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“I know you must have visited here several times during your stays in Saint-Rémy. Thanks for making another trek with me. I’m gaining a real appreciation for an artist I knew so little about before.”
He masked his thoughts behind his customary calm. “You’re welcome, but we’re still at the beginning of the Van Gogh trail. You’ll discover a good deal more about him as we go.”
She made a sweeping gesture toward the far corner of the cloister. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
* * *
They spent another half hour at Saint-Paul’s. The windows in the two austere rooms where Van Gogh had lived and painted for more than a year gave narrow views of the gardens at the rear of the asylum and the rolling wheat fields beyond, both of which the artist had captured in numerous paintings. The garden’s long rows of lavender had shed their purple blossoms, but the scent lingered in the air as Grace compared the scene with the plaques mounted along the garden’s wall.
At the exit she lingered for a good five minutes in the spot reputedly depicted in Starry Night, arguably one of the artist’s most celebrated canvases. The glowing golden balls flung across a dark cobalt sky utterly fascinated her and prompted Blake to purchase a framed print of the work at the gift shop. She started to protest that it was too expensive but bit back the words, knowing the stiff price wouldn’t deter him any more than the price of the perfumed oil he’d purchased yesterday.
* * *
They stopped at the villa to drop off the purchase, then spent a leisurely two hours following the rest of the trail as it wound through the fields and narrow lanes Van Gogh painted when he was allowed to spend time away from the asylum. The trail ended in the center of town at the elegant eighteenth-century hôtel that had been converted to a museum and study center dedicated to the artist’s life and unique style.
After another hour spent at the museum, Blake suggested lunch in town at a popular restaurant with more tables outside than in. Grace declared the location on one of Saint-Rémy’s pedestrians-only streets perfect for people watching. Chin propped in both hands, she did just that while Blake scoped out the wine list. He went with a light, fruity local white and a melted ham-and-cheese sandwich, followed by a dessert of paper-thin crepes dribbling caramel sauce and powdered sugar. Grace opted for a crock of bouillabaisse brimming with carrots, peppers, tomatoes and celery in addition to five varieties of fresh fish, half-shelled oysters, shrimp and lobster. She passed on dessert after that feast, but couldn’t resist sneaking a couple of bites of Blake’s crepes.
They lingered at the restaurant, enjoying the wine and shade. Grace was sated and languid when they left, and distinctly sleepy-eyed when she settled into the sun-warmed leather of the convertible’s passenger seat.
The crunch of tires on the villa’s crushed-shell driveway woke her. She sat up, blinking, and laughed an apology.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to doze off on you.”
“No problem.” He braked to a halt just beyond the fountain of leaping, pawing horses. “At least you didn’t go totally unconscious, like I did yesterday.”
A hint of color rose in her cheeks. Blake sincerely hoped she was remembering the wild activity that had preceded yesterday’s lengthy snooze. He certainly was. The color deepened when he asked with totally spurious nonchalance if she felt like a swim.
“I think I’ll clean up a bit and see what’s in the library. You go ahead if you want.”
“I’ll take a pass, too. I’ve got some emails I need to attend to.”
“Okay. I’ll, uh, see you later.” She swung away, turned back. “Thanks again for sharing Van Gogh with me. I really enjoyed it.”
“So did I.”
* * *
This was what she’d wanted. What she’d insisted on. Grace muttered the mantra several times under her breath as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Tugging off her ball cap, she freed her wind-tangled hair and tried a futile finger comb. When she opened the door to the Green Suite, she took two steps inside and stopped dead.
“Omigosh!”
Starry Night held a place of honor above the marble fireplace, all but obscuring the faint outline of whatever painting had hung there before. The print’s cool, dark colors seemed to add depth to the silk wall coverings. The swirling stars and crescent moon blazed luminescent trails across the night sky, while the slumbering village below created a sense of quiet and peace. The dark, irregular, almost brooding shape dominating the left side of the print might seem a little sinister to some, but to Grace it was one of the cypress trees Van Gogh had captured in so many of his other works.
