Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  She felt her throat tighten with emotion. Her heartache was palpable. She swallowed hard as she tried to control the stinging behind her eyes.

  Please don’t let me lose it now.

  Just because the telling was becoming a little easier did not mean the pain was gone. Will it ever go away? Time to refocus my thoughts . . .

  The air in the square was filled with talk and laughter. The milling crowd closed in around them. Arianna pulled her shawl from her bag. Feeling a bit of an edge in the refreshing but cool evening air, she wrapped it snugly around her.

  They laughed as they approached the ice cream shop and saw Joan and John, cones in hand, comfortably sitting with Cecilia. “No surprise here!” they greeted them. Before meeting Maurice, they all placed a large to-go order to share at the mas.

  After a good long soak in the tub, Arianna was happy to crawl into bed. It had been quite an evening. Quite a day, for that matter. She was amazed when she went over all that had occurred.

  She’d replayed the conversation with Marti and Lisa as she’d unwound in the bath. Gratitude was the strongest emotion that filled her right now. She could never have imagined sharing her personal life so completely with relative strangers. But Juliette had reached in and opened a small corner of the compartment where she had locked her feelings about her life. About the “now.”

  Marti and Lisa were so easy to be with. So honest and open in their own ways. She smiled to herself, suddenly thinking that Faith would have said, “They have their shit together.” Arianna hoped she was getting to that point too. Each small disclosure felt like a small step forward. Okay, an inch . . . but still forward . . .

  There was now a soft but commanding meow in the hallway. Arianna slipped out from under the covers and opened her door. She invited Maximus to join her. He looked up at her as he rubbed against her legs.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur Maximus. Did you sense that a comforting snuggle would be appropriate?”

  She stroked his back and then climbed into bed. He sprung up lightly, barely denting the duvet, and nestled into her body.

  Arianna fell asleep to his gentle purr. Her last thoughts before drifting off were content and hopeful.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Arianna sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding from some sudden, howling, deafening noises. It was a surprise to see it was still dark. She had taken to sleeping with the windows and shutters open, enjoying the cool night air.

  Now the shutters were banging wildly back and forth. She was momentarily confused. Certain she had secured them before going to bed, the metal hooks embedded in the stone walls, she leapt out of bed.

  The wind was raging. One of the shutters almost hit Arianna in the face as she reached out to grab it. She needed to approach this problem with care and timing. After a few frantic attempts, she had them all tightly closed.

  Well, well, well . . . this must be the famous mistral. I’ve read so much about how it roars down into the Rhône valley from the Alps. I wonder how long it will last.

  Maximus was nowhere in sight. When she called to him, a loud yowl replied from under the bed. Despite her pleading, he refused to budge and stared back, wide-eyed.

  She felt a mix of curiosity and anxiety as she climbed back into bed, noting it was only three a.m. The clanging of metal furniture being blown about and men’s voices could be heard from outside for a short while, then nothing apart from the tempestuous wind’s clamor filled the air.

  Pulling the pillows over her head, she finally fell back asleep.

  Everyone except Bertram arrived for breakfast looking disheveled and bleary-eyed. The mistral had been effective in robbing most of sleep.

  He explained he had slept through the cacophony of the night and only now realized what was happening. “I might have overserved myself last night. That full-bodied Bandol red was irresistible! I heard absolutely nothing until my alarm woke me.”

  The legendary mistral was the topic on everyone’s lips. The Mitchells had never heard of it. “Remember, we’ve never traveled outside the US. We’ve got a lot to learn . . . and are loving every bit of our education so far,” Joan said.

  John interjected with a wild-eyed look, “But seriously, you didn’t need to arrange this crazy cyclone for us. We could have just read about it, y’know!”

  Juliette, as gracious and calm as ever, gave a brief history of the famous wind for everyone who might not know the details.

