The Lost Carousel of Provence Read online

  Again Jean-Paul held her gaze. His manner wasn’t flirtatious—at least she didn’t think it was. But there was something . . .

  She cleared her throat. “About those plans . . . Is there sufficient demand for a hotel in this small village?”

  “I think so.” He nodded. “Saint-Véran is close enough to Avignon to take advantage of the tourists. At least that is what I’m banking on.”

  “Still, after all these generations . . .”

  “There’s virtue in returning it to its former glory and opening the doors to the public—if it’s still salvageable, that is.”

  “You think it’s that far gone? Some of the floors are slanting, and there are cracks in the walls, and a few leaks, but still . . . it seems solid.”

  “I can’t know for sure until I have it properly inspected. My cousin hasn’t allowed it, and the situation is . . . It can be awkward. Not only is Fabrice not the friendliest guy in the first place, but I don’t want him thinking I’m anxious for his demise.”

  She nodded. “I can understand that.”

  Jean-Paul’s eyes shifted to something behind her. “Excuse me, please, one moment. I see someone I must speak to.”

  “Of course. I wanted to check my e-mail anyway.”

  She logged on to her e-mail and was thrilled to find a message from Olivia:

  You are too much, my friend. I leave you alone in a foreign country for a few days, and already you’re living with an old man and his dog? In a CHTEAU???

  Olivia continued with a funny story about their latest adventures in home renovation, during which Sebastian had stepped in a bucket of water while attempting to strip the wallpaper off the walls of their old Victorian and uncover the original plaster.

  They say couples learn a lot about each other during a home renovation. I have learned that Sebastian has many sterling qualities but being a handyman is not among them. I fear for the future, as ladders will soon be involved. The over-under for our next trip to the E.R. ($$$!) is three days. Care to make a wager?

  Olivia’s chatty tone and good humor brought a smile to Cady’s face. She liked to think of herself as a loner, but the truth was she wouldn’t have made it without Maxine, and then Olivia. Even Jonquilla, now that she thought about it. Each had been an echo of her character, in a way—a big part of how she came to know who she was. What would life be without a single friend?

  Did Fabrice have anyone? After eighty-something years on this planet, how could he walk so alone? With family nearby, no less.

  Cady was writing a short missive to Olivia when Jean-Paul appeared, holding by the scruff of his collar the teenager she had seen throwing rocks.

  “Cady, I would like to introduce you to Johnny,” Jean-Paul said in French. “He has something to say to you.”

  “Désolé,” Johnny said in a sullen tone.

  “Thank you,” Cady replied. “You should apologize to Fabrice as well.”

  He shrugged and avoided eye contact, looking around the bar.

  “I’m not sure what the minimum wage is in France, or even how much it would cost to repair the damage you’ve done,” Cady said, channeling the words Maxine had used on her after she’d stolen several items from her shop. “Luckily I had insurance on my rental car that will pay for the tires, but you owe Fabrice several hours of your time. Come to the château tomorrow after school and you can start to make it up to him.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Can I go now?”

  Jean-Paul released him and the teenager slouched out the door.

  “He won’t show up, you realize,” said Jean-Paul, taking a seat.

  “You never know,” said Cady. “It worked on me, back in the day.”

  “I have a feeling there’s more to that story.”

  She smiled. “I’m a woman of mystery.”

  “Another coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I have to go grocery shopping. Pasta’s on the menu tonight.”

  “I like pasta.”

  “Oh, I . . . it’s not really my place to be asking people to dinner.”

  “It’s not really your place to be living with my cousin, either, but you’re doing it.”

  “It is still his château, after all.”

  “I realize that,” Jean-Paul said stiffly. “I’m just frustrated that I am unable to get him to open up to me. It’s a little—what is the word?—galling to have tried for so long, and then you come along with your whiskey, and just like that . . .”

  “Well, then . . . Monsieur Mirassou, would you honor us with your presence at dinner this evening?”

  Jean-Paul relaxed and smiled. “I accept with pleasure. However, if I may be so bold, it is not even noon. I see you have your camera with you. Why don’t we take a trip to Avignon? There’s a historic carousel in the Place de l’Horloge that you could photograph for your collection.”

  “Why would you want to take me to Avignon?”

  “Do you not wish to pick up a new rental car?”

  “I do, but . . . Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “It is not exactly that,” Jean-Paul said as they stood and gathered their things. “I simply want to be sure you are able to make a fast getaway, just in case.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  1900

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Maëlle

  The sounds of hammering and the whining of hand-cranked drills fill the courtyard as Bayol’s crew gets to work, assembling the numbered pieces like a jigsaw puzzle. Five men work to put the carousel together, while the others busy themselves with the construction of the salon façade, the entrance of which will be flanked by two special horse statues evocative of the carousel figures within the structure. Panels with intricately painted scenes line the walls, their gilded frames following liquid Art Nouveau lines.

  The engineer tinkers with the steam engine, and joins the rods and cranks. The front rod moves up and down, the rear rod swivels on its hinge as the ride rotates on its track under the platform floor. It is essential that everything work smoothly, without a hitch, before they return to Angers.

