Two hours later, a miracle of sorts had transpired.
The two older girls had been bathed and put into pyjamas, the chicken was being roasted, and Franck had whipped up a gratin dauphinois to go with it. Clem, however, was having none of this miracle business. The screeching continued unabated and she was still being jiggled in my (now numb) arms.
“Uh Franck,” I said as I peered out to the flapping blue tarps and the wet cement. “Père Frot will know not to try to walk on the fresh cement and come in the front door, won’t he?”
Franck was distracted with basting his poulet. “Uh…I’m not really sure.”
Just then there was a knock on the basement door. Our Père had very cleverly figured out all on his own that he needed to come up through our (blood curdling-ly messy) basement.
As a reward he was given a rather shabby welcome by a very harassed Franck who couldn’t help but admitting, “we’ve had such an awful day with Clem screaming and the stonemasons pouring the new deck that we almost called and cancelled, but we figured you wouldn’t mind a bit of chaos.”
I cringed inwardly. This is just the kind of information I had been taught not to share with dinner guests, let alone priestly dinner guests. However, I have long learned that trying to keep my husband, or almost any french person for that matter, from speaking from the heart is a futile endeavour.
To be continued…