  “The mistral is a fact of this area. We all simply accept it as part of the price of living here. It’s the reason our farmhouses are built facing south with only a few small windows on the north side. Mistrau, as we call it in Provence, begins as a cold front when freezing air gathers high up in the Alps. Pressure builds and the system is pushed over the mountaintops. It has a clear path down through the Rhône valley and heads toward the coast. Saint-Tropez and Marseille often bear the brunt of it, as do we.”

  Bertram piped in. “That’s why the trees in Provence are bent in the direction they are. But it’s also the reason there are so many sunny days here.”

  “So true,” Juliette agreed. “It does bring good things in its wake, fiercely blowing away the clouds and grime. We have a saying in Provence, ‘La beauté vient après le vent—beauty comes after the wind.’”

  “Is it true it causes headaches?” Cecilia asked. “I read about that.”

  “Yes, for some people, because of the atmospheric pressure. And, if the wind lasts too long, you can feel like it is driving you crazy! Hopefully this won’t be too bad. The météo calls for it to pass in three days, so we will keep our fingers crossed and hunker down.”

  Maurice stumbled in, his normally well-groomed hair blown wildly about. The door slammed so forcefully that everyone jumped.

  “Merde! Oops—excusez-moi! It’s savage out there! John, mon courageux ami, merci beaucoup—thanks for coming out in your pajamas to help me move that furniture during the night!”

  “That was an insane experience! Never felt anything like it!” John looked around in amazement at everyone and added with a snort, “Good thing Joanie wasn’t out there. We might have lost her forever!”

  The program for the day had been for individual sessions outdoors with Juliette.

  “We can accomplish the same goal inside. I will just have to speak a little louder to be heard above the wind,” she said. “Take some time to find a space in the house where you feel comfortable working. The kitchen and dining room tables are also available. I’ll come and find each of you.”

  The wind wailed into every nook and cranny of the house.

  Maximus roamed from one room to another. His tail was puffed out like a bottle brush and his ears were flattened back. He was not a happy cat. Every once in a while, he emitted a mournful yowl, and eventually he curled up in Juliette’s wicker pannier.

  “Our feline friend obviously knows you won’t be using your market basket today,” Cecilia remarked.

  Juliette said, “Max definitely does not appreciate the mistral. We won’t see too much of him as long as it lasts.”

  During a break later in the morning, Marti ran an idea by the rest of them. “Since we’re apparently housebound, why don’t we all pitch in with dinner tonight? I know there’s an abundance of food in the kitchen. What do you think?”

  The response was unanimously in favor, and Juliette and Maurice were delighted at the suggestion.

  “But let’s make it even more fun and have you all create the menu,” Maurice said. “I have two legs of lamb marinating for le plat principal, and the cheese course is already organized. You make up the rest, and I will go pick up what we need.”

  When they objected to him going out in the mistral, he assured them it would not be the first time.

  Marti and Lisa offered to prepare a salad, California style.

  Barbara, Cecilia, and—the biggest surprise of all—Bertram quickly conferred and announced they would bake a chocolate cake. Bertram’s recipe, no less! Barbara’s decorati
ng skills would complete the task, with Cecilia assisting and measuring.

  Joan and John were preparing the hors d’oeuvres to have with the apéritif. Hummus and tzatziki with crudités, using Arianna’s recipe, were their choices. Maurice suggested he would pick up an assortment of olives and fresh almonds at the market to go along with that.

  Arianna was making Sophia’s famous avgolemono soup as the entrée. Juliette assured her the lemons of Provence would be the most flavorful and juiciest she had ever tasted.

  “Today is market day,” Maurice reminded them. “Our marché in Arles is one of the biggest and best in Provence, and the plan was for us all to go first thing this morning. Laisse tomber! With this wind, it would be no fun, and, honnêtement, c’est dangereux!”

  Juliette nodded in agreement. “But there will be a few hard-core vendors—probablement, Gaston, Henri, et Serge . . .”

  “Oui! They’ll just be selling out of their trucks today. Those won’t blow away. Hopefully we can all go on Saturday, when it is on again. Sacré mistral!”

