Page 1 of Falling for Provence

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An ancient stone wall was almost touching the passenger side of the car Eleanor Gilchrist was sitting in.

‘I can’t get out.’

Not that it really mattered when she wasn’t sure she particularly wanted to get out.

‘You can get out my side.’ There was a note in Laura’s voice that warned Ellie her sister’s patience was wearing thin. ‘If I don’t park this close, we’ll block the road. But you can wait here while I have a wee look. Maybe the satnav’s got it wrong.’

She opened the driver’s door, got out and walked a few steps to stand in front of a gate. She stood so still, for so long, that Ellie wriggled out of the car, wondering what was wrong.

Laura words were almost a plea. ‘This can’t be right…’

Ellie pulled at a scramble of ivy that suggested it had been a very long time since the solid, iron gate in front of them had been opened. ‘I think it is… Look.’ She rubbed at the chipped surface of a glazed, ceramic tile attached to a crossbar to reveal lettering that was faded but still legible.

La Maisonette

‘Aye… that’s it. That’s the name on the legal documents.’ Laura peered over the garden wall. ‘No wonder they called it “The Small House”.’

Ellie followed the direction of her sister’s gaze. Through the rusty bars of the gate, above the knee-high grass and overgrown hedges of a long-neglected garden and past a shed where an enormous padlock was hanging from a stable door, was a dwelling that had been built of the same, rough-hewn, golden-brown stone as the walls of both the garden and the other side of the road.

La Maisonette had been built a long time ago. Probably several hundred years ago, Ellie reckoned. Having been born and bred in Scotland, she was no stranger to historic stone dwellings, but she’d never seen anything like this. Golden rock instead of grey, and soft rounded edges rather than careful squares. A roof that looked like layers of old split terracotta drainage pipes and nothing like the neat slate tiles of her mother’s cottage. The colours of Oban reflected the mist and rain and chill of a Scottish climate. This house had been gently simmering in the sunshine of countless French summers.

Ellie found a smile. ‘Ripe for restoration, perhaps?’ she suggested.

‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ The sharp look from Laura was suspiciously close to a glare.

Ellie’s smile faded as she closed her eyes. Until now the slightly awkward inability to feel comfortable in her oldest sister’s company had been disguised by the busyness of airports, car rental arrangements, navigating in a foreign country and the tension of driving on what was the wrong side of the road for them both. There was nowhere to hide now, as they stood alone together on this quiet road on the outskirts of a medieval French village, and the effect of adding a deeply disappointing reality tothe day seemed to have put a spotlight on what neither of them wanted to talk about.

Why on earth had Ellie allowed herself to be persuaded – or had it actually been bullied? – into coming on this flying visit from Scotland to the south of France? Did her family really think a mini-break was going to change anything? That undiluted exposure to Laura’s attitude that you could get over anything with a bit of determination and self-discipline was the push that she needed to start embracing life again?

To be fair, Laura Gilchrist was probably not currently thinking about how disappointingly feeble Ellie was proving herself to be. It was more likely that she was racking her brains to find some aspect of this property that could make it possible to offload as soon as possible. She’d already had to cross off a quick commute from the nearest airport at Nice and direct access to one of the desirable French Riviera beaches.

‘Sorry.’

The apologetic murmur was enough for Ellie to open her eyes again.

‘It’s okay.’

And it was. She knew that Laura had shouldered the vast majority of the stress that was associated with this unexpected journey. But Ellie still found herself pressing her lips firmly together – partly so that she didn’t say anything else that might annoy Laura and make this time together even less pleasant but also to stop herself smiling again. Because itwaskind of amusing that their destination clearly deserved the euphemistic ‘ripe for restoration’ tag line her sister’s estate agency often employed for properties that looked uninhabitable.

That La Maisonette was in such a neglected state was a relief, in some ways. Maybe they could just turn around and go home now and leave this problem for someone else to sort out.

Blood-red poppies and bright white daisies were scattered though the long grass on the other side of the gate, and spears of lavender drooped over what might be a cobbled pathway leading to the dark arch of a wooden door. Ellie drew in a deep breath, searching for the scent of the lavender, but something else was much stronger.

‘I can smell lemons,’ she said. Again, she had to stifle the way her lips wanted to tilt into the beginnings of a smile. Could there be a more appropriate situation to invoke the proverb that when life gave you lemons you should make lemonade?

‘Oh?’ Laura blinked, as though being dragged back from a daydream. Or more likely a daytime nightmare about how difficult it was going to be to make something good out of this twist of fate. ‘I guess there might be a lemon tree somewhere.’

She unlatched the iron gate. ‘Let’s go and find out.’ She uttered those words with the same tone she might have used for ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

The gate, still caught by tendrils of ivy, didn’t want to budge, but Laura’s push was, admittedly, a bit half-hearted.

‘I’ll do it.’ Ellie grasped the bars and shoved hard to break the ivy strands and shift the gate over a tangle of weeds. ‘You don’t want to get rust all over your nice new dress.’ She wiped her hands on her jeans, oblivious to any streaks, and slid sideways through the narrow opening. Another tug from the inside made the gap big enough for Laura to step through without getting a mark on the pale olive-green linen of her figure-hugging dress.

In a silence redolent of the increasing distance between them, the two sisters picked their way towards the heavy wooden door. The elaborate carving of the door hadn’t been visible due to the shade from the tangle of an overgrown climbing rose clinging to the stone arch, and Ellie’s fingers automatically traced the outlines of one of the four-petalled flowers carved into the centre of each wooden rectangle.

She snatched her hand back as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, and her fingers began curling into a fist, not unlike the shape of the solid door-knocker fixed to the central panel. ‘You’ve got the key?’

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