Page 26 of Vianne

His name is Edmond . Find him, Vianne. But there is nothing more to find.

There was no baptism, no funeral. Only that footprint on the card, to show that he existed.

That must have been what she wanted of me.

That I should see him and understand. Edmond Lo?c Bien-Aimé Martin. He would have been my age by now.

I read the cards again last night. I should be gone, they tell me.

Nothing good can come from this. Margot’s child is out of reach.

But I still have her recipes, and I owe it to her to pass them on, to take them with me into the world.

I’ve earned enough money to make a start; to take the first step of my journey.

Maybe I’ll find a little café in that village on the Ba?se.

Maybe I’ll open a place of my own, serving coffee and plat du jour .

This will be her legacy; Margot, who has taught me so much about the magic of everyday things.

And maybe it will comfort Louis, to know that his Margot’s memory will live on in a hundred small, good ways; in the sugary crunch of a crème br?lée; the comforting warmth of a clafoutis .

Louis’ cooking was a monument, frozen in perpetual grief.

Mine will be something that grows, that lives, that makes people push their worries aside.

Change is life, and life is good, however much pain it may bring us.

And certainly, some things have changed since I began to work here.

Guy’s chocolate spice is not the only new ingredient in these recipes.

My mother’s formulae adapt very well to magic of a different kind – a little sign in the air for luck, a whispered word for comfort.

Cooking is meant to ease the heart; and so many hearts here need easing.

Emile’s anger: Louis’ grief; the loneliness of our regulars, who come to the café for company.

Cooking does not cure these things; but it does offer some kind of relief.

A kind of absolution. Permission to love, and be loved in return.

Some men are afraid to be loved; even more afraid to love.

That’s what was missing before I arrived: that’s what I’ll leave behind when I go. That, and maybe one more thing.

I put my mother’s cards back in their box.

I do not need them any more. I have a different recipe for working out my future.

On Sunday I will light a candle for you at the feet of Bonne Mère.

I will leave your Tarot cards there, in the basilica, under the candy-cane arches and the gleaming gold mosaics.

And then I will walk away from you, leaving all your fears behind.