Chapter 15
15
The curls of lemon rind had been in the bottle of alcohol for seven days now, religiously taken out of the cupboard and shaken every day by Ellie. Days during which she found she was putting the final touches on some of the bigger projects of renovating La Maisonette.
The interior stone walls were completely clear of the crumbling whitewashed plaster, and every particle of dust had been removed. The tomettes on the floor were gleaming, and she had sanded down and repainted the repaired shutters in a lovely shade of Paris blue with a lavender undertone. On a trip to the local bricolage to find some white paint to freshen up the wrought-iron table and chairs on the terrace, Ellie had discovered that her now-favourite shop had all sorts of unexpected things for sale. She had been able to find tiny tubes of oil paint in a craft section that were just what she needed to restore the ceramic tile with the name of the house. And she had spotted pretty pale-green glass bottles with embossed flowers and flip-top wire clasps that were perfect for the next stage of making her limoncello.
This evening, she had boiled the water and sugar into a syrup and let it cool, and now she was adding it to the alcohol to filter into the bottles through a funnel and a clean scrap of cotton fabric. A summer storm was brewing outside, with dramatic, black-tinged clouds crowding the sky and rumbles of thunder in the distance. Pascal was hiding under the table, close to Julien’s feet, and, as Ellie carefully poured the syrup into the two pretty bottles and then clipped the stoppers into place with the wire clasp, she noticed the way he reached down to give her dog’s ears a reassuring scratch every now and then.
It was another tiny sliver of the jigsaw she was putting together of who this man was, and it was, piece by piece, a picture of… a kind man. An attribute that might not be considered particularly sexy, maybe, but – along with the ability to make someone laugh – it was, without doubt, the most attractive attribute any man could possess.
Ellie put the bottles back into the cupboard, where they needed to sit for twenty days before the limoncello would be ready to drink. She didn’t want to think of what day it would be. She knew it would be in August. Far too close to the date she’d set as the time to go home to Scotland.
Laura was arriving in just a few days, and when the photographs were taken the marketing campaign would begin in earnest. Surely it wouldn’t take very long at all to sell the little house in its orchard setting that Ellie now knew was a small patch of paradise. Would she have the chance to do anything more than taste her own effort to create limoncello, or would it end up being a farewell gift for Julien?
Ellie pushed that thought away even more firmly as she sat beside him with a glass of her favourite rosé. She loved that he would drop in after work for a glass of wine. Sometimes they ate dinner together. Sometimes Julien stayed the night. Other times he needed to go home to do some work or to make a video call to his mother and his son if he hadn’t had time to do it earlier in the day.
Today it felt as if he was planning to stay. Right now he was looking through her sketch pad.
‘When did you do these?’
‘Just today. I spent the morning picking up old fruit in the orchard and cutting long grass with the shears I found in the garage, but I needed a break, so I took Pascal to St Paul de Vence and we wandered around all afternoon. I tried to find and draw all the different patterns of flowers I could find in the cobbles.’
‘I must look more carefully the next time I go there. I’ll take Theo and make sure he can see the flowers and how beautiful they are.’
Oh … Ellie wanted to go with them. To be out with Julien and Theo and Pascal. Finding things to do that would bring them all joy in being together.
Like a family…?
It was lucky that Julien was absorbed in turning the pages of the pad and couldn’t guess her thoughts. Ellie could hear an echo of his words from the night they’d first made love.
‘…I will never try to replace Theo’s mother – for his sake or my own. It simply isn’t going to happen…’
‘I’ve never seen this one, with the flowerpot and the flowers inside it.’ Another page was turning, and Julien made an appreciative sound. ‘These are very good, Ellie,’ he said. ‘Will you sell the pictures?’
‘No.’ Ellie shook her head. ‘Well… maybe. Eventually. I have other plans for things I want to do first.’
‘Oh?’ Julien’s glance was keen. Interested. He picked up his own glass of wine to drink, his gaze still on Ellie, and any shyness in sharing a plan that was only just coming together in her own head evaporated.
