Chapter 10
10
The relief of finding the little white dog curled up and asleep in the shade beneath the bench had been oddly overwhelming. Ellie hid her face against his scruffy curls for a moment or two while she regained her composure, but she still needed to swipe a tear away as they headed back to where she’d left her bicycle.
The relief of getting back to what was her safe space in this temporary new life was also huge. Walking into this small, solid, golden-stoned house felt like walking into a mother’s hug.
It felt like home.
But it was a home that was very different to anything Ellie had ever known before. This was nothing like the cluttered bustle of growing up with her sisters, with the sound of laughter interwoven with the sharp tones of yet another dispute between the girls or the authoritative tone of Mam, or Laura, taking control. It was nothing like the frequent silences of living above that rented studio with Liam, either. Not the creative kind of silences when they were both immersed in the art that had been a huge part of the attraction between them, but the ones where it was dangerous to say or do anything because eggshells would get broken, and it would always, always be Ellie who got hurt by the shards of those shells.
This room, with the golden glow of stonework, the rich red of the floor and the tantalising streaks of sunshine finding their way through the bars of the shutters, offered a silence that was imbued with a sense of… peace, that’s what it was. Ellie crouched to detach Pascal’s lead and then found herself sitting on the cool tiles, wrapping her arms around her knees and closing her eyes as she breathed in exactly what she needed in this moment: an opportunity to step back from the emotional rollercoaster, with the drama of that choking child and that desperate desire to stay in Julien’s arms, and to find a calm place in her head – and her heart. To sink into the stillness that hung in the air in here and seemed to offer the promise that everything would be okay. That she was going to be okay. That life would feel like it was really worth living again. All she needed to do was to breathe in the sense of peace that was the result of a unique alchemy of components that she was only just beginning to identify, and to take one step at a time.
She’d felt it before, without being able to identify it, when she’d known that she needed to stay here, because she’d felt the possibility of finding the person that was still buried in the aftermath of soul-destroying events. She’d felt the magic of a particular combination of elements, and it was a magic that could shift its shape. It could be a glow of inspiration. This sense of peace. Hope for the future.
The polite scratch of a small paw against the doors to the terrace got Ellie to her feet, but she could still feel that stillness, even as she began moving again.
‘I think it’s going to be okay,’ she told Pascal as she let him outside. ‘What do you think?’
He was heading towards the nearest lemon tree in the orchard but paused at her questioning tone and looked back. Ellie knew it was hot and that Pascal was panting, but it looked, for all the world, as if he was smiling at her. As if he agreed.
She was aware of another wash of that relief she’d felt seeing him still tied to the bench, curled up safely asleep beneath the seat. How awful would she have felt if he’d somehow become untied and run away in fear? That anxiety had been disturbing because it suggested that she might still be capable of feeling the warmth and protectiveness and relief that only came when you cared deeply about someone or something. When you loved them. And that would mean that Pascal had somehow found a chink in the armour she was relying on to protect her heart.
That didn’t ring the same alarm bells that the thought of falling in love with Julien had, however, because this was just a small dog, not a person. And it was only temporary. She would be leaving France and Pascal would have a new home with Julien’s grandmother. Surely it was safe enough to enjoy something that would only be a memory soon? Like so many things that were making it feel that this tiny patch of the earth was custom-made to heal her soul – the soft light and colours, the musical drift of the language and the taste and heat of socca straight from the oven. Pascal was a part of that mix in his own right, and she would never forget sitting in the square with him today or being in this tiny orchard with this deliciously fresh scent of lemons. The more memories like this that she could hold close to her heart in the future, the better.
Ellie followed Pascal further into the orchard, stooping to pick up some of the fruit. Maybe she was also searching for enough distraction, for more distance, to prevent her thoughts returning to the drama of the market.
‘I’m going to make some lemonade,’ she decided. ‘And lemon honey. And… what else can you do with lemons?’
