“After putting off her dream for three decades, she was actually going to live in France!”
Enjoy this free sample of House of Clubs by Amber Jakeman:
To those who let us into their hearts and
to those who remind us
to listen to our own,
lest nobody heed our dreams.
CHAPTER 1
The decades-old memories of Cynthia Huntley’s Parisian honeymoon with Jimmy were still too perfect for her to crack open—so she flew into France through Nice.
Adrenaline surged as she made out the curve of the Mediterranean coastline with its celebrated fringe of beaches and marinas. Yes! As the wheels emerged with a soft thump in preparation for landing, ever greater detail came into view—soft hills encrusted with stone buildings, a sleek railway line, yachts, apartments, red roofs, and a large plaza encircling a statue and fountain.
She unzipped her make-up bag, frowned at her messy hair and red eyes, then gave herself a wink. It wasn’t as if she was meeting anyone. She’d have preferred to look her best as she stepped foot in France for the first time in thirty years, but even the flight crew were tousled, and they were experts at travel.
She brushed her hair, refastened her sleek bun, and gave a polite smile to her taciturn neighbor. She was desperate to tell someone her childhood dream of living in France was finally coming true. No response. Never mind.
Inside the terminal, she waited for her one small suitcase, enchanted by the French advertisements and snippets of overheard conversation, fear and joy at the boldness of her adventure washing her hot and cold.
Was it really only a month ago, her daughter, Nicole, had challenged her to escape her pleasantly boring rut?
On impulse, she pulled out her phone, took a selfie and sent it to Nicole, then frowned at the background. Grey concrete. The picture could have been taken anywhere. “I’m here!” she texted. “Nice, France.”
Her phone rang. It was Kath, her oldest school friend, actually born in France, now happily Australian.
“Cynthia! You missed the reunion!”
“I’m in France. I’ve just arrived in Nice.”
“No!”
“Yes! Nicole challenged me, and I listened, so I thought; why not?”
“Well, I never thought you’d actually do it,” said Kath. “Good for you. Hope it’s everything you dreamed it would be. How is it? Nathan Carmichael was asking after you, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“He goes from fame to fame. He’s won some international architectural competition and now he’s on some judging panel in Europe. Should I tell him to drop in on you?”
“Kath! What’s Greta going to think about that?”
“They’re divorced.”
“No! After all these years. That’s such a shame.”
“Well, Nathan was in fine form. Why is it that some older men become more distinguished as they age?”
“Nate was always …”
“Wasn’t he! And he was wearing these amazing round glasses. Super arty. Google him, Cynthia.”
The two women laughed. Nathan was voted most eligible the year they graduated, but Danish exchange student Greta had swooped in and claimed him before any of them had had the chance to date him, and she’d clung on tight, clearly with Nathan’s approval, of course, at least until lately…
Cynthia was sad for them, then, for a brief moment, the concept of dating the debonair Nathan hovered in her imagination, but she laughed it away.
“There’s absolutely no point, Kath. I’ve told you. Jimmy was the great love of my life. No one could ever compare.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can never fall in love again.”
They’d had this conversation before. After Jimmy’s death, Kath was one of the first friends to try to set her up with someone new. No matter how many times Cynthia tried to explain, Kath didn’t get it. The only solution was to change the subject.
“Anyway, could you thank the organising committee for me, please?” Cynthia said. “I sent my apologies via Camilla, but maybe she forgot to pass them on. I actually booked a session with Rennie to glean all he knows about buying property in France, before I left. That husband of hers is a genius. And he insisted he wouldn’t charge me. I have beautiful friends. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Kath, but I didn’t want you to talk me out of it. I’m doing this French adventure boots and all. I’m finally ready to look forwards, not backwards. If I hadn’t left quickly, the impulse may have passed. Not sure if you understand.”
“I’m trying. You’re not usually so impulsive, but I know how obsessed you’ve always been about France.”
They shared another laugh. Way back in high school, the instant Cynthia had discovered Kath the new girl was French, she’d barely left her alone. Kath, for her part, carefully absorbed Cynthia’s Australian accent and mannerisms, eager to lose her “Frenchness” and fit in as quickly as possible.
“As for France, well, you won’t be surprised. It’s exactly how you predicted, Kath. The baggage carousel is exactly like any other, as was the airplane, but at least most of the people around me are speaking French. I love it.”
“Well, you’re a surprise, Cynthia Huntley. How long are you away?”
“One-way ticket! I decided to get on with it; seize my childhood dream of living here instead of simply collecting French antiques forever. Nicole told me I was becoming a French antique. That got me going.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“I haven’t been this excited in thirty years, Kath. I’m glad she dared me. James is running Huntleys now, as you know, along with Jim and Nicole, and Will, in theory at least. They haven’t needed me for years. The country house will be fine. It’s so new there shouldn’t be any leaks or problems. I put sheets over all the furniture; and packed just a few things. And now that you and Bob are downsizing, you can come and visit me any time. It’s spring over here. Divine. I’ve asked James to give the car a run now and then for me. Oh look, here’s my bag now. Au revoir, Kath!”
