Amour Provence (27 page)

The authorities didn't find Euphémie for three days. The first night, the staff didn't miss her until dinnertime. When the director was informed, he took a drive around the town and then, later in the evening, he called the police, who explored a larger area with no success. Florence wasn't informed until the following day, and it took her until that evening to arrive from Lyon with her husband since only the very last train of the day had tickets available. They had to stay in a cheap and insalubrious hotel since the good places were all taken. The chief of police took it upon himself to drop in on his childhood friend Gaston Prost, who he knew was vacationing in Serret. At an unconscionably early hour the next morning, the policeman drove to the meager hotel and awakened Florence and her husband, who made it clear they were not pleased to see him. Nor were they thrilled when Gaston appeared in the breakfast room just as they were finishing their cafés au lait.

Oddly, it was Florence's husband who capitulated first. Victor knew the law, but was also acutely aware that small-town gossip with even the tiniest grain of truth could destroy a person's reputation even in a big town like Lyon. Gaston was insistent on several points. He appeared quite different from the mild, humorous young man Florence had once admired in her youth. Despite her efforts to interrupt and disagree, she was forced to be quiet as Gaston stated the facts. In the end, Florence and Victor agreed to everything, promising to pay the monthly charges on Euphémie's new house and to give her a generous allowance; the amount was suggested by Gaston, who also recommended a reliable woman who could come in to cook and clean several times a week. At the end, Gaston politely shook their hands with the air of someone who realizes that, though it's rare, some things in life can quite naturally fall into place if the right pressure is judiciously applied.

Euphémie began her days early, taking whatever road presented itself up into the mountains, unafraid of the people she might encounter. She bought herself a pair of comfortable sneakers and a silky sky-blue jacket that was waterproof and reminded her of a dress she'd once worn to a party. To add to the pleasure of it all, she carried a light but powerful pair of binoculars on a strap. Birds of all sorts fascinated her. As she watched them, she imagined their little hearts beating, the tiny muscles pumping bright red blood to keep them flying, flying ever onward and upward through the summer sky.

I
t was a rainy night in February and from Berti's high window a swirling mist obscured the view of the valley below. She moved a lamp onto the kitchen table, pleased to be inside her stone tower, where the walls were a meter thick and the place well heated by an electric radiator that glowed a comforting red-orange behind its metal grate. A gust of wind pounded like a flat hand, spattering drops against the windowpanes as she began to iron a pair of linen pillowcases embroidered with the family's initials, the double
P
for Petitjean-Perra, that had once belonged to her mother. Every once in a while she sprinkled drops of perfumed water onto the linen, and as she pressed down a whiff of scented steam filtered through the air, evoking memories of summer walks through fields of blooming lavender.

Her mother, Liliane Perra, had died of pneumonia just before Christmas despite intravenous antibiotics and other eleventh-hour measures taken by the hospital staff. The
family realized it was a blessing, since Liliane's femur had been so badly shattered that her doctors feared she would never walk again. Liliane's husband, Clément, had not attended the funeral. Whenever Berti went to see her father now, he turned his face away from her and she wondered if he was ashamed of his malignant behavior as a husband and a father, or if he simply no longer wanted to deal with his daughter who knew too much.

The deep haze that night reminded her of winters in Edinburgh. Her new life in Provence, which had at first held such promise, was becoming increasingly complicated. After her mother's death, Grégoire Dieulefit, the local notary responsible for the settlement of estates, had called Berti in for a discussion. She'd known Grégoire for years. The notary knew everything about her family, just as he knew everyone else's business, since he was responsible for any and all transactions regarding property.

“Your mother was certainly a strong-minded woman,” Grégoire said, opening the enormous dossier marked
Perra-Petitjean
. “We don't usually see this kind of thing, especially in the days when your parents married, but she insisted on a
séparation des biens.
In other words, she kept sole ownership of the vineyard along with the rest of the property, and that includes your parents'
manoir
as well as your grandparents' house in which your brother Philippe now lives. Obviously, your father has the right to stay in the family home until his death, but the property was your mother's and will be divided equally among you children.”

“Divide up Domaine Petitjean?” Berti exclaimed. “But
the vineyard has been in mother's family for several hundred years. The thought of breaking it up is unbearable!”

“Don't worry, we're not going to make any hasty decisions, Berti. I'll be speaking to each of you and then we can determine what's to be done. I imagine it will be close to impossible to locate your elder sister, Marguerite.”

“We haven't heard from her for thirty years.”

“That's what I've understood.” Grégoire turned over a sheet of paper. “In the short term, the best solution might be for Philippe to run the vineyard while paying the rest of you a portion of the yearly earnings. We'll have to see if that would be agreeable to everyone. But certainly the grandparents' house should be sold and the proceeds divided, unless Philippe is willing to purchase it.”

Berti now understood why her brother and his wife, Marie-France, had initially been so hostile toward the idea of her return to the Midi. She had always assumed that Philippe, being the eldest son, would inherit the vineyard. It was difficult to believe her mother would ever have conceived the idea of splitting up Domaine Petitjean. In any case, Berti was grateful that Grégoire Dieulefit, like most
notaires
, moved with glacial slowness. They hadn't even had a family meeting yet, so she wasn't sure what her sister Pati in Belgium would say, or Marco, for that matter. She tried not to think about what might ultimately transpire, but the possibility of selling off her mother's vineyard to strangers was out of the question.