The Internet provided an answer to that question when she and Pascal curled up on the sofa to escape the intense mid-afternoon heat.
‘Limoncello,’ she read aloud. ‘A sweet, smooth drink that can be sipped straight from the bottle you keep in the freezer will bestow the tang of lemons to sparkling water and can be shaken into cocktails that will be a favourite party tipple. Wow… that sounds quite a bit more exciting than lemonade, doesn’t it?’
Pascal’s tail thumped against the worn leather of the sofa.
‘It says that the lemon skin is the most important ingredient, and they have to be the right sort of lemons, like the ones that grow on the Amalfi Coast in Italy. I’m guessing we have the right sort of lemons here – we’re not that far from the Italian border, are we?’ Ellie lapsed into silence, making a mental list of other ingredients she’d need to buy, like vodka and sugar.
She needed to write this recipe down so she didn’t have to go online to find it again, and the only paper she knew she had was that sketchbook she’d left in the suitcase Laura had sent over. It was only natural to pick up the case of pencils that had been packed with it, to save her hunting for another writing implement. As a teenager Ellie had had a bit of a passion for calligraphy, and it was a skill she’d used ever since if she had something like a card to write. It was too hot to do anything too energetic in the way of house or garden improvements at the moment, anyway, and taking her time to add the curls and flourishes to these words should be an enjoyable distraction.
Pascal had taken up the spot on the sofa beside her again, and Ellie was getting quite used to sharing what she was thinking aloud.
‘Six ripe lemons, freshly picked. Well, that won’t be difficult, will it?’
Ellie brushed her fingertips over the familiar texture of the cold-pressed watercolour paper. A4 size was rather too big to write a recipe on, but she was reluctant to cut it into smaller pieces. Instead, she found herself planning a way to fill the entire space in a way that could turn it into something special, which could become a gift. Picking up an HB pencil, she softly outlined a title, thought about how much space would be needed to write the list of ingredients and the instructions and then began to sketch a lemon tree branch in the centre of the paper. She had the vase on the kitchen table to glance at as she drew the fruit and stalks, and the leaves with that little curl at the end. Her case was full of watercolour pencils and the brushes she used to activate them with water, and they were the perfect medium for this subject. By the time Ellie was happy with the shading of the yellows and greens she was using and she’d added the smudge of darker marks and lines of small imperfections, she’d almost forgotten about the text she wanted to add, but it was a welcome change to switch to a calligraphy pen and write with the kind of focus that produced letters to rival the neatness of a digital font.
She knew the recipe off by heart by the time the afternoon light was softening into evening, and she had been so immersed in what she was doing that it was still filling her mind as she wandered outside. The percentage of alcohol in vodka was not something Ellie had ever taken note of, but 95 per cent sounded rather a lot. She needed to go to the bricolage shop again because she needed a couple of bottles, firstly to put the lemon rinds and alcohol together to shake occasionally for a week, and then to filter the addition of the syrup before leaving the concoction for another three weeks until it was ready to drink.
It would be nearly a month before she could taste it.
A good chunk of the time she had available to finish renovating the house. Laura was thinking of coming back for a weekend about then, to check on progress and take photographs of anything that might be ready and suitable for the advertising campaign. Ellie needed to make another list. Not ingredients this time, or the steps of a recipe, and there would be no reason to illustrate a description of the work still needing to be done on the house and garden. It would be a waste of time to make a list like that into an artwork.
An artwork…?
Ellie found herself standing very, very still. With her eyes closed. Because that was what she had done with the recipe, wasn’t it? For the first time since Jack’s death she had lost herself in the process of creating something beautiful. It had snuck up on her, disguised as a practical task to record information she needed, and perhaps it had been her need for distraction from any thoughts of a child who nearly died or a man who could potentially steal her heart that had led her back to doing something she’d thought could never provide satisfaction. Or pleasure.
Maybe she hadn’t wanted to find that satisfaction, let alone any pleasure.
