The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

Cady wasn’t sure what she thought might be behind the red hallway’s door number one, and was relieved to discover an innocuous bedroom with a dramatic slanted roof. It seemed almost Spanish in style, with dark wood beams across the white stucco ceiling and walls and an earth red tile floor. A bare mattress sat on a heavy, dark wood frame so tall that there was a small stepstool placed beside it. There were two nightstands, a slipper bathtub in one corner, and what looked like a down comforter hanging over a quilt stand. There were no decorations or paintings, not even curtains or shades on the dormer window that opened out onto the courtyard and the outbuildings.

  As in the rest of the house, the doorframes appeared to have been carved by hand, each unique in its design. They featured delicate flowers and flitting birds, unfurling leaves and plump berries. She ran her hand along their contours, promising herself she would inspect them further tomorrow, in the daylight.

  Curious, she continued down the hall. The next room had twin beds, a fireplace, and a desk, and the stucco walls were painted a robin’s-egg blue. A shaggy cream-colored rug covered the tiles before a fireplace, which was black with soot, though there were no ashes or signs of a recent fire.

  Cady shivered again. As was true in the rest of the house, a deep chill emanated from the stone walls. A fire would be lovely right about now. Or a shower. Fabrice had suggested she take a bath, so presumably there was hot water available.

  The next door revealed a bedroom with two rough stone walls and two stucco walls painted a pale yellow that contrasted cheerfully with the beamed ceiling. A queen-sized bed stood near a large leaded casement window. Cady felt compelled to look at the rest of the rooms on the floor. All were variations on the same themes: beamed or stucco ceilings, stone or stucco walls, a few with fireplaces that hadn’t seen flames for many years. They carried a scent of dust, stone, and emptiness, and several had water stains on the ceilings and walls.

  Near the end of the hall she found a bathroom that looked as though it harked back to the thirties: White subway tiles, a few cracked, ran along the walls, and the toilet had a tank fixed high up on the wall. She did a test flush, praying it worked. It seemed to.

  She was tempted by the big claw-foot tub, but wasn’t brave enough to fill it with hot water and sit back and relax. Not in this silent stone house with a man she barely knew—Fabrice appeared to be old and frail, but Cady had read more than her share of horror stories. Back in the day, Jonquilla had made it her mission to expose all the younger kids to horror stories featuring old homes and mysterious recluses.

  A huge steamer trunk with brass fittings sat at the end of the hall, its black sides sporting tags from countries like Morocco, Italy, and Wales—the sort of trunk travelers used to take to visit unknown countries. Very Indiana Jones.

  As Fabrice had promised, inside it she found clean towels and sheets.

  Cady decided on a room with stone walls and a large bed, with an armoire and desk and a window that looked out over the outbuildings. She selected two flat cotton sheets, old and in need of an airing but incredibly soft. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about the first night she had spent with Maxine, bundled up on her lumpy couch.

  Maxine had tucked her in and said, “I’ll say one thing for you, Cady: You’re not picky.”

  She closed the oak door to the hallway, and as she shook out the sheets a delicate sachet of lavender flew up in the air. Storing the sheets with lavender sachet seemed out of character for a man like Fabrice, but she shouldn’t make assumptions. The sheets were a little musty but smelled vaguely of the flowers, and she made the bed as best she could. She remembered reading an old book that mentioned “hospital corners,” but she had no idea what those were as she’d always had fitted sheets. No doubt there was some arcane trick to it, but she didn’t know what it was.

  On top of the sheets went the down comforter, and for good measure she grabbed the one she had spotted in the other room.

  Cady went to the bathroom, locked the door, gratefully stripped off her wet clothes and hung them over the sides of the tub, then stood before the sink to bathe as best she could with a washcloth. Shivering, she pulled on her pajamas and topped them with an “Oaklandish” fleece sweatshirt zipped all the way up to her neck.

  She sank onto the side of the claw-foot tub to dry her rain-wet hair with a towel, feeling more comfortable in this small, utilitarian room than in the grand bedroom.

  “What in the world are we doing here, Drake?” she asked aloud.

  Cady had spooked herself, thinking of scary stories and the scenario of a lone woman out in the middle of nowhere with a mean old man and his very large dog. In the movies the dog would be trained to do horrible things, and the apparently frail Fabrice would turn out to be faking it . . . or would have evil minions lurking in the cellar, or a crazy woman in the attic.

  Or Jean-Paul would return in the dead of night, revealing his true self as a homicidal maniac.

  “We’re fine.” She tried to reassure herself, brushing her teeth. “We’ll deal.”

  But there was no “we” anymore. Just a few months ago she had sat with Maxine at the little table in the room behind the shop, a baby in her belly, sharing corn bread and talking about what the future might bring. Never in a million years would they have anticipated what had actually happened.

  Sadness washed over her, and she stifled a sob. She wished she could see this as a grand adventure, as she had described it in her head to Olivia, but at the moment she just felt exhausted, inexplicably afraid, and unbearably alone.

