Villa of Sun and Secrets

by Jennifer Bohnet

  Gliding above the islands before the boat turned and took them back towards the coast, Josette wished she could just stay up in the sky forever – or at least until her family problems had solved themselves. Something she knew that was unlikely to happen without her helping things along. What and how, though, still eluded her.

  Older people might be expected to know how to deal with things through the wisdom of age, but personally, she had no idea how to make things better between her and Carla. Hell, these days there were times when she felt as mixed up and indecisive as she’d ever done.

  Sometimes being old really was the pits. Age didn’t arrive complete with guaranteed common sense – especially if you’d never possessed any in the first place. This current debacle with Carla proved that point beyond any doubt. Josette sighed. She should have stayed silent, kept the secret – or died first. Because sure as hell Amelia wouldn’t have spoken out.

  Mentally, she shook herself. She would not spoil this birthday treat thinking negative thoughts. As the boat headed along the coast back to the pontoon, Josette gazed at the old Provençal hotel.

  ‘When I was growing up here that place was still open. So many stories around town about the famous people who stayed there, then and in the past. Imagine the tales it could tell.’

  ‘On my first visit to Juan-les-Pins back in the late sixties, I stayed there – think it was the year it closed. Nobody dreamt when it shut for refurbishment it would never again open,’ Gordon said.

  ‘You lucky man to have been inside. I’ve always wished I’d had the chance,’ Josette said, turning her head to look at him. ‘The late sixties was when I left. I wonder if we’d have met all those years ago if I’d stayed around.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Gordon said.

  As the boat slowed and neared the pontoon, the winch on board slowly brought the two of them down until suddenly their feet were dangling in the sea, before they were safely back on board and undoing the harnesses before climbing off the boat.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ Josette said, standing on tiptoes to kiss Gordon’s cheek. ‘A true breath of fresh air. Thank you.’

  While Josette and Gordon were floating over the coast, Carla was busy in the villa’s garden. She loved pottering about, pulling up the occasional stray weed, trimming back something that was overgrowing, picking a few flowers for the sitting room. She’d checked with Joel he didn’t mind her doing this and he’d laughed at her.

  ‘Carla, it’s your garden. You can do what you like.’

  ‘I know, but you’re the real gardener and do all the hard work making it look so good. I’m an amateur in comparison.’

  She’d found three lovely tall terracotta pots during her last foray to the hypermarket on the edge of town and had been itching to fill them with plants. Yesterday in the market she’d bought trays of white daisy plants, trailing ivy, lavender, geraniums and a couple of passion flowers she hoped would climb over the pillar at the end of the terrace. Today she was spending the morning planting everything and trying not to think about Josette. Something that was proving impossible.

  It had been three days now since her world had been shaken to the core with Josette’s announcement. Days during which she’d avoided going anywhere near Josette’s cottage or any of the cafes she knew she favoured around the market in case she bumped into her. She’d half expected Josette to visit or even phone, wanting to talk and tell her more. Instead, there had been silence. Maybe she was regretting letting her shameful secret be known? Perhaps she was waiting for Carla to do the contacting.

  Carefully, Carla upended a plastic pot and pulled a well-grown daisy plant out and placed it in the centre of one of the tall terracotta pots, bedding it in as deep as she could. Should she make the first move? Or stay with Joel’s advice about not rushing things and let her emotions cool down so she could view things rationally? If that day ever came.

  Thinking about Joel, Carla smiled. She couldn’t ask for a better housemate. Considerate, kind and good company, she really liked having him around. Occasionally, sitting on the terrace having had supper together, she’d catch an unguarded look of sadness on his face but he’d nodded and smiled when she’d tentatively asked if everything was all right and inevitably started to talk about something that had happened at work. She never pushed him at these times, figuring that he’d talk to her if and when he wanted to. She hoped he regarded her as a friend he could turn to, like she did him.

