it, the idea of having a business named after me in this regional part of France was exhilarating—if terrifying. How did I, a haphazard Melbourne girl, end up trying to start a business in the French countryside? Origin story aside, the name would have to wait. Serge and I needed to talk more about logistics and make a plan to get things in order.
“You’re so brave, Ella,” he said.
“I am?”
“Of course. There are so many French people who wouldn’t even dare open a business. And here you are, willing to battle l’administration française after having lived here for only a short time.”
“That’s me,” I said, feeling the blood drain from my face as I wondered if perhaps I’d taken on more than I’d realized. “I love a challenge.”
We went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. All the talk of lawyers and taxes reinforced the fact that I was completely green when it came to setting up a business. As I weighed the pros and cons of opening the cheese room, I wondered if it was too late to go back to the idea of just working alongside Serge on the farm.
But could I really be happy knowing that I’d pulled out of this opportunity because I was scared of a little administrative work? Besides, I needed a new focus, and I needed to make myself useful here with Serge. I wanted this farm to succeed. It was time to fully make the leap.