Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  Arianna plied him with questions that he was more than happy to answer. History was obviously something he enjoyed, and laughter punctuated the conversation. Arianna kept remembering how she used to love to laugh. Ben had always been so good at making her laugh.

  Laughter had been such a part of the past two weeks, once she’d opened herself to it. And now it continued.

  As they walked along the ramparts, on one side they had a clear view over the terra-cotta rooftops of the ancient houses. Arianna felt a sense of invading privacy as she peered down into the narrow streets and secret gardens, and yet she didn’t want to stop.

  Jacques pointed out several fine restaurants scattered down the narrow streets. He described the town’s atmosphere as a combination of medieval splendor and a laid-back attitude. On the other side, they overlooked a canal that led up from the sea. Jacques pointed to a particular sailboat. “That’s my boat. My home, really.”

  Arianna looked at him in surprise. “I thought you lived in that cabane on the manade.”

  “Only when I have to. You did notice it was sparse.” He went on to explain that for a good part of the year, he called the boat home. “I usually keep it at a small marina in Port-Saint-Louis, which is less than an hour from the manade. It’s easy to go back and forth. I sailed over here last evening.”

  They stopped and leaned against the stone wall as they talked about the boat for a few minutes. Arianna was surprised to hear him describe two bedrooms and two bathrooms, like a compact condo. Then they continued to stroll.

  Jacques directed Arianna’s attention to an elegant building he described as a fifteenth-century mansion. “Now it’s a popular luxury hotel. I’m happy to say the owners have remained true to the original style and decor.”

  “Hmm, a swimming pool and electrical wires break the medieval mood somehow,” Arianna said.

  “Well, wait until we get to the end of the rampart here,” Jacques said, pointing ahead. “I think you will be amazed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “You’re right! The colors are breathtaking!” Arianna confirmed as she looked over the wall toward the sea. Across ponds that were shades of azure and, surprisingly, bright pink, a small mountain of sea salt shimmered in the sun. “Where does that color come from?”

  Jacques explained it was from algae that produced beta-carotene as protection from the sun. “It’s also how the flamingos get their color when they eat that algae.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it!” Arianna declared, taking a series of photos. “It’s such a kaleidoscope of color.”

  “The sun is the determining factor with those colors,” Jacques said. “Those ponds alternate between blue, pink, and purple, depending on the angles and strength of rays.”

  Arianna stared at the scene before her, taking it all in.

  “There’s a train that can take you on an hour-long tour of the salt flats. I highly recommend it, because I’m willing to bet you will be fascinated at how the fleur de sel is harvested, as it has been since antiquity. And another thing, the sunsets here are very special.”

  Arianna looked at her watch. “If I do that, I’m going to have to set speed records to get to Aix and then Antibes by tonight.”

  Jacques asked if there was a specific reason she needed to do that.

  “No, it was just my plan.”

  “Well, plans can be broken,” he suggested, his voice subtly persuasive.

  Arianna hesitated. “Yes, they can. You’re right. It’s a shame to be here and not see everything I should.”

  “Une idée,” Jacques said, “why don’t you check into a hotel and spend the day here in a relaxed fashion. You can leave tomorrow. Why rush?”

  It wasn’t like Arianna to make such a spur-of-the-moment decision. The thought of acting impulsively sent a frisson of excitement through her now. His suggestions were hard to resist. After a moment’s hesitation, she was surprised to hear herself agree.

  “Magnifique! Why don’t we have lunch to celebrate after we see if there is a room for you at the hotel I just pointed out. I know the owner and may be able to help. It’s an experience you shouldn’t miss.”

  In no time, they had walked to the mansion and everything had been arranged. Looking around the lobby, Arianna felt pleased with her decision to stay for a night. The hotel had an available room with a lovely view. Jacques walked to Arianna’s car with her to get her things.

  “You have everything you needed for two weeks in here? I’m impressed!” Jacques said when he took her suitcase out of the car.

