Page 23 of Summer at the Château
Pixie smothered a sigh. This was the bit she disliked. She never hid the fact that she was a writer, but people’s reaction when they knew what she wrote and heard who she was could make or break a friendship. She could only hope the three people around this table would continue to see her as Pixie. Maybe she could get away without telling them her pen name.
Gwen joined in the conversation and put paid to that thought. ‘She writes under a pen name. Didn’t think people would take her seriously as Pixie,’ Gwen said before proceeding to tell them who she was. ‘She’s very popular,’ she added. ‘Several bestsellers.’
Pixie registered Fern’s surprise as she jumped up and left the kitchen, running into the dining room and returning seconds later with a copy of Pixie’s latest book. ‘I’ve got them all. I love your books.’
Pixie smiled. ‘That’s a relief. Could have been embarrassing if you hated them. But please, keep it to yourself. Here in France, I’m more than happy to be known as just Pixie for the summer. Can I help?’ she added as Fern stood up to fetch the main course.
‘No thanks. Scott will get the salad out of the fridge while I get the lasagna out of the oven.’
‘She has me well trained,’ Scott said as he stood up.
* * *
Driving back to the château a couple of hours later after an evening filled with good food and lots of laughter, Pixie felt happier than she had done for months.
‘That was a fun evening,’ Gwen said. ‘We’ll have to return the favour – maybe when the family are over next month?’
‘Good idea,’ Pixie said, coming to a stop outside the château. ‘Here we are, home.’ As the words left her mouth, she realised that it did indeed feel like coming home.
17
Monday morning, Pixie was awake at five thirty and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt before creeping past Gwen’s room and going downstairs. The kitchen with its terracotta tiles was cold and Pixie shivered as she pushed a coffee pod into the machine and waited for it to do its stuff. If ever a kitchen cried out for an Aga, this one did. There was even a large inglenook for it. Pixie pushed the thought away and picked up her drink.
In the sitting room, she placed her mug of coffee on the table and pulled a rug in front of her chair before sitting down and switching on the computer. Her editor had emailed the edits for the manuscript she’d finished and sent to the publisher that awful day back in March, so it was more than time to knuckle down and do them. The germ of the idea she’d jotted down involving the château and worked on when they were here at Easter would have to wait.
She took a sip of coffee while she waited for the machine to boot up, thinking about the suggestions and alterations her editor wanted. A few minutes later, her mug was empty and she started to work on what would hopefully be the final draft, losing herself in the story.
The slamming of a car door a jolted her out of her concentration sometime later. A quick glance at her watch – eight fifteen. Probably Justine leaving to take Ferdie to school. She could ignore it, nothing to do with her. Men’s voices and a banging on the front door told her she was wrong and, in a daze, she went through to the hallway and opened the front door.
A large white builder’s pick-up truck was parked on the drive and in front of her stood two men, one middle-aged, the other in his twenties – father and son judging by the colour of their hair. The younger one’s still a vibrant red, the elder’s flecked with grey.
‘Bonjour,’ she ventured.
‘Bonjour, Madame Sampson,aujourd’hui nous sommes ici pour commencer.C’est bon, non?’ The elder man waved a roll of paper at her. ‘J’ai les plans.’
‘Commence? Plans?’
‘Your writing room and library.’
Pixie stared at him. ‘I’m afraid there has been some mistake.’
‘Last year ’e wanted me to start, but I am too busy. I promise ’im the first week in May, and voila! I, Jerome Blanchet, keep my promise. Monsieur Sampson ’e is ’ere? He will tell you.’ He smiled at Pixie.
‘No. He’s not here. He’s dead.’
The smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of horror as Jerome visibly shrank at her words. ‘Non.’
Pixie, feeling guilty for the abrupt way she’d broken the news, nodded, before taking a deep breath. ‘Come in and show me the plans.’
Leading the way up to the third floor, Pixie heard a muttered conversation going on between the two men who were clearly nonplussed by the news about Frank and what they should do.
‘Ah, the wood for the shelves, it is ’ere already,’ Jerome said, looking to the far end of the room.
The plans when the two men unfurled them and held them up for Pixie’s inspection were perfect. Frank had clearly given the space a lot of thought. He’d really wanted the room to be a perfect retreat for her.
She bit her lip as the out-of-focus photo with its fuzzy image of him in this room holding out his arms to welcome her slipped into her mind and she took a deep breath.
‘How long would it take to do?’ Pixie asked. ‘And would there be much noise?’
