After her first year, Maggie had planted pansies and azaleas in the garden to remind her of her home in Atlanta. A small gardenia bush--sent with much trouble through French customs by her mother-- stood wilting in the harsh Provençal sun. It hadn't bloomed all summer and Maggie fully expected the first breath of the harsh mistral to quickly turn its glossy green leaves into so much tattered, verdant confetti swirling around the purplish French countryside. Laurent had rolled his eyes when she'd planted the gardenia bush, suggesting instead, that she try to grow the yellow Canary Bird rose, or even encourage the wild periwinkles that seemed to grow so effortlessly everywhere else around the farmhouse. He brought home a flat of marigolds one afternoon but they'd sat on the stone table in the garden until they died. Cheery, mean-spirited little flowers, Maggie thought nonsensically when she saw the large punnets of yellow and orange flowers, their heads like sunny fists bobbing in the rare breeze.
Now, as Maggie looked out over the sun-baked garden, her iced tea dripping condensation down her wrist, all she could see were the hardy, bright geraniums and Laurent's extensive herb garden. She set down her tea and notebook and sat in one of four wooden folding chairs that were positioned around the large terrace lunch table. It had lately been too hot to eat out-of-doors, even with the kindly shelter of a large sycamore that stood guard right outside the garden entrance of French doors. The table was stripped of its tablecloth and peppered lightly with tiny twigs and leaves. Maggie brushed off a clear space and opened her notebook.
She'd started the cookbook project in order to give her something to do. She hated the sound of that, it made her feel useless and spoiled, like her image of a too-comfortable housewife trying to decide which tennis outfit to wear. But the truth was she was essentially unemployable outside the home in France, and during her hectic tenure in the advertising business she'd never really developed any hobbies. Now, faced with long periods of time to herself, the need to be productive, to be busy, was overwhelming. Friends back home in Atlanta cooed their envy with maddening comments like: “Oooh, what I wouldn't do with a whole year to do nothing in! No kids, no job, a husband who does all the cooking! You're living the life!”
Maggie took a sip of her iced tea and stared out at the lush green vineyard attached to the property. Laurent's obsession, she thought dryly, and then caught herself. It was only because she was idle herself that she resented his work. She sighed and flipped through her notebook. And this little project was to have cured all that. It was ridiculous! Me, write a cookbook? What I know about cooking you can read on the back of any microwave Lean Cuisine package. It was Laurent's idea that she try to put together a Provençal cookbook...perhaps with some kind of personal theme that set it apart from all the legions of other Provençal cookbooks.
In the end, she agreed to take on the project because it was something to do besides studying her French verbs, trying to coax an American accent from the dusty garden, and writing wistful letters home to Atlanta.
Maggie's stare hardened as she watched the static, unmoving vineyard with its boring, bushes of green.
“Ah, you are thinking, yes?” Laurent slipped quietly onto the terrace from the French doors.
She smiled and took her foot off the leg of the chair it had been resting on to free it for him.
“Not about the cookbook, I'm afraid,” she said. “I got sidetracked into reflecting about my life.”
“I've warned you about that,” Laurent scolded good-naturedly. He did not sit down. “Lunch is ready, chérie. I must leave by one. Hurry, Maggie.”
Maggie frowned and looked at her watch. “You're leaving right after lunch?”
“I must see Jean-Luc about fixing the stone wall on the southern-”
“I don't believe this.” Maggie tossed her notebook across the table. “We were supposed to work on the book together. You said we would work--”
“Maggie, zut! Merde!” Laurent slapped his thigh in impatience. She could feel the frustration bristling off of him. “I cannot write this book with you, I have told you this before. The idea of making this book is not for Laurent to have one more...” he groped for the word,”...project,” he finished with exasperation. “Do you understand?” Maggie refused to look at him.
“I don't suppose this important meeting will involve drinking pastis and laughing it up at Le Canard in town for a couple of hours?”
