Wrong Train to Paris Read online

  She felt immediately defensive. “Do you find something diverting, monsieur?”

  “I have never met such a tidy woman.” His tone was not mocking but friendly.

  Julia relaxed and shrugged. “I like things to be organized. Then I can complete the task in the most efficient manner.”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “I see.”

  “You will see, Monsieur Paquet.” She held up a finger to emphasize the point. “I will finish planting in no time because I made the extra effort to set things in order at the start.”

  His lips twitched again. “Luc,” he said. “You should call me Luc.”

  Heat returned to her cheeks, and she looked down at the little seedlings, moving the pots. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, monsieur.”

  “This isn’t Paris. Here, in Provence, we speak much less formally.”

  “Oh.” Julia didn’t know what to say. A man had never asked her to call him by his forename.

  “Besides, you and I—we sleep across the corridor from one another, like a brother and sister. It is silly to stand on ceremony with such an arrangement, non?”

  He took the twine and a knife from the table and then moved toward the door, picking up the bucket of cuttings and the wide brimmed hat leaning against it. “I will fetch you for lunch, Juliette?”

  “Yes.” She wiped imaginary dirt from the table with the cloth, needing to keep her hands busy and to look at something besides him. “Thank you.”

  Once the door closed, Julia stopped wiping the table. “Luc,” she said softly, enjoying how it sounded. And surprisingly, she’d enjoyed how her name sounded when he’d said it as well. But she did not at all enjoy his suggestion that the two were like brother and sister.

  Feeling the anticipation of a project, Julia set to work. She dragged the crates of seedlings closer to the worktable and tried to move the barrel, but it was too heavy. No matter. Within a moment, she had developed a system: take a pot to the barrel, and once it was filled with soil, bring it with a new seedling back to the table to plant. The work moved quickly, and at last, she planted the final seedling.

  Seeing the pots lined up with their little sprouts all tidily planted gave her the pleasant, satisfied feeling that always accompanied the completion of a task.

  Julia looked at her wristwatch and the watch hanging from her neck. Having still a few hours until lunchtime, she decided the rest of the nursery could use straightening as well.

  She set the pouch of olive seeds on the worktable and moved the empty crates outside the door. She found an old broom and pulled out the pots from beneath the tables so she could sweep behind them. She cleaned off the other worktable, swept out the cobwebs and piles of spilled dirt from the corners of the room, and then cleaned out the old pots, dumping the old dirt into the bucket. She brought the pots in from outside the building and stacked all of the empty pots neatly under the tables. Some of the containers beneath the table had plants in them, and these she moved to the top, where they could get the sunlight they needed.

  She pushed and pulled the heavier pots of trees on the ground to the far wall, arranging them by size.

  Seeing nails in the wall, Julia hung as many tools up and out of the way as she could, and the rest she put into buckets or leaned nicely in a corner.

  Luc still hadn’t come for her, and she decided planting the olive seeds was an easy enough task. She’d planted bean seeds in school, and it was much simpler than the seedlings had been. She opened the pouch and poured out the seeds, then found small pots for them, filled them with soil, pressed the seeds in, and covered them.

  Finally, she took the watering can out to the pump in the garden and filled it, making the trip back and forth a few times until everything was watered thoroughly.

  The nursery looked splendid, and Julia could not stop her smile when she thought of how pleased Luc would be when he saw it.

  When Luc returned a quarter of an hour later, Julia stood back to allow him to see the space in its entirety. He took a few steps inside and turned slowly, taking it all in. He was apparently too delighted to speak.

  “Juliette . . .”

  “It was really no trouble,” she said. She clasped her hands in front of her waist. His reaction was even better than she’d imagined. He was actually speechless. A warm bubble expanded in her chest.

  He set down the bucket with the remainder of the cuttings by the door. He looked at Julia, then at the nursery. “It is very tidy.”

  “Much better, don’t you agree?” Julia fought against her grin. She felt very proud to have done such a splendid job in such a short amount of time.

  Luc scratched his jaw, his gaze moving over the room as if searching for the right words to express his pleasure at the surprise. “You finished the planting, I see.” He walked between the tables, looking at all of the pots. He picked up one of the newly planted seedlings. A trickle of water drained out of the hole in the bottom of the pot, and Luc winced.

  A tinge of unease began inside her. “Is something . . . did I do something wrong?”

  Luc lifted another little pot, letting it drip. “The cuttings are very delicate at this stage,” he said. “They need to remain dry.”

  “Oh.”

  “And out of the sun.”

  Her stomach got hot. “I assumed all plants need water and sunlight.”

  He didn’t respond but lifted a few other pots, watching the water drain out. “Juliette.” Luc lifted the seed pouch. His voice was calm, but she could tell he exerted an effort to keep it so. “Where are the olive seeds?”

  “I planted them,” she said in a quiet voice, praying it hadn’t been the wrong thing to do as well. She joined him at the table. “They are in these pots, here.”

  Luc nodded, and his lips pressed together.

  “That was wrong as well, wasn’t it?” Julia asked.