‘I want to make paving stones,’ she told him. ‘Like fragments of the old pathways, with these flowers in them.’
Julien nodded. ‘ Sympa ,’ he murmured. ‘Nice. For people to make their own pathways?’
‘Yes. But they could be stepping stones in a grassed area. Or a whole courtyard. Or even a wall that could be a background for a vertical garden. How good would it be to sprinkle a little bit of medieval France in other places? In Scotland and England… maybe in other countries, too. All over the world, even.’
‘Think big,’ Julien smiled. ‘I like it.’
‘I’m even thinking of a name for my studio.’ Ellie hunched her shoulders, in a mix of shyness and delight. ‘I’m going to call it “Stone Flowers”. Or maybe “A Touch of France”.’
Like applause from the universe, a flash of lightning flickered outside, followed a few seconds later by a roll of thunder that ended in a crack that Ellie could feel right into her bones. Almost immediately, rain started to fall. Fat, heavy drops that rapidly gathered force until they were drumming on the roof and bouncing off the stones on the terrace.
‘I love thunderstorms,’ Ellie confessed. ‘But poor Pascal. Look… he’s shivering.’ She gathered the little dog into her arms. ‘Good grief, can you hear that rain?’
‘ Il pleut comme une vache qui pisse ,’ Julien said.
Ellie only had to catch Julien’s glance to ask for a translation. He grinned.
‘It rains like a cow pissing,’ he said.
Ellie laughed aloud. ‘I am so going to remember that. It will be very useful in Scotland.’
Maybe it was the reminder that their time together was limited. Or maybe it was another crack of bone-tingling thunder, but the electricity in the room was suddenly less about the weather and all about the irresistible physical attraction between them. With Pascal still in her arms, Ellie raised her face to meet Julien’s kiss, but, before the next crash of thunder, the little dog found himself being put gently down on the floor. Neither Ellie nor Julien noticed him following them up the stairs and wiggling under Ellie’s bed so he could stay safe in a stormy world.
Ellie had never felt so safe, herself, in Julien’s arms. Safe enough to allow a crack of thunder to open a door to a vulnerability she’d never exposed before. To open herself, body and soul, to the man she knew had stolen so much of her heart it could never be whole again on its own. To give him everything she could without saying a word. And then to give even more.
Maybe it was the magic of the storm surrounding La Maisonette that night. Maybe Julien was aware of that cocoon of safety in the pretty brass bed with the soft duvet that smelt of sunshine and lemons. Maybe it was because he felt safe enough that he seemed to accept the invitation to enter the intimate space Ellie was offering. He did so with respect. Gentleness. And a fierce passion that touched her, quite literally, in way she’d never ever felt before. But it was the touch that had nothing to do with anything physical that she was going to remember from that night.
Emotionally, it was a touch that felt like it was holding out a hand.
Welcoming her home…
And it was then that Ellie realised she had fallen, head over heels, in love with Julien Rousseau.
Falling in love was a drug, wasn’t it?
Potent enough not to wear off, even hours after Julien had left to go to work the next morning. If it was fading at all, Ellie simply needed to close her eyes and remember how it had felt falling asleep in his arms last night to top up the effect enough for it to colour absolutely everything. Her coffee tasted wonderful. The sky, washed clean after last night’s storm, was a shade of blue she was quite sure she had never seen before. The soft fabric of her now well-worn summer dress, with its daisy print, brushed her body with a caress that ramped up the addictiveness of this drug because it made her think of Julien’s touch.
Ellie knew she was in trouble. Despite her hope that knowing this time with Julien was only temporary could mitigate the risk of heartbreak, it could just as easily undo the healing that had crept up on her thanks to that impulsive decision to stay in the south of France for summer. It felt like she’d only just rediscovered that life was not only worth living, but that it could actually turn out to be better than she’d ever dreamed it could be.
