Page 39 of Falling for Provence

The touch was so light, so evocative, it was like the fragment of a barely remembered dream or a scent that invoked a childhood memory. Whatever it was like, it was so compelling that Ellie found herself moving her head just a fraction, from side to side – parting her lips slightly as she responded to a subtle increase in pressure from Julien’s lips – trying to capture a little more of that feeling and find out what was eluding her.

If she closed her eyes, Ellie knew she could sink into the physical response her body was experiencing as a flicker of new life seemed to be igniting in cells throughout her entire body, right down to the tips of her toes, even. Instinct warned her not to, however. If things became too intense too soon, it could well be enough to shatter the illusion of safety.

So she pulled back, to find that Julien also had his eyes open and, for a long, long moment, they were staring at eachother again. Communicating silently but not in any recognisable words. It felt more like ripples of emotions.

Delight.

Astonishment.

Yearning for more. A lot more…

One thing was certain. Therewouldbe more. But not right now. Not with a small boy who was nearby and stirring, again, in his sleep – this time to the point of wakefulness.

‘Papa?’

‘Oui, c’est moi, mon poussin.’

But Julien didn’t move for another heartbeat. He touched Ellie’s bottom lip, watching his finger as he traced its shape as if he was committing its shape and softness to memory.

‘Plus tard,’ he whispered. ‘Bientôt…’

Ellie had to look those words up on the dictionary on her phone after Julien had gathered Theo into his arms to carry him home, and the translation made her catch her breath. And then it made her smile.

Later, he’d said.Soon…

13

Anticipation.

As an emotion, it had a magic all of its own. Nothing else could allow you to be completely in the present but also give you the apparent ability to touch the future. To be able to imagine what was going to happen with such clarity and detail that it felt as if itwasactually happening. The danger was, of course, that the reality might not live up to its promise, but that contributed to the delight of anticipation, Ellie decided, because it made the journey possibly more significant than the destination and therefore something that deserved to be savoured in its own right.

She was smiling a lot more, she realised, when she rode her bicycle down to the village to follow what was becoming a familiar route around the shops near the church in Tourrettes-sur-Loup. People smiled back at her. Perhaps they were starting to recognise the new foreigner with her bright red bike and small white dog. Or maybe it was because she was deliberately taking her time today – savouring the first steps of a new journey – that was making her more aware of everything around her.

Ellie took a moment outside theépicerieto simply admire the care that had been taken to display the fresh fruit and vegetables so beautifully. Today there was a rainbow arrangement of tiny cardboard punnets of wild strawberries, blackberries, raspberries and currants as a centrepiece to other fruit like small peaches shaped like doughnuts, apricots and plums and nectarines. Trusses of ripe tomatoes at the other end of the trestle table had glass jars with bunches of basil amongst them, and Ellie picked both to purchase, making a mental note to find some mozzarella at the fromagerie so that she could make her favourite salad to go with the fresh baguette she would buy at the boulangerie.

She paused to let Pascal sniff a tree and listened to someone nearby greeting a friend in passing.

‘Bonjour Bernard. Ça va?’

‘Oui, ça va. Et toi?’

‘Ouais… ça va. À bientôt.’

And Ellie was smiling again as she heard the words she recognised. Words that would probably remind her of Julien Rousseau for the rest of her life. Words that might conjure up this delicious bubble of excitement that sparkled like the end of a slowly vanishing fuse.

À bientôt.See you soon.

Bientôt.Soon…

Would it be today?

Not knowing added another layer to the anticipation that became a background hum to everything else that happened that day. Ellie uncovered enough of the garage door to make her think that someone with some muscle might be able to open it, so it was timely that it turned out to be the day that Mike brought his mechanic friend, Gary, to see the car. He also brought a bottle of strong alcohol that his mate had sourced in Italy, which Ellie happily reimbursed him for.

They hauled the tilting door open despite the loud complaint from long-neglected hinges, and then they pushed the car out into the sunlight and set to work. They talked about ignition coils and fuel lines and sparkplugs, and Ellie smiled and left them to it. They were all smiling when the engine sputtered into life, with a cough and then a roar, an hour or so later. Mike added to the celebration by tooting the tin snail’s surprisingly loud horn, which was no doubt why somebody stopped their car further up the road to turn and stare. And why Julien Rousseau came out of his gate to walk towards La Maisonette.

That was the point where Ellie’s level of anticipation threatened to render her incapable of saying anything, but she didn’t need to, because these three men were making their own introductions and bonding over the vintage car.

‘My first car was one of these,’ Julien said. ‘I was fifteen. It was… how do you say it? My joy and pride?’

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