Page 45 of The Magic of Provence

They were walking past a marina now that was crowded with all shapes and sizes of boats, from yachts with their tall masts, sleek modern catamarans built for speed, and the charm of vintage wooden boats. Fi could see the curve of a white sandy beach further ahead against the backdrop of craggy hills.

‘I think it was the same for my mother,’ Fi said. ‘But she would never have admitted that. It would have been too shameful.’

Heidi took advantage of Christophe’s steps slowing to sniff at the base of a palm tree. The look Fi was receiving from Christophe was almost bewildered.

‘The ability to love is the greatest gift people have,’ he said. ‘It’s what makes life worth living. It should never be something to be ashamed of.’

Fi stood still. ‘But what if the person you love is not worthy of being loved?’

Christophe was frowning as he caught her gaze but then his whole face seemed to soften. ‘Everyone is worthy of being loved,’ he said quietly.

His eyes were saying even more.

Thatshewas worthy of being loved?

She dragged her gaze away before it could form anything more than a wisp of sensation, because this was unsettling. Her heart had skipped a beat and it was hard to catch her next breath. She tried to shake it off by starting to walk again.

‘What about bad people?’ she countered. ‘Like murderers?’

‘Nobody is born bad,’ Christophe said. ‘It could be that they end up doing bad things because they grew up without the love they needed. They simply had… less.’

That silenced her. The compassion of this man made him fit right in with the softness of the colours and joyful vibe of this small city. So did the man playing classic French music on a piano accordion near the market as they entered the commercial centre of the old town a short time later.

Christophe led her down narrow, busy streets with shops that looked more Italian than French, with crammed window displays of pasta and salami and… lemons! The glow of yellow shone from every direction, in the shops and market stalls. There were tall, golden bottles of limoncello, lemon-shaped soap and scented candles, tea-towels and aprons printed with lemons, baskets and boxes overflowing with the actual fruit in front of greengrocers, and it had to be lemon-flavoured gelato filling the giant fibre-glass cone outside the door of the ice cream shop.

Both Fi and Heidi were staying close to Christophe as he led the way. They wove through the crowds and then he took them under archways that led uphill, through shady tunnels and upsomany stairs. They went through cobbled squares with leafy trees and ancient fountains and, as they walked, Christophe told her what it had been like to live here and about the famousFête du Citronthat had been held every February for coming up to a hundred years.

‘Queen Victoria herself came once,’ Christophe said proudly. ‘But that was a long time before the parade became all about the lemons and oranges. It was my favourite thing when I was little – maybe because I remember being on my father’s shoulders so I could see everything above the crowds of people. The last one I went to was the year he died. Tintin was the hero of the show that year. My papa used to read the Tintin books with me and we thought it was very funny that our little dog, Biscotti, looked just like Snowy.’

Ohh… Fi could almost see him as a child. How adorable would he have been with those fine features and big brown eyes and curly hair and thatsmile…? How devastated and lost must he have been trying to understand that his papa would never read him stories again or take him to the lemon festival? She wanted to reach back through time and give that little Christophe a hug.

Maybe he could feel the direction of her thoughts as he stopped to let Heidi have a long drink from a pool beneath the trickling water that was coming from the mouth of a bull’s head carved out of stone.

‘I haven’t been to anotherFête du Citronsince then,’ he added quietly. ‘Not even when Julien asked me because he was taking Theo this year by himself – Ellie thought it was too cold to take Bonnie when she was only a couple of weeks old. But when Mamma talked about it this morning, I meant what I said. We will go next year, if you are still here.’

‘And I meant what I said.’ She knew he would hear the empathy beneath her words. And at least some understanding of what it was like to have a father ripped from your life at such a young age, even if her father had chosen to leave her and her grief had been tainted with shame. ‘I’d love to go. If I’m still here.’

‘Do you think you’ll want to go back to Scotland?’

Fi shook her head. ‘I drove all the way here,’ she told him. ‘By myself. It took days and days and some of it was scary, especially driving into the train and staying in your car to watch the land disappear as you go deeper and deeper under the sea.’ She pulled in a new breath. ‘But it only takes about thirty minutes and then you’re coming out the other side, and from the moment I realised I was in France it felt like everything was new. Different. And deep down I thought that maybe this could be a new life for me. ThatIcould be different.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Ineverwant to go back to Scotland. Not to live.’

She opened her eyes to find Christophe’s gaze resting on her face but it felt as if they were resting on her soul. As if he could see the person she might dream of being in this new life and all the shiny promises of what it might deliver.

Like feeling worthy of being loved.

Of kisses that never ended.

Feelingsafe…

It could never happen, not with this man, anyway. Maybe that was why there was a poignant note to his smile as he responded to the tug Heidi gave on the lead and turned away.

Just for that tiny moment, however, Fi had imagined what it would be like to be walking into exactly that future, hand in hand with Christophe Brabant and…

…and it squeezed her heart so hard that it hurt.

* * *

They set off downhill in a slightly subdued silence. Fi was ready to suggest it was time to stop their tour and find somewhere to have a bite to eat, despite knowing that the plan was to drive her back to La Maisonette after lunch, so this time with Christophe would be over. Perhaps he didn’t want it to be over quite yet, either, because, when they got back to the road beside the sea and it seemed as if they were about to choose where to eat, he turned instead through a row of yellow archways between two restaurants and there was a mountain of stone steps zigzagging their way uphill in front of her.

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