LOVE IS IN THE CELLAR: Verne Estate Series, Book 2

The scene being played at this very moment on the platform of the Var station of Draguignan is perfectly insignificant, even boring for the rare spectators present. I get off my train and tread the asphalt heated by the June sun, dragging my big black suitcase behind me. I go up the platform towards the exit. There are no cameras, no one pays attention to me, and yet I try to advance with as much grace as Marilyn on her heels in Some Like It Hot. I walk with my head held high as if I were going to conquer the world. I have seen dozens of feature films or plays with great, touching, and sometimes decisive scenes, set in these kinds of places. But to date, none of these productions has my name on the poster. In the great movie of my life, this station platform would instead be the place representing my failure and my disenchantment. But this, there’s no risk that I’ll announce it loud and clear. It’s even the opposite that comes to mind: How to take advantage of this situation? I unsheathe my smartphone to do what I can do best: pretend. I take a well-framed shot of the sign announcing the destination in front of a piece of cloudless blue sky, which hides the less glamorous side of the place. I check the photo: I managed to avoid the overhead electric lines, it’s impeccable. I apply a nice filter that gives the scene colours that are too perfect to be honest - but in the realm of appearances, authenticity isn’t necessary. It remains to choose the comment... South! Surrounded by emoticons in the shape of the sun, that will be enough to make my friends, stuck in the Parisian grey, mad with jealousy. Because if I can’t be excited about the situation myself, I might as well give the impression that I am. No need for my subscribers to know about my moods. Because yes, coming back here - except on vacation - was not part of my plans. I put the phone in my bag and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. Crossing the station concourse doesn’t take more than a few seconds, not enough to take advantage of the air conditioning which cools it. I arrive in the parking lot and scan the surroundings through my maxi sunglasses, looking for my mother’s chick yellow car. I don’t have to look very long. As if the fact of being the only one, apart from the postman, to dare to drive a vehicle of this colour wasn’t enough for us to recognize her, she’s outside waving her arms. “You-hoo! Leona!” I give her a small wave of the hand accompanied by a tight smile, just to make her understand that I have spotted her and that she can stop her display. I slip between the cars parked in an anarchic fashion and join her. “Hello, mom,” I say, kissing her. She hugs me briefly and says: “Hello, my Leo. I was afraid I was late with all this horrible traffic! Fortunately, I had left early!” This comment makes me smile inside. I wonder what this horrible traffic she is talking about looks like. A car that took a few seconds too long to start at a traffic light, or the fact that she had to stop for a moment behind a delivery truck. These are tiny inconveniences that we don’t even really pay attention to when living in the Paris region like me for several years. Suffice to say that the traffic jams on the ring road on a weekday morning would be like the apocalypse in my parents’ little country life. My mother grabs my suitcase vigorously and puts it in the trunk of her utility vehicle as if it weighed nothing. And yet, having dragged it behind me in the subway before catching my high-speed train, I’m in a good position to know that this isn’t the case. To travel light? This is totally unknown to me. And this time is no exception to the rule. Especially as I’m here without a specific return date, I have packed a good part of my belongings. A few boxes should arrive by courier in the week, and a friend of mine was kind enough to give me some shelves in her basement for what couldn’t make the trip. Mom gets behind the wheel and I take the opportunity to observe her. A few wrinkles have been added to her face since my last stay at Christmas. I’m sure she’s not using the day cream I gave her. It’s only early summer and she’s already showing some colour. But not a tan acquired in a UV cabin or on a beach in Saint-Tropez, a cocktail in hand. Rather the one that’s done without being careful, the one specific to people who spend a lot of time outdoors. To some people, my mother and I are alike. This is both true and terribly false. If we share our blue eyes, blond locks, and a few facial features, we are complete opposites for the rest. She wears her hair short, boyish - because it’s convenient, she said. She loves the great outdoors, walks in the forest, motorhome trips and picnics with friends. And I… I hate pretty much all of that. Especially the motorhome. In truth, my older sister Madelyn shares her interests much more than I do. As for our youngest Lena, who’ll be eighteen in a few weeks, it’s a little hard to know who she looks like. To this day, I believe that she herself isn’t quite sure who she is. After a gothic period, she’s slowly turning towards the emo trend while listening to Katy Perry on the sly. When I see her, I tell myself that I don’t miss adolescence, and not just because of acne. A few kilometres go by and here we are in the familiar streets of my childhood, in Locron, a small village typical of this part of the Var, with its old centre dominated by the church steeple, its shopping street, its vineyards that are the pride inhabitants. I never imagined coming back to live here. For me, Locron was the place that would always have a special place in my heart, but in which I wouldn’t spend more than a few days a year. Just enough time to visit my parents and my sisters, and why not sign a few autographs in passing to please the locals of the village. Well, okay, I have more than once imagined this situation. Instead of a welcome at the station and a ride in my mother’s