The Little French Guesthouse

Epilogue

I could smell lavender through the open window as I slowed the car to a stop, the crunch of gravel causing a group of chattering birds to explode from the vines above the gîte doors.

As I clambered out of the car, nervous knots in my stomach mingled with a welcome glow of homecoming. I pushed open the gate, and a blur of black bolted straight for me. My heart jumped into my mouth, and instinct had me holding out my hand for the hound to sample. Relief washed over me when it sniffed, licked, then threw itself wantonly onto its back for me to tickle its tummy. This was no hound. This was a gormless, harmless mutt.

‘Gloria!’

Rupert’s voice from inside the house made my stomach clench and my veins freeze. All the blood drained from my face. She was back, then.

Rupert peered out of the doorway. ‘Emmy. Thought it must be you. It’s wonderful to have you back.’

He launched himself down the steps to suffocate me in a tight bear hug, which was brought to a halt by the jealous head-butting of the dog.

I wanted to say something along the lines of, “Why the hell didn’t you warn me your bitch of a wife’s back so we could put a stop to this arrangement before I paid my ferry fare?”

‘You got a dog,’ I said numbly instead.

‘Yes.’ Rupert pushed the dog’s head away. ‘For God’s sake, Gloria, let Emmy breathe!’

My eyes widened. ‘This is Gloria?’

‘Of course. Why, what did you think... ?’ Rupert took in my pale complexion, started to laugh, then stopped before I could hit him. ‘Oh, Emmy, I’m sorry. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘You called your dog Gloria?’ I asked incredulously, already flooded with relief. ‘Is that fair on the dog?’

Rupert grinned as he tickled the dog behind the ears and she snuggled adoringly against his leg. ‘Why not? She’s a bit past her prime, she needed rescuing, I couldn’t resist her – and she’s a bitch.’

I smiled back, fondled the dog’s waiting head and leaned up to kiss Rupert on the cheek.

My heart soared. I was home.