She walked into the suite, took a few steps to the side and marveled at how the stars seemed to follow her movements. Then she just stood for long moments, drinking in the print’s vibrant colors and thinking of the man who’d obviously instructed it be hung where she could enjoy it during her stay.
Okay, no sense denying the truth when it was there, right in front of her eyes. Blake Dalton was pretty much everything she’d ever dreamed of in a husband. Smart, considerate, fun to be with, too handsome for words. And soooooo good with his hands and mouth and that hard, honed body of his.
She could fall in love with him so easily. Already had, a little. All right, more than a little. She wouldn’t let herself tumble all the way, though. Not with her cousin’s memory hanging between them like a thin, dark curtain. As fragile as that curtain was, it formed an impenetrable barrier. Grace couldn’t tell him the truth, and he couldn’t trust her until she did.
Sighing, she turned away from the print and headed for the shower.
* * *
The curtain seemed even more impenetrable when she joined Blake for dinner that evening. As promised, Auguste had prepared his version of coquilles St. Jacques. It would be served, she’d been informed, in the small dining room. Small being a relative term, of course. Compared with the formal dining hall, which could seat thirty-six with elbow room to spare, this one was used for intimate dinners for ten or twelve. Silver candelabra anchored each end of the gleaming parquet-wood table. Between them sat a silver bowl containing a ginormous arrangement of white lilies and pink roses.
Blake had dressed for the occasion, Grace saw when she entered the room. She felt a funny pang when she recognized the suit he’d worn at their wedding. He’d opted for no tie and left his white shirt open at the neck, though. That quieted her sudden jitters and let her appreciate his casual elegance.
He in turn appeared to approve of the sapphire-colored jersey sundress that had thankfully emerged from her suitcase wrinkle-free. Its slightly gathered skirt fell from a strapless, elasticized bodice. Earrings and a necklace of bright, chunky beads picked up the dress’s color and added touches of purple and green, as well.
“Nice dress,” Blake commented. “You look good in that shade of blue.”
Hell, she looked good in any dress, any shade. Even better out of one. Manfully, he redirected his thoughts from the soft elastic gathers and refused to contemplate on how one small tug could bring them down.
“Would you care for a drink before dinner?” He nodded to the silver ice bucket on its stand. “There’s champagne chilling.”
“Who can say no to champagne?”
The wine was bottled exclusively for The Elms by the small vintner just outside Epernay Delilah had stumbled across a few years ago. She got such a kick out of presenting her friends and acquaintances with a gift of the private label that her sons had given up trying to convince her not everyone appreciated their champagne ultra brut.
With that in mind, he filled two crystal flutes, angled them to let the bubbles fizz and handed one to Grace.
“What shall we drink to?”
“How about starry nights, as depicted so beautifully by the print you had hung in my bedroom? Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.” He chinked his flute to hers. “Here’s to many, many starry nights.”
He savored the wine’s sharp, clean purity but wasn’t surprised when Grace wrinkled her nose and regarded her glass with something less than a connoisseur’s eye.
“It’s, uh…”
“Very dry?”
“Very something.”
“They make it with absolutely no sugar,” Blake explained, smiling. “It’s the latest trend in champagne.”
“If you say so.”
“Try another sip. Mireille Guiliano highly recommends it in her book French Women Don’t Get Fat,” he tacked on as additional inducement.
“Well, in that case…” She tipped her flute. The nose scrunch came a moment later. “Guess it takes some getting used to.”
“Like our marriage,” he agreed solemnly, then smiled as he relieved her of the drink. “We’re learning to be nothing if not flexible, right? So I had another bottle put on ice just in case.”
He made a serious dent in the ultra brut over dinner. Grace limited herself to one glass of the semi-sec but didn’t debate or hesitate to accept a second serving of Auguste’s decadent scallops au gratin. The chef himself presided over the serving tray and forked three shell-shaped ramekins onto her plate. Blake derived almost as much pleasure from her low, reverent groans of delight as he did from the succulent morsels and sinfully rich sauce.
The awkward moment came after dessert and coffee. Blake could think of a number of ways to fill the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, he’d agreed to take wild, hot sex off the agenda. He had not agreed to table slow and sweet, but he gritted his teeth and decided to keep that as his ace in the hole.