chick yellow Kangoo, I would have arrived in a luxurious but understated black sedan. Not too ostentatious, people here wouldn’t appreciate it. The crowd would have gathered in the main square, where a stage would have been erected. I would have climbed the few steps greeting my fans like a Miss France - I may have repeated the gesture in front of my mirror - and the mayor would have welcomed me warmly. He would have given a speech listing my many successes and would have expressed the pride of the people of Locron in knowing that I was a child of the country. I would then have taken the floor - I possibly practised a few lines of the speech - and would have emotionally thanked the people present, citing a few names of school teachers or shopkeepers, just to show that I didn’t forget where I come from. The highlight of the show would have been the moment when we unveiled the plaque giving the village square my name: Leona Chorro. The fact that it already has one assigned is just a detail that in my opinion can easily be resolved. General de Gaulle never came to Locron; Me, I took my first steps there and experienced my first emotions in love, that should count, right? But now, for the moment, all this is still a daydream, since apart from the inhabitants of my childhood village, my agent, and the guy from the café downstairs from my house in Paris, no one in the rest of the world knows who Leona Chorro is. And again, the café guy writes my first name on my cup with at least two mistakes each time. My dreams of seeing my name on top of a blockbuster play or movie have yet to materialize, and God only knows if they ever will. For several years I’ve imagined a life that is far from reality. This is why my arrival here makes me so bitter. Because accepting to come back to live in Locron is partly to give up my dreams. Take it in the face that I missed my life. I blame myself for having consented to this failure. But it was necessary to note the obvious: the fridge doesn’t fill up by itself, and this solution has the advantage of being temporary. I would even say that Madelyn’s proposal to replace her during her maternity leave is timely. When she contacted me a few weeks ago, I was at my wit’s end. I had just learned that once again I had not been selected for a role in an audition. Still, I believed in it. We were only two competitors. And like all the other times, it wasn’t me who was chosen. Was the other actress more gifted, prettier, more connected? I didn’t even try to find out. But I was embittered. When my sister called and told me that she had thought of me to replace her at the Verne Estate, until she finished brooding my future nephew or niece, I refused. Fortunately, Madelyn is the tough type when she has an idea in her head. She tried again a few days later, with rather convincing arguments, including that of a nice check at the end of each month working at Locron. I have never been very close to my sisters. I have too big an age gap with Lena to have shared her childhood games and with Madelyn… I think we’re just too different. It’s not that we don’t get along. We just grew up side by side, not sharing much except family dinners. She was riding with her best friend Cora when I was shopping with mine. This is the second time that she surprises me in a short time. The first was a year and a half ago when she told me that she was going to marry Jameson, the son of the owners of the Verne vineyard. It wasn’t the fact that she was marrying him that surprised me - they’ve been dating for so long that the village priest had kept them a slot in his schedule for several years just in case. What left me speechless was when she suggested that I be one of her witnesses. I obviously accepted - are there really people who refuse? - on condition of being able to wear what I wanted, which she was quick to validate, Madi having no affinity with this kind of thing. Eventually, when she insisted that I take the job at the estate, I thought if she was able to trust me, maybe I should. After all, she was the expert, and she seemed convinced that I would be the perfect substitute for her. The fact that my only qualification in wine was being able to enjoy a glass of rosé at a summer barbecue didn’t seem to worry her more than that. “I’m throwing a little party tonight,” announces my mother. “A party?” I’m surprised. I suspected that I was going to be entitled to a family lunch this weekend with my parents, my sisters, my brother-in-law, and Grandma Violette, but a party? “Yes, there’ll be family, friends and a few neighbours.” “To celebrate what, exactly?” “Well, your return, of course!” “Do people want to celebrate?” Me no. The idea of being applauded when I return to mum and dad with a job my sister found doesn’t excite me. I might as well put a loser sticker on my forehead. In my preteen fantasies, I thought that at the age I reached today my life would have taken a different turn. Along with my success as an actress - which there was no doubt about -, I would have had a red convertible, a three-story dream house, bright roller skates, and a husband with surfer hair. And yes, I would have had some fantastic parties. I have to admit now that it was about Barbie’s future, not mine. I can always console myself by telling myself that at least I had the vacations in a motorhome. Yuck! “Everyone wants to see you. And then that will allow you to reconnect a little with the people here, to catch up. You’ve been gone for so long.” I want to tell her that if I need an update on the village gossip, I just have to sit on the terrace at the Café de la Place, run by Mark, Cora’s brother. It won’t take me more than an hour of overheard conversations to sum up everything I’ve missed. But when I see the little light in the back of my mother’s eyes, I know that it’s important to her, I don’t protest anymore. “You’re right, it’s a good idea,” I said smiling, while inside I sigh in annoyance. What wouldn’t you do to please your mother?