* * *
“I’ve decided this town is pure magic,” she said to Pierre as they toasted with their first glass of rosé on the terrace.
Her bags from the car had arrived and she was comfortably dressed in lighter clothes than she’d worn around Paris. Although it was not so warm that they didn’t need the heaters on the terrace to be comfortable.
“The weather feels more like Paris right now, that’s for certain.”
Pierre agreed, adding, “Throughout the winter, we have some cooler days and then other days we can eat outside, no heaters. So you never know. But do you notice the light? You will understand why painters have been coming here and do not want to leave. The winter light in particular is so special. The mistral wind blows down from the Alps and clears everything from the air.”
Nora looked out to the Mediterranean and then at the lively scene below of people wining and dining. All she had seen in the short time they’d been there—the sparkling sea, colorful buildings, intriguing narrow passageways, stunning Belle Epoque architecture, busy terraces—gave an impression of a vibrant culture inviting everyone to join in.
It was still early for dinner, but people of all ages and cultures sat at outdoor tables enjoying apéros. Music filled the air. “It’s all so joyful,” she said.
“It gets crazy noisy here. Especially in the summer, but I don’t mind. It reminds me people are happy and enjoying their good fortune at being in such beautiful surroundings.”
“We’re blessed with good fortune to be here,” Nora agreed.
“And by the way,” Pierre said with a grin, “we love to dance tango in Nice. I’ll show you when my arm is better.”
Nora smiled at him, with a hint of shyness, and wondered if he was referring to Luc. For a brief moment, her thoughts wandered to him and her heart was filled with gratitude for all she had learned from him. He would forever be a true friend.
As dusk began to fall, Pierre asked, “What would you like to do for dinner? As you can see, we simply walk outside and have our choice of fantastic food. Or I can order anything from a charcuterie board to a gourmet meal. You decide.”
Nora didn’t have to think long. “We’ve had so many fabulous meals this week, I would be happy to sit here, watch the sun set, and graze a charcuterie board.”
“Magnifique! You read my mind,” Pierre said.
ChapterFifty-One
When Nora awokethe next morning, Pierre was gone. He had left a note that they were unloading the art into a storeroom and he would be home around noon. She wondered what he meant by “don’t jump too high when you hear the cannon go off”.
At the stroke of noon, a loud cannon blast caused her to shriek out loud. Then she laughed. At least he had warned her and she would get an explanation from him.
The following days caused Nora to feel she was living a dream.
Pierre removed his sling and stated he was fine, only feeling a little stiffness, which he could deal with. “I want to be the full-time chauffeur while you are here.”
He drove to nearby breathtaking locations: Villefranche-sur-Mer, Eze, Antibes, Menton, Mougins, St. Paul de Vence and even Gourdon, perched high on a clifftop. They laughed and sang as they traveled along the winding coastal corniches and maneuvered breathtaking switchback curves high into the hills. Memories were made as they visited galleries, browsed markets, took photos of crumbling castles, explored vibrant neighborhoods, and hiked challenging trails to be rewarded with stunning views. All the while they were embraced by the glorious beauty and culture of the Côte d’Azur.
Meals were a celebration of the simple pleasure and wellness offered by the Mediterranean diet, presented with creativity. “Some of these plates are almost too artistic to eat,” Nora said as she tried not to become someone who took photos of every serving.
Chloe texted: Mom! You are making me crave seafood so badly.
Nora : I’ve never eaten fish served in so many irresistible ways and always so fresh.
This part of the world lived up to all Nora had ever heard, and then some. Her writer’s heart felt it was in some ways a state of mind, the romantic blended with the real. History and art were alive everywhere and enfolded her.
In places of immense beauty, even on the streets of Nice, Nora encountered remembrances for women and men like ones she had come to know in Marie-Louise’s stories. No part of the country had been untouched by war. Memorials stood in town squares, names etched in stone, flowers carefully laid beneath plaques that told of sacrifice and sorrow. She felt a deep and growing respect for such enduring reverence.
All these experiences inspired Nora to write, and each night before she fell asleep, she filled pages in a journal, something she had never done before. Her mind brimmed with ideas.
Her mind was alive with possibilities as Nora considered endless options facing her. She thought back to what had come before Nice and what could come after. Life. With all its choices.
Before Nora realized it, a week had flown by. In between their explorations and excursions, she had worked on Marie-Louise’s memoir while Pierre spent time at the gallery. She was pleased to feel she was refining a final draft and eager to sit with Marie-Louise again and present it to her for her thoughts. Nora wondered if she would ever be able to adequately express her gratitude for all the experience had personally given to her and how deeply she had been touched.
Every time she mentioned to Pierre she should return to Paris, he had another reason to ask her to stay a while longer. But always, it was her choice. She never felt pressured and was aware of how deeply she did not want to leave. At least not for good.
Pierre invited her to his gallery on days when he had business there and asked her opinion about displays and promotional materials for exhibits. He introduced her to artists and sometimes encouraged her to bring her laptop to work on her writing in his office. Occasionally she stayed behind, writing in the quiet of the apartment or looking over the turquoise sea or in the peaceful surroundings of a shady park. She was writing every day.