“Keep in touch, Cynth! Be careful.”
Cynthia smiled as she claimed her bag. Dear Kath. Her high school friend always downplayed her French roots, while Cynthia never stopped craving a French lifestyle. And now she was here!
Outside the terminal, Cynthia inhaled deeply, excitement bubbling. The spring air was cooler than the autumn bite she’d left behind in Australia’s Southern Highlands, but the smell of the sea held a promise of the bonus summer to come.
She blessed her wheelie bag as she stepped off the kerb—and almost into the path of a small truck. The driver beeped and gave her a two handed rebuke. Oops. Yes, she was used to being alone, and she could speak and understand some French, but Kath was right. She should take care.
The young woman at the hotel reception insisted on speaking English to her, despite Cynthia’s attempts in French. Never mind. The shower, clean sheets and sheer horizontality of the bed were luxury. She melted into oblivion.
Next day she wandered through Nice, stretching her legs, wondering at the history of the old town by the water, with its intriguing jumble of narrow lanes, pale yellow and cream low rise apartments and street-level shops. She practically clapped in delight at the breathtaking beauty of the flower market on the Cours Saleya, bursting with the color and fragrances of early spring blooms.
A walking tour deepened her understanding of the prehistory as well as all the layers of Greek, Roman, Italian and French influence. She learned more about the town’s popularity with the wealthy wintering British and Russians, this playground of the rich.
Being a tourist was exhilarating, but she was on a more permanent quest. She arranged to inspect a few apartments with their art nouveau architectural embellishments like so much piped icing, and their tiny balconies, but wasn’t convinced she’d be happy in such a busy centre for holiday makers.
Next day she explored more widely in the region, her house-seeking mission giving her sightseeing additional intensity. An eight-hour round trip by train to Avignon and back again left her wonderstruck by the beauty of the pale stone houses on lumpy little deep green hills, their green pine trees so tall and narrow they could have been painted by Van Gogh. Between them, the glimpses of the strips of beach and Mediterranean, blue as an aquamarine, were tantalising, but Cynthia had lived most of her life by the coast in Sydney, and this adventure was all about having a change.
She hired a car for a week, and turned her attention to the north, an enchanting world of hills and slopes pulsating with purple lavender plantations, with ancient stone villages in the valleys.
Three inspections later—an old farm converted into a holiday home that felt too isolated for her single status, an apartment in an old mansion where the glances of suspicious neighbors already gave her the spooks, and a too-large abandoned biscuit factory turned art gallery—she was beginning to lose hope.
On her way back to Nice, she found her future. It was a charming town, nestled in hills to the north west. She’d felt a kind of recognition in her bones as she drove into the village, with its central fountain and a small square surrounded by ancient stone buildings. She parked and walked, treading carefully with her sandals on the ancient cobbles, and snapping photos with her phone. She loved the faded pastel window shutters and wooden doors with their brass knobs and knockers of every shape and style, pigeons the same soft grays as the old stone walls, the steeple of the church, the patchwork of red roofs.
As she inspected the fountain in the little town centre, she jumped. A kitten was sniffing her ankle! A group of them romped together in the sun and she stopped and admired their golden eyes, perfect whiskers and pink paw pads. Full of life they pounced on each other, chewed and lapped at her gifts and sniffed her fingers before she wandered on.
Then, the moment she saw the old corner store with its “à vendre” sign, she could barely look away. Every detail enticed her. The property was empty. Large windows on two sides, facing south to lap up winter sun, met at the pale blue wooden doors, classic French shabby chic.
She stepped closer and ran her hands over the old wood. Clover leaves were carved into the surface near the lock, encrusted with countless layers of paint. She traced them with one finger, and pinched the dust that came off with her thumb.
Even the for sale sign was dusty and a little faded. Had it been for sale long? She peered inside. Sunlight streamed in, onto black and white floor tiles; the same as she’d chosen for her Southern Highlands home, back in Australia, but originals!
She stepped back and examined the building from the other side of the street. Her heart raced. With two upper floors, she could live here and there’d be plenty of space for visitors. She had no firm plans for the place. She only knew she wanted it; that this was where her future would unfold.
She arranged to meet the agent two days later. A jumble of cautions flew to her mind—and then out again, chased by the certainty she only lived once. Cynthia laughed as adrenaline surged through her veins.
She barely slept ahead of the inspection. Feverishly, she researched how to buy French properties, checked comparative pricings, tried to understand the local property laws and teed up a building report. She phoned Camilla’s husband again. With his part share in a French chateau, a law degree and a number of clients with properties in Europe and the US, his advice was invaluable, but her heart fell when he told her she’d probably have to wait three months for all the legal checks to be completed.
“But it’s empty! I need to live somewhere. Do you think the notaire would rent it to me while we wait to finalise it all?”
“Maybe. It can’t hurt to ask.”
