The Last Hotel

By Joni Scott

Set in a beautiful hideaway on the French Riviera, between the Alpes Maritimes and the shimmering blue Mediterranean, The Last Hotel is a heartwarming tale of love and loss and of finding joy in the simplest of pleasures.

It's March 2020, and as flights are cancelled and hotels close in virus-stricken Europe, seven strangers meet by chance. Out of necessity they form a family in lockdown in the last hotel open on the French Riviera.

Young Kaz and Lou have lost their dream jobs in St. Tropez, and Will, a chef from Torquay, is similarly and suddenly unemployed. Jenny came for a holiday with her son, Sasha, but his ballet contract is suspended and older Australians Maggie and Tim flee Italy. During their stay at the Last Hotel, the new guests meet interesting neighbours, Juliette and Henri, and Deborah, a single mother whose plan for a restful year in Provence is also disrupted. This improbable gathering of old and young discovers that magic happens when you least expect it.

Wars and pestilences can come with no warning out of a cloudless sky, but so too can love take you by surprise. If you believe in magic and serendipity, you will find it here in The Last Hotel.

The novel was inspired by the author's real- life experience in Italy during March 2020.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228824688

Joni Scott

Joni Scott had a scientific career as an organic chemist and biochemist in hospitals and industry. She also home-schooled her children and embarked on another career running a tutoring business. After writing her debut novel, Whispers Through Time, she contracted CRPS and lost the use of her dominant right arm and hand. In early 2020, she travelled to Italy for treatment but ended up in lockdown. This experience inspired her second novel, The Last Hotel which she wrote with her left hand. Though the physical act of writing is still a struggle, Joni is determined to continue. Time Heal My Heart is her third novel and can be read as a free-standing novel or sequel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Joni Scott

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-2467-1 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-2466-4 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-2468-8 (eBook)

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE - CÔTE D’AZUR, FRANCE, 2020

CHAPTER TWO - AUSTRALIA, JANUARY 2020

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR - DEBORAH

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX - MAGGIE

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

About the author

Joni Scott Ryall lives on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia, with her husband, John, and small Lhasa dog, Mix.

During her earlier life, she worked as an organic chemist and biochemist in hospitals and industry. Then, after home-schooling her two children she established her own tutoring business. Joni finds this role of helping and motivating high school students, very fulfilling. She believes it is never too late to learn or write a book. Whispers through Time is her debut novel, inspired by her sister’s family research.

The Last Hotel is her second novel based on her recent real-life experience.

I dedicate this book to…

… my husband, John, my fellow traveller on life’s fascinating journey.

This story is based on the author’s real-life experience but is sprinkled with the magic dust of fiction.

Beaulieu-sur-Mer is an actual place on the Côte d’Azur, France. However, the names of other places and persons are fictitious to protect the privacy of the individuals and businesses involved.

CHAPTER ONE

CÔTE D’AZUR, FRANCE, 2020

The glittering beauty and light of the Côte d’Azur inspired the novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald to write his jazz-age masterpieces, The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night. This magical place in the sun was also a favourite haunt for writer Ernest Hemingway and artist Pablo Picasso.

Nestled between Villefranche-sur-Mer and Èze, and protected by tall, rocky foothills, is the village of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, one of the smallest in France. The Mediterranean curves inwards here, creating a secret Riviera hideaway where colourful seafront gardens boast exotic succulents, palms, ancient magnolias, and purple bougainvillea. Beaulieu-sur-Mer, true to the meaning of beautiful place by the sea also embodies its motto of Peace within Beauty.

At an equal distance of ten kilometres from glamorous Nice and Monaco, the tiny town stretches from its north-eastern port, sheltering rows of white yachts, to the picturesque harbour at the western end. St Jean Cap Ferrat, on this western border, forms a physical headland barrier to the neighbouring town of Villefranche-sur-Mer.

In the 1880s, as the railways linked Nice with the rest of Europe, Beaulieu-sur-Mer became a destination for royalty, wealthy industrialists, and writers. Leopold II of Belgium and Queen Victoria frequented this idyllic part of the Riviera, as did Gustave Eiffel, the French engineer renowned for his radio tower, now the recognised symbol of Paris. His former winter residence, a villa, still stands next to the equally long-standing Hotel Metropole.

