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Julia set the seedling on an empty spot on a worktable and picked up one of the pots, then brought it back to where he had gone back to mixing the soil. “There is some dirt in here; should I dump it out? Or put the fresh soil in with it?”
“Dump it,” he said. He pointed to another bucket.
She found a small shovel on the worktable. She poured out the old dirt and scooped new soil into the pot, noticing that it was very fine, like sand. Once the pot was filled, she set it on the worktable.
M. Paquet came to stand next to her. He showed her how to hollow out a spot for the new plant with her fingers, then to remove the cloth wrapping from the roots of the seedling. “Attentivement,” he warned. “Disturb the roots as little as possible.”
Julia set the seedling gently into the little hollow, glancing up at her companion to make certain she was doing it correctly.
He nodded and pressed the soil around the roots. “Et voilà.She is planted.”
Julia smiled. The task was simple and surprisingly satisfying. She admired the little seedling in its pot. “How long before it grows into a tree?”
“A few years,” he said. He pointed to one of the larger trees in the nursery. “This one was planted two years ago. It will be ready to go into the ground this spring—once the nights are warmer.”
“I see,” Julia said.
“It will be at least five years before it bears any fruit.”
“Such a long time.” She was surprised. “It must be frustrating to wait.”
He motioned toward the branches in the bucket of water. “The cuttings will grow faster, grafted into the existing trees. Some should bear fruit as soon as next year.”
“Why do you not use cuttings exclusively?” she asked. “What is the advantage of seeds and seedlings when they take so long to grow?”
“There are a few reasons.” He picked up the little pot with the seedling inside. “This variety was chosen because of its fruit. It is especially favorable for oil. Others produce olives better suited for pickling.” He set the pot back on the table. “Some of my family’s trees are hundreds of years old. Their roots are strong enough to withstand the Mistral winds, and they will survive extreme temperatures. But disease has killed some of the branches; others have simply stopped producing fruit. If the roots are strong and the tree is healthy, new buds can be grafted into the bark, and the tree will bear fruit once again.” He brought another seedling from the crate to the table. “An olive tree grows slowly, but it will last for generations. So what we do today is not just for now but for...” He motioned with his hand.
“For your grandchildren,” Julia finished.
“Oui. Things of great value—they take time to build.” He smiled softly. “Mon pèreused to say that.” He looked toward the window. “These trees, this grove, it is more than just a farm. It is my family’s legacy.”
Julia wondered whether he carried on out of duty or whether he enjoyed the work. He certainly felt strongly about it. As she listened to him, she considered that she had not been entirely fair in her judgment of Monsieur Paquet. He was curt at times and rather sloppy, but hearing him talk about his family’s work, seeing the intensity in his expression... a wiggle moved through her middle, and heat rose to her cheeks. She realized the man stood very close.
She pushed the newly potted plant away from the edge of the table and got a new pot from the corner. This one didn’t have dirt in it, but there was a spiderweb inside. She shivered, remembering the scorpion, and felt grateful for the thick gloves.
Monsieur Paquet set the pot with the seedling back on the table and returned to the task of mixing the soil.
Julia scooped soil into the pot, prepared it, and planted the next seedling, setting it beside the first. The worktable was already crowded with tools and twine and more containers, and she knew fifty small pots would not fit in the space. “Might I move these to make room for the others?” She waved her hand toward the cluttered table.
“Oui.”
She was glad for a project to focus her thoughts and calm the strange emotions that had arisen so suddenly from... somewhere. Having things in order was just what she needed. She removed the empty containers from the table and stacked them with the others. Then she moved the pots holding plants to the back of the table, against the wall. She transferred the tools to the other worktable. Finding a cloth, she wiped away dirt until she had a clean workspace, then began emptying out the little pots, pouring out the old dry dirt and wiping away spiderwebs. She stacked the pots neatly in rows on the table. When she glanced up at M. Paquet, she saw he was watching her with an amused expression.
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.”
“Youwillsee, 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.”
