Wrong Train to Paris Page 8

  She returned to study the painting of the woman, feeling the same pull in her heart as before. “Luc, these paintings—this painting. It should be seen, not hidden away. Your name should be known and your work shown in a museum or a gallery’s collection. You are a master.”

  Luc frowned, tossing his papers onto the table. “I am an olive farmer with a hobby.”

  “You could be more. I’m not simply giving polite praise. I know art. I’ve been exposed to it my entire life with my father. This . . .” She lifted her hand toward the painting of the woman. “It belongs in the l’Exposition Universelle.”

  “Non,” Luc said.

  “My father would—”

  “Non, Juliette.”

  His voice was not angry, but he spoke firmly, leaving no room for argument. She turned back to the painting. Luc was wrong. This was not merely a hobby. A hobby created pleasant paintings of flowers and baskets of fruit. But this painting felt alive. This kind of work took something more than simply the ability to paint a recognizable image with pretty colors. The ability to reach deep inside one’s heart and create something that spoke to another’s soul . . . that was rare. A gift that came to few and was developed over years of study and practice. Luc was more than he was willing to admit. Was he afraid? Had his work been rejected before? She didn’t think now was the time to ask. She’d upset him enough for one day.

  Hearing scratching sounds behind her, she glanced back.

  Luc had put on the apron, and he was mixing paint on a board. He dabbed in his brush and, tipping his head to the side, touched the paint to his canvas. That strange wiggling feeling moved through Julia’s middle again as she watched him, and she felt the blush return to her cheeks.

  “Who is she?” she asked.

  Luc didn’t glance up to see who she meant. “Ma mère.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Julia turned back to the painting again, feeling as if she could happily look at it for hours. The feelings it drew from her were such a mixture of love and sadness that she couldn’t help but want to know more. “How did she die?”

  “Fever,” he said. “And mon père five days later.”

  “While you were away at art school.” She glanced back at him.

  He nodded, his eyes not leaving the canvas.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked back at the painting and allowed her emotions to get pulled to the surface again. “Ma mère died in a carriage accident when I was three years old.” The longing and sadness and love she felt when looking at Luc’s painting filled her heart at the thought of her own mother. Julia hardly remembered her, just bits of memories, images that slipped away when she tried to see them clearly.

  “I am sorry, Juliette.”

  She startled at the sound of his voice so close.

  Luc stood beside her. He held out a handkerchief.

  Julia took it, realizing there were tears on her cheeks. She had not cried for her mother in years.

  “Oh, excuse-moi.” She dabbed the handkerchief on her cheeks. “The painting . . .”

  Luc glanced at it.

  “It has a rather strong effect on me,” she explained.

  “Mothers . . . they are extraordinaire, non?” Luc said.

  “Oui.” Julia nodded. “But it is the artist who can stir up such emotions—he is extraordinaire.” She handed back the handkerchief, feeling foolish for the personal nature of her compliment and for the display of emotion. She started for the exit. “I will see you at dinner, Luc.”

  Closing the door behind her, Julia let out a sigh. The last thing she’d intended when she’d taken a crate to the storage shed was to break down in tears. But, on the other hand, she hadn’t intended to stumble upon Luc Paquet’s secret art studio, either. The encounter left her with quite a lot to consider.

  Why did Luc keep his art hidden? Was he simply a private person, or was it a matter of self-doubt? She was certain his works would be praised in the art community. The sale of any of his paintings would be enough to finish the repairs on his house. He could purchase back the grape vineyard and expand the farm. Or hire someone else to do the farm chores and have his days free to focus on his art.

  She sighed, picking a sprig of lavender. Remembering the scorpion, she picked a handful and sniffed it as she walked. If Luc would only trust himself—and trust Julia. She may not know how much water to give an olive seedling, but in this, she was right.

  She walked slowly up the garden path, enjoying the aroma of the lavender and the warm sun. Gabi’s garden was truly a work of art. Perhaps Provence was not as utterly devoid of culture as she’d assumed.