  They wrote down the necessary ingredients. With a hearty wave, Maurice set off with the shopping list, as they all wished him well battling the wind. He refused any assistance, knowing precisely where he wanted to go for his supplies. He also knew that each stop would require a social visit and perhaps a slurp of rosé.

  Once that planning was complete, everyone went back to their art.

  Juliette asked if they minded music while they worked. “We may enjoy some tunes over the roar of the mistral.” She programmed a mix of Édith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Zaz, and the Gipsy Kings. “Did you all know that the Gipsy Kings came from Arles? We’re fiercely proud of them!” She went over to a bookcase and took down a framed, signed photo of the group. There was a personal message on it to “dear Maurice and sweet Juliette.”

  “You’re kidding,” Joan exclaimed. “I looooove that group.”

  So, it seemed, did everyone else, except Bertram, who had never heard of them. “Sorry, I’ve been a classical music devotee my entire life. Haven’t branched out much, I’m afraid,” he apologized and then added, to everyone’s surprise, “except for Leonard Cohen. Do you mind if I wear my headphones and listen to my music?”

  Barbara pointed to herself. “I’m in that classical music club too, but I’m going to give these tunes a go! Pourquoi pas? You see! I’m becoming so relaxed, I’m speaking French . . . or at least attempting to!”

  Juliette continued, “Well, let me know what you think of their music. It’s infectious! The father of one of the main musicians was part of a celebrated flamenco duo for years. Picasso was a fan. And Miles Davis! Anyway, after his father died, the musician, Nicolas Reyes, and his cousin Tonino Baliardo put the group together, all family members, and the rest is history . . . But lots of them still live around here.”

  “I thought they retired,” Joan said. “They kind of disappeared. I used to see them at a casino near us, from time to time.”

  “They took a few years off, but they’re touring again. Their latest album, Savor Flamenco, is in the mix here—superbe, comme toujours!”

  Arianna said nothing. Her heart had jumped when the Gipsy Kings were mentioned. They were Ben’s absolute favorite group, and for years, their passionate music had resonated through the apartment or in the car. He was fond of saying, “Their music stirs the blood, moves the soul, and assumes complete control of our bodies . . . olé!” followed by a flamenco-style foot stomp and clap of his hands. That was another of his quotes Tad and Faith knew by heart.

  She steeled herself to work through the inevitable bittersweet moments she might experience listening to them again. She had always loved their music after Ben introduced her to it. She could keep loving it and remember the good memories. That’s what she had to do, she told herself.

  As much as she had let her life come to a halt, she knew it hadn’t. Goodness knows Faith reminded her of this in her daily texts and e-mails. Arianna appreciated the way her kids were staying in touch with her during her time away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The day progressed, with everyone breaking for lunch at their leisure. Arianna could tell that the private sessions with Juliette were being very positively received, and she looked forward to hers that afternoon.

  The background music seemed to provide just the right atmosphere for the work they were doing. It certainly was proving an effective distraction from the mistral.

  As the hours passed, some people sang or hummed along to Piaf and Aznavour. When the Gipsy Kings came on, there were moments of spontaneous hip twitching and outright dancing. A relaxed, festive air permeated the farmhouse.

  Arianna was happy that all the music pleased her, even the sentimental familiarity of the Gipsy Kings.

  During one of their rhapsodic acoustic songs, John slipped Bertram’s massive headphones off. “Bertie, listen to this. I challenge you not to like it!”

  Cringing at first, Bertram did take some time to listen, then admitted, “By Jove, it does have merit,” saying he’d give the music a chance. “Later, though. I’m communing with Beethoven at the moment.”

  Arianna smiled to herself. Bertram was becoming a different person. She berated herself for being so judgmental about him in the beginning. Although she couldn’t help notice the nearby bottle of rosé.

  Barbara commented that she also always painted to classical music and was surprised to discover how much she was enjoying Juliette’s mix.