Because she didn’t deserve it?
Because she had failed as a mother and been unable to protect her precious baby even as he slept so close in his bassinet, right beside her pillow.
No wonder it had been overwhelming to find that Pascal had still been tied safely to that bench today. She’d almost witnessed another mother facing the loss of her child and… and she’d felt the touch of being held in someone’s arms.
Feeling protected.
Safe…
It was all too much, and whatever peace she’d found in coming home to this house was suddenly shattered. Ellie didn’t want to feel protected. She didn’t want the warmth of being cared for that much. Or of car ing that much. Because she didn’t want the fear that came with it. She could never face the grief of losing it again, and the only way to stay completely safe was to avoid the risk.
She opened her eyes. She picked up that sheet of paper with its soft colours and beautiful words, crumpled it into a ball and dropped into one of the half-glazed pots beside the fireplace so that it was out of sight. She had to blink hard to clear the tears that were gathering, but Ellie knew that if she let them start falling now, they might never stop. She tried to focus on what was right before her eyes, to bring herself into the moment and escape both the past and any fear of the future, and she found herself staring at the floor. At the hexagonal tiles that Mike had called tomettes . She was noting the range of shades of terracotta and the cracks and chips and wondering if they had always had such a matt surface or whether they had just been neglected for a very long time.
The afternoon heat still hung heavily in the air, but Ellie’s need for a task that could keep her entirely in the moment overrode any reluctance to engage in physical effort. Within a very short time, she had a bucket of hot, soapy water, a scrubbing brush and a pile of old towels. She was ready to scrub. One tile at a time, if necessary, and she would keep going until every single one of them was as clean as she could possibly make it.
Despite how often she had swept this floor, there was enough grime caked onto the tiles to make it necessary to replace the water in the bucket again and again. When the scrubbing brush proved inadequate for the task, Ellie switched to a pot scourer. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the unforgiving surface, her fingertips turned into prunes from being wet for so long and she had curls of her hair stuck to her face with perspiration. The dust from where she had been chipping away the plaster covering on the stone wall added an extra layer of dirt – and maybe it would have been more sensible to have waited until that renovation task had been completed – but she wasn’t going to stop, because this was helping.
This was the safest thing she had done all day.
She could allow herself to care about how clean a collection of ancient tiles was. To care about bringing an old house back to life so that it could be sold more easily and relieve her family of a burden they didn’t need or want. What Ellie couldn’t do was to allow herself to care too much about someone else’s child who’d nearly died. About a small dog that was going to go and live with someone else in the near future. And, maybe especially, about a man who’d reminded her of what it felt like to be held.
And cared for…
‘So… what did you think?’
‘About what?’ Laura sounded as though she had the phone on speaker. Ellie could hear the shuffle of papers and the scratch of a pen that suggested her sister was multitasking as she took this call.
‘About the photos I sent. The floor.’
‘Oh… right. Those old tiles.’
‘ Tomettes . A really traditional flooring in France. Sometimes they’re square, but they’re almost always hexagonal in Provence. I scrubbed them yesterday, and today I went and found a special polish for them in the bricolage .’
‘The what?’
‘ Bricolage . A hardware shop.’
‘Ah… No wonder that’s a word I never added to my vocabulary.’ Laura gave a huff of laughter. ‘I have zero interest in DIY.’
‘Can you see how shiny they are now?’ Ellie was holding her phone over the tiles. ‘It’s amazing what you can see when you look closely. The variation in shading is astonishing.’
‘You’ve done a great job. I like the stone wall that’s getting exposed, too. I think it’s about time we took some photos and started the advertising campaign.’