She’d started feeling the first stirrings of a new happiness before she’d met Julien Rousseau, but falling in love with him was taking it to an extraordinary new level. If imminent heartbreak was the price she needed to pay to feel like this at all, it had to be well worth it, because nothing, nothing else could feel this good – as if anything was possible. No… as if everything was possible. There was no point in even thinking about future bridges, much less crossing them before she was forced to.
Thinking about the tasks that still needed to be done before Laura’s visit was not appealing either, because everything Ellie did to finish the renovations and get the house ready for its marketing photographs was taking her one step closer to the time she had to leave. So, instead of working in the garden or starting to sand down the wrought-iron furniture ready for its new coat of paint, or perhaps even finding the courage to go and do something about the neglected space of the child’s bedroom, Ellie put Pascal’s harness on and slipped the strap of her small bag over her head.
‘I think I need a new dress,’ she told him. ‘Let’s go down to that little shop at the bottom of the hill, past the ice cream shop.’
It was a habit that had once been automatic, so Ellie thought nothing of picking up her sketch pad and some pencils and putting them into the basket on her bike. It didn’t matter that Pascal would be sitting on top of them.
As much as Ellie loved Vence and St Paul de Vence, it was the small medieval village of Tourrettes-sur-Loup that was claiming her heart as her favourite. Her hometown. Nicknamed ‘City of Violets’, the cobbled streets had reminders of the tiny purple flowers it had been famous for since the nineteenth century. She left her bike in the square, under the shade of one of the huge plane trees, and walked past a group of men engrossed in what appeared to be a very serious game of boules. Glancing up, she saw the restaurant that Julien had mentioned – the one that had the best frites in the world, which Theo loved to dip into egg yolks.
She could almost see Julien and Theo sitting under an umbrella at one of those tables overlooking the square. Not just Julien and Theo. Ellie could imagine herself sitting there with them, and they were laughing because Theo had egg yolk on his chin and the happiest smile on his face as he enjoyed a favourite food.
Maybe it was the happiness that Ellie was so aware of today that cushioned her from being ambushed by grief, with the reminder that she would never see her own son’s smile again. There was a poignancy there, but a sweetness as well that made the squeeze on her heart one that was nowhere near fierce enough to end in tears.
From the first steps through the archway onto the cobbled walkways, there were reminders everywhere of the celebration of violets. Shops were selling postcards and tiles, violet-scented soap and oil, and even wine, candied violets and countless other items that were decorated with the unpretentious little flowers.
A poster advertising the annual violet festival in early March was still attached to a wall. The ice cream shop further down the hill was famous for its violet-flavoured ice cream, and Ellie bought one because… well, it was a gorgeous summer day. And what could be better than enjoying a pale-purple ice cream with a sugary flower on top and wandering down to the ramparts to admire the dramatic view of the gorges and forests and the distant sea?
The shop Ellie had walked past many times was open when they headed back up the hill, and Pascal was happy to sit on the stone step while Ellie looked at racks crowded with pretty summer dresses and shirts. The garment that caught her eye instantly was a long dress in white muslin, printed with small, bright red poppies and tiny green leaves.
On closer inspection, she found the poppies were actually heart-shaped, but that only made it more appealing. It had spaghetti straps, a smocked yoke and a layered skirt, and Ellie knew how unlikely it was that she would ever be able to wear it back in Scotland. Being white, it was also highly impractical, but it was too pretty not to try on. She already had a dress with daisies on it that would remind her of Marguerite the donkey. Surely it was only fair to have a dress with poppies on it for Coquelicot?
Putting it on made it so impossible to resist that Ellie decided she would wear it and had her blue dress wrapped up to carry home. She walked slowly up the cobbled slopes, enjoying the swish of the long skirt against her legs and the sun kissing her bare shoulders, reminding herself to buy a bunch of carrots for the donkeys at the épicerie before heading home.
Ellie put her parcel into the basket of her bike, which was in the shade of one of the huge plane trees around the square, and noticed the sketch book and pencils she’d put in there earlier. A glance towards the épicerie showed her that the shop was currently busy, and it seemed like the perfect excuse to sit in the shade for a few minutes and capture a fraction of this quiet summer morning in the village that was becoming something so special to her.