  Placing three trailing ivies at equidistance around the daisy, Carla watered everything and moved down the terrace to the last pot placed close to the column she hoped the passion flowers would climb. As she picked up her hand trowel and the last of the compost, her glance fell on the wild bit of garden to the side of the pool house. White roses and blue daisies were even more prolific than the first time she’d seen them and thought about scattering Amelia’s ashes there. It really was a lovely, quiet spot. Goodness only knew what Josette had against it.

  Deep in thought, Carla planted the two passion flowers, looped them around the pillar and watered them in. There. A couple of weeks and the pots would look lovely.

  After tidying up and washing her hands, Carla went into her bedroom. She smiled as she saw Leroy curled up on her bed in a patch of sunlight. ‘No cherry tree this afternoon, Leroy?’ she said, giving him a gentle stroke before she picked up the urn from the floor in the corner by the bed.

  Out in the garden again, she surveyed the wild area. Would Amelia appreciate being scattered here? Or would she rather be a thousand miles away? Carefully, Carla trod between the roses and the daisies until she reached the hedge at the back. Picking up a stone, she scraped a flat spot and placed the urn on it, pressing it into the earth until it was standing steady. This way, Amelia’s ashes could be scattered at a later date if Josette suggested another, better, place. Something else she needed to talk to her about. At least the ashes were now out of her bedroom where she’d begun to resent their almost malevolent presence.

  Walking back towards the house, she remembered she hadn’t checked the post box for the day’s mail. Still getting used to the fact that she had a box attached to the main gate at the end of the drive rather than a letter box in the front door, she often forgot to check for post. Now, unlocking the box, she pulled out a handful of promo brochures and a letter with an Italian stamp – addressed to Madame Josette Rondeau, care of Villa Mimosa, Antibes.’

  Carla sighed. Was this a sign that she had to make the first contact or just bad timing? Would Joel deliver it for her perhaps? No, she wouldn’t ask him. She’d deliver it herself; she didn’t have to knock and hand it over to Josette, she could just post it in the letterbox and walk away.

  Idly, Carla turned the letter over, wondering who Josette knew in Italy. The ‘posted from’ section on the back of the envelope had been filled in with a name and a postcode. Carla frowned as she saw the name. Why was it strangely familiar?

  26

  Despite the rolls of film Josette had bought for her Nikon, she hadn’t taken a single photograph yet. Her birthday revelation and the reactions to it had driven everything else from her mind.

  Taking her camera out of its case, she couldn’t believe how casually she’d given up the very thing that had always made her feel alive. For years, taking photographs had been her raison d’être as well as her living. Once upon a time she’d never left home without her camera hanging securely from a cord around her neck. Looking at things through the lens of a camera, capturing the very essence of someone on film, recording a disappearing world, the joy of taking photographs had held her captive as much as she’d captured the images she’d aimed her lens at. So why had the passion disappeared? Had age simply drained her energy and turned it into apathy?

  She could still list all the reasons she’d used to convince herself it was time to stop. She was tired of finding herself in a pack of paparazzi all clamouring for that one shot which would shoot them into the big time. The constant travelling had taken its toll; stayi
ng put in one place had become increasingly attractive. It was easier too, to make way for youngsters less than half her age and their burning ambition rather than compete with them. But to give up taking photographs altogether when it had always given her such pleasure? Why had she done that when she returned to Antibes? There was no logical answer to that question. A camera in her hand had always been her life force. Nor was there any logical reason why ten minutes ago she’d fetched her camera bag from the bedroom, filled with the sudden desire to take photographs again.

  Out in the courtyard, Josette held the camera up to her eye and focused the lens on a bee industriously harvesting nectar from a honeysuckle flower high on the wall. The bee buzzed away out of the flower and over the wall before she could press the shutter and capture the moment. Josette sighed with annoyance. Her fault, she’d been too slow but now she’d finally picked up her camera again, there would be plenty of opportunities.

