A Christmas Wedding

by Julia Stagg

Genres: Holiday books; Short Stories; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A wonderful Christmas short story set in a little French village. It's six days before Christmas, and preparations are well underway in the little French village of Fogas for Stephanie and Fabian's wedding on Christmas Eve. Their best-laid plans are scuppered, however, when the caterers and the venue both call to cancel. And on top of that, Fabian wants to know what love is. . . He has last-minute jitters which everyone, bar Stephanie, is well aware of. With only days to go, the Pyrenean mountain community must pull together if the festive nuptials are to go ahead. It's all set to be a Christmas they'll never forget . . . 'Entertaining drama in small-town France.' Woman & Home on L'AUBERGE

Release date: November 6, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 80

Sample

1

‘Could you not have got anything bigger?’ grunted Christian Dupuy, hands on his knees, heart pulsing, as he gazed up at the huge Christmas tree that had finally been pulled into place on a small plot of land next to the garden centre in La Rivière.

A dark mutter of complaint came from next to him. ‘Mon Dieu! I need a drink.’ René Piquemal, face puce from his efforts, had a stout arm leaning heavily on his brother-in-law, Claude, who, like many of the men gasping for breath around him, looked close to cardiac arrest.

In fact, of the group who had spent the last two hours manoeuvring the tree into position, Bernard Mirouze alone wasn't flagging. Holding up his beagle, Serge, so the dog could admire the results of their teamwork – the hound had helped him select the tree after all – he couldn't stop grinning.



There's a fine art to choosing the perfect Christmas tree. Until relatively recently, it was an art Bernard Mirouze hadn't excelled at. Hence, it was commonly understood in the valleys of the Couserans that the commune of Fogas – a tiny political district nestled in the French Pyrenees – would never compete for the honour of the best tree in the region. Not while Bernard Mirouze was in charge of selecting their offering. Because, despite the commune being made up of three villages, all surrounded by the best of woodland, year after year hapless Bernard ascended into the surrounding forests and returned with the puniest fir, its branches spindly, trunk narrow and stunted, needles already dropping before it was displayed. And year after year, Mayor Serge Papon would refuse to upgrade the decades-old lights and ornaments on the grounds that the tree wasn't worthy of anything more than the handful of bulbs and ragged bows that constituted the municipal Christmas decorations. Thus, for the length of Bernard's reign as cantonnier of Fogas, whose responsibilities amongst many things included the arbre de Noël, the annual display of festive cheer in this part of the Pyrenees had provided much mirth for neighbouring villages.

This year, however, that was all about to change. For unbeknownst to the good people of Fogas, Bernard Mirouze's inability to procure a decent specimen lay not in laziness as they suspected, the rotund cantonnier unjustly accused of being unwilling – or perhaps even unable – to hike deeper into the woods to get a better tree. Rather it lay in a simple characteristic that, as a man born and raised in the Pyrenean mountains, he was ashamed to admit to.

He was too scared to use a chainsaw.

Every December he would head into the hills with a bow saw and, with his choice limited by his tools and his lack of fitness, he would return to laughter and derision. But no one was laughing now. Because, thanks to some surreptitious lessons in the art of tree felling and chainsaw wielding over the summer, this winter Bernard Mirouze had chosen well. So well, that today the menfolk of the commune were cursing him. Standing with his dog in his arms, Bernard was revelling in it.

‘Think I've put my back out again—’

‘I'm too old for this—’

‘I vote we get a fake one next year—’

‘How are we going to get the star up there?’

Alain Rougé's simple question brought silence as the men stared up at the impressive cascade of branches spread out against the powder blue sky. And then, finally comprehending the magnitude of the cantonnier's achievement, they too started smiling, forgiving their portly neighbour for his sudden prowess.

It was a magnificent tree. The best they had ever seen. And considering how special this Christmas was going to be, it was perfect.

‘All you have to do now,’ called out Josette Servat from the doorway of the bar across the road, ‘is decide who's going up there to decorate it!’



‘If you don't want me to stab you, stand still!’ postmistress Véronique Estaque scolded through a mouthful of pins as her mannequin twisted to look out of the window for the umpteenth time, distracted by the efforts of the men wrestling with the Christmas tree down below. ‘I've only got five days to get this finished.’

‘Four,’ said young Chloé Morvan from the corner of the room where she was playing with some discarded fabric. ‘It's Christmas Eve in five days. So technically you have four days left. Unless you want Maman to be naked!’

She giggled at the thought, triggering a smile on the face of the mannequin, her mother, who was standing on a chair by the long windows of Véronique's apartment, the winter sunlight streaming in and lighting up her red hair like a Pre-Raphaelite heroine. It was only as a pin jabbed through the fabric and into her ankle, that Stephanie Morvan realised it might not be prudent to antagonise the postmistress while she was armed.

‘Sorry!’ said Véronique as Stephanie flinched. ‘It's the stress.’

‘You'll get it done, Véronique. You're a genius,’ said Stephanie, hoping to soothe her friend's nerves and avoid any more needlework-induced puncture marks in the process.

But the postmistress shook her head, frowning at the enormity of the task she was facing and wondering why she'd been stupid enough to volunteer for it. Especially as her left arm, released from a cast just the week before, was still painful, intense sewing sessions not on the approved list of rehabilitation exercises.

‘Four days,’ she muttered under her breath as she massaged her aching wrist. ‘You might have to wear your birthday suit after all.’