  A rustling sound from the other side of the garden caught her attention. “Oh no! Fleur.” The dark goat was stepping through Gabi’s herbs.

  Julia looked around, hoping to see Gabi or one of the Laurents nearby to help, but no one was in sight. Only the two cats watched her from their perch on the garden wall. “Go on, Fleur. Shoo.” She waved her hands, but the goat looked at her and kept chewing.

  Julia glanced back at the storage building. She was not going to interrupt Luc again. She’d disturbed him enough for one day. She pushed the lavender into her apron pocket and clapped her hands together loudly. “Fleur, allez-vous en! Get out of the garden.” But the noise didn’t seem to bother the goat either.

  Julia moved closer. The goat was larger than it had seemed when Gabi had been pulling on its rope. And it had two little horns. Would it charge at her? Did goats bite?

  “You’re a nice goat, aren’t you, Fleur?” She crouched down slowly, picking up the lead rope. “Now, come along.” She gave the rope a little tug.

  Fleur didn’t budge.

  Julia tugged harder, and the goat took a step forward. “There you go.” She hoped she didn’t hurt the animal, pulling on the rope as she did. But Fleur seemed not to mind. “Let’s get you back to the Laurents’,” she said in as pleasant a voice as she could manage.

  Not wanting to turn her back on the animal and give her the chance to charge at Julia or bite her heels, Julia walked backward through the garden, speaking in a soft voice as she pulled the rope. The goat didn’t protest, but she didn’t make the task easy, either. Fleur walked slowly and stopped every few steps to munch on some other plant in the garden. “That’s it, time to go home. Gabi does not like it when you eat her herbs. You should know better.”

  When Julia reached the fence between the two properties, she stopped, not sure what to do with Fleur. Should she take the animal to the Laurents’ front door or leave her at the fence where they would find her? Julia knew the goat could untie a knot, so she didn’t think tying Fleur to the fence would work. She would just get back into the garden.

  Julia looked around for a moment, wishing for a solution to materialize. If the Laurents were like Gabi, they would milk the goat in the evening—so Alice should come out at any time, looking for Fleur.

  Julia spotted a tree, well away from Gabi’s garden but near the Laurents’ fence. It had a low enough branch that Julia could easily tie the goat’s rope to it, but the goat couldn’t reach to chew on the knot. And there were plenty of weeds and nonflowering bushes under the tree for Fleur to eat while she waited. It was the perfect solution.

  Julia pulled the goat to the tree. “Here you go, Fleur. Now, stay here and wait for Alice.” She tied the rope tightly to the branch and then reached out with a tentative hand to pat the goat on its neck. “Good girl.”

  The purr of a tabby cat and the smell of baking bread greeted her when she entered Gabi’s kitchen. Julia had so many questions for Gabi. She wanted to know everything about Luc’s art. Why didn’t he tell anyone about his talent? Why was his art hidden away in a storage shed? But when she came inside, a wave of exhaustion hit, and she decided to ask her questions later, when she’d had time to consider exactly the words to use. She didn’t want to offend or to sound nosy.

 
Julia listened to Gabi chatter as they finished preparing supper and put a cake into the oven, but her thoughts kept going back to the events of the day, especially those events that involved Luc.

  Chapter Nine

  After dinner, Julia helped clean and put away the dishes but excused herself before dessert and Gabi’s proposed card game. While she did enjoy cards, she didn’t imagine she would make very good company. Her arms and back ached from moving pots and crates, and had it really been only this morning that she had found the scorpion? Julia wanted nothing more than a warm bath and a good night’s sleep.

  She bid the others good night and started up the stairs, but a pounding on the front door stopped her.

  “Gabrielle Martin, open this door at once.”

  Alice Laurent’s voice was loud and sounded very angry. Julia came back down the stairs just as Gabi came into the entry hall, muttering about rude neighbors interrupting her game of piquet.

  Luc was right behind her.