“I think there are some playing cards in the library. Want to try your hand at gin rummy?”
“We could. Or…” Her eyes telegraphed a challenge. “We could check out the video room upstairs. I saw it had a Wii console. I’m pretty good at Ubongo, if I do say so myself.”
“What’s Ubongo?”
“Ahhhh.” She crooked a finger, batted her lashes and laid on a heavy French accent. “Come avec moi, monsieur, and I will show you, yes?”
* * *
A month, even a week ago, Blake would never have imagined he’d spend the second night of his honeymoon frantically jabbing red buttons with his thumbs while jungle critters duked it out on a flat-screen TV and his bride snorted with derision at each miss…or that each snort would only make him want her more.
He fell asleep long after midnight still trying to decide how getting his butt kicked at Ubongo could put such a fierce lock on his heart. But he didn’t realize just how fierce until the next afternoon.
Nine (#ulink_57687119-4c87-541a-b167-eb6f41dd2fc9)
When Grace came downstairs, Blake was pacing the sunny breakfast room with his phone to his ear. He speared a glance at her gauzy peasant skirt topped by a white lacy camisole, waggled his brows and gave a thumbs-up of approval.
She preened a little and returned the compliment. He’d gone casual this morning, too. Instead of his usual hand-tailored oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up, he’d chosen a black, short-sleeved crew neck tucked into his tan slacks. The clingy fabric faithfully outlined the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. Grace was enjoying the view when he finished one call and made a quick apology before taking the next.
“Sorry. We’ve just been notified of a possible nationwide transportation strike that could affect delivery from one of our subs here in France. I’ve got the plant manager on hold.”
She flapped a hand. “Go ahead.”
That discussion led to a third, this one a conference call with Alex and DI’s VP for manufacturing. Although it was still the middle of the night back in the States, both men were evidently working the problem hard. Grace caught snatches of their discussion while she scarfed down another of Auguste’s incredible breakfasts.
Blake apologized again when he finished the call. “Looks like I’ll have to hang close to the villa this morning while we refine our contingency plan. Alex said to tell you he’s sorry for butting into your honeymoon.”
Her honeymoon, she noted. Not his.
“No problem,” she replied, shrugging off the little sting. “I want to do some shopping. I’ll walk into town this morning.”
When she left the villa an hour later, she saw vehicles jammed into every available parking space along the tree-shaded road leading into the heart of town. They were her first clue something was happening. The bright red umbrellas and canvas-topped booths that now sprouted like mushrooms in every nook and cranny of the town provided the second.
Delighted, Grace discovered it was market day in Saint-Rémy. Busy sellers offered everything from books and antiques to fresh vegetables, strings of sausages and giant wheels of cheese. A good many of the stalls displayed the products in the dreamy colors of Provence—pale yellows and pinks and lavenders of the soaps, earthy reds and golds in the pottery and linens.
She wandered the crowded streets and lanes, sniffing the heady scents, eagerly accepting free samples when offered. She bought boxed soaps for friends back in San Antonio, a hand-sewn sundress and floppy-brimmed hat exploding with sunflowers for Molly, a small but exquisitely worked antique cameo brooch as a peace offering for Delilah.
She’d thanked the dealer and was turning away when a wooden case at the back of the umbrella-shaded stall caught her eye. It held what looked like antique man stuff—intricately worked silver shoe buckles, pearl stickpins, a gold-rimmed monocle with a black ribbon loop.
And one ring.
Compared with the other ornate pieces in the case, the ring was relatively plain. The only design on the wide yellow gold band was a fleur-de-lis set in onyx. At least, Grace assumed those glittering black stones were onyx. She learned her mistake when the dealer lifted the ring from the case to give her a closer look.
“Madame has a good eye,” he commented. “This piece is very old and very rare. From the seventeenth century. Those are black sapphires in the center.”
“I didn’t know there were black sapphires.”
“But yes! Hold the ring to the light. You will see the fineness of their cut.”
