Fern closed the front door behind Belinda and, already planning the meal she’d cook for the two of them, returned to the kitchen, Lady trotting at her heels. It was good to have someone to cook for again. Christmas, when the girls were home, had been the last time she’d done any proper cooking. This evening she fancied cooking chicken in red wine – her version of the French classic coq au vin, followed by a cheeseboard in true French style. She had a rather nice gorgonzola and a wedge of Cantal in the fridge. If Belinda wanted something sweet afterwards, there was a chocolate cake which would go well with coffee. There, that was supper sorted.

Opening the freezer drawer and taking out a couple of chicken breasts, Fern couldn’t stop wondering what Belinda was actually doing here in Brittany, particularly at this time of the year. Not many people chose to come before winter was completely over. Maybe she had business in the area? She’d said she had a few things to sort out this afternoon, but the village didn’t even boast a small ‘zone industrielle’ – the French equivalent of an out-of-town shopping and small industry centre. There were a couple of local artists and a writer tucked away in their own cottages busy creating, while down on a secluded stretch of the river a young couple had recently started a trout business, but that was the extent of business in the area – apart from the bar tabac, the village shop and boulangerie of course.

Preparing the veg to go with the chicken, Fern thought about the run-down campsite on the other side of the village and dismissed the thought instantly. No way could she see Belinda being involved with that. Belinda struck Fern as someone who liked her home comforts. She knew without asking that Belinda would detest the idea of shower blocks and rows of communal toilets.

Maybe Belinda was house hunting? There were so many places currently on the market, she’d be spoilt for choice. She was too young to retire, so perhaps she fancied a holiday home? Pulling the cork on a bottle of red Bordeaux, Fern poured it thoughtfully over the chicken she’d placed in the Le Creuset casserole dish. If she was looking to buy somewhere, would a friendly warning about the pitfalls of buying a property in the heart of the French countryside from a stranger be welcome? Until you’d experienced these pitfalls, you’d never know they even existed. And Fern was now an expert in dealing with the unexpected problems that living in France threw up. If she hadn’t had Laurent smoothing the way in the beginning when she first arrived, she doubted she’d have coped.