  When Gabi opened the door, Alice pushed her way inside, forcing Gabi to take a step back. The neighbor’s face was red, and her expression was furious. She looked at Luc and Julia but appeared too angry to even give a greeting. She glared at Gabi and took a step toward her. “This time you have gone too far, Gabrielle. How dare you do such a thing?”

  Luc pushed his hands into his pockets and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He let out a breath, looking as if he’d like to escape, but he was trapped now that Alice had seen him.

  “And what is it this time, eh? Has your hen laid in my garden again?” Gabi folded her arms and gave her neighbor a long-suffering sigh. “Really, how many eggs do the two of you eat?”

  Julia rested one hand on the stair railing, wondering if a late-night argument was typical between the neighbors. Seeing how little the yelling affected Gabi and Luc, she figured it must be. She glanced up the stairs and wondered if she could make a discreet exit as she’d done earlier in the garden.

  Alice pressed her fists against her eyes, then her mouth, looking as if she were too angry to even find words. “This . . . to do such a thing, it is despicable. I would never have thought you would stoop so low, Gabrielle.”

  Mathieu stepped in behind his wife, his face looking serious. His little dog came in as well and stood beside his master’s feet. Mathieu nodded a greeting at the three of his neighbors and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Whether to calm her or to support her, Julia could not be certain. But his presence seemed to make Gabi and Luc take Alice’s diatribe more seriously.

  Gabi’s brows came together and her head tipped. She looked concerned.

  Alice glanced at her husband. Her lip trembled.

  Luc stood up straight. “What has happened?”

  “You killed Fleur!” Alice pointed at Gabi with both hands. “She is so ill she can hardly walk. She will most likely not survive the night, and if she does, her milk will never be sweet again.” She turned and fell, weeping, against her husband’s shoulder.

  Gabi and Julia gasped.

  Mathieu dropped his cane, nearly hitting the dog. He held one hand against the doorframe for support and patted his wife’s back with the other.

  Gabi’s expression was replaced by confusion. She glanced at Luc, who shrugged, confused as well. “What do you mean?” Her voice was concerned. “What happened to Fleur?”

  “We found her tied to the sycamore by the south gate,” Mathieu said, looking at them over his wife’s scarf. His tone and expression were grave. “She’d been eating the—”

  “Bracken fern,” Gabi finished. She let out a heavy sigh and put a hand over her heart. “Oh, the poor thing.”

  Luc stepped closer, standing behind Gabi.

  Julia’s heart plummeted. Her head was light as the significance of what she was hearing became clear. She held tighter to the stair railing, feeling lightheaded. No, it cannot be.

  “I know she eats your herbs.” Alice turned away from her husband and back to glaring at Gabi, her face blotchy and wet. “She can’t help it. It’s in her nature. But to do such a thing to an innocent creature.”

  Gabi’s face had gone pale. “I would never hurt an animal,” she said.

  “You want your chèvre to win at the fair,” Alice said.

  “No,” Gabi said. “Not like this. I have no idea how Fleur came to be tied to the sycamore, but—”

  “It was me,” Julia said in a small voice, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her limbs.

  The four people and one dog turned to stare at her.

  “You?” Mathieu asked.

  Julia swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. “I found her in the garden and . . .” She looked down at her hands, finding it impossible to look at any of the faces staring at her, their expressions surely exhibiting the entire spectrum of anger, confusion, and—she was certain—disappointment. “I moved her away from the herbs but close to the gate so you would see her right away when you came looking. I tied the knot high in the tree so she wouldn’t bite it.” She glanced up. “I didn’t know about the bracken fern.”

  “You.” Alice pointed a shaky finger.

  “I am so sorry, Madame Laurent.” Julia’s voice cracked. “I didn’t realize the danger. I know nothing about caring for goats, and—”

  “I should have known.” Alice shook her head. “This is what happens when you let a stranger into your home, Gabrielle. You can’t trust outsiders.”

  Alice turned fully toward Julia and leaned forward, glaring.

  Julia cringed away. Her chest and ears burned.

