Summer in Provence

by Coleman, Lucy

  There’s a bang as the door clicks shut. We all look up to see Nico standing there hesitantly, looking as if he might turn and walk straight back out.

  ‘Nico, this is my family, come and meet them.’

  He breaks into a genuinely welcoming smile and strides across.

  ‘This is my brother, Owen.’

  Nico shakes Owen’s extended hand, vigorously.

  ‘Always a pleasure to shake the hand of a soldier,’ Nico says. I can see that Owen is surprised and pleased.

  ‘This is my sister, Hannah, and her fiancé, Liam.’

  There’s more handshaking and Nico congratulates them on their engagement.

  ‘Have you all eaten?’ he enquires, glancing at each of them and finally at me.

  ‘No, we came straight here. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Owen has five days’ leave and only arrived back home yesterday,’ Hannah replies, smiling. I turn my head to look at her, askance. ‘My tutor was fine with it, honestly. I explained the situation and said I’d be back in on Thursday. Liam offered to drive and his dad kindly let him take a few days off.’

  ‘Well, this is just the tonic I needed. Thank you, lovelies, for making the trip. And what a long drive you’ve had.’

  Nico slips off his coat and I follow suit.

  ‘I’ll go rustle up some food for us all. Then we’ll sort you out some rooms.’

  I glance at Nico, flashing him a look of pure gratitude. This is so unexpected, and I could understand if he baulked a little at the sudden arrival of three unexpected guests. But he’s clearly delighted for me.

  ‘We set off in the early hours and shared the driving, so we’ve all had a few hours’ rest. We were hoping to find somewhere locally to stay for two nights. We don’t want to be a bother.’ Owen gives me an anxious look, but Nico intervenes.

  ‘Of course, you are all very welcome to stay here. We’re in the midst of some upheaval after a little building work, but your timing is perfect. Our next visitors don’t arrive until next Monday and Fern has some free time.’ He didn’t have to say that and I’m touched he’s doing everything he can to put them at ease.

  Making eye contact with him surreptitiously, Nico raises an eyebrow and nods his head in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Come, Fern, let’s get some food on this table.’

  We head off, leaving them all to slip off their coats and settle down. Once the kitchen door is closed, I turn to Nico, apologetically.

  ‘It’s a wonderful surprise and it’s so good to see them, but there’s so much happening here, Nico. I need to be directing operations tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make myself available to help out and I’m sure they’d all love a tour of the buildings and the grounds. I can do that after breakfast while you sort everyone’s work schedule for the day. When we get back from that, simply tell me what you want done and I’m on it. I want you to enjoy your family’s visit, Fern. Clearly, you’ve been missed and it’s quite something when loved ones go out of their way for you like this.’

  I can see that he’s touched by the gesture and suddenly I feel sad that he’s alone in this world without a family to support him.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, striding across to swing open the fridge door. ‘Let’s see what we can find to feed your hungry crew.’

  19

  A Bitter Truth

  We linger over our meal and there’s a lot of bantering and laughter as Owen regales us with stories from being on exercise. I hardly recognised the man he is turning into, as he seems to have reinvented himself. The short haircut, lean, muscular body and a new air of confidence gives him a certain swagger. I try not to let the change in him bring a tear to my eye, as it’s been threatening to do all evening. It makes my heart swell to see him so happy and know that he has finally found his vocation in life.

  Hannah was a bit reserved in Nico’s presence at first. She seemed suspicious of him and kept glancing back and forth between the two of us. I know it’s strange for her, seeing me in a totally different environment and without Aiden by my side. But eventually she relaxed a little and spent a lot of the evening gazing at Liam as they discreetly held hands out of sight beneath the table.

  Nico was brilliant. I was surprised that he’d remembered so many of the little things I’d told him about them all. He engaged each of them in conversation, drawing them out in such a natural way, making the evening entirely about them. My family.

  It’s just after eleven o’clock when we finally take our leave, and Nico and I head back to the château after sorting out their rooms.

  ‘Are you working tonight?’ he enquires, shutting the front door behind us.

  ‘Yes. You?’

  We exchange knowing little smiles.

  ‘Of course. The bills don’t pay themselves.’

  ‘But you seem happier this evening. Lighter.’ It’s been very evident, so something good must have happened.

  ‘There’s still money in the bank, thanks to the way everyone has pulled together. We did it, Fern. Le Havre de Paix à Bois-Saint-Vernon is born. The retreat becomes The Haven.’

  ‘Oh, I love that name. It’s so peaceful here. It’s perfect, Nico.’

  ‘We could actually be in profit if bookings continue to stream in, instead of it being a constant struggle to break even. This is what I’ve always dreamed of, Fern. This place has a spiritual connection and it would be wrong of me to ignore that. But this year has been tough, and it has taken almost everything I have just to keep going. Now, I feel optimistic again and, hopefully, when the next batch of paintings go off, one or two will sell quickly and I will have my safety net back.’

  As he swings open the door to the studio and I pass through in front of him, our eyes meet for a brief second. I can see how relieved he is and how crucial what we’ve all been doing has been to the viability of this place; for everyone to whom this is home for the foreseeable future.