  The crew eats together in the servants’ dining room off the large kitchen on the ground floor. It is only when they are seated that Maëlle realizes perhaps the rumors are true, that the Clement family is not as wealthy as they first appear. Léon tells Maëlle that half the servants’ chambers are empty; he points out where the rugs are threadbare, corners of the gardens untended. He mentions, with scorn in his voice, that Madame Clement has worn the same dress twice since they arrived two weeks ago.

  “I wear the same dress every single day,” Maëlle says with wonder. What must it be like to don a different gown each morning, changing again for dinner? “Their closets must be enormous.”

  Léon laughs, a full-throated sound that she has not heard in too long. Maëlle tries not to smile, not to show how much it means to her. Is it her imagination, or has he been less attentive than before? When she asks him about it, he declares it is because he is in charge of the work crew; he must be even more discreet.

  But for a man in charge, he disappears frequently during work hours. The other men keep his secrets; they won’t tell Maëlle where Léon goes, using vague terms like “taking a break” or “he had to run into town for supplies.” As if Maëlle doesn’t know, much better than Léon, what supplies they may or may not need. When he disappears, the result is chaos on the job site. Romain is a talented carpenter but he does not understand how the mechanism—the cranks, gears, and shafts—must interact with his woodwork. Guy is a gifted engineer, focusing exclusively on the engine, the rods, and the tracks. The others are too young to take the initiative, so they wait for guidance.

  In Léon’s absence, Maëlle steps in to read the blueprints and coordinate their efforts. Soon the men begin to look to her for direction.

  When she throws herself into her wor
k she can forget that Léon looked too long at the attractive scullery maid this morning. When she feels the wood beneath her hands and watches how the disparate pieces come together, the art of the carousel sings to her like a siren.

  Madame and Monsieur Clement stop by the job site to inspect the progress. It is only then that Léon appears, giving them the tour as the man in charge. Maëlle notices how he lingers by Madame Clement’s side, attending to her every remark. He makes her laugh; she throws her head back, showing delicate white teeth; her long neck—there is a small heart-shaped mole that seems more enhancement than flaw—is adorned with a glittering gold cross.

  Just looking at Josephine’s ecru lace dress makes Maëlle feel insignificant and small, like an ant. She has never been one to lust after wealth, but now she wonders: What would it be like to wear such a thing? Beside Josephine’s bright vivacity, Yves Clement looks inconsequential; he is graying, and his slight frame is almost gaunt. He says little, seemingly content to allow his wife to shine. Maëlle can’t help but imagine a man like Léon in his place, standing tall, wearing a beautiful brocade vest and brandishing a silver-headed cane.

  Maëlle averts her gaze, praying that no one could sense what she is feeling.

  She looks up to find Josephine’s eyes on hers. It is probably her imagination . . . but it seems like Josephine is reading her mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PRESENT DAY

  AVIGNON

  Cady

  “All the way from Paris to Avignon,” Cady said as they gazed at the cobbled ruin of the Pont d’Avignon, “I had that stupid song stuck in my head: ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse.’”

  “Hard to imagine much dancing happening here now, isn’t it?” Jean-Paul responded. He had been the consummate tour guide, explaining that in the Middle Ages Avignon had flourished because of its location on the Rhône River, and had once been the seat of the Pope. “The current metropolis spills out far beyond the original city gates, of course, but most of the medieval ramparts remain.”

  Within the massive stone walls encircling Avignon was a labyrinth of cobbled streets and lantern-lit passageways. Jugglers and musicians entertained tourists in the Place de l’Horloge, a long square that stretched out in front of the Hôtel de Ville, or city hall. Vendors sold handmade jewelry and beautiful scarves, imported handicrafts from Kenya, and leather goods from Italy. Crowded cafés vied for space on the terraced square, and musicians and a juggler entertained visitors.

  “Busy place,” Cady said. “And it’s not even tourist season.”

  “In the summer, Avignon’s population is said to double with visitors. It is not Paris, but it is a popular destination, for foreigners and French alike.”

  Holding pride of place at the top of the Place de l’Horloge was the rococo Belle Époque Carousel. The running-board panels along the crown were lined with lightbulbs, inspiring Cady to imagine how it appeared at night, lighting up this stone plaza. Two levels of prancing horses and tilting carriages made their endless circles to a carnivalesque oompah-pah, and several children, red-cheeked with excitement, waved to their parents as they whirled by.

  Cady snapped numerous photographs, but the Avignon merry-go-round wasn’t distinctive enough to merit a special mention in a book focusing on Parisian carousels.

  Just then several small papers skittered by in the wind. Cady was reminded of cleaning up after her last Prospective Parents fair at the Tilden Park carousel in Berkeley. The discount name tags hadn’t stuck well to fabric, and at the end of a long afternoon the weary social workers had given Cady the task of chasing down the fluttering stickers: Connor and Maria and Kristin and Tyrone. Prospective parents, blowing away in the wind.

  “Are you all right?” Jean-Paul asked.

  Cady realized she had been staring at the carousel through the lens of her camera, as though frozen.

