Page 17 of Falling for Provence

Ellie bit her lip. ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘I have to help him.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t know about vets here. Do they come to your house?’

‘Not usually.’

‘Is there a vet in Tourrettes-sur-Loup? Or in Vence?’

‘I’m not sure of Tourrettes. I certainly know one in Vence. A friend of mine, in fact.’

Ellie eyed her bicycle, which was now propped against the stone wall. ‘I guess he’s small enough to put in my basket. Erm… could you possibly tell me the address of your friend, the vet?’ She swallowed. ‘Please?’

There was a long silence. Then he closed his eyes for a long moment. The sigh this time, as he opened them again, was even more heartfelt than the last one had been. A defeated sound?

‘I will take him,’ he said. ‘As I said, the vet is my friend.’

It could have been an easy way out of this new dilemma, but Ellie shook her head. ‘This is my fault. I’m the one who’s responsible, so I will take care of him.’

She could feel the muscles in her jaw tightening and knew her tone was defensive. Would he recognise that she was belatedly responding to his unfair demand about assuming responsibility for donkeys that she hadn’t even realised were on her property?

Maybe he did. He stared at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. ‘You can come too. Put your bicycle in your garden and then get in the car. I need to make a call. Don’t touch the dog. He’s injured,’ he added, as Ellie opened her mouth to say something else. ‘He might bite.’

Ellie picked up the baguette and carrots but ignored the rest of the mess on the side of the road. It took only a minute or two to wheel her bike a little further down the road and tuck it behind the wall of the shed with the stable door. As she turned back, she saw that her neighbour had taken off his jacket to wrap it around the dog. She heard the yelp of protest as he was carried to the car and put on the back seat.

He was holding the front door open for her. Further down the road, a woman had come to her gate. His gate, Ellie realised,because it was just on the other side of the olive grove. The woman lifted a hand, and the man raised his own and shouted something in French. The response was faint but didn’t sound angry.

‘Is that your wife?’ she asked, as he got behind the wheel of the car.

His expression was unreadable. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘My mother.’

Ellie winced. It was no wonder he was offended, but how could she have guessed someone’s age from that distance? And what was someonehisage doing living with his mother, anyway?

They drove towards Vence, onto the main road that Ellie had chosen to avoid on her first bicycle ride and in the opposite direction she had taken to go to Tourrettes-sur-Loup, in silence. An increasingly awkward silence.

Ellie decided she had to break it.

‘My name’s Ellie,’ she said, finally. ‘Ellie Gilchrist.’

He didn’t shift his focus from the road. ‘I’m Julien,’ he said. ‘Julien Rousseau.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Julien.’

Her automatic response drew a huff of sound from him that was almost amusement.

‘Thank you for doing this,’ she added. ‘I realise it must be very inconvenient.’

‘It’s my lunch break so it’s not interfering with my work. I suspect you would have only had another accident if you’d tried to take the dog in your basket.’

Ellie didn’t respond. He had her pegged as a complete nuisance, didn’t he? Someone who had put his son in danger because her property had inadequate fencing. Someone who couldn’t ride a bicycle safely and ran over dogs. Someone completely incompetent.

‘He may have apuce. The vet will be able to find out who he belongs to.’

‘A… what?’

‘Apuce. A small electronic device. I don’t know its name in English.’

‘Ah… a microchip?’

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