Page 47 of Falling for Provence

‘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.

‘Ilovethunderstorms,’ 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 meetJulien’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 hadfelt 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,nothingelse could feelthisgood – as if anything was possible. No… as ifeverythingwas 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 bestfritesin 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.

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