  “Yes. My daughter took charge of packing, and she knows just what to do. Also, I shipped my art supplies directly to the Mas des Artistes, and Juliette is shipping the box back for me. Most of us did that, just to be safe. You can’t always trust airport security these days. I only have my sketchbook and travel paints and pencils in this bag.”

  After dropping off the suitcase at the hotel, they sat outside a busy bistro to eat a light lunch. Jacques made a reservation elsewhere for dinner.

  As Arianna studied the menu, she asked for suggestions. “Well, the area is famous for its shellfish, so I recommend the oysters or mussels. They’re exceptional.”

  “I’m not a fan of oysters, but I love mussels.”

  “Excellent choice! Let’s eat light now and feast this evening. Sound good?” Jacques ordered the tielle de Sète, or octopus pie, which he explained was a typical local dish.

  Arianna made a bit of a face. “It sounds more palatable in French than English. I’ve never been a fan of octopus.”

  “Well, you should taste this when it comes. I think you might change your mind.”

  Arianna’s eyes gleamed. This was fun. She gave herself permission to admit she was having a very good time.

  Sitting near the open kitchen, they watched the chef preparing bouillabaisse as they ate. Jacques said the chef was noted in the area for his rich, garlicky recipe.

  “Of course, Marseille is the place for la vraie bouillabaisse—the real deal. In spite of the variations by chefs around the world, the truth is that it is a very specific dish with a specific history. It must contain five requisite fish and the addition of shellfish is optional . . . and frowned upon by many. Purists say that a real bouillabaisse can be made only in the direct vicinity of the Mediterranean.”

  Arianna smiled. “That is such a French thing to say when it comes to food.”

  Jacques smiled back and nodded his agreement. “We are very snobby about our food. But there’s no alternative. If you don’t have the right fish, you cannot make bouillabaisse. It is as simple as that.”

  They chuckled as they raised their wineglasses. “Here’s to having the right fish!” Arianna toasted.

  Conversation flowed as they lingered over their meal, followed by double espressos. Arianna felt content and at ease. She enjoyed Jacques’s warm smile and light banter. She appreciated the easy way he had of making her laugh.

  After lunch, with additional gentle persuasion, Arianna agreed to take the train tour. She insisted that Jacques not go with her, guessing he could probably repeat the tour from memory. He laughed and conceded she was not far off in that assessment.

  “I’ll slip down to the boat and do a few things. Why don’t I meet you at your hotel for an apéro before we go to dinner. Say seven o’clock? We can walk out beyond the walls and see the sunset before we eat.”

  Arianna purchased her ticket for the one-thirty train and joined the lineup by the sign that said, “Embarquez à bord du Petit Train.” In just a few minutes, the miniature blue-and-white train stopped at Les Salins du Midi welcome center. It soon set off into the seemingly endless area. Here, she read, the sun, sea, and wind combined to make very special salts, from La Baleine table salt, whose whale logo was immediately recognizable in France, to the prized fleur de sel de Camargue.

  Who knew there was so much to learn and appreciate about salt? Arianna thought as she read along with an English brochure, since the tour was con
ducted only in French.

  She learned that the area of this salin, or salt marsh, was bigger than the city of Paris. Every year the ponds were filled with seawater that was then allowed to gradually evaporate; then, over the summer, a salty crust “cake” several inches thick formed on top. In September, the salt cake was harvested.

  Arianna understood enough French to learn that fleur de sel was the very fine top layer of salt, which accounted for its high cost. That top layer was painstakingly skimmed by hand by men known as paludiers or sauniers before it sank to the bottom. The work had been done in the same manner since antiquity, using a process that took several months.

  The ride was bumpy as the train lurched along. It was impossible to take any photos of the spectacular pink waters until the train stopped at one of the camelles, or giant salt hills. The climb was not difficult, but a bit slippery, and she wished she had worn better shoes. Though there was no question it was worth a few slips for the views over the marsh.