  “I imagine you thought it nothing at all to kill a simple goat.” Alice’s voice was pure vitriol. “You and your fancy city ways. What kind of person comes into a self-respecting town and murders an animal for fun? I’ll tell you, an evil—”

  “That’s enough, Alice,” Luc interrupted. He crossed the entryway and stood beside Julia. “Miss Weston made a mistake. It was a terrible accident, nothing more.”

  “An accident?” Alice pulled her lips together, and her body tightened, looking as if pressure were building and it was only a matter of time before she exploded.

  Mathieu still had a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but now he seemed to be restraining her rather than comforting her. “If mademoiselle says it was an accident . . . ,” Mathieu said in a placating tone.

  Luc leaned closer to Julia, and she wished for an irrational moment that he would put a hand on her shoulder, or that she could hold on to his arm—or hide behind him.

  Gabi cleared her throat. “Come along to the kitchen. We will all feel better with some coffee and a nice piece of yogurt cake.”

  Alice was still staring at Julia. The anger in her eyes made Julia’s breath come fast. “How will cake fix anything?” she spat. She pulled away from her husband’s grasp with a jerk of her shoulder and folded her arms, frowning. She looked at Gabi. “You owe me a goat.”

  Gabi sucked in a breath.

  “Coquette.” Alice drew out the word, pronouncing each sound with emphasis.

  Gabi pressed her fingers to her lips, and tears came into her eyes. She nodded.

  “No,” Julia said. She stepped around Luc. “Alice, I will buy you a goat. I have money.”

  Alice’s brow raised as if the proposal interested her, but she still glared.

  Julia pressed on. She would never allow Alice to take Gabi’s beloved goat. “Luc will take me tomorrow to . . . wherever one goes to buy a goat.” She looked up at Luc, pleading in her gaze. “Won’t you?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “It’s not as easy as you think, Juliette. Purchasing livestock is more complicated than merely paying a visit to the local goat store.”

  Julia did not know how to answer. He was obviously being sarcastic, but she did not know how to find a new goat on her own. “Surely someone sells goats somewhere,” she said.

 
Luc huffed through his nose. He shook his head. “Nowhere near here.”

  Julia’s throat got even tighter. Buying a new goat was the only answer she could see to the problem she’d caused. “Please, Luc. I have to. This is my fault, and I can’t let Gabi give up Coquette.” She realized she’d taken hold of his hand with both of hers, but she did not let go, even though the action was extremely inappropriate for a young lady. “I can’t do it without you. Please.”

  Luc looked at her for a moment, then looked toward the others in the entryway.

  His aunt and neighbors stared back, waiting for his answer.

  He glanced at her hands holding his, then lifted his gaze to Julia’s. At last, Luc gave a long blink followed by a short nod.

  Julia squeezed his hand. “Thank you.” She released her grip and turned back to Alice. “I will fix this, Madame Laurent. And again, I am so very—”

  “You choose the goat, Luc.” Alice interrupted. “I trust you.” She jerked her head toward Julia. “She’ll not know the first thing about what to look for.”

  Luc nodded. “Oui.”

  “Taste the milk,” Alice continued. “It must be sweet with no aftertaste.”

  He nodded again.

  Alice gave a last glare to Julia. “I must go now and tend to my poor Fleur.” She spun and stormed out the door.

  Mathieu remained. “Gabrielle, I believe you mentioned yogurt cake . . .” He smiled.

  “Oh yes. I will make a plate for you to take.” She went into the kitchen.

  Julia scratched the little dog’s ears. She picked up Mathieu’s cane and handed it to him. “Monsieur Laurent,” she said in a timid voice. “I am truly sorry. I didn’t mean—I would never hurt Fleur.”

  He took her hand. “Of course you wouldn’t, ma chérie.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “And Alice—she knows it too. She is just . . . upset.”

  He pressed a kiss to her hand and took the plate of cake Gabi brought. He leaned close to the cake and inhaled, closing his eyes. “Ah, my favorite. Merci, Gabrielle.” Mathieu gave a pleased smile.