  ‘I’m thrilled for you, Nico. No one could have done more to make this a success, and everyone is excited about the new direction you’re taking it in.’

  ‘The people here are my family, Fern, and I know you appreciate how important that is and the sense of responsibility that comes with it. But the changes will be huge, and I hope everyone will be happy about that and regard it as a positive move forward.’

  The look that passes between us, before we begin to peel off our coats, is one of acceptance and understanding. As Nico changes his shirt, I discreetly turn away to take the lid off my palette, then I head into the workroom to get some water.

  ‘There’s only one cloud on the horizon now,’ he admits. ‘The paintings my father sold in the year before his death, Fern, were mine. As is the one on the wall in your room.’

  I’ve just stepped back across the threshold and I stop dead in my tracks. I don’t understand. The one in my room clearly says José. I stand here, staring rather awkwardly at him and frowning.

  As our eyes meet, what I see reflected back at me is a sense of anger, quickly followed by embarrassment. He runs a hand roughly across his forehead, kneading it with the tips of his fingers as if to relieve a stabbing pain.

  ‘I was very prolific when I first began painting. For me it was merely practice; I never signed anything because I was just learning my craft. I notice you, too, have yet to take that step and it’s a big one, isn’t it? A meaningful moment when a line is crossed.’

  I nod, scrabbling around for something to say to break the heavy silence between us. ‘Yes, it is. I still don’t feel comfortable referring to myself in general conversation as an artist. But to put one’s signature on someone else’s work, Nico – that must have been an act of sheer desperation for him.’

  Nico’s head bows as he stares at the floor in front of him for a moment, fleeting memories no doubt jostling around inside his head as he relives the shocking moment of discovery.

  ‘At last my father was actually finishing canvases again and not destroying them in a drunken rage. My mother said a pr
ayer to thank God for saving us all. Then he sold another and a couple of months later, another. When I eventually discovered some of my canvases were missing, I tackled him about it and he swore me to secrecy.

  ‘I couldn’t face breaking my mother’s heart if she had discovered the truth. We needed the money to survive, but she would have thrown it back at him if it had come to light. I should have told her, but it was impossible to do so because she believed it was divine intervention.’ His laugh is jaded and when he raises his eyes to meet mine, all I see now is sadness and love; empathy tugs mercilessly at my heart.

  ‘What a terrible position he put you in, Nico. The guilt isn’t yours to carry, though. He made his own decisions and, as his son, what could you do? You were so young and who would have listened to you?’

  He shakes off my words; he isn’t prepared to forgive himself for what he seems to perceive as his part in this web of lies.

  ‘The painting in your room is the last one he signed fraudulently. If I sell it, then I’m perpetuating his dishonesty. I’ve spent several years tracking down those pieces and buying them back at market value. I have them all, except one. While that remains in a collector’s hands, the truth is that I’m a party to fraud, which is a criminal offence. I chose to do nothing when I discovered that he’d been signing my paintings; bearing his signature, and not that of an unknown, he sold them for more than they were worth.’

  ‘But that’s appalling, Nico. You had no say in what he did, no intention of committing a crime,’ I blurt out, feeling angry on his behalf. ‘It’s unfair you could be called to account.’

  ‘Until I realised what he’d done and from that point onwards, I chose to do nothing. So, it appeared to my mother, and the world at large, that he died just as his work was being appreciated. The truth is that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, but every painting of mine that he sold destroyed another little piece of his soul. He did it so that we could live, but it killed him in the process.

  ‘There was a hint of genius in his work, but he was his own worst enemy. Nothing he did was good enough; he felt as if he was constantly failing. So many great pieces destroyed needlessly and so many others unfinished. He discarded them as if they had no value, when in truth they could have been masterpieces.’

  I shake my head, sadly. What a mess.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Nico continues, ‘his tragic suicide added a premium to the pieces out there. The worry about his deception being discovered has weighed increasingly heavily on me as the years have passed. I have an agent who has been working on my behalf to track down the owners via the auction houses.’

  I can’t take this in. ‘But that can’t be easy, Nico,’ I say, letting out a huge breath.

  ‘No. It’s all above board, but it has cost me dearly. Obviously, I can’t share the real reason with him, so the story is that I’m trying to bring my father’s paintings together as one collection. And I’ve almost succeeded in doing that, but they’re locked away in a storeroom and will remain there forever. It would have destroyed my mother had she discovered the level to which he had sunk; she was a strong and proud woman who put up with so much in her lifetime. For her sake, I refuse to let him bring shame on our family from his grave.’

  I’m horrified. I can tell that this has been an almost unbearable burden for Nico to shoulder. It must be hell living with a secret like this. And he values my friendship enough to trust me with it now.

  ‘Does Ceana know?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I’ve told no one except you. Until I successfully purchase that last piece, I honestly live in daily fear. My agent has been in negotiation with the current owner, who is – unfortunately – in declining health at the moment. There’s a likelihood it could turn into a lengthy process. Every single piece of my work that I sell increases the risk of discovery. That last elusive canvas of mine with a José signature is probably displayed on a wall in a home. If some art expert happens to see it before it’s in my hands again, they could make the link. It’s ironic that the more successful I become, the bigger the worry, but people here are dependent on me and I can’t let them down.’