  “Yes, sorry. I’m done here. What’s next?”

  “The Palais des Papes.”

  “Lead on, Jeeves,” Cady said grandly. “I shall reward your efforts with a handsome tip at the end of the day.”

  “Will you, now?”

  “I’ll feed you pasta, at least.”

  “I accept. Après-vous, madamoiselle.”

  A short, narrow street led from the plaza to the fortress-like Palais des Papes, or Papal Palace. The tall, brooding Gothic structure loomed against the afternoon sky, grim and threatening.

  “This would be your palace, then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “‘Jean-Paul’ sounds like a pope’s name. So this would be your palace.”

  He looked confused.

  “Sorry. It wasn’t very funny anyway,” Cady said. “So, the architecture here seems so different from Paris.”

  “Yes, the medieval center of town has more in common with the south of France, and Spain. Avignon didn’t technically become part of France until the late eighteenth century, after the Revolution. Until then, it was a papal property. The cathedral is worth a visit,” said Jean-Paul, checking his watch, “but I don’t know if we have time to go in today.”

  “That’s all right,” Cady said, eyeing the line of visitors waiting to purchase tickets to tour the palace. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’m enjoying my walking tour.”

  “The Librairie Roumanille is down that way,” he said, pointing toward a stone passageway. “It is said to be one of the oldest bookstores in all of France.”

  “That I have to see,” she said.

  They walked down the rue Saint-Agricol, taking in gorgeous painted doors and small statues of saints set into shadowy niches on the sides of ancient stone town houses. They paused to peer in the windows of an antiques store displaying several wooden carvings, making Cady wonder again how Gus had ended up at a flea market in San Francisco, where Maxine had found him.

  “It is time for lunch,” Jean-Paul announced as they left the bookstore.

  “But we’re having pasta for dinner.”

  “And?”

  “I wasn’t planning on having a big lunch. Maybe just grab a quick sandwich.”

  He shook his head. “We eat dinner late in this part of France. You need a good lunch.”

  “Fabrice said something about that last night, when I served dinner at six thirty.”

  “Here it can be very hot and . . . what is the word? Maggy? Very humid in the summertime. So people take advantage of the cool of the evening to sit outside and enjoy their meal. It doesn’t cool down until well after eight. Let’s stop here: La Cour du Louvre is a wonderful restaurant.”

  Cady might have passed right by the small passageway had Jean-Paul not pointed it out. It led to a courtyard strung with fairy lights, the restaurant’s decor bohemian but elegant. Jean-Paul asked if she would let him order for her, and, feeling adventurous, she agreed.

  Cady sat back in her chair and noted, with some surprise, that she was extraordinarily relaxed. Partly it was the simple fact that Jean-Paul preferred to speak English. As much as Cady enjoyed exploring the world opened up by a new language, and knew her fluency was improving, speaking French with Fabrice had been draining. Cady feared that she missed at least twenty percent of what he said—maybe more—and virtually all of the nuance. She had to concentrate at all times, imagining where one word stopped and another began, but taking care not to get so caught up in the mechanics of syntax and grammar that she lost the flow of the conversation.

  It was exhausting.

  So it was a welcome respite to be able to speak her own language, and Jean-Paul rarely failed to understand. But there was more to it than just the ease of communication. There was something comforting about Jean-Paul, an ease with which he operated in the world. She envied him his self-confidence.

  “Do you know this wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle with a fancy label.

  “No,” said Cady. “I’ve b
een to Napa and know a little bit about California wines, but French wine is a complete mystery to me. I am, I fear, an uncouth savage.”

  Jean-Paul laughed. “Then we must do something about that, ma chère sauvage. This is Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

  “Again with the popes?”

  “It is the name of a village, not far from Avignon. I believe a pope had a castle there, yes.” He poured the ruby red wine into her glass.

  “Well, I do love the name. Châteauneuf-du-Pape.” She repeated it: sha-toe-nuff-du-pop. “I could say that all day. Châteauneuf-du-POP!”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You are charming. I’ve just never really thought about the name before.”

  Me, charming? That was a first. But then everything about this trip was a first.

  “Try it,” Jean-Paul urged.

  She brought the glass to her lips, but paused when she noted his eyes tracking her movements. “You always watch me when I eat and drink. Is it like the walking thing? Do I drink like an American or something?”

  He gave her a slow, sexy smile. “It is nothing like that. You seem to enjoy the flavors so much . . . and what is more sensual than a beautiful woman eating and drinking?”

  “I’m hardly a beautiful woman, Jean-Paul. What is it you want from me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The first time we met, you offered to buy my rabbit from me. And then you took a day to escort me around Paris, and now all around Avignon. Why?”

  “As I said, you are—”

  “A beautiful woman. Right. Sell it somewhere else.”

  “I’m sorry, Cady, but I don’t understand how I have offended you.”

  Cady took a deep breath and tried to rein in her temper. Was she just being paranoid? Probably. The French were famous for being sensualists; maybe that’s all there was to it. She took a deep quaff of the wine, which was full-bodied and delicious. This time Jean-Paul made a point of looking away as she drank, which struck her as funny somehow.