  She returned to the bedroom, where rain was beating a frantic tattoo on the windowpanes. She found the little rubber stopper she carried in her suitcase and shoved it under the bedroom door, hesitated for a moment, then scooted a heavy wooden bureau a few inches in front of it as well. She had to unplug the side lamp to plug in her phone, as there was no other outlet. Her phone came on and started to charge, but still wasn’t receiving any service.

  Nonetheless, she felt the urge to text Olivia. She would send it when she could.

  Well, we’ve really done it now. I am sitting in a mysterious, dilapidated château, awaiting my fate. Seriously. I’m pretty sure there are murderers lurking behind these stone walls. How could there not be? This is a classic setup for a slasher film—not the cheap, blood-spurting Hollywood kind but the artistic European type—except that I am not a nubile teen. And in the movie version the cranky old man who owns the place would have a mysterious cat, rather than a goofy dog. But still.

  Cady thought she heard something besides the rain, and paused for a moment to listen; a faint sound was coming through a vent. It sounded like . . . singing. A man’s voice, rough and aged, but surprisingly melodious. She tried to follow the notes, which reminded her of a French version of Sinatra’s classic “My Way.”

  Cady continued her text: I can’t BELIEVE I let you talk me into this trip. I will NEVER forgive you.

  The windowpanes rattled as the wind began to howl.

  She curled up under the covers, seeking warmth. In the faint light provided by her phone, she gazed at the old photo of the mystery woman and once again reread the love note, trying to focus on her goal in coming to le château in the first place.

  But she couldn’t help but wonder: Who in the world had slashed her tires? And why?

  One thing was sure: This was not the fairy tale she had been looking for.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Cady awoke late the next morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Sunshine filtered in through the dust-caked windows, filling the old bedroom with a cheerful brightness and dispelling the gloom from the previous night.

  The stone walls still emanated a chill, but she was surrounded by historic beauty, and last night’s ghosts had vanished.

  She got out of bed and pushed open the leaded casement windows, feeling very European as she leaned out
. The storm had passed, and the sun-warmed garden filled the air with the mingled scents of lavender, rosemary, and thyme. Cady breathed deeply.

  Petrichor. She remembered finding the word in a book and asking Maxine what it meant. Maxine had told her, “Petrichor is an ugly word for a beautiful thing: the smell after the rain.”

  Looking out over the courtyard, Cady noticed details she hadn’t seen in the dark of last night: garish graffiti tags on some of the buildings; an old car that probably hadn’t run for decades covered by a bright blue tarp that rippled in the breeze; leaves and branches blown about by the wind. She smelled something else, too, something enticing coming from inside the building.

  Was that coffee?

  Her stomach growled. Her last meal had been a large lunch—Parisians, she had learned, liked to eat large lunches—a salade composée with duck and pâté. Plenty of bread and cheese as well as chocolate mousse and a tiny cup of strong espresso for dessert. At the time she thought she’d never eat again, but that had been a very long time ago. She’d snacked on some almonds while driving from Avignon, but that was it.

  The hallway and stairs looked different in the day, not so ghostly but much sadder. Where there had been a bit of romance to last night’s impression of a haunted mansion, the morning sunshine revealed dust motes hanging in the air and piles of yellowing newspapers. Her nose twitched at a hint of something that might well have been rodent in nature, and she skirted several small puddles where rain appeared to have dripped through holes in the roof.

  She made her way through the book-lined room, along the broad paneled corridor, and down the next set of stairs to the kitchen.

  The ochre tiles seemed to gleam in the daylight, the room untidy but charming with the sun streaming in through multipaned windows.

  Lucy let out a loud woof and wagged her tail as she greeted Cady at the door.

  “Bonjour,” Cady said, scratching Lucy under her chin.

  “Bonjour,” said Fabrice. “Tu fais la grasse matinée, n’est-ce pas?”

  Cady was familiar with this expression from her days at the French-American school; it would be invoked when students arrived late. Literally it meant “you are making a fat morning,” and referred to sleeping in.

  “I guess so,” she said, feeling vaguely guilty as she stifled a yawn. It wasn’t that late, was it? Fabrice was probably one of those old people who got up before dawn. “It took me a while to fall asleep.”

  He grunted. On the table sat half a baguette, a dish of butter, and a jar of jam.

  “I know you Americans eat big meals for breakfast, but this is how we do it here.”

  “This is perfect, thank you.”

  “You want chocolate?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Chocolate or coffee?”

  “Both.”

  “Both?”

  She smiled. “Just kidding. I hate saying no to chocolate, on principle.”

  He looked confused, and she wondered whether her French was adequate to the task. Making a joke in a foreign language could be tricky. Or maybe Fabrice had no sense of humor.

  “Coffee would be wonderful, thank you,” she said, chastened.

  He grunted again, then started spinning dials and moving levers on an intricate Italian espresso machine, the kind one saw in Parisian cafés. Steam filled the air and the copper hardware gleamed in the morning light.

  “Nice machine,” Cady said, for want of anything else to say.

  “Bought it when I moved here. Damned idiotic. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “So you didn’t grow up here in the château?”

  He shook his head. “I grew up in Paris. First time I saw this place, I was a teenager, right after the war. It was a ruin back then.”