“We are meeting at Le Canard, yes. We will drink together, yes.”
“Naturellement,” she said, still not looking at him.
He swept a large arm in the direction of the vineyard. “I must tend to my own project.”
“Fine, do that.” She hopped up and gathered her notebook and iced tea glass. “Lunch ready you say? How nice.” She turned and walked back into the house.
Laurent swore softly to himself and, after a moment, followed her inside.
2
“No, no, can't you see? The sky is hot! It's hot, hot! Where did all this blue come from? Is blue hot?” The small woman turned abruptly away from the hunched shoulders of the sour-eyed young man and faced the classroom of adults. “Is blue hot?” she repeated. Her students dutifully shook their heads. One or two murmured a soft, “Non, Madame.”
Marie Pernon smiled at the young man and placed her hands on her hips. She looked like a feisty Debbie Reynolds. Her dark hair laced with gray, was pinned in a graceful twist at the back of her head, her eyes were deeply brown flecked with gold chips. They were kind eyes, lively eyes.
“I'm sorry, Madame,” the young man said, pushing away from his small easel. “I want to make it a hot day but I keep making it look cool and...I don't know...”
Madame Pernon clucked her tongue in admonishment. “Blue is a very good color, Robert,” she said, pointing to the smeared washes across his watercolor paper. “But you must make it a hot blue, yes? How do you do this?” She turned to face her small classroom, each student perched in front of a small wooden table or easel, their various sized canvas papers clipped tightly in place. “Can anyone tell us how to do this?”
A beautiful blonde woman, who sat in the middle of the other seven students, raised a tentative paintbrush in the air. Her intelligent face was smooth and pale against her fall of golden hair. The fingers that held the brush were stained the color of lilacs.
“Oui, Madame Van Sant?” the teacher smiled broadly at her student. “Can you help us?”
Grace Van Sant cleared her throat lightly. “My French isn't too good,” she apologized. “But if Robert were to...I mean...what about if he mixed more warm colors with the blue? I mean, would that just make mud? Or would it...?”
“Excellent, Madame Van Sant!” the little teacher cheered. “Formidable! Oui, Robert, you must take your cool blue...” she reached over and expertly dabbed up a brushful of aureolin yellow, softened it with another load of ochre and then stroked the edges of the young man's azure sky with it. “I am adding warmth, yes? I am adding heat to the day, do you see?” The class murmured that they did. The young man watched his water color paper and nodded as she worked. “Of course, you must do it when the first wash is still wet, you understand? To blend the colors. Now, add more blue to your sky, too, Robert, and make it a deeper blue, okay?”
“More blue?” Robert stuttered.
“Yes, of course,” Marie said cheerfully. “And why do I say that?”
“Because....” He stared hard at his paper. “Because there are reds in a darker blue?” he spoke tentatively but with a faint touch of relief.
“Of course, my dear. And what is red?”
Robert reclaimed his brush and began to gingerly pulse at his painting with the tip of it. “It's hot,” he said, pleased with himself for the first time all morning.
“Bon.” Marie grinned at the class and moved away from Robert's easel. “And now class, what do we know today?” She strode to the large east windows that stretched the length of the small studio and took her place on the wooden platform at the head of the room. On it were an easel
and a small table stacked with several clear bottles holding faintly colored water. A large wooden palette pocked with recesses of vibrant watercolor paints lay adjacent to the little work table on its own stand.
Marie was dressed in black, from head to foot. Although it was August and hot in Provence, she wore dark stockings under a mid-calf length narrow black skirt and a clinging long-sleeve black jersey. She wore velvet dancer's slippers on her small feet. She settled herself on the stool in front of her teaching easel and leaned her elbows against the work table. She regarded her students with affection.
