‘Anyone in particular? Like a wife? Children?’ Anouk asked the question while Fern was dithering about voicing it. She collected the empty soup plates and placed them on the small serving table to the left of her chair.

‘I’ve been a widower for longer than I care to remember,’ Scott answered quietly. ‘And, no, I don’t have any children. We lost our little boy in an accident when he was four. My wife couldn’t bear the thought of ever losing another child, so…’ he shrugged. ‘I have cousins, a few godchildren and a couple of aunts and uncles.’

Anouk reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. ‘Desolé. So sad for you and your poor wife.’

‘I really don’t know how anyone gets over something like that,’ Fern said. In the silence that followed, she gave Scott a sympathetic smile before excusing herself and taking the soup bowls into the kitchen. She set the oven temperature at 100 degrees and switched it on ready to heat through the Kouign-amann cake she’d made.

Glancing out of the kitchen window, she saw Anouk laugh at something Scott had said. It was the first time really since Laurent’s death that Fern had seen Anouk so animated, her eyes were bright and her whole persona seemed to be charged with new energy. Anouk, Fern realised, had hidden her loneliness from everyone over the past months. Looking at her now, Fern smiled to herself. She was definitely doing the right thing inviting Anouk to move in with her.

Fern was relieved to find the conversation had changed when she went back outside. Scott had clearly asked a question or two of his own and Anouk was telling him about her life. Conversation flowed easily throughout lunch between the three of them and there was a lot of laughter.

When Fern placed the warm Kouign-amann on the table to accompany coffee, Scott looked at her. ‘Is that what I suspect? Heart attack on a plate?’

‘You can call it that. I call it a traditional Breton cake made with local butter, lots of it. I only make one on special occasions, like Easter. I will cut small slices, but if you’re worried about it not being good for you and prefer not to have a slice, that’s fine.’

‘You joshing me? My grandmother used to make it once in a blue moon and I was always begging her to make it more often.’ Scott picked up a plate and held it out. ‘Thank you.’

‘I hope it matches up to your memories of your grandmother’s cake,’ Fern said, as she cut small slices for everyone. This cake was not one to indulge in large portions.

Scott ate his slice before looking up at the sky. ‘Sorry, Granny, but I’ve just eaten the best Kouign-amann I have ever had. And it was made by a wonderful English cook.’

Fern laughed, feeling ridiculously pleased at his words.