“You’d be the first to know.”
“I don’t understand it, Jack. Why is it taking so long to get the report?”
“The Chief Medical Examiner wants to make every possible test. To be absolutely sure. That’s why he’s taking his time. Nothing unusual.
It’s not even a week, Viv. Don’t forget that.”
“Believe me, Jack, I haven’t,” I said.
The following Wednesday morning, the memorial service for Sebastian was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan.
The whole world came-statesmen, senators, representatives of foreign governments, and all those who had personally known and loved him or had admired him from afar.
Luciana had done her work well. The church was filled with flowers; the eulogies were moving, touched me deeply. Beautiful things were said about this man who had done so much for the world. I sat with Jack, Luciana, and her husband Gerald, who had flown in from London .
The moment the service was over, I took a cab to Kennedy Airport and caught the night plane to France.
.9
‘Whenever I returned to Provence I always felt a great sense of antici potion and excitement, and today was no exception. I could barely contain myself as I sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven car, watching the landscape slide by the windows.
We were traveling from Marseilles up through the Bouches du Rhone, heading for Lourmarin in the Vaucluse, and Vieux Moulin. I could hardly wait to get there.
I had arrived in Paris from New York this morning, and taken a flight to Marseilles, where the driver from the car company I used was waiting for me at the airport.
His name was Michel, and I had known him for several years.
Michel was a pleasant, friendly, and accommodating Provencal who was extremely well-informed about the whole area. He could be relied upon to supply accurate information about local towns, villages, ancient chateaux and churches, antique shops, stores, and restaurants, although he only volunteered the information when asked. This was one of the reasons I liked him as a driver; he was never overly familiar or chatty, and therefore not in the least bit intrusive. I preferred to be quiet, to relax and think when I was being driven. I couldn’t abide a constant stream of conversation.
I glanced out of the car window, thInking how extraordinary the
landscape looked on this sunny and mild October afternoon. It seemed to be aglow in the legendary light of Provence that dazzles the year long, and which has captivated artists for centuries.
So many painters have come here to paint, attracted by this most spectacular light and the vibrant colors of the earth . . .
terra-cotta running into burnt sienna and a mixture of browns, russets bleeding into gold, apricot and peach, bright marigolds, acid yellows, and every shade of green. These were the hues that came startlingly alive under the purest of blue skies.
created the first brightly colored paintings of the nineteenth century Vincent van Gogh had splashed these brilliant colors across his can vases, thickly layered and richly textured. And in so doing he had and at the same time immortalized the landscape of Provence and himself.
Sebastian had been an avid collector of Impressionist art at one point in his life. He had loved van Gogh’s work, had owned a number of his paintings; now they would belong to Jack or Luciana. I could not help wondering to whom he had left them in his will, and then decided it would surely be Jack who would inherit them.
Michel was heading farther inland, and it was not long before we were skirting the town of Air-en-Provence, which I knew well after years of spending vacations at the Chateau d’Case No doubt Jack would be arriving there next week; I suddenly realized I had no desire to see him. I had had enough of him for the time being.
The roads were virtually empty this afternoon and we were making good time. We were soon leaving the Bouches-du-Rhone behind and driving into the Vaucluse. This was the department of Provence I loved the most, and where I have lived, off and on, for the past fourteen years with both of my husbands.
One of the things which appealed to me about it was the diversity of its terrain. Fruit orchards, vineyards, and olive groves gave way to flat fields, rolling hills, and the mountain ranges of the Luberon.
Where I lived, just outside Lourmarin, the countryside was wonderfully colorful for the whole year. This was largely due to the enormous variety of trees, wildflowers, and fruit that flourished and benefited from the longest growing season in France.
Of course it had other attractions as well. The village was charming and picturesque and was known as the capital of the Luberon.
It was also considered to be a sort of cultural capital for the Vaucluse.
Many painters, musicians, and writers like myself lived in the village and the surrounding area, and it was once the home of the great French writer Albert Comus, who is buried there. Music festivals, concerts, and art exhibitions were the norm the entire year.
As we drew closer to Lourmarin I opened the car window. The warm, sweet air wafted in, carrying with it the mingled scents of wild flowers, rosemary, fruit, lavender, and pine, familiar smells I loved and that always heralded home for me.
We were moving through open, pastoral countryside now, land filled with bountiful orchards and vines, olive groves, and my own lavender fields stretching almost all the way to the mill.
“Voila! Regarder, Madame Trent!” Michel suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence.
As he spoke he slowed the car and just ahead of us, silhouetted in a jagged line against the pale blue sky, was the little medieval village perched high on top of the hill.
“It’s good to be home, Michel,” I said, my excitement increasing as he turned off the narrow dirt road we had been traveling and headed up the long driveway leading to Vieux Moulin. Stately cypress trees, elongated, dark-green sentinels, flanked the drive on each side all the way to the paved courtyard that fronted the house.
The late afternoon sunlight was dappling the ancient stones of the sixteenth-century mill, and they looked as if they had been touched here and there with brushstrokes of gold. The many windows sparkled in the warm light, and the courtyard was filled with huge olive jars planted with vivid flowering plants that were cheerful and welcoming.