Cynthia had promised to send the family regular photographs, but thought twice about snapping herself with the serious real estate agent, l’agent immobilier. Maybe not.
This agent actually appeared to be immobile. He sat at his desk, his elbows planted on the arms of his chair, fingers tented above his considerable girth. This man enjoyed his meals. She glanced at her watch. Perhaps it had been unwise to insist on a two o’clock meeting. Maybe his brain was on a siesta. The clock ticked slowly. Three months could pass before he said anything.
“Votre mari?” said the agent, looking at her wedding finger where Jimmy’s engagement and wedding rings still glinted, the marquises bright as tears. This old-fashioned assumption that only a man could buy a property! Sexist.
“Je suis seule,” said Cynthia, alone, always alone; alone for more than a decade. “Je voudrais le faire; je peux le faire, il faut le faire.” She must do this. She faced the agent with a polite, determined smile. On her second visit, the unmistakable aroma of ripe cheese filled his office. She tracked it down to a basket covered with a blue and white cloth, asked about it and was treated to a rapturous lecture about his fromage du jour, his beloved cheese of the day.
Three cheeses and three days later all was explained, all signed—rental for three months then ownership, subject to standard legal checks—and the keys handed over.
Best of all, the key for the shop door was the same clover shape as the carving in the doors, the shape of clubs in a pack of cards. The metal key was old and heavy and real.
Considerably the wiser on cheeses, Cynthia inhaled deeply—a chèvre, or goats’ cheese rolled in charcoal, as it turned out—then sighed with satisfaction and relief.
Even now the agent barely met her eye, but she was so thrilled, she invited him to lunch with her in celebration.
“Je ne peux pas,” was all he said, his polite “no” as ponderous as ever. A pang of doubt intruded, threatening to burst her elation, so she pressed the point.
“Mais pourquoi pas? Why ever not?”
He shrugged, then moved his hand slowly back and forth in the air between them, as if to indicate an impossible distance. “Ma femme.” Oh. Of course. His wife.
So now, as the taxi puttered away in the blue dawn, she stood outside her new home with her roller bag in the morning mist, turning the clover-headed key over and over in one hand. Her heart jumped with excitement. So much to do! First, she’d remove the “for sale” sign.
She pulled on the sign. It bent, but stayed anchored in two corners. Sounds and smells of her new town awakening swirled as she tugged again—the aroma of freshly baked bread, a baby’s muffled cry from an upper floor somewhere up the street, and distant traffic.
As the sign refused to budge, a tiny note of fear stabbed at her chest. What had she done? Blown most of her retirement savings on a pile of old stone where she knew nobody? No furniture, no friends, not even a screwdriver or pair of pliers to remove the sign—what kind of a fool was Cynthia Huntley?
Then again, wasn’t this the adventure she’d craved?
An old-fashioned motorbike rounded the corner, idled past, then looped back towards her on the narrow street. The rider, tallish and nimble, dismounted. A robber? A spy? She was alone. If she screamed, would anyone hear?
He was lanky in his black leather jacket and helmet, with striking eyes—hazel with a touch of gold, curious, full of light—and there was an odd scar, low on his left cheek. She caught her breath as they stared at each other. He ran his eyes up and down her figure, then met her own gaze with a question she didn’t understand, as he reached into his pannier.
A gun? Fear lodged in her throat and she took another step back, eyes on the stranger.
He withdrew a pair of pliers, stepped forwards, and in less than half a minute, twisted the fastenings and removed her sign. He rested it against the wall, then remounted and revved his engine. It was an old-fashioned motorbike in excellent condition. She breathed again.
“Merci,” said Cynthia and she leaned forwards, relief and shame making her gush her thanks. “So chivalrous! Un café?”
The rider gave her a lopsided grin, shook his head, pulled down his visor, waved and took off again down the street, a puff of oily blue smoke in his wake.
Heart soaring, she laughed and waved back. On impulse, she blew the generous stranger a kiss. Did he notice it in his rear view mirror? His random act of kindness had propelled her adventure to new heights. All doubts evaporated.
She turned back to her blue doors and traced a finger around one of the clover carvings again. What was the meaning of the shamrock, the symbol of clubs, or the French “trèfle”? The three leaves stood for faith, hope and love. Of course she’d bought the place. Bargain! She plunged the key into the lock, twisted it and her door swung open.
Chapter 2
| W |
ith its two walls of windows, the empty front room was full of light. More than three hundred years old, the agent said. A dozen generations of families had lived within these ancient walls. Businesses had set up here and thrived, and failed and thrived again.
Perhaps she’d establish another, but Cynthia had only recently escaped the responsibilities of Huntleys House of Jewels back in Australia, gradually handing over complete management to her children James, Nicole and Will since Jimmy’s death. While her aging father-in-law, Jim, continued to make most of the special rings, James, in his early 30s, was well and truly up to the task of handling strategic and day-to-day decisions. Nicole tackled the marketing, and Will, her restless one, 29, was travelling, hopefully finding new international suppliers and markets.