The angel-adorned rotunda and seafront casino are also legacies of Eiffel and add to the cluster of Belle Époque architectural gems, which make Beaulieu-sur-Mer one of the jewels of southern France.

A quick walk from the seafront takes one to the centre of business activity. The Boulevarde Marinoni winds its way through the commercial district to Le Jardin de l’Olivaie at the eastern end. Part way along, on the left, is the Place du Marché where the produce markets take place. The colourful, fragrant stalls offer plump tomatoes, mauve eggplants, local fruits, tapenades, and olive oils, the produce from Ventimiglia on the nearby Italian border.

In a large, old house overlooking the Place du Marché, Charlotte de Villefranche lives with her widowed father, René. Her unusual surname is testament to the fact that Beaulieu-sur-Mer, until 1891, was part of the neighbouring town of Villefranche-sur-Mer.

Charlotte, known as Lotte, feels she is one of the most fortunate of the world’s citizens as she loves her birthplace and the boulangerie her family has always owned. Le Croissant d’Or, the focus of her life since early childhood, is well situated on this main boulevard and adjacent to the market square. As a tiny girl, Lotte toddled within the confines of this bakery and played nearby around the fruit-laden trees that line the streets. Later, as a teenager, she helped bake the bread and golden croissants, the staple food of French life.

The large family home is at the rear of the boulangerie and extends upstairs above the shop premises. Her grandparents are deceased and sadly so is Amelie, her mother, so the house seems vast now and the four upstairs bedrooms redundant to their needs. Her father often talked of converting the house into a small pensione, but this has only been a plan, a dream, so far, as he is always busy running the bakery.

Lotte once suggested the name, L’Étoile, The Star, to her papa for this hypothetical hotel. This name originated from the memory of a night long ago when she was a young girl. Lotte remembered being out in the bay at night with her parents in their small boat. As she looked back at the village, all the houses lit from within resembled stars twinkling in the darkness, their distant house one of them.

Papa, the houses look like stars twinkling! Lotte had told him.

While her parents worked long hours at the bakery, she, beside them, learnt the craft of patisserie. France has many boulangeries and patisseries, so possessing this culinary skill, she decided in her early twenties, to travel.

She stayed away for three years, living and working in Paris, Saint Malo, then Avignon. As a talented pastry chef, she was an asset to the patisseries where she worked. During her time away, working and travelling around the beautiful French countryside, Lotte fell in and out of love twice. Roland, an architect from San Francisco, almost stole her heart, but he wanted her to marry him and move to America. They sadly parted ways as she could not imagine living anywhere but in her beloved France, nor far from her parents. Her time with Roland would remain a sweet memory associated with romantic picnics in the fragrant lavender fields near Chartres. Afterwards, she journeyed alone through Burgundy to Toulouse, then onto the mighty port of Marseille. Travelling east along the coast brought her home again.

Travel weary, she was content to work again next to her father. He needed her more than ever since her mother died that year from cardiomyopathy. She worked beside him in the bakery, and they forged a bond stronger even than in her younger days. Her papa needed her, and she loved him and her home dearly.

After the family tragedy, there was no mention of the pensione. Whenever Papa, in the past, talked of his hypothetical pensione, her mother had always laughed, dismissing it as just talk. But little did anyone suspect that this coming spring, René’s dream would become a reality, not by planning but due to an unprecedented act of nature.

CHAPTER TWO

AUSTRALIA, JANUARY 2020

To dance, to dream….

Sasha loved to dance. It was an expression of his passion and joy for life. Now, the long-held dream of pouring his natural talent into a dancing career was a reality. The offer of a role in the prestigious Nice Ballet, on the French Riviera, was for Sasha, his dream come true.

Yes, yes! he cried, tossing the letter of offer into the air, swirling his body around, and curving low to catch the letter as it fell.

He clutched it to his chest and pirouetted on bare feet, spinning so the wooden walls of his apartment were but flashes of colour.

