Solange poked at a slight stain on one end. ‘That’s where Marthe spilled her Châteauneuf du Pape one Christmas. She was so cross at first, we’d only finished the work the week before. And this –’ she pointed to a chip ‘– was from Luc playing football in here. But then we decided they were the scars of life and that this is a home, not a palace. Those imperfections should be celebrated and loved as much for those memories.’
‘And the picture?’ asked Hattie, realising that the gilt frame of the large watercolour was dust free.
‘It’s my favourite in the whole house, although the one in the little salon in the alcove is also very special. I’ll take you to see it. This one Marthe bought not long after Luc came to stay the first time.’ Solange smiled. ‘She said it was to remind her that life could still be civilised, even with a young boy turning the place upside down. Then later it was a different reminder, that love could find roots in the most unlikely places. Those first few visits were difficult, for both of them. But,’ finished Solange softly, ‘they found each other eventually. This painting symbolises hope.’
Hattie remembered Luc telling her he had been left in a strange house, with an old woman he didn’t know, and how terrified he’d been. Now that she had studied the picture in more detail, rather than seeing it as a pretty scene of the riverbank and the vineyards in the background, she could see the most important focus of the picture was of a boy and a woman happily picnicking together by the water’s edge.
‘Come.’ Solange tugged at her sleeve and took her to the little picture in the salon. It was the one she’d seen before, the pen and ink sketch of a boy with a fistful of drooping flowers. ‘Luc, when he was ten. He picked wildflowers for Marthe for her birthday because he wanted to give her something. He would never ask for any help. Always sorted things out for himself.’
‘That’s adorable,’ said Hattie, looking at young Luc.
Solange laughed. ‘Hmm, sometimes. Although he could also be a little devil. There’s one plain pane in the stained glass in one of the doors where Luc smashed it, practising with a catapult.’ Solange shook her head, ‘Alphonse had given it to him. Each of them was always leading the other into trouble. But Marthe refused to have it replaced. She was so pleased that Luc was acting like a small boy should, instead of the closed-off child he’d been when he first came.’
Cleaning was abandoned as Solange took her on a tour of the treasures of the house: an antique bookcase that had taken four men to carry in and could never be moved, an art deco bronze lamp that Marthe had bought for herself on her sixtieth birthday, pictures that held a wealth of history about the inhabitants of the house. She showed Hattie the velvet-lined boxes of silverware, the glass epergne collection which might have been priceless if it weren’t for cracks and chips, and the hand-painted tureen and underplate sets.
It was obvious that these things were given care and attention and Hattie realised that she’d underestimated Solange’s capabilities. The woman looked after the important things. Hattie found herself looking at her with a lot more understanding.
‘It’s all so…’ Hattie waved a hand unable to sum up her feelings. ‘Thank you so much for…’ she was going to say, ‘showing me’, but instead said, ‘sharing your treasures with me.’
‘It’s lovely to revisit them with someone who appreciates them. But now those windows are calling. At least you look a little rested. You mustn’t work too hard. I will try again to talk to the cleaning company.’
At four o’clock Hattie had only one destination in mind as she left the château by the wide door at the back and hurried along the first terrace through an avenue of bright yellow laburnum trees dripping with blooms, past beds full of daisies and wallflowers. She gave them no more than a cursory glance she was so focused on her mission. She couldn’t wait to immerse her overheated and work-worn body in the pool.
Arriving on the wooden deck, she ignored the cabin that looked like a changing room, dropped her towel on one of the sun beds and crossed to the pool edge. The cool blue looked so inviting and the depth was clearly marked as two metres, so, holding her nose, she threw herself in before she could chicken out. The shock of the cold made her gasp as her head surfaced and she began to swim quickly. As soon as she stretched her muscles with the first smooth strokes, she felt the instant release of the day’s tensions as she slid through the water. With a lazy grin, she watched the sun dapple the surface, glinting and dancing across the ripples. The only sound apart from the lapping of the water was the sweet high song of a blackbird.
She flipped onto her back and closed her eyes to float alone with her thoughts. She’d forgotten how soothing this weightless sensation could be. Hattie could already feel the sense of peace stealing over her like a blanket being tucked into place. After a while she forced her eyes open, squinting in the bright sunshine, and swam to the side.
Relaxed and a little dreamy, she flopped onto her towel on the sun lounger in the corner of the patio, slipping her sunglasses on to protect her eyes from the glare bouncing off the white stone terrace. There was nothing quite like the warmth of the sun on your skin, she thought, looking down at her toes, wriggling them just because she could. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts, she didn’t see Luc until he strode to the far edge of the pool. It was obvious that he hadn’t seen her. Not wanting to startle him, she kept quiet … nothing to do with the fact that she could ogle him without being seen.
She gulped as she watched him strip off his T-shirt. Those abs. A six-pack instead of a six-pound bag of potatoes. Behind her sunglasses she could take a proper look this time, not like in the dining room when she’d looked anywhere but. He looked like a flipping male model in all his six-foot-three gorgeous glory.
Thank goodness for sunglasses. She suspected her eyes were out on stalks like a snail’s.
With one quick fluid movement he dived into the cool blue water, arrowing beneath the surface, like a sleek seal, for a good half-length before surfacing with a shake of his head. Should she acknowledge him, she wondered? The last thing she wanted was to engage in conversation with him when she was sitting here in her matronly, baggy Marks & Spencer swimming costume. She looked down and tugged at the faded orange and pink pattern with a slight sense of shame. When had she stopped caring?
She indulged in a little heartfelt sigh as she watched his easy front crawl, his biceps bunching with each stroke. He really was an absolute Adonis and he probably knew it. What’s more, she could bet that his girlfriends would sport nearly all-over-body golden tans and wear fabulous tiny bikinis, not manky old swimsuits like this where the Lycra had given up the ghost in strategic regions.
She closed her eyes and tried to block out the vision of Luc, which worked just fine until everything went quiet. When she opened her eyes, he was hauling himself out of the pool, lifting that awesome body up over the edge in a definite show of very masculine strength.
With water running off him, the droplets glistening in the sunshine like crystals, he walked straight towards her, with that confident easy swagger and roll of the hips that made her think of cowboys.
‘Bonjour, Hattie.’ As usual he dropped the H from her name, which was charming without him even trying.
‘Hi,’ she said, trying to be cool, but there was a giveaway squeak in her voice. God, she’d turned into a guinea pig overnight.
‘Nice costume,’ he said with a lift of one decidedly rakish brow. If they were still looking for a new James Bond, he’d got that look nailed.
‘Do you think so?’ she asked brightly, wanting to cover herself up as he sat down on the sun lounger right next to hers.
‘No, it’s hideous.’ He gave her a wicked smile. ‘Why bother? No one’s here.’
‘Apart from you.’
‘I won’t mind, if you don’t.’
She blushed and picked up her book. How did he manage to make her feel so very gauche and inexperienced? It was bloody irritating because she was a grown woman and she’d had sex plenty of times, thank you very much. Although, looking at him, she suspected his sort of sex was very different from the type she was used to – or rather not used to anymore. Chris hadn’t been that interested for the last eighteen months.
‘What are your plans this evening? Do you want me to cook?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to hold a normal conversation.