Cynthia knew she’d chosen her new French home hastily, certain only that it had plenty of space for friends and family to visit and that its location in the centre of the village and its orientation—soaking up the southern sun—were timeless assets. For a moment, she stood in the empty front room and dreamed. If James ever found someone less selfish than Helene there might even be grandchildren to visit her here one day. There were so many wonderful and worthy young women in the world. Surely James would find a special one soon, or one would find him, and …
The front room was strangely empty. Wires dangled from the centre of the ceiling, calling out for a fitting. Cynthia frowned. What this room needed was an elegant chandelier. She closed her eyes and imagined it. Yes. The right chandelier would transform it, would draw the light in from those generous windows and dress the old room magnificently, like the crown on the head of an aging monarch.
She closed the door behind her and explored the corridor behind the sunny front room, and the rest of the ground floor. A small kitchen overlooked another square. Upstairs were more rooms. She counselled herself not to panic at the obviously ancient status of the electrics and plumbing, mere flesh wounds in a building with such noble bones.
Previous owners had stripped and whitewashed the rooms, maybe to showcase it for rent or sale. Well. She knew how to furnish a place. She’d just spent the past few years building her Southern Highlands home and filling it with French antiques. This time there’d be no need for interior decorators and antique furniture dealers. Here in Provence, she couldn’t be closer to the source of her favorite style.
Cynthia hired a car to visit the antiquities market in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, several hours away. Famous throughout the world, it lured dealers and tourists alike. Much of the furniture she’d bought in Australia may well have passed through this market, she mused, as she parked and strode towards the stalls.
There were so many treasures, at prices a fraction of what she’d paid in Australia, she hardly knew where to begin. Two dozen antique crystal champagne glasses caught her eye but she forced herself to hurry past. No need to blow the budget straight away. Surely some basics would be more sensible, before the best finds were snapped up and gone.
Linen, silver spoons and candlesticks, brass door knobs and door knockers, old windows of every size, wrought iron bed heads, wardrobes and Louis XV chairs—she wanted them all. She should have hired a pantechnicon!
At an instant, a myriad of sparkles dazzled her, bright as sunlight on Sydney Harbour when a westerly rippled the water.
It was an enormous chandelier, its hundreds of lustres shooting light towards her as she approached. It lurched to one side as it rested on a table, calling out to her to rescue it and hang it anew. Cynthia circled it, practically clapping her hands with glee. She knew she should be buying furniture first, but this piece would be ideal for the shop room facing the street corner. What a treasure! This beauty was made by artisans, not in a factory production line. She knew she had to have it. Now.
“Celui ci, s’il vous plaît,” she gestured to the seller. He stood to one side, chatting with several other men. As more tourists arrived, her need to secure this treasure was urgent. More loudly, she waved and pointed. “This one, please.”
The seller glanced at her; their conversation halted.
“La petite Anglaise,” said one, amused. Foxy little English woman, huh? No. She wasn’t a fox. She wasn’t even English, and this definitely wasn’t about flirting. She was a customer, actually.
As the men laughed together, she turned her face from them to roll her eyes. Though her French swear word vocabulary was somewhat limited, it was the way they spoke and snickered and gestured and muttered sexually suggestive things that implied she was rich and privileged. Their assumptions were offensive.
Was she really a spoiled white English woman? She was Australian, for starters. And if she had an allowance, she’d earned every cent of it and had every right to spend it how she wished.
“Australienne!” she corrected them. It slipped out before she thought twice. What did their prejudices matter?
“Bah, non!” They laughed. Their patter was rapid, and despite her proficiency in French, she could only catch a word here or there.
“Poor husband,” indeed, she managed to translate. Jimmy had died at 42, a decade earlier.
She turned and faced them again, arms crossed. She fixed the seller with the steely glare that every jewelry supplier who’d visited her empire back in Sydney knew meant business. What right had they to judge her decisions, these casual slouchers of men, whose wives were doubtless cooking up their casseroles, cleaning their homes, and raising their children unaided as they stood in the spring sunshine and made jokes about their international customers.
“She wants it,” they’d repeated in French and guffawed. Were men the same the world over, with their sexual innuendos? These men reminded her of the builders and mechanics of her teenage years, back in Australia. She couldn’t walk past without them whistling or nudging each other or commenting on her anatomy.
Surely the stallholder wanted a sale.
“Est-ce qu’il y a une probleme?” she asked in her best French. Now it was their turn to look uncomfortable. So, she’d understood their banter. Let them fester there as she stared back.
“Mais, c’est déjà vendu,” said the seller with a Gallic shrug. Already sold! No! He gestured at one of his companions, bantering with the best of them, the tall one, the only one without a beret.
She stepped towards them, opening her purse with purpose and drawing out some euros. Surely everyone understood money.
“Voici l’argent,” she said, offering the money in cash. She could already see that glittering chandelier in her front room, lit with the light of her two walls of windows. Their insults only made her more determined. This was the tenacity that had kept Huntleys House of Diamonds afloat even in those difficult years in the wake of the Global Financial Crisis as Jimmy lay ill, and especially in the worst months after Jimmy’s death, and subsequent years. Despite her slight frame, Cynthia was no pushover; no quitter.
