Free A Wedding in Provence by Ellen Sussman

problem that lasted more than a week, but Olivia rarely heard about the inner workings of her best friend’s life.
    They made their way downstairs and into the kitchen. Early-morning light streamed through the many windows of the room and Olivia felt her bones settle in her body.
    “Do I need a graduate degree to work that thing?” she asked, pointing at the mammoth espresso maker on one counter.
    “I’ve got it,” Emily said. “Sit here.”
    She offered a stool at the center island, one that faced the large windows and a beautiful view of the garden and the vineyards beyond.
    “You wake up like this every morning,” Olivia said, sitting and sighing.
    “And ten minutes later I’ve got an earful of noise from guests demanding a tour and tasting at the best winery in Bandol.”
    “Oh, yeah, the guests,” Olivia said. “I hear you.”
    The espresso maker silenced them for a minute and the smell of freshly ground coffee filled the room.
    “Thank you for this,” Olivia said when Emily sat beside her, placing two cups in front of them.
    “The espresso’s easy,” Emily said.
    “Giving us your inn for a weekend isn’t so easy.”
    “It would have been if—if Sébastien hadn’t ruined everything.” Emily reached for a notebook and started leafing through the pages.
    “He might have ruined your weekend. But he’s not going to ruin ours.”
    Emily nodded. She flipped pages of the notebook. Olivia saw sketches of food.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “You think he just ruined my weekend?” Emily asked, a sharp edge in her voice. Finally she looked at Olivia, her eyes hard.
    “I didn’t mean that,” Olivia said. “I know what he did was awful. I know how deep a wound that must be.”
    “Do you?” Emily asked.
    “I can imagine,” Olivia assured her. “Em. This isn’t about me. I’m just trying to be here for you.”
    Emily slammed the notebook shut. “I don’t know what Paolo’s thinking. He can’t make crème brûlée tonight. It’s his worst dessert. He burns it every time.”
    Olivia reached out and touched Emily’s shoulder. Emily flinched.
    “Em. Talk to me.”
    Emily dropped her head to the table and covered it with her arms. Olivia rested her hand on her friend’s lower back.
    “It’s not your fault. I’m just in a rage.”
    “I’ve never seen you in a rage.”
    “I’ve never had a cheating scumbag of a husband before.”
    She pushed herself up and walked to the oversized refrigerator. She had created a state-of-the-art kitchen for the inn, one in which she could expertly whip up breakfast for ten people every morning. But still the room retained its coziness, with whitewashed wood and mismatched antique stools. Olivia thought about all that was at risk here: Emily’s marriage, her career as an innkeeper, her life in France.
    “You’re not talking,” Olivia said.
    Emily stared into the fridge. “I’m thinking,” she murmured.
    “About food or your marriage?”
    “Same thing,” Emily said. “I need them both to survive.”
    “You don’t need Sébastien to survive.”
    Emily pushed the refrigerator door as if she were hoping for a resounding slam. But it whispered closed. She stood in front of the stainless-steel door, still searching for something.
    “I don’t know, O,” Emily said, her voice weary. “I never thought I’d be in this situation. It’s so French, it’s such a cliché. But this is Sébastien, my Sébastien. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
    She finally turned and looked at Olivia.
    “What does he say?” Olivia asked gently.
    Emily shook her head. “It’s so stupid. I’m embarrassed to tell you.”
    “Me? You can tell me anything. I’m an expert on stupid. I spent twenty-two years married to a man who loved his business more than he loved me.”
    “Sébastien denies it.”
    “Come on.”
    “Really. He says she came on to him and he turned her down and so she created this drama to punish him.”
    “Do you believe him?” Olivia asked.
    Again,