She did as instructed and couldn’t tell squat about the cut, but the stones threw back a black fire that made Grace gasp and gave the dealer the scent of a deal in the making. He added subtle pressure by dropping some of the ring’s history.
“It is rumored to have once belonged to the Count of Provence. But the last of the count’s descendants lost his head in the Revolution and the rabble sacked and burned his hôtel, so we have no written records of this ring. No—how do you call it? Certificate of authenticity. Only this rumor, you understand.”
Grace didn’t care. She’d walked out of Judge Honeywell’s office wearing a band of diamonds. Blake’s ring finger was still bare. She didn’t need a certificate to rectify the situation. Those shimmering black sparks were authentic enough for her.
“How much is it?”
He named a figure that made her gulp until she realized it was a starting point for further negotiations. She countered. He shook his head and came back with another price. She sighed and put the ring back in the case. He plucked it out again.
“But look at these stones, madame. This workmanship.”
“I don’t know if it will fit my husband,” she argued.
“It can always be resized.”
He dropped his glance to the sparkling gems circling her finger. His expression said she could certainly afford to have it fitted, but he cut the price by another fifty euros. Grace did the conversion to dollars in her head, gulped again and tried to remember the exact balance in her much-depleted bank account.
She could cover it. Barely. Squaring her shoulders, she took the plunge. “Do you take Visa?”
* * *
The velvet bag containing the ring remained tucked in her purse when she returned to the villa. A local official had delivered documents couriered in from some government source, and Blake had invited her to join them for lunch. The woman was lively company and was delighted to learn Blake intended to show his bride Saint-Rémy’s ancient Roman ruins. She also warned they must go that very afternoon, as the archeological site could be affected if the transportation unions went on strike the following day as they’d threatened.
Grace couldn’t see the connection but didn’t argue when Blake said he was satisfied with his review of the contingency plans and was free to roam for a few hours. Before they left the villa, though, he made sure his mobile phone was fully charged, then tucked it close at hand in the breast pocket of his shirt.
The monuments she’d spotted through the trees yesterday were even more impressive up close and personal. Blake parked in a dusty, unpaved lot filled with cars and what turned out to be school buses. Grace had to smile at the noisy, exuberant teens piling out of the buses.
“I’ve taken my classes on a few field trips like this one,” she commented. “It’s always tough to judge how much of what they’ll see actually sinks in.”
Not much, Blake guessed. At least for the young, would-be studs in the crowd. As both he and his brother could verify, the attention of boys that age centered a whole lot more on girls in tight jeans than ancient ruins.
Boys of any age, actually. Grace wasn’t in jeans, but she snagged more than one admiring look from the male students and their teachers as she and Blake joined the line straggling along the dirt path to Les Antiques.
The two monuments gleamed white in the afternoon sun. Blake couldn’t remember which triumph the massive arch was supposed to commemorate—the conquest of Marseille, he thought—but he knew the perfectly preserved marble tower beside the arch had served as a mausoleum for a prominent Roman family. Luckily, descriptive plaques alongside each monument provided the details in both French and English.
Blake wasn’t surprised that the teacher in Grace had to read every word, much as she had on the Van Gogh trail yesterday. Peering over the heads of the kids, she glanced from the plaque to the intricate pattern decorating the underside of the arch.
“This is interesting. Those flowers and vines represent the fertility of ‘the Roman Province,’ aka Provence. I didn’t know that’s where the region’s name came from.”
Two of the teens obviously thought she’d addressed the comment to them. One turned and pulled an earbud from his ear. The other tucked what looked like a sketchbook under his arm and asked politely, “Pardon, madame?”
“The name, Provence.” She gestured to the sign. “It’s from the Latin.”
“Ah, oui.”
Blake hid a smile as the boys looked her over with the instinctive appreciation of the male of the species. They obviously liked what they saw. And who wouldn’t? Her hair was a wind-tossed tangle of pale silk, and the skin displayed all too enticingly by the white lace camisole had been warmed to a golden tan by the hot Provencal sun. Not surprisingly, the boys lagged behind while the rest of their group posed and snapped pictures of each other under the watchful eyes of their teachers.
“You are from the U.S.?” the taller of the two asked.