However, Berti had other things on her mind. She was considering returning to school, since her only option for a career seemed to be teaching French to tourists, something
that held little interest for her. However, now that the domaine was in peril, perhaps learning about the cultivation of wine would be something to contemplate, especially if in lieu of selling, she became responsible for a portion of it. In the meantime, she'd started a part-time job at the
mairie
in Serret where the pay was decent. For the moment, her bank account was holding steady and she told herself that at least her first few months back in the region of her birth had not been stagnant.

That stormy night, the globe of the streetlight hung like a mist-ringed moon in the square frame of her window. Berti folded her mother's pillowcases into quarters and was unplugging the iron when her intercom sounded its electronic chime. It was already past nine o'clock and she certainly wasn't expecting anyone. She hesitated before lifting the receiver. As she put it to her ear, the pelting rain made the sound of disjointed static, and before she could even say hello, a masculine voice said, “
Allô
, Berti? It's Didier!”

Without thinking she blurted, “What are you doing out on a night like this?”

“I came to invite you for a drink.”

Berti didn't like the idea of Didier at her door. She'd seen him briefly at her mother's funeral, but they hadn't spoken more than a sentence or two. What might people think if they saw him standing there in the street like a wet hound? Didier Falque, of all people, with his strange secrets that had been so publicly exposed and were still gossiped about with a nasty snicker.

“You should have telephoned,” she replied.

“I don't have your number.”

A torrent of water gushed from the galvanized pipe at the edge of the roof. Maybe she should simply go downstairs, but it would be even more awkward standing face-to-face with Didier in the teeming rain.

“Wait a moment.” She tried to think, but came up with no plausible plan, and so she pressed the black button that released the latch on the downstairs gate.

Didier must have taken the stone steps two by two because when she opened the door he was already on the landing wearing a green mackintosh and no hat. His thick, wiry hair, impermeable as his slick coat, glistened with raindrops. He gave her a strange look, as if taken aback at seeing her dressed in a sweater and blue jeans with nothing but thick socks on her feet, and she was reminded of the shy boy who used to approach her in the schoolyard of their lycée. Instead of giving her the usual
bise
, he simply leaned forward and pressed his cheek against hers. His hot wet face with its scratch of beard was disconcerting, and she stepped backward.

“Perhaps this isn't the time to invite you anywhere, Berti. It's so miserable out.” He sniffed the air as he entered the room and asked, “What's that perfume?”

“
Eau de lavande
. I was ironing.”

“We have fields and fields of lavender up by Sault, but I didn't expect to encounter that on a cold winter night!” He took off his coat, leaving droplets of water on the tile floor. “Sorry if I interrupted you. I was nearby and remembered you were living here.”

“You're not interrupting,” she replied. “I was making plans for my life. I keep making new ones, then changing them as I go along.”

“A change of plans doesn't mean you're quitting us, I hope?”

Berti shook her head. “It's too early to make that decision. Please.” She held out her hand to take his wet coat and motioned to the small sofa that stood against one wall. That and a dining table with four rickety chairs were the only furniture in the minuscule living space. Up two steps through a narrow entry was her bedroom. She closed the door that led to it.

“What can I offer you?”

“Un petit cognac?”

“I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “I have coffee or tea. Or there might be a bottle of wine that my brother brought.”

“A daughter of Domaine Petitjean who isn't sure if she has a bottle of wine?” He laughed. “Your family should be more generous.”

“I really don't need it. I only serve wine when I have company.” She realized that sounded as if she never saw anyone, so she masked it by adding, “I rarely drink wine myself.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Tell me about your plans.”

“I'm simply considering my options. I'd like to do something different from what I've been doing.”

“I always admired that about you, Berti, your courage and the fact that you had the nerve to go away and begin a whole new life. Are you enjoying it here now that you've returned?”

She nodded, thinking of the way she was greeted each morning by neighbors and acquaintances. It was a pleasure
to stop and converse, something she'd rarely done in Edinburgh, where she'd found herself becoming more and more anonymous after her boys moved away.

“I'm amazed how attached I am—have always been—to this place,” she said. “I love it even when it's like this!” As the wind made a violent pass over the roof, they both turned to glance at the streaming raindrops that glittered like topaz in the streetlight. Then Berti entered the small galley kitchen and drew out a bottle of red wine from the cabinet beneath the sink. She rifled through a drawer for a corkscrew and found the kind that vintners use, with a little knife attached. Her landlord had obviously furnished the place with a tourist in mind, a tourist who would enjoy trying all the famous appellations of the region. But she wasn't a tourist who was just passing through. She brought the bottle to the table and handed the little corkscrew to Didier. Then she brought him a glass.

He withdrew the cork with a gentle pop. “Won't you join me?” he asked. She shook her head and pulled out a kitchen chair, not wanting to sit too close to Didier, who took up most of the room on the narrow couch. “I remember you used to like wine,” he said. “That summer before you left, we used to drink together at the Burrus.”

“Yes, in those days I drank plenty of wine so I could convince myself that I was full of confidence about leaving home. But that wasn't really the truth.”

Didier slid the open bottle onto the table without pouring it and looked over at her. “You know, Berti, you are still the same honest, good-natured girl you were at school, always so kind—even to a brute like me!” Berti looked down, wishing he wouldn't
say such personal things, but he seemed oblivious to her embarrassment. “When I saw you at the market and you told me you'd rented a place and were permanently back here, I thought something really wonderful had happened. It's so strange to find you living here again after all this time.” He stood up and walked over to the window. Her ironing board was still propped open and he ran his hand over the folded linens and then looked out into the night.