The big oak door stood wide open, and as we drew to a standstill in the courtyard, Phyllis and Aloin Debrulle, the couple who worked for me, came rushing out.
Phyla transplanted Englishwoman married to a Provencal, gave me a warm smile and a hug, and said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Trent.”
“Hello Phyl, and you can’t possibly know how truly glad I am to be here.”
“Oh, but I think I can,” she replied.
Aloin shook my hand, smiled broadly, and told me I had been missed, then he turned to Michel, who was taking my luggage out of the trunk, and spoke to him in rapid French.
“All oui, bien sur,” Michel said. “Merci beaucoup.” Looking at me, he added, “Aloin invite me to the kitchen for a coffee.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Come and see me before you leave, Michel.”
“Oui, Madame. Merci.”
I hardly had a chance to catch my breath before the phone started ringing. It occurred to me that the whole of Lourmarin must know I had returned from New York. Clearly the village had its own kind of tribal drums.
When I picked up the receiver for the umpteenth time in the space of ten minutes and said “Oui?” rather sharply, I discovered it was my close friend Marie-Laure on the line.
“I’m just calling to say a quick hello, Vivienne,” she explained and then asked worriedly, “But is there something wrong?”
“No, of course not. Why?”
“You sound . . . how shall I put it . . . a bit rattled.”
72Barbara Taylor Bradfo
“I’m all right, really I am.”
“You had a good journey, I hope.”
“Yes, it was easy, Marie-Laure, after all these years I guess I’ve got it down pat. But can you beli
eve it, the whole town seems to know I’ve arrived . . . I’ve already had a number of phone calls. I must be the big event of the day.”
I heard the laughter and warmth in her voice as she said, “Yes, I think you are, cherie. It was Madame Creteau who told me, when I was at the boulangerie early this morning. She said Phyl had told her you were due around five o’clock this afternoon. I hope I am not calling at a bad time.”
“No, no, it’s lovely to hear your voice. Still, I must admit the village tomtoms never fail to surprise me. They’re the equivalent of bush telegraph in darkest Mrica.”
“That’s a unique way of describing it, yes,” she exclaimed, laughing.
“But you know how the locals love to gossip, to be into everybody’s business, they just can’t help it. They mean no harm. I’m glad you’re back. I’ve really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Marie-Laure. How’s Alexandre? And the girls?”
“We are all well, Vivienne.” There was a moment’s hesitation on her part, and then she said in a low, sympathetic tone, “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about Sebastian. It is such a loss for you.
I do hope you are not suffering too much.”
“I’ve been sad, of course, that’s only natural. And in a way, I feel as if a door has been suddenly slammed on a period of my lifels?”
“We are all well, Vivienne.” There was a moment’s hesitation on her part, and then she said in a low, sympathetic tone, “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about Sebastian. It is such a loss for you.
I do hope you are not suffering too much.”
“I’ve been sad, of course, that’s only natural. And in a way, I feel as if a door has been suddenly slammed on a period of my life that was very special to me,” I murmured, sitting down on a nearby chair, glad to talk with her for a few minutes. “As you know, we didn’t see that much of each other lately, because he was traveling constantly but we kept in touch by phone. Obviously his death has been a great shock to me. It was something I never expected, Marie-Laure.”
“How could you? He wasn’t old, only in his fifties, and he always appeared to be so fit to me.”
“Yes he was, and I think I’ll feel much better when I know how he died.
Unfortunately, Jack hasn’t had the autopsy report from the p0 lice yet.”
“Really. I thought you’d know everything by now,” she said, sounding surprised. Then she went on rapidly, “There’s been nothing more in the newspapers here. A few days ago they were filled with stories.
The French press made his death sound most suspicious.”
“So did the New York papers. But what can you do . . . Anyway, to be honest the way he died is a bit of a mystery. I was glad to finally get away it was all so upsetting. Of course, I had to stay for the memorial service, it was very important to me that I attend.”
“How did it go?”
“Very well. It was held yesterday, and the church was packed. A lot of dignitaries were there from our government and from foreign goy ernments as well. And there were delegates from the UN, heads of charities, people from all over the world actually. The famous and the not-so-famous. It was very gratifying to me that so many people came to paytheir last respects. But I crept away once it was over, picked up my luggage, and went straight to Kennedy. I couldn’t wait to get back to my normal life.”
“And I can’t wait to see you. Can you come to dinner on Saturday night?
It’s just us, just the family. Perhaps you’d like to bring Kit?”
“Thanks, I’d love to come and I’ll ask him later. I know he’s been painting furiously, trying to finish the last big canvas for his show next month. I haven’t called him yet. I just haven’t had a chance,” I explained .
“You’ll come by yourself if he’s not available, but I’m certain he will be. Oh yes, I’m very sure of that,” Marie-Laure said knowingly, always the incurable romantic. “I had better go, Vivienne. I’m in the middle of paperwork for the antique show next weekend.”
“And I must unpack. See you on Saturday, darling. Oh, about what time?”