  “Is that right?” Cady said, wondering how much worse it could have been.

  He shrugged. “Parts of it were okay, but it had been empty for a long while, and then with the war . . .”

  “Was that the Second World War?”

  He nodded. “Nazis never stayed here, thank goodness, but the Italians came through and took anything of value. Not sure it made any difference; place had been looted long before, anyway.”

  “When did you move here?”

  “I stayed here for a little while after the war, but came back for good in 1973, with my father. I thought . . .” He looked around, as though seeing the surroundings in his mind’s eye as they had once been. “I thought I had enough resources to restore it at that time, and we made some efforts, but no matter how much time and money you think you have, it’s never enough for a place like this.”

  “It must be very inspirational for your writing. I’m reading Le Château right now.”

  He did not reply, seemingly preoccupied with the spitting espresso machine.

  “I was wondering, in the book, you mention—”

  “Don’t talk to me about that book.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious. I do not wish to discuss this. If you persist, I must ask you to leave. Dégage.”

  “Okay, no book talk. Got it. I apologize. If I don’t talk about the book, could I stay? I’ll take Lucy out after breakfast.”

  He snorted but didn’t answer.

  “I noticed some improvements in the house,” Cady continued, hoping architecture might be a safer topic. “The bathrooms, that sort of thing—”

  “My grandparents were the last full-time residents, before me. They made some improvements, many of which are still working. Put in electricity, obviously.”

  “The woodwork is incredible. The intricate carvings on the door frames . . . Is that original?”

  “Some of it. Here’s your coffee. I don’t have time to wait on you hand and foot, you know. Or to sit around all day talking.”

  He limped toward the kitchen door.

  Cady was left in a quandary: How was she going to fix her car? Her phone still wasn’t getting reception. And now that she was here, had actually spent the night under the roof of Château Clement, she hated to leave before getting some answers. How could she get Fabrice to talk to her about the carousel and the possible origins of her rabbit? If he was that touchy about a successful book he had written . . .

  “Monsieur,” she said to his back.

  “Tutoie-moi,” he growled. “I’ve told you before. I don’t believe in the arbitrary usage of formality. Je m’appelle Fabrice. Fabrice.”

  “Thank you. Fabrice, then.” Lucy woofed, looking at her expectantly. “ I was thinking: What if I stayed here for a little while? I could take care of Lucy.”

  He fixed her with his hawk eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  What was Cady talking about? Somewhere between worrying that Fabrice might be a reclusive homicidal maniac with an attack dog, and her morning coffee, Cady had decided she wasn’t ready to leave the château. She felt like she was channeling Olivia: How often did an opportunity like this come along? She wanted to learn Gus-the-rabbit’s origin story and to see for herself whatever remnants there might be of the Clement carousel. She wanted to learn about the woman in the photograph. Given Fabrice’s nature, she knew she couldn’t come right out and ask him; she had to earn his trust.

  And for some reason, she liked the grumpy recluse. Which was a little worrisome. She was a terrible judge of character.

  “Looks to me like you could use some help with housekeeping and taking care of the dog, at least until your ankle is better,” Cady said. “I could stay for a few days, lend a hand.”

  “I told you—I don’t like people.”

  “And I told you—neither do I. This place is so big we wouldn’t have to see each other unless we wanted to.”

  Fabrice narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want to stay here?”

  Once again she tried for the Gallic shrug. “Get to know the place. You know ho
w tourists are. We don’t have châteaux where I’m from. Also, I can cook.”

  “Americans don’t how to cook.”

  “Try me.”

  His gaze settled on the dog: Lucy had her thick leather leash in her mouth and was pacing the kitchen, her toenails clicking on the tile floor. She clearly needed to go out, now.

  “Bof! All right, I suppose if you walk this damned dog for me and cook a decent dinner, you can stay here for a while. Until I change my mind. You are sure you know how to cook?”

  “Just you wait and see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  2001

  OAKLAND

  Cady, Age 13

  “You’ve got to learn to cook,” Maxine had said the first time she invited Cady to dinner, about a month after she had started working at the shop. “Either that or make a lot of money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you have money to spare you can afford to take people out to restaurants, or hire a personal chef. Hardworking schmucks like you and me, though, need to learn how to cook.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the best and least expensive way to make someone feel cared for.” Maxine slipped her hand into a heavy denim oven mitt and pulled a pan of homemade macaroni and cheese out of the oven. “Doesn’t that smell like home?”

  Cady didn’t know what a home smelled like, but she nodded anyway because the heavenly aroma made her mouth water.

  “Here’s the secret, Cady: You don’t have to know how to make a lot of dishes, just one or two ‘go-to’ dishes that you make well. Mac-n-cheese is one of mine.”

  Maxine set the hot pan on the table, where Cady had already arranged plates and silverware. Cady stared at the dish for a long moment, remembering a dinner at the group home when Jonquilla got into a fistfight with an older boy because she insisted that she had once eaten homemade mac-n-cheese that hadn’t come from a box. No one, not even Cady, had believed her.

  “What is it, Cady?” Maxine asked, sitting across from her.