  That evening, when she and Gordon went for a stroll along the Cap d’Antibes and out to Juan-les-Pins, Josette picked up her camera as she left the cottage. There might be a chance to take a few snapshots of the sea, or the pine trees silhouetted against the night sky, something to at least reassure her she still had a good eye, remembered how to frame a photograph and knew instinctively the right second to press the shutter. Basically, she needed to discover if she still possessed the skill of making art out of the everyday. That something in her life was still reassuringly the same. If Gordon noticed she had her camera hanging from her wrist, he didn’t mention it.

  She’d forgotten jazz festival time was approaching, but as she and Gordon neared Juan-les-Pins, they saw the stands being erected ready for the concerts and already the atmosphere was starting to build, with amateur musicians busking on the street corners.

  Josette breathed contentedly. She’d be sure to wander around here when the festival started. In the past, she’d taken photographs of so many of the stars: Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughan and, in later years, Jamie Callum and Norah Jones, to name but four. She’d even met her idol, Ella Fitzgerald, one memorable evening at an after-concert party.

  ‘I love festival time,’ she said, lifting her camera to take a photograph of a young dark girl playing bongo drums on the corner by Pinède Gould. Further along, a couple were gently crooning a duet as the man strummed a guitar. Raising her camera again, Josette said absently to Gordon as she looked through the lens, ‘You’ve never told me what kind of music you like or the type of songs you write.’

  ‘I like jazz and, old-fashioned it may be, swing. As for the type of stuff I write,’ he shrugged. ‘A couple of mine made it into the hit parade.’ Gordon glanced at her, before quietly humming the melody of a well-known hit.

  Josette turned to look at him, her eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘Wow. That’s one of yours? It’s one of my favourites. It seemed to speak to me, give me hope. Those words – where there’s life, there can be love – became my mantra for a long time.’

  ‘Oh Josie, why didn’t you and I meet years ago, when we were young?’ Gordon said, putting his arm around her shoulders and drawing her against him for a hug.

  Josette stilled in his arms at the shortened version of her name. Gordon’s Scottish lilt, not unlike a certain Italian one years ago, made it sound like an endearment. An endearment she realised she liked. Despite not knowing a lot about his past, she knew her feelings for Gordon were running deep. Did his words mean he felt the same way? She looked up at him and took a deep breath. Her new living in the present philosophy might have a lot to answer for again if she got this wrong too. ‘Maybe now is our right time?’

  Gordon gave her an unfathomable look before smiling and taking her by the hand. ‘Come on. We need to celebrate finding us.’

  Josette laughed. ‘Okay. Where are we going?’

  ‘Back to my apartment, of course. There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge that will serve us very nicely.’

  Josette overslept the next morning, waking to the sounds of the town hall clock striking eight. For several moments after the noise of the bells had died away, she lay there with her eyes closed remembering the delights of the previous evening.

  Gordon had opened the champagne and they’d sat out on the rooftop terrace in the twilight, drinking and gently flirting with each other as they watched the moon rise. The bottle was still half full when Gordon stood up, placed his glass on the small table, held out his hand and led her to his bedroom.

  Josette’s lips curved into a smile as her thoughts drifted back to the rest of the night.

  It had been gone three o’clock when Gordon had walked her home through the deserted streets, kissed her tenderly and said, ‘See you later.’

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ Josette had asked.

  Gordon had shaken his head. ‘Best not. I have a breakfast meeting with someone – if I stay with you, Josie, I’ll never make it.’ Another kiss and he’d gone.

  Fleetingly Josette wondered if his breakfast meeting was with someone she knew, before dismissing the thought. It wasn’t any business of hers. Today was a good day; the beginning of new things. She had no intention of spoiling it by overthinking things. Pushing the bedcovers back, she got out of bed and made for the shower.