Cynthia wanted that chandelier so much, she actually batted her eyelashes at them. If they’d noticed her gender, she might as well use it to her advantage.
“Please?”
But as she found the purchaser’s eyes, recognition dawned. That scar on his cheek. Even if there was a French type, long limbed and rangy, moody, they couldn’t all have identical scars. This was the exact same man who’d helped her remove her sign. Would he remember her?
“Vous,” he said, formally. Her heart jolted. His hands were out, conciliatory and his English excellent, though heavily accented. “I am so sorry; but, I need it; to match the other—for my client, you understand.”
“Oh,” said Cynthia, crestfallen. So. Some kind of tradesman or builder; he didn’t even want it for himself. What a waste.
“But then,” she said, and she pointed to two other chandeliers, under the stall table, which matched each other. “What if I buy these two for you, and you could let me have this one after all, and your client could even have a spare.”
She repeated it carefully in French and smiled triumphantly, crossing her own arms and drawing herself to her full height to match his determined stance.
The banter around them stopped. She broke the silence by pulling out more notes. His companions cheered.
“Je suis désolée,” said the tall one, his large hands open, his regret obvious. “I am desolate to disappoint you” went the rough translation. It was the most polite form of “sorry” but it was still a “no.”
Shame washed over her as she replaced the notes in her purse. Clearly money couldn’t sway everyone. How crass of her. She shrank a little. She’d hated the big spenders at Huntleys who’d never take “no” for an answer, like the man who’d bullied Jimmy’s mother into selling her anniversary ring all those years ago, that ring that led to all the trouble.
Cynthia cast another long look at the chandelier, heaved a sigh and gently touched the large multifaceted crystal at its base, a farewell gesture. It shot out a dazzle of sparks as it swung. Such a beauty.
“Moi, je suis désolée,” she repeated quietly. She was the one feeling desolate. Such a loss. Another one. Jimmy’s death continued to haunt her, that ache at the centre of her being, never fully extinguished. She almost sobbed, but pushed her shoulders back, turned and wandered on, chastising herself. It was only an object, after all; not a loved one. And she’d survived the loss of Jimmy.
The morning was young.
She rapidly purchased a slim and elegant folding drop-leg table and four almost-matching spindle-back chairs—one a little rocky—so she’d at least have somewhere to eat her meal this evening, then halted in front of a stall full of marble and ornate wooden mantelpieces. She’d need five of those but there was no way she could lift even one of them.
A tape measure would have been handy. Still, there was no shortage of space in her largely empty house, so much so that she hesitated. Maybe it was some kind of regional scam, and she’d end up buying back the very fireplaces the last owner had stripped from her property.
Unlikely. And yet, here she was, with every other enthusiastic foreigner and a few locals, her cash helping drive the local economy, in a never-ending restoration racket for foolish Francophiles like herself. No matter. In for a penny, in for a pound.
For a moment, the enormity of her task overwhelmed her. What was she doing here, spending a fortune? She took a deep breath. Everything was fine. She was simply creating her new future. At this age, after a lifetime of service to her family and the business, she was entitled to a fresh start. The Huntleys expense allowance was generous, thanks to the sale of Eleanor’s childhood home. She closed her eyes in deep gratitude to Jimmy’s late mother. So many of her friends struggled with their mothers in law, but Eleanor had been a dream—generous and loving to the end. Eleanor would have wanted her to enjoy this adventure to the full. Eleanor would have approved of that chandelier; would have seen it as a perfect investment in her new property, a signature piece as perfect as the right diamond for an engagement ring.
Decorating her new property cleverly and furnishing it with style would add value. It was an investment. With the right look, if she ran out of money, she could Airbnb some of the rooms—even fund her retirement. That was a plan. She’d dropped in on the tourist office the previous day, where Nanette, a non-stop knitter, had welcomed her and explained that even though the village was relatively quiet, it thrived in summer, when visitors from all over the world flocked to admire the lavender and drink the wine.
Spend money to make money, Cynthia said, patting her purse. Did the French have a saying for that, too? Dépenser de l’argent pour gagner de l’argent. Except of course at the chandelier stall. Indignation surged, along with frustration.
She cast a glance back at the stall. That tall man was hauling it away, its facets flashing in protest. Pity. She’d truly loved it. It would have been so right for her front room.
For a moment she thought of Kath. The two often discussed Cynthia’s abiding fascination with all things French.
“There’s nothing actually all that special about France,” Kath insisted. Cynthia countered that Kath would have no idea, since her family had moved to Australia when she was only nine.
“Sure, the language is special, but the things people discuss are really no different to what everyone discusses anywhere—what they’re eating for lunch, who’s getting divorced and why, and what they plan to do on the weekend…”
They could argue all lunchtime when they were at school together.