‘But there’s still so much to do.’ Ellie found she was fighting a wave of something that felt like alarm. ‘I’ve still got a huge list. I’ve got Mike the plumber who’s said he’ll come back soon with a builder friend to look at all sorts of small jobs like repairing that shutter. I haven’t started on the front garden, and the glazier hasn’t even been yet to put in the new window upstairs. It’s not ready. It might take weeks longer.’ It suddenly struck Ellie that she was nowhere near ready, either. She didn’t want to even think about the house being sold yet. About having to leave. ‘There’s a boundary fence that needs fixing as well.’
The boundary fence between herself and Julien…
Okay, maybe that task would be better left for as long as possible.
‘That’s okay. We’ll just photograph the bits you’ve done. I need a meeting with Noah, anyway. We’re making good progress on the brochure, but there are some things I want to see for myself.’
‘Like what?’
Ellie wasn’t listening properly, however. By shifting her gaze just a fraction, she could see those pots by the fireplace. She knew that crumpled ball of paper was still in one of them, a reminder that she had been irresistibly drawn back to doing something that she loved. Something that was a part of her and not simply a way to make a living.
‘Like the Rosary Chapel in Vence that Matisse considers to be his greatest work,’ Laura said. ‘There’s a mosaic work in the cathedral done by Chagall, and did you know that one of Vence’s claims to fame is that it has the smallest cathedral in France?’
‘No. I didn’t know that.’ Ellie’s feet seemed to be moving without any instructions from her brain, taking her towards that set of pots. She pulled the crumpled ball of paper from the pot and put it on the table so that she could smooth it out.
‘So—’ Laura cleared her throat, signalling a brisk change of subject. ‘There’s a good reason for me to pop over, just for a day or two. I’ll let you know when I’ve scheduled it. There’s a useable spare bed in the house, isn’t there?’
‘Mmm… well, there’s a bed, but it’s very small.’ Ellie could feel a knot of anxiety forming in her belly. She hadn’t been in that room again since she’d slammed the door shut. If Laura wanted to use it, she’d have to force herself to go in there and clean it up properly. ‘The window needs fixing, too,’ she added hurriedly. ‘And there’s just a board there to keep the bats out at the moment. I’ll give Mike a call tomorrow and see if I can speed up the glazier coming.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Do you want me to clear that room out and see if I can buy a bigger bed?’
‘No… don’t do that. It’s a good marketing move to have a room set up for kids.’ But Laura’s hesitation revealed that she understood exactly why it would be hard for Ellie to sort that issue. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she added, quickly. ‘I’ll sort that room when I come. I can always sleep on the couch,’ she added. ‘Or go back to that little hotel we used in Vence. In fact…’ There was an uncharacteristically dreamy note in Laura’s voice now. ‘I think I might rather like to stay there again.’
Ellie let her breath out slowly. Maybe she should feel hurt that her sister didn’t really want to sleep under the same roof, but she was too grateful that she wasn’t going to have to deal with that room. She could already feel that unpleasant knot beginning to unravel.
‘We do need to get the window fixed, though.’ Laura sounded crisp and organised again. Back to normal. ‘It would be great if you could find the time to have a go at that wilderness of a front garden, as well. I can see a great photo op with your bicycle propped up on the stone wall by the front door – maybe with a bit of the iron gate in the shot too. Just to make it a bit arty, you know?’
‘Aye…’ Ellie was smiling. Not at the thought of contrived ‘artiness’ in a photo, however. She had completely forgotten about the upstairs room because she was looking at her watercolour sketch of the lemon tree branch, with its leaves and fruit, and the carefully crafted words that danced on the paper around it. To her surprise, it didn’t feel threatening any longer. In fact, she liked the way it made her feel. As if there was a tiny piece of her own soul smudged into this crumpled sheet of paper, which was how she’d always known whether what she created was something she could be proud of.
‘Anyway…’ Laura’s tone suggested the conversation was being wound up. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Ellie was ready to go, too. ‘I’d better get started on everything that needs doing before you arrive. I think I’m going to be a wee bit busy.’
‘Can you manage? It’s not going to be too much, is it?’
