"Hélène was..." Monique pauses, choosing her words. "Hélène was Marguerite's companion. For many years. They met in 1980 and were together until Hélène's death in 2015."
Companion. The word is weighted with meaning I'm only beginning to understand.
"The paintings," I say slowly. "In the farmhouse. They're signed H.V."
"Hélène Voclain. She was a painter. Very talented." Monique sips her coffee. "She came to Provence to work, and she found Marguerite. Or Marguerite found her. However it happens, when two people are meant to be."
"She's the reason I'm here at all," Cat says.
I turn to look at her. Her jaw is tight, her eyes fixed on the middle distance.
"My mother knew Hélène—years before, from the art world. Two painters, chasing the same light." Cat's voice is quiet, careful. "So when my mum ended up pregnant and alone, it was Hélène who wanted to bring her here. To help her. And Grand-mère..." She finally looks at me. "Grand-mère would have given Hélène themoon if she'd asked for it. Instead Hélène asked her to take in a broken stranger and her baby. So she did. She kept us."
Monique nods slowly. "Marguerite loved fiercely. Hélène most of all. But that love spilled over onto everyone Hélène loved." She reaches over and squeezes Cat's hand. "Including you, petite."
"I didn't know," I say. "About any of this."
"No.Your mother made sure of that, I think." Monique's voice is gentle but pointed. "There is much you don't know, Iris. Much that Marguerite wanted you to learn. That's what these three months are for."
We stay at the café for another hour, talking about nothing and everything—the village, the weather, the upcoming lavender harvest. But the whole time, a name echoes in my head like a bell.
Hélène. Marguerite's companion. Marguerite's...
We walk back to the farmhouse in silence. Inside, I stop in front of one of the paintings—a landscape of lavender fields at sunset—and look at the initials in the corner. H.V. Hélène Voclain.
"She loved her," I say quietly. "Didn't she."
Cat stands beside me, also looking at the painting. "Yes."
"And my mother..." I can't finish the sentence.
"I don't know what your mother knew or didn't know. But I know Grand-mère loved Hélène. And I know that whatever happened with our moms, it started there."
Our mothers. Our grandmother. Our inheritance of secrets.
I look at the painting—beautiful, vibrant, made by a woman who loved my grandmother—and I feel the shape of a truth I'm not yet ready to name.
"Who was Hélène?" I ask again, but this time it's not really a question.
Cat doesn't answer. She doesn't need to.
I already know.
6
CAT
Jacques arrives at seven the next morning, before Iris has even finished her run.
I watch from the kitchen window as he climbs out of his ancient truck, a man built like a barrel with hands that have spent sixty years doing honest work. He surveys the property with the practiced eye of someone who's been looking after this land since before I was born.
"The lavender needs attention," he announces when I meet him at the door. "Marguerite let it go a bit at the end. She wasn't well enough to do the work herself."
The words hit me harder than they should. She wasn't well enough. I didn't know. I wasn't here.
"What needs doing?" I ask, pushing past the guilt.
"Pruning, mostly. Some of the plants have gotten leggy—they'll need to be cut back if you want them to bloom properly for harvest." He squints at me. "You remember how?"