“Name one Australian philosopher,” said Cynthia. Kath stayed silent.
“Or clothes designer.”
Of course there were famous Australians, and many more now, but back then … Kath remained silent.
“I rest my case.”
There were famous Australians in every field of endeavour, Cynthia was to discover, if not exactly like Rousseau and Chanel.
“What about Jacques Cousteau,” Cynthia said.
“What about him?”
“He’s hot.”
“Well, he illustrates my point,” said Kath. “Cousteau dives all over the world, not just in the waters around France.”
Maybe Cousteau had been a silly example after all. Kath’s theory was that life in France was exactly like life everywhere else, with the same hopes, triumphs and disappointments, so why make a change?
“You talk about it as if it’s some kind of promised land, Cynthia, as if nothing bad can ever happen there.”
“Well it didn’t work out too well for Marie Antoinette, I know that.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
So if she were to tell Kath the way she felt about missing out on the perfect chandelier, Kath would laugh at her, and Cynthia already knew better than to compare a retail disappointment with the French revolution.
But it would have been perfect for her front room. Truly.
Kath would call her shallow, but ask anyone who’d just bought their first car, or first pair of high heel shoes. Ask any of Huntleys customers who purchased jewelry, with that special light in their eyes that told her they were honoring themselves or another with a beautiful gift, validating their own desires and fulfilling them. Things mattered. And once you’d bought them, they were yours. As long as you looked after your own precious items, and they weren’t stolen or wrecked—you could rely on them to be there when you wanted to use them or admire them.
The whole of western society relied on materialism, and, better still, the ownership of beautiful things was harmless, wasn’t it? The retail industry craved customers, as did every market since the beginning of time, including this one. Back in Australia, at Huntleys House of Diamonds, Cynthia had devoted most of her life to trade.
Best of all, things didn’t leave you, unlike people. Each of her babies had grown and changed and moved on, and even with the best medical care, her beloved Jimmy had sickened and died, leaving her bereft. She’d never make that mistake again—investing time and emotional energy in a partner. It had taken every fibre of her being to reinvent herself in those terrible months after he’d died, to focus on Huntleys, to fulfil Jimmy’s duties to the business and try to be her children’s father as well as their mother.
No. Cynthia knew the value of a good thing. Shopping wasn’t called retail therapy for nothing. She hadn’t simply wanted that chandelier. On some level, she’d needed it, and to know she’d missed out on it truly hurt. The loss of it resounded in her gut like grief.
Chapter 3
| T |
he chandelier seller and his friends patted Émile on the back. They congratulated him and laughed, but Émile’s eyes traced the small woman’s figure as she wandered on between the stalls, the set of her head so sad it turned the sunny morning to a minor key, as a cloud blocked the sun. Why had he been so quick to reject her offer? It was creative; workable; reasonable.
But he was a renovator now, not a charity for rich tourists. She’d get over it, and fixate on the next French antique she had to have. But his disappointment on her behalf lingered.
“Second thoughts for the little Australienne, eh, Émile?” his friends ribbed him. He punched the seller on the arm and they talked about the football, but it bored him and his mind wandered back to the incident.
Something about the woman was familiar. That was it!
It had been a couple of weeks since Émile had visited his old plumber friend, Jacques, in the village. In the thin blue light of dawn, on his way back to the villa he was renovating, he’d motored past the woman as she wrestled with the sign on that corner shop that finally sold.
Unlikely to be the estate agent, and very alone in her chic coat, she’d clearly needed a hand.
“You’re too soft, Émile,” said the voice in his head. He marvelled that his wife’s opinions still held such sway, considering he’d left her as far behind as possible.
That morning in the village, he’d carefully executed a u-turn, stomped the kickstand down and left the engine idling as he’d pushed up his visor and reached for his pliers within the motorbike’s black pannier.
Not wanting to frighten her, he’d approached slowly, to give her a hand and be on his way.
He’d smiled when her momentary alarm turned to gratitude, the fierce determination replaced with a delighted smile. With her animated face and intelligent eyes was she Parisian, or English? What would she do with the shop, and why wasn’t her husband here helping her? There was something soft about her; a vulnerability; and the way she’d accepted his help had made his heart swell.
He’d been tempted to agree to the coffee she’d offered him in thanks, but was already running late. Other builders were waiting for him. Perhaps another time. If she’d purchased the place, she was likely to be there for a while.
Her smile and wave as he’d headed out again warmed him. She’d even blown him a kiss. A smile like hers could thaw any regrets. As he’d kicked up a gear, he’d laughed at himself and shaken his head. The last time he’d fallen for a woman he’d had to endure twenty-five years of unhappiness. He’d only just escaped.
But now—what he wanted more than anything was to see the Australian woman smile again. If his friends hadn’t been watching, he might have considered her suggestion more carefully.
“Okay. On y va; let’s go,” he told his friends, as he hoisted the chandelier into his van, its facets shooting out light as if it were alive. It was certainly a beauty.
He wended his way slowly back and forth along the road next to the markets, straining to catch another glimpse of her, to at least discuss the matter—to no avail.