‘ Au contraire ,’ There was satisfaction to be found tossing in a French phrase. ‘I think I’m ready for a bit more of a challenge.’
Because a challenge would mean less time to think about other things.
Like having to leave this place sooner rather than later.
Like handing over Pascal for someone else to look after him for the rest of his life.
Like Julien…
It was proving disturbingly difficult to stop thinking about her.
Julien knew he should apologise. Again. But not for being impolite this time – quite the opposite, in fact. He’d been too… warm? He’d held Ellie in his arms because the urge to comfort her had been overwhelming.
She was far more courageous than he’d given her credit for. When that choking child had recovered consciousness and cried out for her mother, Julien had been aware of a sharp pain in his own chest – as if his heart had cracked wide open, even though he knew perfectly well that that was a medical impossibility. It seemed as if he could share what Ellie had to be feeling in that moment. It made no difference that her own son had not been old enough to start calling her Maman ; it was the meaning of the word and the darkness that would always be there for her, having lost something so precious.
It was the word that she’d heard from his own son when she’d been holding him in her arms. And, on top of all the huge emotions that were already there, the word had been a cry of victory for a small girl who had come terrifyingly close to death.
Ellie hadn’t run from facing such a difficult situation. She’d embraced it. She could have coped with it all without any support from anyone else and, if he hadn’t offered her that comfort, she probably wouldn’t have cried in front of anyone. But he couldn’t have not held her then. The urge to offer that comfort, the need to protect, had been as powerful as any he ever felt for Theo. Or Theo’s mother.
The people he loved the most.
That said something about the attraction this woman held for him, which made it imperative he didn’t get too close, but what had he done then?
He’d very nearly kissed her, that’s what he’d done.
Merde … It was no wonder that Ellie had been so eager to get away from him. Why she seemed to have been avoiding him since then. Or was he avoiding her? The end result was the same, in any case, and was probably for the best for both of them, but it was frustratingly difficult not to be thinking about her. He’d caught glimpses of movement at the small house, and it wasn’t just Ellie who was busy working there. He’d heard the sounds of hammering when he’d come home for lunch and the shouts of masculine voices. He’d seen the vans of tradesmen parked further down the road and, on one occasion, heard the drift of laughter that he could swear included the sound of Ellie’s voice.
She was getting on with what she was here to do – bringing that old house back to life. And then it would go on the market to be sold and she would go back to Scotland and vanish from his life. Julien could forget about her. Perhaps he could also forget the shame that came with the knowledge that he’d come so close to taking advantage of a distressed woman. Nearly kissing her in a way that would have had nothing at all to do with comfort and everything to do with sheer physical attraction. Perhaps even more than mere physical attraction?
That was a disturbing thought.
He’d been blown away by understanding how courageous Ellie was and the glimpse he’d had of just how much she was capable of caring. She had a generosity of spirit that made her seem completely trustworthy, but, thanks to bitter experience, Julien knew better than to rely on his impressions when it came to trusting women.
He could, however, trust his instinct in feeling the need to apologise in some way. For his own pride, he wanted Ellie to know that he hadn’t been trying to use a tense situation to try and seduce her into something she had no wish to happen.
Except…
There’d been a moment there. A long moment that was not only imprinted on his memory but, when he recalled it, also felt in his body as an odd tingling sensation that started in his gut and reached the very tips of his fingers and toes. It was not a sensation that he recognised, but it was not unpleasant. Far from it. It was like a mix of anticipation – excitement even – and… hope. For what, he had no idea.
Hope for the future, perhaps. For life in general and for the ability to trust again?
Just a moment. No more than the space of a few heartbeats, but it had been enough to see, or possibly just feel, something he hadn’t expected to see.
Ellie had wanted him to kiss her.
And, if they’d both wanted it to happen that much, maybe it was inevitable that it was going to happen.
Maybe just once would be all that was needed.
To find out if there was a reason why it seemed so very important.