Collapsing onto the nearby sofa, dizzy with elation, he grinned, then laughed aloud, exclaiming, "I did it! I am in! I am to be a French danseur, un danseur francais!"

He couldn’t wait to tell his parents and Gabriella, his girlfriend. At this moment of sublime joy, he wanted to tell the world. But he was alone in his Brisbane apartment, and it was three in the afternoon. Gabriella was at university for some hours yet, and he knew his parents were out viewing retirement villages.

Despite this, he rang his mother’s mobile, a number he rang daily. His mother was his best friend, his confidante, and it had always been that way. They were kindred spirits.

bring, bring it rang. His selected ring tone of Beethoven’s 9th symphony, Ode to Joy, seemed particularly suitable for this joyful day.

The familiar, soft voice answered, Jenny, here.

Mum, The Ballet accepted me! The offer has come, in writing! I have it here in my hand!

Her son’s voice was louder than normal, full of excitement, so Jenny moved the mobile away from her ear. She nodded at her husband. He gave her one of his disapproving looks, as they sat at an information desk with a young sales assistant from Paradise Gardens who was extolling the virtues of the over 50s village. Don considered mobiles an affront to common courtesy, so he did not possess one of his own, nor a computer, or any such damn fooled device. He considered himself well-educated and successful, having managed perfectly well, thank you, without such tomfoolery. Why would he need any of those gadgets now?

But Jenny thought differently. She embraced the technology wholeheartedly, justifying this by explaining to her husband how it allowed her to keep in touch with her friends, her two children and, well, the state of the world.

So as Jenny replied, That’s wonderful news Sash! Oh, how wonderful darling! rather too loudly and excitedly for Don’s taste, he reddened with embarrassment at the spectacle his wife was making of herself.

Not only did the Paradise Gardens assistant halt her sales pitch, but a couple at another desk nearby looked over scathingly at Jenny and their salesperson also stopped talking, arching an eyebrow in annoyance.

Jenny sensed her husband’s disapproval. It was palpable, as always, so she toned down her excitement and muttered softly, Will talk to you later, Sash, and hung up the phone. Brushing down her skirt with her hands and clearing her throat, she apologised.

So sorry, um, Fiona, isn’t it? But my son has just been accepted for the ballet… in Nice, actually. It’s really quite wonderful.

Jenny blushed at the sound of her own bragging.

Leonie is my name, Jenny, the girl corrected.

Yes, of course, Leonie. I knew that, really, I was just distracted, she replied.

With a little laugh, she attempted to lift the mood and excuse her intolerable rudeness as Don would later put it. She knew her husband would deliver one of his scoldings on the way home in the car, and she would feel, again, like a naughty child for disappointing him.

The community centre is great for meetings of all sorts, continued Leonie. The Probus club is very popular, a craft group and book club meet here weekly, and the Mah-jong players assemble on Thursdays.

Jenny let the words drift over her. These spiels were predictably the same, as were the sales assistants: smartly dressed, neatly coiffed, prettily painted little girls to get the husbands interested. They mesmerised the men with their pink, pouty lips—possibly cosmetically plumped—as they mouthed the wonders of each village.

Yes, Jenny realised early on that the girls, and the retirement villages, were all the same. Composed of neat rows of identical housing requiring minimal maintenance, the village life promised plenty of free time for the active over 50s lifestyle.

There are two tennis courts, an indoor and outdoor pool, a bowls green, and even a croquet lawn, Fiona (no, it was Leonie), droned on, punctuating each facility on the list with a sweet smile or girlish giggle, as if to demonstrate the fun of life at Paradise Gardens.

Don focused on the presentation, leaning in to peer at the offered photos, but really more to get a better glimpse of young Leonie’s cleavage, as she flicked the pages of the colourful, glossy brochure.

Jenny sat silently, though she wanted to share her excitement about Sasha’s offer. She wanted to dance around the beige drabness of this office, dance for Sasha, celebrate his excitement. But she dutifully endured the presentation, tried not to show her tedium. Whenever Leonie looked over to gauge her approval of the facilities, Jenny nodded on cue, smiled a fake little smile. Don would want her to do so. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by her girlish behaviour as he called it.

