“Ipromisethere’s nothing to worry about,” I say fervently. “They’re going to honor your mother’s painting, not destroy it.”
“As part of the launch?” he asks dryly, his eyes looking more steel than sky.
He’s reclining in his chair, his right arm draped on the table,his left dangling at his side. He may look relaxed, but I’m reminded of a coiled snake, ready to strike.
“I always planned to walk around town, looking for inspiration for the new bottle design of Eau de Sainte Églantine. But I’ll be honest, I wouldloveto use your mum’s art. It means something to me personally and your mum does too. The thought of one of her paintings being etched onto bottles that people all around the world will see makes me feel proud. And on a professional level, the fact that she painted Sainte Églantine, or at least her interpretation of her, is a marketeer’s dream. It’s also a great part of the story that your mother worked at the factory.”
His eyes are still fixed on mine, but there’s a calculating look about them. What is he thinking?
“Is there any chance at all that you would give us permission to use the painting?” I ask, feeling hope slipping away but pressing on regardless. “If not, I can commission another artist to create their own version, but we need to move forward with a design concept by the end of next week.”
His eyes drop to the table where he’s been absentmindedly fingering a red paper napkin. He lets it go and runs his hand through his hair. “Look, it’s complicated,” he says with a sigh, gesturing to the waitress.
I lean in and plant my forearms on the table. “How?”
“I think my motherwouldhave liked for her design to be used. She never had any vendetta against Albert or his father and she enjoyed working at the factory. But my uncle would be furious. What are you drinking?” he asks as the waitress arrives at the table.
“Cider.”
“Another?”
“Sure.”
Étienne orders two more and shifts forward in his seat, mirroring me.
“Do you know the story about the three-day-long poker game that Pierre Osier had with a local man?”
I have no idea where he’s going with an anecdote about Albert’s father, but I’m aware of the story; it’s legendary.
During World War Two, Jackson’s great-grandfather Pierre Osier, a Parisian, fell in love with a woman named Marie from the Ardèche, and after the war they settled here in Sainte-Églantine-les-Bains. Within a year, Pierre had won a piece of land in a game of cards that contained the source of a natural hot spring.
“The local man Pierre gambled against, Gérard Flouquet, was not well mentally,” Étienne says. “Albert’s father took advantage of him.”
I frown and catch a loose lock of hair that’s fallen free from my butterfly clip; green to match my dress. “All I heard is that he was a bit of a drunk.”
“He was. Does that make it better?”
“Well, if people thought it was unfair, why didn’t they do anything?” I ask as I clip the lock back into place.
“Because Gérard died and Pierre promised to build a factory with his Parisian money that would employ hundreds of people.”
“And he did, didn’t he?” I nod at Eau de Sainte Églantine, which is beyond the stretch of parkland, less than a hundred meters behind him. We’re at the far end of the high street.
“Yes, he did,” he replies tersely. “Taking the fountain thathadbeen on the land providing free water to everyone and keeping it for himself.”
I think of the beautiful fountain in the grounds of Château Angèle. Is that the one he’s talking about? Did it use to be connected to the water source?
“But locals can still access the water source from thebuvette,” I point out.
Buvettemeansrefreshment barand when I first came here, Mellie took me to fill up a bottle. It’s inside a cave right by the factory and I remember it being very cold and damp, but still kind of magical.
“Have you been in there lately?” Étienne asks.
I shake my head. “Not since I was a kid.”
“Check it out,” he prompts.
“Okay, I will.”