The church, on the other side of the square, had always caught her gaze. An ancient stone building with a picturesque bell tower and quirky architecture that suggested additions during different centuries was typical of a medieval French village, but, as Ellie began outlining her sketch, she was paying more attention to what made the église Saint-Grégoire so appealing. Maybe it was the central, octagonal-shaped section. Or the seemingly random placement of arch-shaped windows on some walls and square ones on others. A chimney seemed out of place, but the tower with its spire and glimpses of the old bell was everything you could ask for in a church.
Ellie moved so that she could see the entrance to the church, which was a remarkably plain wall with a small cross on the roofline, a round window directly beneath and, in the same line, an archway-shaped depression in the wall that held a statue above weathered-looking wooden doors. Only one of the doors was visible because the other was opened inwards, leaving a shadowed gap in the wall.
An invitation to go inside?
‘Wait here,’ Ellie told Pascal as she tied his lead to the iron rack. ‘Guard the bike for me. I won’t be long.’
For some reason, Ellie hadn’t taken the time to go inside the church before. As she stepped inside to see the light pouring into the richly decorated space, creating wide, misty rays beneath the dramatic curves of a vaulted ceiling, she caught her breath. Beneath her feet she could feel the unevenness of huge flagstones that had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and the rows of wooden chairs were begging for someone to sit and take it all in with an appropriate reverence.
There were small bunches of white gypsophila tied onto the chairs at the aisle end of the rows with silk ribbons, and Ellie realised there must have been a wedding in here very recently. She moved slowly and quietly further into the church as, more and more, the vibrant artwork, numerous statues, gilding and wrought iron added to her initial impression of a remarkable space, and she wondered how many couples might have been blessed to exchange their vows in this holy place. She could almost hear echoes of the promises of commitment and fidelity and love for the rest of their lives.
That was when Ellie finally sat down on one of the chairs with its fluff of white blossom and soft ribbon. Just for a moment. Because there was deep sense of yearning that was bringing a lump to her throat and the threat of tears to the back of her eyes. And her imagination was pushing her into a space that hadn’t even existed a few minutes ago. Because she could see herself in a white dress, maybe even this white dress with its tiny poppies and green leaves. She was holding a bunch of simple white daisies, and she had flowers in her hair. Beside her, Julien was looking impossibly gorgeous in a dark suit, and little Theo was walking in front of them, scattering rose petals from the small basket he was carrying.
Ellie and Julien were walking towards the front of the church, where the altar and lectern were behind the intricate ironwork of the railing.
Getting married…
She’d never dreamed of getting married before. Even to Liam when she found out she was carrying his baby.
But this was different.
Julien was different, and, in this fantasy moment, the wedding she was imagining was the most perfect event of her life. She had never wanted anything quite this much. And then she blinked and it was gone, and she got to her feet and walked back out of this magical place knowing that it had been nothing more than fantasy. That it was something that could never happen in real life.
And, however much she wanted to hang on to that tiny scrap of something so perfect, it was already fading – just a final glimpse of a dream evaporating into wakeful reality, swept along by a painful twinge of… oh, yes… had she actually begun to forget what grief felt like?
Perhaps it had been the addition of Theo into the fantasy that had been the reminder that grief could still be sharp enough to hurt despite this new happiness. Reality meant that if Julien ever imagined her as his bride, he would, no doubt, feel the same grief for the wife he’d loved and lost and would never try to replace. Grief had no timetable, and there was no point in longing for a future that was never going to happen.
Except… Ellie could feel the caress of this soft new dress against her legs as she blinked in the bright sunshine outside. If she was lucky, perhaps a fragment of that fantasy might have caught somewhere in the folds of this pretty fabric, and she might be able to catch another frisson the next time she put it on. Even for a heartbeat would be long enough to remember it was possible to feel as if you’d found the holy grail of life, which was so very simple yet so complicated at the same time.
To be happy.
To love. And be loved.