“Around seven. Ciao.”
“Bye, Marie-Laure.”
We hung up and I went in search of Phyl.
Leaving my bedroom in one of the new wings, I walked along the hallway which linked this new part to the original structure. The latter was built entirely of large stones, ranging in color from soft sand and golden tones to various pale pinks and deep grays and all were exposed in the sixteenth-century manner.
Dating back to 1567, or thereabouts, the nucleus of the mill was a central area composed of four huge rooms that we had turned into the main living quarters. Virtually undamaged when Sebastian bought the mill for me, the interior rooms only needed repairs to their walls and ceilings. These were the rooms where the olives used to be pressed between gargantuan circular stones, and they were impressive. Immense vaults, several of which were thirty-feet high, separated these massive spaces from each other and added to the grandeur.
A number of smaller rooms, forming the outer perimeter of the original structure, were in the worst tumbledown state when we took possession of the property. All needed to be rebuilt; this we did, turning them into a series of storage rooms, pantries, and a laundry.
Throughout the mill we laid down new tile floors, put in many additional windows, doors, and extra beams to reinforce the ceilings.
Se bastian had insisted we use old wood and stones for our remodeling, either culled from the mill’s rubble or bought from local builders; we also selected only those tiles and other materials that had an aged look to them. It was impossible to distinguish the new from the old, and the finished effect was awe-inspiring in so many different ways, but mostly because the infrastructure looked as if it had been there forever.
The hallway led down three steps into the kitchen, which was the crux of the central area of the mill and part of an open floor plan.
The dining and living rooms flowed off it, as did the library.
Although it was full of the most up-to-date appliances, it had great warmth and a rustic, country charm with its ceiling beams, exposed stone walls, and terra-cotta floor. Adding to the cheerful Provenl mood were the many baskets, copper pots and pans, dried herbs, sausages, and cheeses hanging from the beams.
An enormous stone fireplace was the focal point, its generous hearth holding a giant-sized basket of logs, polished-brass fire tools, and tall wrought-iron candlesticks, almost five feet high, topped with plump wax candles.
An old French farm table surrounded by wooden-backed chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and I went and sat down at it.
Phyl was standing near the stove and she glanced at me as I did so.
“A watched pot never boils,” she said, nodding at the kettle on the stove. “I’m making you a cup of tea. I was going to bring it to you in the bedroom.”
“I’ll have it here, thanks, Phyl. And then I’d like you to help me unpack, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“’Course not,” she answered, and glanced anxiously at the kettle again.
“By the way, Michel didn’t leave, did he?” I asked. “I haven’t paid him yet.”
“No, he’s still here, Mrs. Trent. He drank a coffee, then went out back with Aloin. To have a cigarette, I suppose.”
I nodded and said, “Phyl, the house looks wonderful. You’ve kept it up beautifully. Thank you.”
She said nothing, but from the look on her face I knew she was pleased.
Thicing the kettle off the stove, she carried it to the nearby sink, poured some water out, and returned it to the gas stove.
“A watched pot,” I reminded her, and reached for the telephone as it began to ring.
“Hello.”
“I can’t believe you’re home and you haven’t called me,” Christopher Tremain said.
“Hi, Kit. Listen, I haven’t called anyone yet. And you are at the top of my list. You just beat me to it by a few minutes.”
�
�That’s good to know. How are you? Did you have a good trip?”
“I’m well. And the trip was quick, easy.”
“Then you’re up to having dinner tonight? At least, I hope you are.”
“I’d love to see you, I really would. But I need to unpack, get settled in, get my papers organized, the usual stuff. You know what it’s like.
And after all, I have been away for almost three months.”
“Don’t I know it, darling. But all right, I’ll let you off the hook tonight.”
“Marie-Laure’s invited us to dinner on Saturday.”
“That’s great, you’ve got a date. But what about tomorrow? Can we have supper?”
“Yes, that’ll be nice. How’s the painting going? Did you finish your last canvas?”
“I did. On Tuesday night, or rather, in the middle of Wednesday morning. I’m feeling a bit done in, but I’ll be up and running by Saturday.”
“Are you sure about supper tomorrow? Maybe you’re too exhausted .”
“I’m not going to cook it, just eat it. Listen, Vivienne . .
“Yes, Kit?”
“I just heard about Sebastian. His death. This morning on CNN.
They had some coverage of his memorial service. I’m sorry. Are you holding up?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”
“You must think I’m thoughtless, not calling you, but I didn’t know.
I’ve been leading an isolated existence.”
“You don’t have to explain, I realized you were probably holed up in your studio, going at it around the clock.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m positive. What time do want to have supper tomorrow?”
“You call it, Viv.”
“About seven-thirty, is that okay with you?”
“Yes. I’ll come and pick you up and you can give me a drink before I take you out on the town.”
JQ
“Mrs. Trent, you have a phone call,” Phyl said, walking down the steps that led Out from the library to the swimming pool.
“Not another one,” I groaned, pushing myself into a sitting position on the garden chaise. “I never knew I was so popular with so many people in Lourmarin.”
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