“It is true,” she said, “that sometimes the color we want is as it comes out of the tube. And that's good news for us in a world that sometimes offers very little.” She grinned at her paltry cynicism. “But nature comes in many colors. Infinite colors, you see? More than a paint manufacturer can dream of to put into a tube. And so, the color of the light which comes from the sun, for example, which is red and orange and yellow and yes, blue and violet and green, must be blended together to reflect this light as it bounces off things--Robert's sailboat in the Gulf of Napoule, for example, Natalie's bowl of aubergine, Madame Mercier's boy in the lavender field--all must feel this light and show it in a way that only we, as the artist, can present it.”
“What about in the middle of a rain storm?” Grace Van Sant asked. The rest of the class tittered.
“Non, non,” Marie scolded them. “It is a very good question. There is light, of course, in a rain storm--even a rain full of black and gray--there must always be light. And next time, we will address exactly that. For now, my dears, please, continue your painting. We have less than a quarter of an hour left to work today.” She winked at Grace.
Such a lovely girl, Grace Van Sant, Marie thought. So much like her own Brigitte. Lovely, talented and smart. Marie’s friendship with the beautiful American was a surprise in many ways. Marie had known foreigners, scores of them, since they made up the bulk of her customers, purchasing her regional water colors as souvenirs to take home to Iowa or Seattle. Often too, they would take painting lessons from her. It was not unusual for a rich foreigner to spend a summer, or even a year in Arles to play at painting. After all, where else? Arles was the Mecca of all true artists, even before Paris. Was not Arles the home to Van Gogh? Did not the light produce more wonders here than on in any place on the earth? So, of course, she knew foreigners, tourists. They were not rare in this part of Provence. But her friendship with Grace was rare. Imagine she could be so charmed by, of all people! an American.
As she began to cap her paints and rinse her brushes in the clear pots of water, Marie's thoughts turned to the anticipation of tonight's dinner. Both her daughters--her only children--Brigitte and Pijou, would be there. They didn't come back as much as they used to, she mused sadly as she squeezed wet color from a small sponge. They had lives of their own, of course. Brigitte, as the busy wife of a successful doctor--she had her hands full with charities and making a good home for herself and Yves, and Pijou, as the saucy single girl with her own apartment, her own busy agenda of dates and excitement--flitting off to Paris whenever she had a break from her job, or to Spain or Italy. Marie marveled--as she often did with her husband, René--at how different the two girls were. Especially for twins.
Marie looked out over the bobbed, bowed heads of her painting students and saw the happy table tonight at dinner. René will have been cooking most of the afternoon in anticipation of the girls' arrival. Marie smiled to herself at the image of René, rushing about to the local boulangerie and bouchérie to get everything exactly right. Everything must be perfect for Brigitte and Pijou. From the aioli --which he would hand-crush and meld with the marble mortar and pestle using the patience and dedication of a Benedictine monk to produce the garlic mayonnaise in nothing less than a state of perfection--to the legumes farcis that he would lovingly stuff and baste, each delicious wafting of aroma increasing testimony to his complete adoration of his two beautiful daughters.
Marie watched Grace as the American applied a broad wash of color to her paper. Such confidence, Marie thought as she watched the golden, serious head of her friend as she worked. Such certainty and self-assurance. As she continued to watch Grace, her brow knit in concentration and effort, her large brush dabbing emphatically at her clipped paper, Marie's thoughts strayed once more to her own daughter, Brigitte, and the lightness in her heart faded.
Chapter Two
1
“The first year is always the worst. Don't worry about it. My first year, I thought Windsor was trying to kill me. You know, like Gaslight? with Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman? He was such a pig.”
“I can't imagine Win being a pig. He's always so sweet.”
“Maybe it was the sight of a woman crying every night that made him pig-like.”
Maggie reached for a small pitcher of cream across the little café table and squinted at Grace in the soft glare of the afternoon sunlight.
“You cried every night?”
Grace nodded.
“For practically the full first year. It was awful.”
“Why?”
Grace shrugged and rearranged the assortment of napkins stuck under the chin of the bored thirteen-month old baby on her lap. She looked up at Maggie and grinned. “Isn't she precious? She spits up like this at home too. I don't know why I cried so much. I guess because I thought marriage was going to be like my parents' marriage and the shock was considerable.”
