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“Very well.” She took his arm, her heartbeat speeding up. She enjoyed the charade quite a lot but did not dare to say it.
“Viens alors.” Luc glanced at her, his lips pulling into a smirk. “Honey.”
Julia’s blush burned up her neck and over her cheeks.
When Luc knocked, the farmhouse door was opened by a young woman Julia estimated to be close to five years her senior. She held a baby on her hip and studied them with a cautious gaze. A small girl with dark curls peeked around the woman’s skirts.
Luc explained their trouble, and the woman’s face softened. She opened the door wider. “Madame, please come inside, out of the rain. Monsieur, my husband tends the vines. Go to him. He will be happy to help.” She glanced toward the road. “You may put your animals in the pen, behind the house.”
Luc thanked her. He glanced at Julia as if to make certain she was agreeable to being left with a stranger.
His concern gave her a thrill, and she looked away, embarrassed that yet another blush heated her face. She nodded. “I will be all right.”
“Not to worry, monsieur. I will take good care of your wife.” The woman smiled. She opened the door wider, and Julia stepped over the threshold into a main room that served as a kitchen, eating area, and parlor. The furnishings were simple and worn, but everything was clean.
Julia’s skirts dripped, making a puddle on the stone floor.
The woman instructed her to leave her muddy boots beside the door. “I am Sylvie Deschamps.”
“Julia W—” She stopped, her cheeks growing warm again. “Julia Paquet.”
“Bienvenue, Madame Paquet.” Sylvie stepped to the side, urging the small girl forward. “This is Élise.”
“Bonjour, Élise.”
“Bonjour,” the girl said in a shy voice. She stepped back behind her mother.
“And here is little Adrien.” Sylvie bounced the baby on her hip.
Adrien sucked on his fist, and Julia smiled.
She untied the wet knots in the laces of her boots, and by the time she stepped out of the boots and set them by the door, Sylvie had returned and handed her a towel. “I put dry clothes in the washroom.” She motioned toward a door that led from the main room. “I think we are close to the same size. We can dry your dress by the fire.”
“Merci,” Julia said. In the washroom, she found clothes in a style very similar to those she’d borrowed from Gabi. Sylvie was a bit taller, and the skirts brushed the floor. Julia made certain she still had her wristwatch and hung the other timepiece around her neck. She wrung out her wet clothing and brought it back out to the hearth.
Sylvie had set up a wooden drying frame, and she laid Julia’s clothes over it.
“Thank you again,” Julia said.
“So much rain!” Sylvie tsked and shook her head. “But the grapes will be all the plumper for it.”
“Your house is lovely,” Julia said.
“Merci.” Sylvie put a log into the fire.
Julia looked around with interest as she dried her hair with the towel. Much of the farmhouse’s style reminded her of Gabi’s. But there were distinct differences as well. Instead of cupboards and shelves overflowing with dishes and knickknacks, Sylvie had very few items for display. The things she did own appeared functional and meticulously taken care of, even if they were well used. Her home was simple, but Julia could see the woman took pride in it.
“You must be chilled,” Sylvie said, motioning toward the kitchen table. “Come, sit. I will makevin chaud.”
“Let me help you,” Julia said, feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of being waited on, especially since she was the one imposing.
Sylvie considered for a moment, then handed Adrien to her. “Do you mind?” She shook out her arm and rubbed her back. “That one, he is becoming too heavy to carry all day.” She leaned close to the baby and waggled a finger in pretend chastisement. “Yourmaman’sarm is tired, mon cher.”
Julia held the baby on her own hip, the same way she’d seen Sylvie do, wrapping an arm around him to keep him from falling. The baby was heavy, and after a few moments, she shifted him to her other hip, trying to imagine how difficult it must be to hold him as well as tend to the household chores.
“How old is he?” Julia asked.
“Nine months.” Sylvie poured wine into a saucepan and lit the stove beneath it. She looked at the baby with fondness, then down at the little girl. “And Élise, tell Madame Paquet how old you are.”