  Graceful flocks of flamingos waded in some of the ponds, feeding on algae. Passengers only got glimpses of them as the train passed by. Arianna was thankful for the time she had spent up close to the birds the past weekend.

  In spite of the beauty of the salt marsh, it was also a vast semi-industrial landscape. Steel conveyor belts towered over the camelles and irrigation channels. Arianna had a sense of slow motion as she watched trucks crawl along dusty gravel tracks. She took some photos of those views as well and lost herself in thought in the middle of the unusual landscape. To remind me there are usually two sides to everything. Somehow I need to stay open-minded today. I seem to be making unexpected decisions.

  By the time the little train arrived back at the welcome center, Arianna had learned more about salt than she ever thought possible. She had a feeling she was learning something about herself too.

  Time for a break at that gorgeous little hotel. I’m kind of excited about that!

  Although she’d been shaded by the canopy of the train, the sun had been extremely hot in the exposed salt marsh. A shower was definitely in order.

  After a swim in the hotel pool, which she was delighted to discover she had all to herself, Arianna walked up two flights of stairs. She took some time to admire the seventeenth-century furnishings that added to the allure of the establishment. They were documented in a book about the hotel placed on a desk.

  Staying here—in this magical town and this charming hotel—is like a mini history lesson in itself, another experience I might have missed.

  She showered and then, moving aside the luxurious bedspread, stretched out on top of the fine cotton sheets. The rhythmic rotations of an overhead fan lulled her into a relaxed state of drowsiness.

  She was glad things had worked out the way they had. It felt good to have a bit of time here and not have to rush off to more towns to do more sightseeing. Even though she had enjoyed private times at the mas, now she had time to reflect about the whole experience.

  Closing her eyes, she considered the new friends who had become part of her life in such a short time, and the stories they had revealed that had begun to shape a change in her thinking. She had set off on the trip to France to awaken her dormant artistic side and was coming away at the end of it with so much more of her spirit revived. She entertained fleeting thoughts of her growing friendship with Jacques.

  Content, she drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The ringing of her cell phone startled her.

  For a moment, Arianna was disconnected from where she was. She heard the husky voice of a man say her name in a way she had not heard for a long time. She hesitated, not so much from drowsiness as from a twinge of indecision as to how she was allowed to feel.

  “Arianna?” the voice repeated. “C’est toi? Is that you?”

  “Oh yes . . . yes . . . Jacques . . . excuse me. I drifted off to sleep for a little while.”

  “Oh no, désolé. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  Arianna laughed softly. “No, it’s fine. No problem.”

  “I wondered if you might like to have an apéro a little earlier than I suggested. In fact, I thought perhaps we could have a drink on my boat. Then we can take a short walk on the boardwalk to watch the sunset before dinner.”

  “That sounds lovely. I would just need a half hour. Is that fine?”

  “C’est parfait! I’ll be in the lobby in thirty minutes, with a good book. Take as long as you want.”

  Arianna examined her reflection in the mirror. There was a look in her eyes she recognized from what seemed like a long time ago.

  As she massaged in a face cream, she felt an almost-forgotten desire to make herself attractive for someone else, for a man. She enjoyed the feeling as she continued to put on her mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. She had been wearing makeup throughout the trip, but now she paid more attention to how she looked.

  Tipping her head from side to side, Arianna brushed her hair, and then ran her fingers through it for a casual effect. She was pleased with her new haircut. There was never any fussing with it, and the layers all simply fell into place. That had been a good change.

  Thank you, Faith. Thank you, Mom.

  She slipped into a sleeveless red dress she had bought specially for the trip, because it was a good color for her, lightweight, and made out of a silky fabric that traveled well. And, if she was totally honest with herself, because Faith told her it was slimming.

  I need all the help I can get these days. I think I’ll go to Weight Watchers when I get home—all the baguettes and croissants of the past two weeks won’t have helped.