  Ten minutes later, as she switched on the coffee machine and pushed a couple of pieces of bread into her toaster in lieu of a fresh croissant, she heard the rattle of the letterbox. She glanced at the kitchen clock. The post was coming earlier and earlier these days, but this early was a first. She’d have her coffee before she even opened the box to take the contents out, which was probably only piles of promotion leaflets and bills. She was going to sit in the courtyard, eat her breakfast and think happy thoughts. But as she took her first sip of coffee, the rift with Carla surfaced in her mind and her happy mood was torn apart.

  She’d been hoping that Carla would turn up and force the issue, demanding to be told the whole sordid story, something which Josette acknowledged was her right, but even just thinking about having to say the words out loud made her feel ill. She’d give it a couple more days and if Carla hadn’t called round by then, she’d have to go to the villa, tell her the full story as best she could and plead forgiveness.

  As she spread some butter on her last piece of toast, Josette heard the flap on the letterbox again. It was nearer the normal time for post to be delivered so perhaps it had been the wind earlier blowing the flap. She got up and made her way to collect the post. As expected, she found a pile of promo leaflets, but underneath them was an envelope addressed to her at the villa. Josette’s heart sank a little as she realised Carla had obviously delivered it without bothering to knock and give it to her personally. Clearly, she still wasn’t ready to talk.

  Josette, glancing at the Italian postmark on the envelope, gasped in shock at the address written in handwriting that had once been so familiar to her and turned it over with a shaking hand. Seeing the name on the back confirmed her fears and her breath stalled. Why get in touch now? And why did she have to receive the letter on the first day in years when she felt blessed and happy, with a sense of belief bubbling up inside her that, despite her worries over the future, things would work out?

  27

  Earlier, standing in front of Josette’s cottage, Carla had hesitated for a moment and almost knocked on the door before resolutely pushing the letter into the wall box. Despite it being nearly a week since Josette had blown her life apart with her confession, she wasn’t ready to face her and demand answers. Besides, there wasn’t time this morning, she needed to get back to Villa Mimosa.

  On the way home, she stopped to buy croissants and three almond slices in addition to her daily baguette. Joel would have left for work, she knew, but she’d keep an almond slice for him.

  Once back at the villa, Carla set the coffee up, put the croissants and a couple of the almond slices in the round bread basket and placed it, along with plates and coffee cups, on the terrace table, trying to quell her nervousness. Arranging
a secret breakfast meeting, even with a friend, had such a clandestine feel.

  She suspected if Josette had talked to anyone about her outburst at the birthday party, it would have been Gordon. It had been an impulsive decision to ask Gordon if she could talk to him sometime soon and he agreed but suggested an early breakfast meeting would be best if she didn’t want to mention it to Josette. Whether he would talk to her this morning remained to be seen.

  When Gordon arrived, Carla couldn’t help remarking how well he looked. ‘You’ve got a proper spring in your step today,’ she said after they exchanged air kisses.

  He gave her a smile. ‘Life is good.’

  Carla fetched the coffee and the two of them sat at the table.

  ‘Your garden’s looking beautiful,’ Gordon said. ‘How are you getting along with Joel living here?’

  The unexpected question made Carla blush. ‘It’s fine. We get on well. I like having him here. Definitely going to miss him when he moves out.’ She pushed the croissants towards Gordon. ‘Not that we see that much of each other. He’s always out working and when he’s here he likes to potter in the garden.’

  ‘Josette speaks highly of him,’ Gordon said. ‘Now, my dear, as delightful as it is to be here, I know you want to talk to me about Josette, so come on, fire away.’

  ‘I could do with some advice,’ Carla said. ‘I don’t know what to do. Should I go and see Josette – or wait for her to come and talk to me? I need her to tell me the whole story because sure as hell there is more to it than she’s told us. I also need to know why she decided after all these years to simply baldly announce to the world the fact she’s my mother, not my aunt?’ She pushed her untouched croissant away. ‘I’m finding it so hard to take in the enormity of what she’s been hiding all these years.’