  “The seeds need to be prepared first.” He pulled off his hat and rubbed the back of his neck. “And these”—he indicated the pots she’d moved to the sides of the room—“they were arranged by variety and age. I—”

  “I’m sorry.” A sick feeling compressed her stomach. “I thought . . .” Her throat got tight, and she blinked at the stinging in her eyes. Instead of putting the nursery in order, she’d made everything worse. She hurried over and started to drag one of the heavy pots back toward the center of the room. “I will put them all back. And dig out the seeds. And put the seedlings in dry soil.”

  Luc muttered something she couldn’t hear. He rubbed his forehead and sighed, looking around the room. “It can all be put right after lunch. Come along. Gabi is waiting.” He moved to the door and held it open, gesturing for her to precede him.

  Julia glanced at him as they walked along the path through Gabi’s garden. His mouth was pulled tight, and the lines between his brows were deep. She felt utterly deflated and rather ill. “Luc, I am so sorry. I thought I was being helpful.”

  He glanced at her. “I know.” His face softened slightly. “And I’m thankful for the effort. The nursery has never been so orderly.”

  “But I ruined everything.” She hung her head. “And I made more work.” A new thought jolted her. “Will the seedlings survive?” The idea of him losing the seedlings he’d brought all the way from Greece made her stomach drop.

  “I think so.” He nodded. “After lunch, I’ll replant them in dry soil, and they’ll go beneath the table, out of the sunlight.”

  “I will help you set it all right,” she said, determined to fix what she’d done.” With the two of us working together, it will—”

  “Perhaps Gabi could use your help in the house this afternoon.” Luc opened the door to Gabi’s kitchen.

  His voice was not angry, but there was no mistaking his intention. He’d had quite enough of her assistance.

  Julia’s chest burned, and she s
wallowed against the lump in her throat. She moved past Luc into the house, not daring to look up at his face, lest she start to cry. She’d started out this morning hoping to make things better with Luc, but she’d managed to do the exact opposite.

  Chapter Eight

  Julia did not add much to the conversation at lunch; instead, she fed bits of her food to Fredric and his black-and-white sister. She felt terrible for the trouble she’d caused Luc. And the more she considered, the more ashamed she was. What arrogance to believe she knew better than he how to manage his business.

  “Juliette, you have hardly touched your andouillette,” Gabi said. “Are you ill, ma chérie?”

  Julia forced a smile. “No, not at all.” She took a bite of the sausage and commented on how delicious the food tasted.

  “You must keep up your strength,” Gabi said. “Working in the nursery can be very tiring.”

  Julia broke off a piece of bread and spread the chèvre cheese over it. She kept her gaze from Luc, feeling a thickness in the air between them.

  “And how did you get on?” Gabi asked, cutting into her sausage. “Did you manage to get all of the seedlings planted?”

  “Oui,” Luc said.

  Julia hazarded a peek at him, but he didn’t look up from his plate.

  Gabi looked between them, her gaze turning thoughtful, but she did not comment further. Instead, she filled Luc in on the morning’s confrontation with the Laurents about Fleur the goat. “And does she just expect me to allow her animal to eat my garden?” Gabi finished the story with a huff.

  “Maybe I will have a look at the Laurents’ pen,” Luc said. “Figure out how Fleur keeps getting out.”

  “I’m sure Mathieu would appreciate it,” Gabi agreed. “He tries to manage all the chores as he used to, but it is so much more difficult lately with his hip . . .”

  Luc grunted in agreement. He pushed back from the table and stood. “Thank you for lunch, Gabi.”

  “I will see you at suppertime.” Gabi let him kiss her cheek. “And Juliette, will you return to the nursery with Luc?”

  Julia looked up, meeting Luc’s gaze and feeling her face go crimson. The sick feeling returned. “I . . . no. Can I be of any use to you inside, Gabi?”

  Luc left, and Gabi leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Ma chérie Juliette, tell me, what has happened?”

  The heat returned to Julia’s chest as she explained what she had done in the nursery that morning. “Luc didn’t get angry, but I know he felt frustrated,” she said.

  Gabi swatted her hand through the air. “Don’t worry about Luc. He’s grateful for the help. And the nursery needed a good cleaning.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed my way was best,” Julia said, looking down at the cat on her lap. She hated the thought of Luc out in the nursery right now, remembering with every seedling he replanted what a frustration she’d proven to be.

  Gabi stood, taking their plates to the washbasin. “After we wash the dishes and prepare for dinner, I have a closet I’d planned to clean out. Do you know of anyone who might be able to help?” She winked and grinned.

  “I might know someone.” Julia smiled. She appreciated the attempt to cheer her up, and truthfully, the idea of a new project—one she couldn’t bungle—did sound like just the thing.

  Later that afternoon, Julia glanced at both of her timepieces. She and Gabi had worked steadily for more than three hours. Once they’d washed the dishes, set the bread rising, and cut up vegetables for a stew, the pair had cleaned out two closets, one wardrobe, and the curio cabinet in the parlor.

  Gabi left to tend to Coquette, and Julia let out a heavy sigh as she sat on the parlor sofa, feeling exhausted from all the work.

