“I know who painted her.”
“Who?”
“Étienne’s mother.”
He’s taken aback.
“Sadly, she passed away, but Étienne might give us permission.”
“Are you seeing him anytime soon?” He’s trying for casual, but he’s not quite managing to pull it off.
“Maybe this weekend.” He mentioned going to his house. “I should probably text him, actually.”
“No rush,” he says as I reach for my phone. “If he doesn’t agree, could we commission another artist to create something in the same vein?”
“Yes, we definitely could.”
His expression is full of admiration as he smiles at me. “Well, I love it.”
My insides flood with warmth as I return his smile, putting my phone back down on the table.
It gives me a thrill to impress him, but it’s more than that: I’m happy to be doing something that I can feel proud of. If I pull off this project in the way that I’m envisaging, it will look incredible on my CV, and that in turn will open doors for me.
I can’t believe how lucky I am to be here in the Ardèche doing something that fills me with joy instead of working myself to the bone in London.
I’m really going to enjoy the next two and a half months. But I realize with a sudden pang of sadness that even that length of time here won’t be enough.
“Doyouknowwhy the pavilion opposite the factory is boarded up?” it occurs to me to ask Mellie on Friday night.
We’ve gone down to the lower terrace to watch the sunset—her basement studio is right behind us. While I’ve been at work this week, she’s been toiling away on her new range of stoneware bowls and coffee cups. It was the evening market last night and they looked so gorgeous all laid out on her stall. Each one ishand-glazed and unique, with blue and green rims. Even though I’m used to throwing pottery, I still find it amazing that pieces that look like stone started out as soft clay.
“Now,” Mellie says thoughtfully, pondering my question. “I believe Albert sealed it up after Josie and Sébastien died.”
His wife and son. They died in a car crash years ago.
“Why?” I ask with confusion.
“It’s where he and Josie met. She worked nearby and they both went there every day to eat their lunch. It has sentimental value to him. I’m assuming he closed it up to protect it. Why do you ask?”
I tell her about the painting.
“I’d like to see that for myself,” she says with interest.
“I was actually wondering if Albert might consider doing up the pavilion as part of the launch.”
Étienne warned me not to say anything, but now that I know the pavilion has sentimental value, I’m more convinced than ever that Albert will want to protect it. I’d love to see it restored, and maybe if I can give Étienne some reassurance, he’ll consider granting us permission to use one of his mother’s Sainte Églantines for the rebrand. I’d feel so proud to see his mother’s art etched onto bottles that will be sold all over the world. Surely it would make Étienne feel proud too.
“Could you help with this?” I ask Mellie hopefully.
“Sure,” she replies with a shrug. “I’ll broach it when I next see him.”
We watch in silence as the sun sinks below the distant hills.
“Hereallyloved her,” I say, thinking of Josie and how pain Albert must have been in when he sealed off her favorite place.
“He did,” Mellie confirms. “The fact that Sandrine ever thought I stood a chance of stepping into her mother’s shoes…” She casts her eyes heavenward.
“Oh God, she did, didn’t she? She was a nightmare when she brought Jackson here on my second summer. Do you remember?”