  Whether it was the bonding she experienced on the previous evening’s stroll, the chat with Juliette, the presentation by Jacques, or her connection with the emotional singer in the amphitheater, Arianna felt a growing commitment to her art project. Her work was coming along slowly, but, like her, it was moving forward.

  Juliette spent a productive half hour with her, and she beamed as Arianna indicated the breakthrough she had reached with her rough work. In their session, Juliette encouraged Arianna to identify empirically what she wanted to say with her work and then delve into her heart to create her own interpretation. Their discussion brought back memories from her days at university and art school. Arianna could feel her former excitement for the craft returning.

  Juliette said, “I can tell the embers are still smoldering, Arianna. Your artist’s soul is there and slowly reawakening. I’m happy for you.”

  “I can’t tell you how promising this feels,” Arianna replied. “It’s what I hoped for. Thank you for the encouragement you are giving me . . . in every way.”

  In their meal planning, Marti had drawn up a schedule of who was to be preparing their food and when.

  During the morning, while the artists were absorbed with their work, Mirielle had chopped root vegetables, filling an enormous earthenware roaster. She had been shocked when Juliette advised her that she and Louis-Philippe did not need to prepare dinner that night.

  After four o’clock, art was put away and activity moved into the kitchen. Cutting boards and a selection of knives, bowls, and platters were already waiting on the rustic wood table.

  As the socializing moved in and out of the kitchen, Maurice spoke a bit about the importance of terroir to French cuisine.

  “As we keep telling you . . . because we can’t help it. Each region in France has its own particular environment that affects the food it produces. In Provence, it is primarily the Mediterranean influences of the sun and the sea that help us create our unique cuisine.” He spoke rapturously about the local olive oils and herbs.

  Juliette added, with a chuckle, “You are getting to understand how we French love to talk about food. Any kind of food! We always like to know the precise origin of what we are eating. It’s a habit in our blood.”

  Maurice laid a fire in the raised hearth in the kitchen. As the flames danced and crackled, the smell of woodsmoke wafted through the rooms accompanied by murmurs of approval.

  Once the flames were well established, with strong embers, the two bone-in legs of lamb would be slow roasted. They
had marinated overnight in lemon, garlic, rosemary, and cilantro, with enough vinegar to carry the flavors deep into the meat.

  “Later, with dinner, especially for the lamb—we will serve a hearty Bandol red!” Maurice announced. “We have a saying here about wine drinkers. There are two kinds: the ones who love Bandol wines and the ones who don’t know Bandol wines.” His eyes glistened as he spoke about the excellent local vineyards situated between Marseille and Toulon. His voice almost a reverent whisper at times, he explained how many of their products never left the region because their production was so small and exclusive.

  Juliette wore a smile from ear to ear as she presented white aprons and chef’s hats to everyone. She explained she had a cache of them in the pantry and had never had the occasion to use so many at one time. “C’est tellement amusant! Je suis ravie! This is so much fun. I’m so delighted!”

  They slipped on the garb with glee—even Bertram, who finally allowed Juliette to help him after some good-natured cajoling.

  “Chef Bertie! Chef Bertie!” John began a chant, and the others picked it up. Juliette tied the apron around the Englishman’s rotund belly, placed the hat at a cocky angle, and bised him on both cheeks before gently pinching them. Flushing a deep red, he cast his eyes downward and sputtered an awkward, “Goodness gracious.”

  Arianna had a feeling he had not often been on the receiving end of such good humor. Her curiosity grew about his story, and she wondered if it would ever come out. Alcohol definitely comprised a chapter or two.

  The cake bakers were first in the kitchen. In the planning of the evening’s feast, it had been determined the cake would take the longest time from start to finish.

  Bertram pulled together the ingredients, enjoying his wine as he did so. Cecilia measured, all the while dictating her comments and thinking about the divine blog post this would make. Bertram mixed and sipped. They took turns whisking and beating and joked over who was going to get to lick the bowl. Meanwhile, Barbara prepared the icing and colorings she would need and began to sketch a few designs.