  Four crates sat on the parlor floor, filled with an assemblage of old clothing, kitchen implements, books, linen, and other odds and ends that had gathered in the nooks of Gabi’s house over the years.

  Julia was tempted to take a nap but decided the task wasn’t completely finished until the crates were moved into storage. And wouldn’t her hostess be pleased to return to find her parlor floor clean?

  She hefted one of the crates and took it outside, starting down the garden path. Although the crate was heavy, Julia didn’t stop to rest, wanting to get past the nursery as quickly as possible. Luckily, she did not encounter Luc, and she did not see him among the olive trees as she walked by either.

  The storage building was unlocked. Julia held on to the heavy crate with both hands and pushed the door open with her hip.

  She stopped in the doorway, blinking as she took in the sight before her. Where she’d imagined a dusty building filled with old furniture and boxes, she found instead a bright room with high windows. Paintings surrounded the space, some on easels, others propped up on boxes, and some were set on the floor, leaning against the walls.

  A drop cloth was laid on the ground in a sunny spot in the center of the room, and on it was a table of supplies and an easel that held a canvas with a partially completed composition. Julia set down the crate and walked closer, studying the painting.

  The paint colors were pastel, but their application wasn’t delicate. The strokes were applied thickly, with subtly varying tones. She could see the painting was of a landscape, though the trees and other flora had only been sketched in with a pencil. A brook crossed through the field, and even in the early stages of the work, the water appeared to trickle and move over stones.

  The way the artist captured movement and light—it must be the same person who’d painted the picture in Gabi’s front entry. Julia stared at the painting, trying to imagine the person who’d created it.

  “It’s spectacular,” Julia muttered. Was Gabi an artist? It stood to reason. She was creative, she surrounded herself with color, and as was the case with many artists Julia had met, she was a bit unconventional.

  Papers with sketches and notes were scattered over the table with tubes of paint and cups filled with brushes. A stool with a paint-splattered apron was beside it. Julia examined the sketches for a moment. Why did Gabi not tell me about this? she wondered. She could not imagine the older woman being shy about anything.

  Julia walked around the edges of the room, studying the works. The paintings had obviously been completed over a number of years. She recognized what must be some of the early attempts and marveled at the artist’s improvement in others. When she reached a particular painting that sat up higher, on an easel, she stopped, drawing in a breath.

  This one. This one is the masterpiece. The composition was different from that of the others. A woman was shown, leaning over a stone bridge, her arm outstretched toward a pair of swans she appeared to be feeding. The shadows of a willow played over the skin of the woman’s shoulders and face, and the reflection of the light on the water shone on her as well, the contrast bringing movement to the picture.

  Julia could not take her eyes from the woman’s face. The artist had created the painting in the impressionist style, giving the feeling of a stolen moment or the wisp of a memory. The image was stunning—breathtaking—pulling at something deep inside Julia’s heart and filling her with a longing that brought tears to her eyes.

  “Juliette?” Luc’s voice startled her, breaking the spell.

  She turned quickly. “Oh, Luc.” His expression was not pleased. Probably because he’d spent the afternoon replanting and reorganizing his nursery.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I thought this building was for storage.” Julia pointed to the crate by the door. “I didn’t realize . . .” She cleared her throat, trying to expel the rush of emotion evoked by the painting. “Is this Gabi’s studio?”

  His expression grew, if possible, even darker beneath the shadow of his hat brim. “You should not trespass where you’re not invited.”

  “But Gabi would not mind,” Julia said. “I’m sure of
it.” She didn’t like the way he made her feel as if she were doing something wrong. “I should like her to tell me about her work. And my father would be so pleased to discover an unknown artist, especially one with such talent.” She motioned around the room. “All of this—it belongs in a gallery.”

  “It is my studio.” He spoke in a low voice, the edges of his eyes tightening as if he’d not wanted to make the confession.

  Julia gave a small gasp. “You are the artist.” She looked around the room, viewing the artwork again with an entirely different perspective. Luc had created this? “But why did you not tell me when I asked about the painting in Gabi’s front hall? That is obviously your work as well.”

  Luc shrugged. “I don’t tell anyone.” He pushed his hands into his pockets.

  Julia couldn’t believe it. She swept her arms wide. “You painted all of these?”

  “Oui.”

  “They are . . . you are . . .” She motioned, unable to come up with words to describe exactly how splendid the works were. “You must have been trained.”

  “For a time.” Luc moved to the easel, lifting the apron and sitting on the bench. He set his hat on the table. “I attended l’École des Beaux-Arts in Arles, but . . .” He shrugged again. “But I had to cut my studies short. When my parents died, I returned to Riv.”

  “To care for the trees,” Julia finished.

  “Oui. And for Gabi, although you should not tell her that. She does not believe she needs any help.” He shuffled around some papers on the table, seeming to not wish to continue the discussion.

  But he did not appear to mind her presence, so Julia continued around the room, considering each of the paintings. The more she saw, the more convinced she was that his artwork did not deserve to be hidden away in a shed in the country. He had as much, if not more skill than any impressionist artist she’d seen. And she had seen quite a few. For all of his potential to be wasted . . . Julia could not allow that to happen.