  ‘But if you’ve bought all the other paintings back, doesn’t that prove you are trying to right a wrong?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Internationally, art fraud and forgery are taken very seriously, as one would naturally expect. The police wouldn’t simply take my word for how many of my paintings my father sold under his name. Even his early works, which sold for next to nothing, would come into question. Artists often paint in more than one style and, at first, his canvases didn’t sell for much because he hadn’t tapped into his real strength. I would argue that he never really allowed himself to do so.’

  He looks tired and dejected. Almost beaten.

  ‘His style was very different, though. An art expert would be able to distinguish your work from his, surely?’ I can’t believe a father would inflict this on his own son. A wrong has been done, but it isn’t Nico’s fault.

  ‘Ironically that was the root of the problem. He saw himself as a classical painter, whereas at heart he was more of a Cézanne, who was the true father of modern art. That post-impressionist movement which laid the foundations for the move away from the nineteenth-century endeavours, to the new and exciting twentieth century. Art isn’t just about painting something that could be a snapshot, a photograph if you like, of reality. It’s about what each artist sees in here.’ He stabs at his temple with his forefinger, angrily. ‘The reality is that, time and time again, he came back to the classical style; but many of his paintings were a lot less formal. If a major investigation was launched, my reputation could be ruined overnight. Investors would panic at even a hint of the validity of a painting they purchased coming under question.’

  I’m sickened at the way Nico’s body language is reflecting his sense of humiliation and desperation. Without thinking, I throw my arms around him and he sinks into me. His pain is tangible and it’s heartbreaking.

  With some reluctance, we eventually draw apart, a moment of awkwardness rearing up – unbidden – between us.

  Nico breaks the silence. ‘I won’t give up, Fern, I simply have to be patient. Painting is my life and it’s the only thing I know how to do. If I fail to right this wrong, then my career, too, is in jeopardy. I wouldn’t simply lose all credibility, I’d end up losing everything I have. He won’t only have destroyed himself, but also his son.’

  ‘You can’t think like that, Nico. You were the one who said to me that you can’t worry about a problem until it arises. The important thing is that you are doing everything you can. You must think positively.’

  ‘I know. I believe that too, and I am trying my best to do so. We’re waiting on a reply to the last email communication and that’s about all we can do right now. But I’m so close, Fern, so close, and yet it feels as if this horror will never end.’

  ‘Everything ends in the fullness of time,’ I reply, emphatically.

  We hold each other’s gaze for the briefest of moments before turning to begin work. The unspoken bond between us is now impossible to ignore and it’s growing with each day that passes.

  I find myself staring at the blank canvas, knowing I’m finally ready to unleash the explosion of emotions that are tumbling around inside of me right now. Nico’s passion is heart-stoppingly real. Anger, on his behalf, mixed with exhilaration at knowing my family is so close by is a painful juxtaposition. They are safe and sound and happy. But Nico is in a permanent state of torment.

  And yet, tonight was truly wonderful, a special family evening – the irony of it being that Nico was there, when it should have been Aiden.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Nico takes Owen, Hannah and Liam on a tour of the facilities and they eventually catch up with me in the old craft room. They are all in high spirits and I’ve never seen Nico so relaxed and upbeat. Clearly it was the financial pressure he’s been under that has been weighing him down in recent weeks and now he’s free o
f at least one of his major worries.

  I think he couldn’t face the prospect of having to tell everyone there was no future for them here, because that would have made him his father’s son. A person who let his own personal torment eat away at him to the extent that it affected everyone around him. Nico isn’t simply an artist and mentor, he’s a motivator. Someone who can’t bear to see anyone not fully utilising their natural-born skills. He has created a home for a group of people who were seeking something that would give their lives back some meaning, and he has done that organically.

  He understood that need because it mirrored his own situation and the universe has an inherent ability to draw like-minded people together. That’s why I found my way here – this has become my temporary home and, right now, I feel I belong here, too.

  Nico could have an easy life, spending his days painting and selling fewer pieces if he only had his own needs to consider. But what he’s been through, and continues to suffer, has drawn those kindred souls to him. What he has created here is bigger than any one individual; bigger even than his immense talent as an artist.

  ‘I’m handing our guests over to you, Fern. Maybe head into town to do some sightseeing, or venture up into the hills,’ he suggests, but Owen interrupts before I can reply.

  ‘Look, there’s a lot of work to do here and I don’t know about you two,’ he casts a glance at his sister and her fiancé, ‘but we’d like to help. The more hands available, the quicker it will get done, it seems to me.’

  Nico and I exchange hesitant glances.

  ‘But this is a little break for you all,’ I reply, adamantly.

  However, all three of them are scanning around and look keen to help out.

  ‘I’m good with flat-pack furniture,’ Owen throws in. ‘Dad sells enough of it and I always assemble the pieces for the displays.’