  She had worn this dress the day of her lunch with Bertram and the tour of the Fondation. Bertram had told her the color suited her. That memory gave her a little boost now. Dear, dear Bertie . . .

  Warm thoughts flooded her memories about the Englishman and how her feelings toward him had changed so dramatically in that short time.

  Black strappy sandals and a small black shoulder bag completed the outfit. With one final look in the full-length mirror, she smiled at what she saw. She wondered if her attire was fitting for having a drink on the boat.

  I can always pop up and change if Jacques thinks I should.

  With a tingle of excitement, she picked up the large key that fit the ornate lock on her door.

  This key is so cool! It reminds me of all those doors I loved in Arles. Thank goodness I hand it in at the desk and don’t have to lug it around.

  She saw Jacques sitting in the lobby. He appeared absorbed with something on his phone. She hesitated, not wanting to interrupt his concentration, and he looked up just as she began to approach his chair.

  They smiled at each other, and he stood and bised her as if it were just the most natural thing to do. “You look lovely, Arianna, and perfectly dressed. It’s become quite muggy out there. Have you been standing there a while?”

  Arianna felt like a schoolgirl and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “You looked involved, and I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “I was reading,” Jacques explained. “I have my library on my phone. It’s become a bit of a habit, I’m afraid.”

  Bemused, Arianna asked, “You read novels on your phone? Isn’t the screen too small?”

  “Look,” he said, showing her the page he had been reading. “I carry all my books with me wherever I go. What’s better than that?”

  Arianna stared intently at the text on the phone. “Hmm, that looks very readable. I’m surprised! You’ll have to show me how to do it.”

  “Avec plaisir, madame! C’est facile—it’s easy!”

  Arianna amused him by describing how her children had forced her into the world of the new phone technology. “I really have been behind the times when it comes to that.”

  Jacques chuckled at her remarks as they left the hotel, and Arianna felt comfortably at ease.

  The town had come alive while Arianna had been at her hotel. Side streets were crammed with tourists, and leng
thy lineups were forming at the bistros with patios. Laughter and lively conversation surrounded them wherever they went.

  As they headed toward the main gate in the ramparts, Jacques pointed to a small patio with a portcullis covered by a lush grapevine. Clusters of green grapes hung from it. Classic wrought-iron tables and chairs sat on the gravel in between large terra-cotta pots overflowing with colorful geraniums and trailing ivy.

  “This place is famous for its crêpes, in case you would like some tomorrow before you leave,” he said, rubbing his stomach and rolling his eyes. “You should not miss that delicious experience.”

  Arianna couldn’t help but notice his fit physique. She composed herself quickly.

  “I’ll probably head out very early,” Arianna said. “Since I’m a day behind in my planned road trip.”

  Jacques smiled and said, “Ah oui, but look at what you would have missed. How did you enjoy le petit train des Salin? I was worried that you might be cursing me for suggesting it!”

  Arianna chuckled as she said she probably knew more about salt now than she ever needed to. “All kidding aside, it was very interesting and unusually beautiful. I also learned I’ve been making a big mistake for years . . .”

  “Because?”

  “I’ve been putting fleur de sel in dishes when I’m cooking. Now I know it should only be used as a finishing touch on a completed dish or a salad to enhance the flavor.”

  “Quelle horreur!” Jacques reacted in mock indignation. “We will just keep that our little secret. Do you like to cook?”

  As Arianna began to answer, they reached the main gates and walked out to the busy street that ran between the walls and the canal.

  Jacques took her arm in a manner that was familiar and relaxed and guided her through the traffic to the marina entrance. He gestured to a guard in the gatehouse and led her along the concrete walk to a wooden dock.

  They stopped at his sailboat, and he waved his arm with a modest flourish. The craft appeared old and loved. That was obvious in the gleaming brass and well-polished wood trim. The name “Mon Esprit” was painted across the stern in clean, artistic lettering.