“Your parents have a good marriage?” Maggie frowned. It seemed out of character to think of Grace wanting to emulate stodgy old rich Republicans. She nearly said so.
“Well, traditional, I guess. Daddy's very attentive to Mother, you know? Always touching her shoulder, pouring her wine first, scurrying to the door to make sure she doesn't have to come in contact with the doorknob herself.”
“Sounds like a butler.”
“Exactly. I never told you? Mother married the butler. Jolly nice fellow and he's so tidy.”
“You're kidding me.”
“Yes, as it happens, darling.”
The bright sun dappled through the leaves of the sycamore that shaded their table and the light breeze moved the shadows gently around the table amongst the little cake plates and espresso cups. The baby on Grace's lap reached for the bobbing shadows with chubby fists, cheerfully banging her hands against the dishes when she couldn't capture them.
Maggie had met Grace and baby Zou-zou in Avignon for a day of shopping and café-sitting, something the two women had indulged in many times and on a regular basis before Grace's youngest was born. Since then, the times had been fewer and fewer. Although Grace was certainly rich enough to have attendants and nannies, in fact, had two, one for each of her two daughters, she, nonetheless, spent much of her time with the children, especially the new arrival who was a buoyant counterpoint to the difficult seven-year old with whom she had joined in the family.
Zou-zou's older sister, Taylor, was a musical genius. Gifted at the piano as well as the violin, she was also a hard child to like. Zou-zou, on the other hand, was, right from the beginning, a baby to adore. “She simply never fusses,” Grace had said to Maggie with amazement. “Whether she's being pinched by Taylor, hungry, wet, or cold, she just shines through.”
Grace and her husband Windsor had met Maggie and Laurent two years ago when Grace and Maggie, as the only American ex-patriots for two hundred miles began a strong friendship. Although Grace's French was better than Maggie's and she was too rich to share many of the same problems that Maggie and Laurent had, it was Grace's natural adaptation to any situation and her unfailing ability to reach out to new people that had kept her flourishing in the tiny village of St-Buvard tucked away in the south of France.
For Maggie, it had been harder.
“This cookbook idea isn't my idea,” Maggie said, bringing the demitasse cup to her lips. “It's just Laurent's way of getting me off his back. I don't know anything about cooking, and he's completely unhelpful
about letting me watch him cook. Always saying I'm in the way and getting on his nerves and stuff. A great first year for newlyweds, you know?”
“But you're a writer, Maggie. I thought the whole point was that you didn't have to know anything about cooking--or any subject for that matter--to write about it. Interview people...” Grace nodded at the entranceway of the little bistro in front of which their café table was situated. “Chefs and cooks in the outlying villages. Talk to them, maybe they have wonderful anecdotes to throw into the mix.”
Maggie tugged at one of the baby's hands and tried to engage her eye. She looked up at Grace.
“Somehow, my heart’s not into it,” she said.
“Madame Van Sant! Bonjour! How are you?”
Maggie looked up to see a group of three people striding toward their café table. The leader, a small, athletic-looking woman, waved happily at them, then tugged her little entourage forward. She arrived breathless and grinning. Immediately she bent down and exchanged kisses with Grace and then scooped up the baby in her arms.
“Et voici petite Zou-zou, n'est-ce pas? Ohhh, elle est belle!” she cooed before turning to include Maggie in her electrifying smile. “And this must be Madame Dernier, yes?” She jostled Zou-zou to her hip and extended a hand to shake Maggie's. “Enchantez! Always I am hearing about Maggie this and Maggie that. And you are meeting my husband and my own little girl.” She turned to indicate the handsome, graying man behind her who was kissing Grace, and the cool, pretty young woman who stood quietly observing the entire scene. “René, Pijou, voici Madame Dernier, une bonne ami de Grace.”
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 68