‘Left foot forward … no, left. That's your right. And don't look down at your feet … that's better, you've—’

‘Ouch!’ Annie Estaque limped off the makeshift dance floor and glared at her old friend who'd been giving the instructions. ‘He's yourrr nephew, Josette,’ she declared, the burr of her local accent exacerbated by her annoyance as she gestured at the tall young man she'd abandoned. ‘You waltz with him!’

‘Sorry!’ Fabian Servat let his arms fall by his sides, head down as his dance partner deserted her post. ‘I don't know why I can't get the hang of this.’

‘Hmph. I could offerrr some explanations,’ growled Annie, taking a seat at the open window which was letting in the sunshine. As was often typical for the time of year, a succession of bitter cold nights had been followed by mild days, warm enough for shirtsleeves as was being demonstrated by the men putting up the Christmas tree across the road. It was a day that hardly merited the fire Josette had blazing in the fireplace; not when the effort of dancing was thrown in as well. Annie fanned herself with her hand, cheeks burning, and then rubbed her sore feet, which had taken a bruising from the lanky Parisian.

An hour they'd been practising, the tables and chairs in the small bar pushed to one side while Annie and Josette tried to put Fabian through his paces, Josette occasionally having to leave her post to serve a customer through the arch that led to the épicerie. But considering this was Fabian's fourth lesson, and he was exceptionally intelligent, he really wasn't progressing very quickly. Privately, Annie put it down to the Parisian genes he'd inherited from his mother's side. They were so stiff up there in the capital. Incapable of relaxing into the music and going with the flow for the most beautiful of dances.

‘Perhaps we should try a slower tempo?’ suggested Josette, pushing her glasses up her nose as she glanced through the assortment of cassette tapes on the counter. Her suggestion was met with a snort.

‘Slowerrr?’ Annie cast a hand in the direction of the graveyard round the corner. ‘Even the buggerrrs rrresting overrr therrre would have no difficulty keeping up with this dirrrge.’

Fabian finally felt compelled to mount a protest. ‘It doesn't help that the sound quality is so poor. I mean, honestly Tante Josette, who uses a tape recorder these days?’

‘You know what they say about bad workmen and their tools,’ quipped his aunt, as she selected another tape. ‘Now, let's have one last go. We don't have a lot of time left to get this right and your Oncle Jacques would be turning in his grave if he knew you weren't able to dance. Especially considering the occasion.’

She held out her arms, her petite frame dwarfed by the much taller Fabian, and as a lilting melody floated across the room, she threw a smile at the ghostly figure of her dead husband who, far from rotating in the coffin he'd been buried in, was sitting in the inglenook, tapping his feet in time to the rhythm. He grinned back at his wife as she waltzed past with her stumbling partner but his good humour soon turned to despair. Josette was right. Jacques was mortified as he followed his nephew's stuttering progress around the floor. To think Fabian was a Servat. And the lad couldn't dance. What was the younger generation coming to?

There was only one thing for it. Jacques was going to have to do his ghostly best to help. Because they only had four days left to get Fabian dancing. After all, who ever heard of a man being unable to dance on his wedding day?



‘Five days to go and we still haven't got Stephanie and Fabian a present!’

‘Four days,’ corrected Paul Webster, as he gently rubbed the back of the baby over his shoulder. ‘The wedding is on Friday and according to everything I've read, the French make a full day of it. So we need to get something in the next four days.’

‘That's really not helping.’ Lorna gave her husband a baleful glare and turned her attention back to the baby she was feeding.

Twins. Two tiny boys just over five weeks old, each one barely big enough to fill the massive hands of farmer Christian Dupuy. But they had turned hoteliers Paul and Lorna's lives upside down. With the Auberge des Deux Vallées in La Rivière closed for the Christmas holidays, the owners no longer rose early to feed their guests croissants and pains au chocolat. Nor did Paul have to clean rooms while Lorna spent long hours in the kitchen preparing the fantastic dishes that were getting the restaurant a great reputation for regional cooking – despite the Anglo-Saxon chef. Neither did the British couple work through the evening, welcoming diners from the nearby valleys and serving meals before closing up and staggering to bed in the small hours. Surely looking after two babies had to be a lot easier?

Lorna managed a chuckle despite her fatigue. To think she'd thought her hard work running the Auberge would prepare her for this. The last five weeks had been more taxing than anything she had ever done. An endless round of feeding and changing nappies and soothing cries with the odd hour of sleep snatched in between, it was more draining than any summer season filled with demanding tourists. And after a month of it, she felt zombified, her brain sluggish, her movements uncoordinated and her ability to function well below par.

But it was worth every moment. She stroked a finger along the smooth cheek of Sébastien, distinguishable from his brother Gabriel only by the ‘S’ sewn into his sleepsuit.

‘So, any ideas?’

Lorna looked up at her husband, his pale face accentuating the black circles under his eyes. It wasn't an image anyone would use for a poster promoting parenthood. ‘For what?’

‘The wedding present!’

She shook her head. ‘Not a clue. You?’

‘A baby? We could let them choose.’ He held up the now sleeping Gabriel like an offering and Lorna laughed.

‘Tempting. But probably illegal. Any other suggestions?’

Paul looked around the room, hoping for inspiration for a mind that was too weary to care about weddings. Or presents. Or anything but slee. . .