Yet, thirty years ago when they met, he liked her for just that. He was captivated, by the little girl in her, to quote his twenty-something words. And she, in turn—she hated to admit now—had been attracted to his strong dependability, his intelligence and his career ambitions as a fledgling engineer.

You will never want for anything with Don, her own mother had told her when Don’s proposal came, as she knew it would.

No, financially she never wanted for anything, but emotionally and spiritually she felt short-changed. But by the time she realised this lack in her marriage partner, she was pregnant with Sasha, and two years later Pieter was born. It was too late to go back, too late to realise her dreams.

Why did I marry such a man, such an egotistical, controlling bore? she often wondered.

Now, she knew Don’s real nature. In retrospect, things are often blindingly clear.

When Jenny met Don in the late 1980s, Jenny was still grieving the loss of Andy. He was the true love of her life. They were together for three years, danced for as long at the Melbourne Ballet School. They were desperately in love, with a future all mapped out. They had plans of dancing in the London Ballet, of travelling the world… wonderful, dazzling plans, plans that escaped the dullness of Australian life.

But those plans ended, her dreams were shattered, when Andy died.

His life and his gloriously toned body, which she loved so much, were gone in an instant, one Saturday night, long ago. As he walked from his inner-city lodgings to be with her, Andy was killed by an out-of-control drunk driver. She knew something was wrong when Andy failed to arrive at her flat by eight o’clock. But those were the days before mobile phones, the days before everyone and everything was there at the tap of a screen, the tap of a keyboard. They’d planned to walk into the city, as they often did on their date night, and dine at a little Lebanese restaurant, one of their favourites.

But that never happened, and neither did the life they dreamed of together.

On that fateful night, the car roared at Andy as he walked on the footpath. His promising life was over in an instant, wasted by a stranger’s irresponsibility. Mercifully, Andy died instantly on impact. The stranger was charged with reckless driving and manslaughter but received a light sentence and subsequently went on to have a life, an injustice considering his action denied a young man this same precious gift.

Jenny lived in a state of grief, dazed and numb. Even dancing held no joy for her anymore. Andy had always been a part of it as a partner to share with, a partner with the same passion as herself, the same dreams.

After that terrible night, she never ate Lebanese again.

Her life seemed meaningless and empty. She gave up dancing and worked in a menial clerical position, one of the first jobs she applied for. Her life was robotic. It consisted of work, a lonely meal at home, bed, then repeat. It was during this time that she met Don, just by chance, on the train coming home from work. He seemed charming, intelligent, and attractive, so she let him take her out. For her it was never love, but a distraction, a why not option, compared to the nothing option.

Within two years, they married. Thirty years passed quickly, as they do when one is raising children, years made up of days filled with busy, mundane tasks.

Her dreams abandoned, she went on to live another life, not the one she long ago planned. The children, not dance and Andy, became her primary sources of joy. She grew especially close to her son, Sasha.

Through Sasha, she could live again, dance again, in her mind through him. She never returned to dance. He was to have the life she once envisioned, to dance abroad, to perform prominent roles, maybe even the lead in Swan Lake.

But really, Sasha’s introduction to dance was accidental. Pieter, Jenny’s daughter, was originally the one she’d hoped would have an interest in dance. Jenny enrolled her daughter in ballet and tap at Silver Stars Academy on the recommendation of a friend whose own daughter loved the classes there. But Pieter was not like other little girls. Jenny knew this deep down but was in denial that her surly, sturdy young daughter hated everything other girls her age adored, especially dance. No, Pieter would not wear a pink, frilly tutu, nor have her thick straight hair pulled into a tight bun. The fights and tantrums that ensued during the process of outfitting Pieter for the class would have defeated any mother but Jenny.

Bribery became the only means. Jenny negotiated with Pieter that if she completed one term of dance and really still hated it so much, she could do karate, as she wanted to, the following term. At the end-of-term ballet concert, Don, Jenny, and Sasha watched in dismay as Pieter stomped about the stage out of sequence with the other dainty young dancers. While all the pretty, little, pink butterflies fluttered about smiling at the audience, Pieter scowled and thumped her way through the performance. Jenny sensed Don’s embarrassment. She had grown antennas for this over the years, so knew the sort of behaviour that made him squirm. As she looked over at her husband beside her, she saw the familiar look. But what she was not prepared for was the look of enchantment on her son’s face. He sat starry eyed, transfixed by the dancers.

