To say that Peter was a Francophile was probably an exaggeration but he did like France and had spent a lot of time there on business, albeit mainly in and around Paris. But Paris wasn't the real France - not the beautiful rural part of central France oft overlooked by the once-a-year visitor and on the few occasions he had managed a couple of days away in this heartland, he had been seduced by its space, quiet and natural beauty.
He was particularly fortunate because his forays into the French countryside had been made possible because his sister and her husband had bought a cottage in a tiny hamlet deep in the Creuse Valley several years ago and, although it still required quite a lot of work, it was habitable and reasonably comfortable.
Despite the success of his business, life had recently dealt Peter a bitter blow. The endless business travelling that he had to do almost certainly contributed to his break up with Sara and when his five-year affair ended he was devastated, even though he had seen it coming. His relationship had been intensely passionate and like all wild fires had burned itself out after the first three years and had smouldered on for a further two before he finally conceded that it was at an end.
His only sibling saw his distress and suggested he take a long break - four, perhaps six weeks and to use their cottage in France to sort himself out. He could pay his way by doing some of the many little jobs that still needed doing around the place.
At first Peter rejected the notion, but gradually came to see the sense of it, so he spoke with his business partner and agreed a sabbatical, packed a few personal items and set off for Dover. Ten hours later he turned off his car ignition outside the cottage - it would have been eight hours only the traffic going through Paris had been horrendous.
The small grey stone building stood on the side of a grassy slope above a lane that was so narrow it barely allowed the single file passage of cars. With a dense wood as a backdrop, it brooded darkly in the sunset, its interior guarded against the world by firmly closed rough oak shutters.
Taking the house keys that his sister had given him, he got out of his car and approached the front door and unlocked, first the shutter, then the door itself and entered the single unlit room that was the entire downstairs of the dwelling. The temperature inside was several degrees cooler than the balmy evening air outside and Peter shivered as he picked up the conveniently placed torch which he used to find his way to the main power switch.
Once he had switched on the lights, he turned on the water and plugged in the fridge. Then, to make the house hospitable he lit a small wood fire in the expansive nineteenth century grate. He collected his bags, a box of groceries and a single Duty Free bag from the car and disposed of them appropriately, the latter, he placed on the large solid dining table that formed the centre-piece of the room.
With everything stowed away he collected a fine cut-glass tumbler from the cabinet, the duty free bag from the dining table and slumped wearily into a chair by a fire that had flared up joyously while he had been unpacking. From the plastic bag, he took out the bottle of single malt whiskey that he had purchased on the boat and poured himself a large measure. He sipped the pale liquid and watched the fire flicker as he let his brain unwind and the tension of the journey fade. He napped for a couple of hours before he finally capitulated and made his way to bed where he slept the sleep of the dead for ten full hours.
*****
By the time he rose the sun had climbed high in the sky and the day was already warm. He ate a large omelette and drank a pot full of coffee for his breakfast before embarking on his first task - a visit to the local town for fresh bread and a couple of other essentials before starting on his list of 'chores'.
A couple of hours later he had collected his bread, cut the lawn and trimmed the hedge and was now, dressed only in his shorts and sandals, perspiring gently as he energetically cut logs for the fire.
His first sight of her was just a glimpse - or rather a flash of bright colour through the garden hedge. He stopped and watched as the colours moved along the hedge until they eventually reached the gate where the hedge parted and he had his first full view of her.
She was a dazzlingly beautiful young women - slim, well shaped and with a glorious cascade of corn-coloured hair that danced about her head as she, almost skipped, along. Her dress was plainly cut and rustic - brightly coloured and very, very 'country'.
As she passed by she looked sideways at him, not by turning her head, but out of the corner of her eye, determined to see him and that he had noticed her, but without acknowledging him in any way. A perfect coquette.
Peter just stood and stared, but in seconds, she was gone, leaving, like the Cheshire cat, only her enigmatic smile hanging in the air.
He worked on until he was hungry and stopped for a light lunch of bread, cheese and rather more chilled Beaujolais that he should have drunk. Then, shaded by the large green canopy of an apple tree, he reclined his seat and slipped away into a gentle sleep to dream of the beautiful young girl he had seen earlier.
He was awakened by the sound of a woman's voice, " Monsieur, Monsieur."
He opened his eyes and she was there - the same woman - but why was she was older? Her hair had grey streaks mixed with the gold and it was shorter - she was shorter and was wearing another dress? A silly thought went through his mind - had he slept for years like Rip van Winkle?
Rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking at her again he could see that she wasn't actually the same woman - they were very alike, but this was someone else.
"Bonjour! Mademoiselle," he stammered in French with his thick English accent
She grinned and corrected him, " Madam."
"Pardon, Madam," he looked sheepish having almost exhausted his limited French vocabulary.
Thankfully, she continued in broken, but understandable English,
"You might like these, I think. A gift of welcome," She offered him a bowl containing fresh eggs and a jug of milk.
When the mist of sleep had completely cleared in his mind he remembered that the lady here before him lived with her husband in the farmhouse that he had passed as he entered the lane. The chickens he had scattered as he drove by would have been responsible for these eggs. He knew also, that the couple had become firm friends to his sister and brother-in-law.
"You are the brother of Jane, No?"
He stood up and smiled, took the eggs and milk, placed them on the table and offered her his hand. She took it and shook it warmly as he said,
"Please call me Peter and thank you so much for these. Let me offer you a drink," but before he had completed his sentence she had decline politely with a wave of her hand.
They looked at each other awkwardly and after a silence that lasted a few seconds too long she spoke again,
