Page 20 of Wrong Train to Paris

“I might know someone.” Julia smiled. She appreciated the attempt to cheer her up, and truthfully, the idea of a new project—one she couldn’t bungle—did sound like just the thing.

Later that afternoon, Julia glanced at both of her timepieces. She and Gabi had worked steadily for more than three hours. Once they’d washed the dishes, set the bread rising, and cut up vegetables for a stew, the pair had cleaned out two closets, one wardrobe, and the curio cabinet in the parlor.

Gabi left to tend to Coquette, and Julia let out a heavy sigh as she sat on the parlor sofa, feeling exhausted from all the work.

Four crates sat on the parlor floor, filled with an assemblage of old clothing, kitchen implements, books, linen, and other odds and ends that had gathered in the nooks of Gabi’s house over the years.

Julia was tempted to take a nap but decided the task wasn’t completely finished until the crates were moved into storage. And wouldn’t her hostess be pleased to return to find her parlor floor clean?

She hefted one of the crates and took it outside, starting down the garden path. Although the crate was heavy, Julia didn’t stop to rest, wanting to get past the nursery as quickly as possible. Luckily, she did not encounter Luc, and she did not see him among the olive trees as she walked by either.

The storage building was unlocked. Julia held on to the heavy crate with both hands and pushed the door open with her hip.

She stopped in the doorway, blinking as she took in the sight before her. Where she’d imagined a dusty building filled with old furniture and boxes, she found instead a bright room with high windows. Paintings surrounded the space, some on easels, others propped up on boxes, and some were set on the floor, leaning against the walls.

A drop cloth was laid on the ground in a sunny spot in the center of the room, and on it was a table of supplies and an easel that held a canvas with a partially completed composition. Julia set down the crate and walked closer, studying the painting.

The paint colors were pastel, but their application wasn’t delicate. The strokes were applied thickly, with subtly varying tones. She could see the painting was of a landscape, though the trees and other flora had only been sketched in with a pencil. A brook crossed through the field, and even in the early stages of the work, the water appeared to trickle and move over stones.

The way the artist captured movement and light—it must be the same person who’d painted the picture in Gabi’s front entry. Julia stared at the painting, trying to imagine the person who’d created it.

“It’s spectacular,” Julia muttered. Was Gabi an artist? It stood to reason. She was creative, she surrounded herself with color, and as was the case with many artists Julia had met, she was a bit unconventional.

Papers with sketches and notes were scattered over the table with tubes of paint and cups filled with brushes. A stool with a paint-splattered apron was beside it. Julia examined the sketches for a moment.Why did Gabi not tell me about this?she wondered. She could not imagine the older woman being shy about anything.

Julia walked around the edges of the room, studying the works. The paintings had obviously been completed over a number of years. She recognized what must be some of the early attempts and marveled at the artist’s improvement in others. When she reached a particular painting that sat up higher, on an easel, she stopped, drawing in a breath.

This one. This one is the masterpiece.The composition was different from that of the others. A woman was shown, leaning over a stone bridge, her arm outstretched toward a pair of swans she appeared to be feeding. The shadows of a willow played over the skin of the woman’s shoulders and face, and the reflection of the light on the water shone on her as well, the contrast bringing movement to the picture.

Julia could not take her eyes from the woman’s face. The artist had created the painting in the impressionist style, giving the feeling of a stolen moment or the wisp of a memory. The image was stunning—breathtaking—pulling at something deep inside Julia’s heart and filling her with a longing that brought tears to her eyes.

“Juliette?” Luc’s voice startled her, breaking the spell.

She turned quickly. “Oh, Luc.” His expression was not pleased. Probably because he’d spent the afternoon replanting and reorganizing his nursery.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I thought this building was for storage.” Julia pointed to the crate by the door. “I didn’t realize...” She cleared her throat, trying to expel the rush of emotion evoked by the painting. “Is this Gabi’s studio?”

His expression grew, if possible, even darker beneath the shadow of his hat brim. “You should not trespass where you’re not invited.”

“But Gabi would not mind,” Julia said. “I’m sure of it.” She didn’t like the way he made her feel as if she were doing something wrong. “I should like her to tell me about her work. And my father would be so pleased to discover an unknown artist, especially one with such talent.” She motioned around the room. “All of this—it belongs in a gallery.”

“It ismystudio.” He spoke in a low voice, the edges of his eyes tightening as if he’d not wanted to make the confession.

Julia gave a small gasp. “Youare the artist.” She looked around the room, viewing the artwork again with an entirely different perspective. Luc had created this? “But why did you not tell me when I asked about the painting in Gabi’s front hall? That is obviously your work as well.”

Luc shrugged. “I don’t tell anyone.” He pushed his hands into his pockets.

Julia couldn’t believe it. She swept her arms wide. “You painted all of these?”

“Oui.”

“They are...youare...” She motioned, unable to come up with words to describe exactly how splendid the works were. “You must have been trained.”

“For a time.” Luc moved to the easel, lifting the apron and sitting on the bench. He set his hat on the table. “I attended l’École des Beaux-Arts in Arles, but...” He shrugged again. “But I had to cut my studies short. When my parents died, I returned to Riv.”

“To care for the trees,” Julia finished.

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