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Julia squinted through the rain, and a house came into view. A low peach-and-gray stone wall ran along the road beneath a large almond tree covered in pink blossoms. The house was two stories, built of the same stone, and sitting at the end of a path that began at a break in the wall.
M. Paquet drew the wagon to a halt. “Tante Gabrielle’s house.” He helped Julia from the wagon and fetched her cake and handbag from the rear of the wagon before leading her up the garden path.
The house was charming, in a primitive sort of way. The shutters next to the windows were painted a bright sky blue, and ivy grew over the outer walls. Mismatched flowerpots filled with a variety of blossoms sat on windowsills and along the ground beneath them.
Another house sat nearby on the same side of the road, and through the sprinkling rain, Julia could see at least one other farther along.
When they drew near, the door flung open, and a slender woman wearing a homespun dress and apron stepped out, spreading her arms wide. “Luc, you’ve returned!” Black and gray curls escaped the scarf tied around her hair, flying around her face. She drew him into an embrace, kissing both his cheeks. “How I’ve missed you,mon cher.” She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “And you are soaked through. Come inside.”
If Julia had considered M. Paquet’s accent to be strong, that was nothing to his aunt’s. The sounds managed to be both guttural and nasal, and it seemed as though a random vowel might be thrown into the sentence at any time. She found it nearly impossible to understand without extreme concentration.
“Gabi, I’ve brought a guest.” M. Paquet stepped to the side, allowing his aunt to see past him. “This is Mademoiselle Julia Weston. Mademoiselle Weston, meet my aunt, Gabrielle Martin.”
“Un plaisir,” Julia said.
When her gaze landed on Julia, Gabrielle Martin’s eyes went wide. “Oh,ma chérie,you must be frozen through. Come inside right away.” She took Julia’s arm and pulled her through the doorway, tutting as she helped Julia remove the wet coat. “This dress is not suitable for such weather.” She shook her head. “You look like a dog who fell into the pond. Stay here. I will bring towels.” She rushed up a flight of stairs.
“Je suis désolé,” Monsieur Paquet grimaced. “My aunt speaks without thinking. You do not look like a wet dog, mademoiselle.”
“I certainly feel like one,” Julia said. She turned around to view the entryway, noticing a small parlor on the other side of the stairs.
The woodwork was dark, the walls whitewashed plaster, and the floor stone. A pile of boots and shoes was heaped under a bench next to the door. A row of hooks held coats and hats. On the wall across from the front door, books, a few dirty dishes, and more flowerpots cluttered the sidebar table. Above it, in a simple frame...
“Oh my,” Julia said. She moved closer to study the painting.
The scene was rendered in the impressionist style, a new movement popularized by such masters as Gaugin and Monet. It depicted a country house—the very one in which she stood, based on its almond tree, blue shutters, and flowerpots. Light played over the stones of the house and wall, adding movement and depth. In the shadows beneath the tree she could make out two figures sitting, perhaps enjoying a picnic, and beyond, orchards and lavender fields stretched toward mountains shrouded in mist. The painting was reminiscent of a dream or a memory, perfectly capturing the essence of impressionism. And although it was clearly created by someone with an exceptional grasp of composition, Julia was certain the artist was not one she’d seen before. There was something incredibly distinct about the style. It gave a sense of longing that touched a very personal place inside her soul.
“Who is the artist?” She didn’t take her eyes from the painting as she spoke. “This is exceptional.”
“It is no one you’ve heard of,” Luc said.
Julia turned toward him. “This should be displayed at l’Exposition Universelle. Is the artist local? I must meet him. Or her.”
Monsieur Paquet didn’t answer. He looked up to where his aunt was bringing down an armful of towels and hurried up the steps to assist her.
A moment later, a towel was wrapped around Julia’s shoulders, another around her wet hair, and she sat in a soft chair before the kitchen hearth, a black-and-white cat weaving around her legs.
Monsieur Paquet had a towel around his shoulders as well, and a tabby cat on his lap. He sat at a kitchen table that was covered with dishes, laundry, and even more flowerpots and looked through the window above the washbasin.
“Thank you, Madame Martin,” Julia said, accepting a mug of tea.
“Oh, none of this ‘madame’ business.” She swatted her hand in the air as if to hit the word out of the room. “I am Gabi to my friends.” She pushed aside a pile of linens and set a mug on the table in front of her nephew. “And to my enemies, I suppose,” she added thoughtfully. “Now, Juliette, tell me how you found yourself in Riv, dressed in an evening gown in the pouring rain.”
The French version of her name reminded Julia of her grandmother.
Gabi took a seat on the other side of the hearth. “I imagine the tale involves a handsome gentleman and perhaps some romantic intrigue, oui?” She raised and lowered her brows a few times.
Monsieur Paquet snorted.
“I’m afraid not,” Julia said, hiding a smile at the older woman’s insinuation. “I was supposed to go to Paris, but I boarded the wrong train and found myself stranded in Rivulet by accident. Monsieur Paquet was kind enough to help me.”
“Voilà!” Gabi held up a finger. “A handsome gentleman.” She turned her finger to point toward the kitchen table.
“Ah, oui.” Julia’s cheeks went hot, and she kept her gaze from the other side of the kitchen. “He is... handsome.”
Julia could feel M. Paquet’s embarrassment, though he made no sound. She didn’t dare look in his direction.
“And you are meant to be in Paris?” Gabi said, continuing as if she hadn’t noticed any discomfort. “Your family must be worried when you did not arrive.”