Afterwards, in the car going home, she heard Pieter exclaim, I’m never doing that again. Don’t make me dance, I hate it!

And Sasha’s reply, I’d love to dance, Pee, it looks wonderful! Why don’t you like it?

Sasha asked his mother the next day, Can boys do dance? I’d really like to try, but I don’t have to wear a pink dress though, do I, Mum?

Yes, Sasha, of course boys can dance, and no, you don’t have to wear a pink dress. You can wear gym shorts or leggings.

It was some months before Jenny summoned the courage to tell Don that Sasha was now at Silver Stars, not Pieter. She wanted to be sure her son liked it there before telling Don, as she knew he would not be pleased.

And he wasn’t.

No son of mine is going to prance about like a sugar plum fairy. I absolutely forbid it! He should play football like other boys his age.

Since Don was never home when Sasha attended classes, Jenny kept it hidden that he was still going. Sasha understood his father and knew he disapproved. He knew of his father’s gender expectations, so he kept the secret along with his mother. They also swore Pieter to secrecy on the pain of missing out on karate classes, which she now enjoyed on the same afternoons that Sasha danced. When they all arrived home at 6 p.m. together, Don was none the wiser. As long as his dinner was ready in time for his favourite show on television, he did not complain.

Sasha’s interest in dance did not surprise Jenny as much as it shocked Don. Her son was never a rough and tumble boy, his interests were more artistic. Sasha loved to draw and read and always moved to whatever music his parents played on the stereo. He possessed natural rhythm and an appreciation for music of all types.

But Jenny did not expect that his interest in dance at seven would continue and develop into a career one day.

Over time, it became harder to keep Sasha’s passion from Don and the truth eventually came out. Don grumbled about his son’s choice of sport, but as the awards and local newspaper clippings detailing Sasha’s talent accumulated, Don gave up the fight and conceded that his children both disappointed him.

For, by her early teens, Pieter had not abandoned her tomboy ways as Don hoped, but grew into a solid-looking girl with short, cropped hair. Femininity, as he pictured it, passed her by. Jenny tried to soften Pieter’s look by buying her some functional denim dresses and skirts. Pieter did not wear them, but dressed instead in baggy army pants and tee shirts.

Whereas Sasha showed an interest in girls and they in him, Pieter only hung around with other girls who dressed like her. Pieter tried and even wanted to be like the popular, pretty girls at school, but she knew she was different. While her classmates and cousins talked of boys almost incessantly, the subject held no fascination for her. To fit in and not disappoint her mother, Pieter attended and even wore a dress to the end of school formal. Jack, a boy from school, asked her to partner with him. They were pals from way back in primary school, so she felt as comfortable with him as he with her. Jack was like a brother to her and he, in turn, considered Pieter a relaxing, fun girl to be with.

Jenny tried to interest Pieter in a shopping trip to choose a dress for the formal, but her daughter procrastinated and excused her way out of this suggested outing. Finally, with the dance just a week away, Jenny took control. She was a capable seamstress after years of sewing outfits for the local ballet school, so decided to make Pieter a dress. Pieter’s favourite colour was green, so without seeking approval from her disinterested daughter, she bought metres of pale green satin.

When presented with the fabric, Pieter wailed, Not that sort of green, Mum! I don’t like that shimmery sort of green. I like camouflage green.

Well, you can’t turn up to your formal wearing camouflage. No-one will see you, Pieter! Jenny laughed at the ridiculousness of the image.

Pieter was about to say, I don’t want to be seen but thought better of it as she knew her mother was only trying to make her happy. So, she let her mother sew and fit the shimmery gown.

When Jack came to the door to take her to the dance, Pieter could see that he liked her in the dress, which she personally hated. With much gallantry, he fastened a dainty white corsage to its neckline. Jenny glowed with pride as she kissed her daughter goodbye and wished the young pair a great evening.

