"Provence is famous for it. Artists have been coming here for centuries, chasing it." Monique's smile is wistful. "Hélène rented a small cottage near the edge of the village. She kept to herself mostly—painting, walking, sitting in cafés with her sketchbook. But one day she wandered onto Marguerite's land."
"Looking for light?" I guess.
"Looking for lavender. She wanted to paint the fields at sunset." Monique pauses. "Marguerite found her there, hip-deep in purple, covered in paint, absolutely transported. She said later itwas like finding a wild creature—something beautiful that didn't quite belong to the ordinary world."
"What happened?"
"What do you think? They fell in love." Monique's voice is matter-of-fact, but there's warmth beneath it. "Not immediately—Marguerite was cautious, and Hélène was wary of attachment. But over that summer, and the next, and the next... they found each other. The way people do, when they're meant to."
I think of the paintings scattered throughout the farmhouse—the landscapes, the flowers, the light captured in oils. H.V. Hélène Voclain. She painted our home. She made it beautiful.
"When did people know?" Iris asks. Her voice is strange—tight, controlled. "About them?"
"Know officially? Never. Marguerite was private about her personal life, and Hélène respected that. But we all understood. It was obvious to anyone who saw them together—the way they looked at each other, the way they moved around each other." Monique shrugs. "This is a small village. We notice things. And we chose not to make it our business."
"But it was accepted?" I press. "People didn't—"
"Some people had opinions. There are always people with opinions." Monique's expression darkens briefly. "But Marguerite was respected. She'd saved this farm, built the lavender business, employed half the village at one point or another. People owed her. And Hélène was kind, and talented, and clearly devoted. Over time, it simply became... how things were."
Jacques returns with cheese and fruit, arranging the plates with quiet efficiency. He catches my eye and gives a small nod—she's telling the important part, let her finish.
"They were together for thirty-five years," Monique continues. "Thirty-five years in that house, building a life, creating something beautiful. Hélène's paintings are in galleries now, you know."
"She kept the best ones," I say. "At the house."
"Of course she did. Those were hers. The private ones, the ones Hélène painted just for her." Monique reaches into a bag beside her chair and produces a worn photograph album. "I thought you might want to see these."
She opens the album, and suddenly I'm looking at my grandmother as I never knew her—young, vibrant, laughing. And beside her, in photograph after photograph, a woman with sharp cheekbones and clever eyes and paint-stained fingers.
Hélène.
They're beautiful together. Not in a posed, performative way, but in the way of people who have stopped noticing the camera because they're too absorbed in each other. There are pictures of them cooking, gardening, sitting on the terrace at sunset. There's one of Hélène painting while Marguerite watches, her expression so tender it makes my throat tight.
"They were happy," Iris says quietly. She's leaning close to see the photos, and I can feel the warmth of her shoulder against mine.
"They were. Very happy." Monique turns another page. "Until Colette came back."
The name lands like a blow. Iris goes still.
"My mother?"
"She visited in 1995. She'd been living in America for several years by then—she left not long after she married your father. I don't know what prompted her to return, but she came. With you, actually. You were only five or six."
"I don't remember that," Iris says.
"You were very young. And the visit didn't last long." Monique's expression is careful now, her words chosen with precision. "Colette hadn't known about Hélène. Marguerite had never told her—I think she was afraid of her daughter's reaction. So when Colette arrived and found them together..."
"She didn't take it well," I finish.
"That is an understatement." Monique closes the album gently. "She was furious. She accused Marguerite of lying, of deception, of—" She pauses. "Of perversion. She said terrible things. And then she left, and she took you with her, and she never came back."
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.
I look at Iris. Her face is pale, her jaw clenched tight. I can see her processing this—the revelation that her mother's estrangement wasn't about some vague family feud, but about something much more specific. Much more ugly.
"Why didn't Grand-mère tell me?" I ask. "About why Colette left. All those summers, she never explained—"
"She was ashamed. Not of Hélène—never of Hélène—but of her daughter's reaction. Of what it said about how she'draised Colette, what values she'd failed to instill." Monique's voice is gentle. "And she didn't want to poison you against your own blood. She always hoped Colette would come around eventually."