…
Alone in the front room of the old shop, Cynthia stared up again at the empty socket where that chandelier belonged. Curse those men at the markets with their easy banter! It was alright for them. They’d grown up in France, where one chandelier was much like another and the passage of time gave every item a patina of age, a depth and beauty Australians could never hope to truly replicate. She knew.
Planning her exit from the family business, she’d surrounded herself with French decorator magazines and architectural journals. French doors were the first item on the architect’s brief for her rural retreat, and when Nicole showed her all the extraordinary decorating photos on Pinterest, she’d created a mood board so entrancing she’d been filled with an urgency to begin the project.
But first she’d had to sell the big harborfront home Jimmy’s mother, Eleanor, had inherited from her own parents. Old Jim rattled in it after Eleanor died, not long after they’d all lost Jimmy, the couple’s cherished only son and her husband.
Cynthia and Eleanor had liked each other from the moment they’d met, and if working in the family’s jewelry business had had its challenges, there’d been plenty of good times, too.
Jimmy’s death would have had far worse repercussions had the family not owned that beautiful home. Even her ability to stand here in her own property in France and grumble about a fancy chandelier was due in no small part to Eleanor’s family’s prudent property decisions generations earlier.
After Eleanor died, Jim insisted he rattled in it, and being there made him sad. He spent so many nights working and sleeping in his studio at the top of the store they modified the top floor to create a small apartment for him, while she stayed in the old house as her children finished school and stretched their wings.
Once they were out and about with friends every evening instead of sitting down to her home-cooked meals, Cynthia was overcome with loneliness. Jim was right. The harborfront lawn and views of the city and harbor were special, but the house was too full of loss. She kept expecting Jimmy to run up the stairs or walk in the front door, or hear Eleanor calling out to her from the kitchen, but there were no smells of cooking when she returned from a long day selling jewelry and wrangling with suppliers. No chatter. Will was often overseas, James would be out with Helene or friends, and Nicole was in a shared apartment with friends.
After a week of rain one winter, Cynthia forced herself to face the truth. Jimmy and Eleanor would never return. She lifted her chin and came up with a plan, since no one else was going to solve the problem for her.
Eleanor called everyone to a Sunday lunch and announced her idea. If they sold the place, James, Will and Nicole would each receive a substantial windfall with which to buy their own apartments. The business, often strapped for cash, would be able to fund repairs, fire safety upgrades and a fresh shipment of gems and gold. After a lifetime spent keeping the business afloat, she would take her share of the money, retire and build a dream home in the Southern Highlands.
To her delight, everyone agreed. With proceeds from the sale, young James, Nicole and Will each bought a new apartment near Huntleys with their share of the money, but Cynthia’s dream was the rural retreat. She bought acreage near the Southern Highlands a couple of hours south of Sydney, and sketched out her ideas to an architect. From paper, it became bricks and tiles and windows with shutters and French doors leading to a courtyard, orchard, tennis court and roomy “stables” for cars.
But once completed, she suspected her attempt to chase her girlhood dream of living in France by building a French-style country retreat in Australia was a mistake.
She’d filled it with French antiques in a frenzy, taking up decorator recommendations and visiting one antique dealer after another, hoarding treasures. Kath asked her once why she wanted “all that old stuff.”
“It’s classic, it’s classy, and it’s truly beautiful,” Cynthia answered. “You only have to look at the styling to appreciate the craftsmanship. Look at these curves and the glow of the wood. And every piece is unique and handmade. Don’t you agree? If every piece could talk, imagine the stories. Some came through the revolution. These treasures have survived the test of time, the wear and tear and changing fashions—and they still look great.”
Kath wasn’t convinced. She lived her life in motion, playing netball, then tennis and later, golf, outdoors. “You can’t even put a glass of water on top without worrying it will leave a mark.”
“But the marks are part of the history,” said Cynthia. “Look at this one, the one that started it all.”
Cynthia took her friend to the small chest on a side table in the hall and smoothed her hand over the top of it. “This was my first piece.”
She told her friend how, after Jimmy died, and they were all grieving, tiptoeing around the old house, Eleanor called her to her dressing room and pointed to the box, a simple rectangle with an angled opening, and insisted she take it. She’d explained how it was her grandmother’s, long before the department store which became Huntleys was built.
At first Cynthia assumed the heavy box was for jewelry, but when she opened it fully, it became a sloped surface. There were small compartments at the top, one with an inkwell, and another with old nibs—a writing chest.
“There’s more in this than meets the eye,” said Eleanor, standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder.
In the days and weeks after Jimmy’s death, through the days of planning, the funeral and wake, and the legal matters and finance meetings and nights and nights of silence, the strange old box was a curiosity and a comfort. The fact Eleanor entrusted her with it, and others in the family, now long gone, treasured it, really mattered to Cynthia.
It opened her eyes to the beauty of antique furniture. Blended with her love of France, it was only to be expected that she’d furnish her new home with French antiques, and she’d loved the process.