But it was not a good evening for Pieter. Surrounded by her glamorous classmates, she felt large and awkward. She thought they all looked so glamorous and sexy, like young Hollywood starlets. Their dresses hugged their youthful bodies provocatively, which distracted Pieter. She had long felt attraction to the female form in a way not considered normal. Now as her classmates danced, she could see the same admiring appraisal of her classmates in the faces of the boys and felt none of it came her way.

Jack, accustomed to a fun-loving and outgoing Pieter, sensed a difference in her. She seemed agitated yet strangely lacking in conversation, seeming to avoid his gaze. Instead, she scanned the room and the dancing couples with no interest in him or attention to the beat of the pulsating music. Their dancing did not compensate for this, either. She kept stomping on his toes as they shuffled clumsily around. They had never danced together before, and he wished now, as his toes ached, that they had practiced beforehand like the others.

Jack steered Pieter to a seat, fetched her a drink, and sat out a few dances with her, hoping to chat with her, as usual.

Good music, heh? Jack commented, trying to engage Pieter in conversation.

Pieter just nodded and gazed into the distance.

You know, I really like your dress. It’s a great colour, really different. So many girls are wearing red, or black, he observed, hoping flattery would lift her mood.

Pieter gave Jack a wan smile but offered no thanks or comment.

Ready for another dance, now? It’s a great song this one.

But Pieter sat sullen and silent beside him, despite his efforts at cheery conversation. When another friend spun by and urged him to dance, he decided to and so asked one of the unaccompanied girls. Pieter nodded a Go on, it’s fine look his way, so he rose and took the other girl’s hand, leaving Pieter to her demons.

It was not just the colour of the dress being the wrong shade, but much more. Pieter knew the dress and application of lipstick and blush failed to transform her into the daughter she thought her mother wanted.

Although Jenny did not know the details of Pieter’s evening, she sensed unhappiness on more than one level when Pieter arrived home.

Pieter told her mother, It’s all wrong. I am all wrong. I can’t pretend I like boys, because I don’t and I can’t pretend I like dresses either. They feel all wrong, too.

Jenny enfolded her daughter into her arms and stroked her hair. She was unsure what to say, though keenly aware of her daughter’s turmoil. The green satin dress, lovingly fashioned by her mother over many days, lay crumpled and discarded on the floor.

The next morning, Jenny tried to comfort her sullen daughter.

It’s all right, darling. You are who you are. We are all different.

Pieter looked up at her mother through tears and buried her large, sobbing self in Jenny’s motherly hug. Here, in her mother’s arms, she felt accepted and loved.

So, now Jenny’s children were grown, and she only wished them happiness for their journey through life.

Sasha’s adult journey was about to begin, and Jenny felt excited at the prospect.

She was also pleased Pieter was applying for the Army. It had been her dream for some years now, and hopefully it would realise like her brother’s.

In the Defence Force, Pieter could wear her green.

CHAPTER THREE

Happiness is contagious.

It’s wonderful, Sash. I’m so happy for you and what makes you happy, makes me happy, Gabriella proclaimed, cuddling into him on the sofa. Well, sort of, you know. But I will miss you dreadfully.

We will work something out, we always do, Sasha reassured her. You can transfer to study in France near me. Now we know for sure you can apply.

They celebrated by going out for a meal nearby and toasted to their future with a bottle of delicious Sauvignon Blanc.

Think of all the wine we can drink in France., Gabriella declared happily, remembering her wine-filled backpacking trip with a girlfriend some years before. You can even buy it at the supermarket! It’s everywhere, just like baguettes!

"Vive la France!" they toasted, clinking glasses.

Pieter also was happy for her brother, and her happiness was genuine, as she adored Sasha. He was a dear, he was never mean, and through their childhood, had always included her in games. Then later, as a teenager, he welcomed her into his group of friends. So, she felt elated at the wonderful news. She accompanied him to arrange flights for the following month. Pieter promised to keep part of his plans secret. He booked and paid for two flights to Doha, for a night stopover, then ongoing connections to Nice. Just in case, he added on a comprehensive travel insurance package. But what could possibly go wrong? he thought.