A French Wedding Read Online Free

wealthy people or holiday-makers have properties outside of the village.
    â€˜You don’t need to keep these things, Dad,’ Juliette says.
    Her father looks around the room. ‘It needs a little tidy up.’
    â€˜It looks like a bomb went off.’
    Juliette’s father looks confused. ‘It’s not that bad.’
    Juliette shakes her head. ‘Are you hungry? I’ll make dinner.’
    â€˜You aren’t going back to Paris tonight?’
    Juliette’s heart sinks. She had switched her phone to silent but had still heard the vibrations of calls and messages, her phone buzzing like an angry insect in her handbag. She’d ignored every buzzing. On the long drive, during the hospital visit.
    â€˜Not tonight, Dad.’ She sighs.
    Her father’s face breaks into a tired smile. ‘Yes, I could eat. That would be lovely.’
    *
    The fridge in the kitchen is bare and the shops will now be closed. Juliette goes out to ask a neighbour if she has anything spare. In the house there is cheap wine, bottled clam juice, old onions and potatoes, not ideal, but Madame Reynaud pushes parcels of fish and octopus and mussels into her hands, gives her fresh heavy cream and a handful of eggs that will make up for the things she has to mix them with.
    Capucine Reynaud’s home is homage to all things Breton with large chestnut wood armoires and a grandfather clock that is far too tall and grand for the hall. On her bedroom door hangs her grandmother’s Sunday dress, traditional black with blue and red birds and flowers painstakingly, perfectly stitched, the threads thick and unfaded. Juliette glances at the line of family photos, most black and white, with faces which have noses and lips and eyes that are so familiar. Juliette shifts her gaze from them quickly.
    Juliette’s mother had taught Capucine Reynaud English for many years. Not that her English became any better for it, but she adored Juliette’s mother. As did so many in the village. She urges Juliette out into the garden and tells her to take whatever she likes, plucking dark spinach leaves for her as Juliette takes some chervil and breaks off some sorrel. The green and tangy scent of the sorrel fragrances Juliette’s palm, helping her forget the dreadful hospital smells.
    â€˜Is your mother still unwell, Juliette?’ Madame Reynaud asks at the gate. Juliette wishes to be somewhere else.
    â€˜Unfortunately, yes.’
    â€˜Is it getting worse? The cancer?’
    â€˜No, it’s pneumonia now. But she’ll be okay.’
    Capucine Reynaud knows death; her husband, her nephew. She can tell that Juliette is not telling the truth and gives her the look Juliette dreads. Pity. Sincere, heartfelt pity; which is somehow worse than disregard.
    â€˜Thank you so much for the food. The fish and mussels …’
    Capucine’s youngest son Paol is a fisherman. He probably caught the fish that morning. Madame Reynaud waves away the thanks.
    â€˜She’s so young …’ she murmurs, tutting. Maman isn’t, of course, she is in her early eighties now but Madame Reynaud, perhaps only five or ten years her junior, is a picture of health. She still gardens, walks swiftly and easily, helps to sew the costumes for her granddaughter’s ballet concerts.
    â€˜I should go. Papa …’ Juliette says quickly, kissing Madame Reynaud on her soft brown cheeks, not wanting to talk any more about her mother.
    Juliette’s father sits at the dining table while Juliette prepares dinner, keeping out of her way, as she prefers. Juliette gently cooks the seafood in wine and clam juice, letting the sweet steam bloom in her face before setting it aside. She takes the salted butter from the pottery dish her mother keeps it in and makes a roux in a big pot with which to cook the onions and sauté the greens. She glances at her father doing a crossword puzzle with glasses at the end of his nose, sounding out