She’d enjoyed herself for a while, inviting all her Sydney friends to visit her gracious new Southern Highlands home. She’d hosted a tennis party, a garden party, and a number of dinner parties with French food, her friends and their husbands staying the night, with croissants for breakfast. She’d even started a local book club, and they’d aimed to read books by French authors, but as soon as her visitors vanished, her fine imported antique French furniture stared at her, unmoving, and a loneliness descended she could never quite quell.
Despite her careful research and the years of planning and procuring French finishes and furniture, her Australian home smelled new, because it was new. In autumn, when the sun dropped a few degrees and the wisteria leaves yellowed and tumbled, and the birdbath was full of moss, the place took on the atmosphere she’d craved, of a French country home, but mostly it remained large and new and empty.
Nicole sensed the emptiness at the centre of her life, and challenged her. Nicole, her second child, wasn’t known for her tact.
She’d visited for her birthday and they’d enjoyed canard à l’orange on Cynthia’s Limoges china. They’d washed and dried the precious dishes carefully by hand—a task Nicole resented but tolerated for her mother’s sake—and were warming their toes by the fire, sipping on Cointreau, when Nicole asked the question.
“So what will you do now, Mum?”
“What do you mean, Nic?”
“This place is perfect,” Nicole said. “There isn’t another thing you need. You made your dream come true, so what’s your new one?”
“Well, this is your birthday, darling. Let’s talk about your own dreams,” said Cynthia.
“I’d like my Mum to be happy,” said Nicole.
“I am happy.”
“Alright then. I’d like my Mum to be joyful—full of joy. Everything’s tasteful here, and you’re as beautifully groomed as ever, but I worry that you’re bored. I can’t remember the last time you laughed.”
Cynthia chuckled then, but Nicole was right. Her life was as forced as her laugh. She was merely going through the motions.
All that night she lay awake, reviewing Jimmy’s early death, and her subsequent struggles and achievements. Once she’d handed over the running of the business to the children, she’d enjoyed building the new house; but now it was finished, it was true. She’d fallen into a pattern; too predictable and not satisfying enough.
When friends returned her hospitality, they always tried to set her up with the single men in their lives, still uncomfortable that her situation no longer mirrored their own. Their well-meaning efforts embarrassed her. No one could replace Jimmy, the love of her life.
Cynthia had truly loved the exhilaration of attending furniture auctions and stocking her house with French treasures, but Nicole had a point. Was this really how she was meant to spend the rest of her life?
“If you love French style so much, why don’t you just go and live in France?” Nicole asked her as the fire burnt low.
For so long, going to France had been impossible—her girlhood dream of speaking French and living in France only expressed in her purchases, movie choices and recipe books.
Now, with her children running the business, nothing stood in her way. If she travelled to France for a month or a year or longer, nobody would miss her. She worried about Will, her youngest, always so wild and free, but he’d been given the same opportunities as James and Nicole, and if he chose to throw them away, well, he was an adult. There wasn’t much she could do about it.
Next morning as the soft dawn sunshine lit up the far side of her small slice of Kangaroo Valley, turning the tops of the trees gold and creeping down to illuminate every leaf, an excitement grew in her she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager; since before Jimmy’s proposal—the realisation that her life was in her own hands—that she was finally free to act on her deep interest in France, to go there and live, for as long as she wished.
With one conversation, Nicole had given her permission to buy that one-way ticket to France. The idea set her whole body aglow, bright as the valley’s sunshine.
“You must have slept well, Mum,” said Nicole.
“I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never better. You were right to call me out, darling. I’m going to France. As soon as it’s sensible. Give me a month. I’ll need to see Scottie senior and arrange my finances. And I’ll throw some sheets over the furniture and lock up carefully. You’re welcome to use the place as a weekender. Use the tennis court and keep an eye on it; take home some flowers from the garden. Enjoy it. I know you and James will look after it. Who knows; maybe some day soon James will find someone special to spend the weekend with here.”
“James is still hankering after Helene—but Mum, you’re not serious. Did you really say you’re turning your back on the place, turning your back on us?”
“Oh Nicole, my dear, I’ll be on the other end of my phone, as usual.” She took her daughter’s hands and smiled into her eyes. How strange it was that a child could parent you—boss you around and tell you to grow up; then be best friends; and then revert to dependency—all in one conversation.
“Now give me a hug, Nic,” she said, and folded her grown daughter in a warm embrace before searching her eyes again. “You were right to tell me to get my act together. You and James are mature and independent. It’s time I behaved the same way. There’s nothing to stop me. I won’t leave for a month or two. Let’s have lunch at the club together in the city a couple of times before I leave, and I’ll let you know how my plans are going. Monday week? Will you be free? I’ll need to be in Sydney to see the lawyer and sort out my finances with Scottie senior.”
Her daughter’s admiration—or was it alarm—shone back at her. She astonished herself as well as Nicole. After putting off her dream for three decades, she was actually going to live in France.
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