The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  She wandered around the room, pausing to check out the painting on the easel closest to the worktable. It depicted an ornate flower arrangement in a glass vase, the muted colors popping against a nearly black background. As she looked closer, she thought she saw leaves strewn around the vase, but they were so dark it was hard to be sure.

  “Here we are,” said Toinon, returning with her daughter and introducing the two young women.

  Élodie had a pretty, mature face, accented with the pink cheeks and lips of her daughter. Petite and birdlike like Toinon, Élodie wore a pristine white skirt and a pale yellow sweater with pearl buttons.

  Cady calculated the odds that when a stranger dropped by she would be dressed as though she had stepped out of a catalog. Pretty close to nil.

  After exchanging hellos, Élodie disappeared into the small office while Toinon perched on a chair and gestured to Cady to take a seat on the couch in the seating area.

  “So, please, tell us the news of Fabrice. When his father was still with him he used to come to town for groceries, but in the last many years he’s become more and more reclusive.”

  “As I said, he’s doing well.” Cady almost felt as though she was betraying him, simply by speaking about him. He was so intensely private. Perhaps one reason he had allowed her to stay with him was that she was wholly unconnected to the village and the villagers.

  Élodie returned with a tray that held a trio of bottles, three glasses, a bowl of mixed nuts, and a container of ice with silver tongs.

  “What would you like?” Toinon asked after Élodie placed the tray on the large ottoman. “Pastis, Armagnac, or Génépy?”

  “I . . . don’t know any of them. Could you choose for me?”

  Cady was pleased with her openness to the idea of trying something new, but then realized they both stared at her for a moment too long.

  “Of course,” said Toinon. “Here, perhaps you would like to try Génépy. It is made from flowers of the Rhône-Alpes.”

  “Thank you,” said Cady. The fairy-tale nature of the place made her feel like she was in a movie, but of course she was always brought back to earth. She felt large and awkward, almost hulking, around such delicate, beautiful artists. “I was hoping I could ask you, Élodie, about what you might use to clean soot off of oil paintings?”

  “It is best if you bring in your painting,” said Élodie. “I would be happy to take care of it for you.”

  “It’s not that easy, actually. I want to clean very large panels. . . .” Belatedly, Cady wondered if her work was supposed to be a secret. But if the checkout woman at the grocery knew about the Clement carousel, surely these women did as well. “They are part of the Clement carousel.”

  Toinon and Élodie exchanged a glance.

  “But . . . ,” Toinon said, “I thought it was destroyed long ago.”

  “It’s been severely damaged, and many of the pieces are missing. But part of it is still there. Fabrice is allowing me to clean it up, and we’ll see if there’s anything left to salvage.”

  “Would you like me to come examine it?” asked Élodie.

  Cady hesitated. Putting this into words in English was hard enough, but in French even more so. “Monsieur Clement, as I’m sure you know, is very private. He asked me to keep other people away, for the moment. I hope he will become more open with time, but for now it’s just me, and Johnny Clement.”

  Toinon’s eyebrows rose. “Johnny?”

  “He’s doing some cleanup work for Fabrice.”

  “Of course,” Élodie said as she stood. She was soft-spoken but confident. “In the meantime, do you know anything about this sort of restoration?”

  Cady nodded. “A bit. I used to work on antiques in California.”

  “Good, so you know the basics. First, check for loose paint. If things are intact, and it’s just soot damage, this will help.” She gathered supplies as she talked, explaining the different processes. She placed lint-free rags, soft brushes, cotton balls and swabs, and most important of all, a jar of special solvent, into a bag.

  “Work carefully, just fifteen square centimeters at a time.” She sketched out a square that looked about six inches in dimension, then turned to the oil painting of flowers on the easel. “You see? There are flowers and leaves here, placed carefully by the artist for a reason. The pink camellia means ‘I am longing for you,’ the purple hyacinth means ‘I’m sorry.’ The little white lilies of the valley mean a return of happiness. It was all part of a language, and if we can’t see them, they’re lost.”

  Deep, delicate colors emerged from the dark background as she carefully cleaned her little square.

  “It is slow, you see? You cannot rush, or you run the risk of rubbing too hard, pushing dirt farther into the varnish, or sometimes lifting varnish off altogether.”

  She filled several more jars with different solvents, labeling them in a careful, French-style script.

  “I wish I could come help you with it,” Élodie said when she handed Cady the bag. “It would be my honor to do so.”

  “Thank you so much, Élodie. I will be sure to tell Fabrice; perhaps he’ll change his mind with time.”

  “This is not healthy,” Toinon said with a shake of her head. “He needs family, and he is lucky to have them.”

  “I agree,” said Cady. “I can’t imagine why he wants to be alone. But I don’t feel I can invite anyone, as I am his guest.”

  “We understand. But please, if you can, perhaps you can convince him to change his mind.”

  “I hope so.” The clock chimed five. “But now I really should be going. I have to shop for dinner, and I’ve already taken so much of your time. Thank you.”

  As they passed through the little study again, Cady received two more chocolate-scented kisses from young Jacinthe. They continued through the vanilla-scented farmhouse kitchen.

  “Before you go, I must show you this,” said Toinon. She led Cady on a narrow path around the edge of the crammed greenhouse.

  There, nearly hidden by boxes and bags, was a carved wooden horse with a delicate, upturned face. Unless she missed her guess, it was a Bayol creation.

  “Is this from the Château Clement?” Cady asked.

  Toinon nodded. “I inherited it from my mother. I’m not sure how she came to have it. But . . . I know family members have taken things from the château through the years. It was abandoned for a very long time.”

  Cady inspected the figure and found the telltale Bayol plaque affixed to its saddle; most of the original paint seemed intact.

  “Do you think other family members might have parts of the carousel?”

  “They might. I will ask. And if Fabrice truly allows you to restore the carousel, of course I would like to bring this one back, to take its original place.”

  Cady bade au revoir to Toinon, watching as the fairy-tale cottage receded in her rearview mirror. Fabrice must be insane not to want to be part of it all. What wouldn’t Cady give to have such familiarity, the sense of belonging to a world like that?

  Now she just had to figure out how to get any other pilfered animals back without causing more upset among the Clement clan. She had the distinct impression that not all the relations were going to be as open and helpful as Toinon and Élodie.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  1900

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Maëlle

  Maëlle and Josephine had quickly fallen into the habit of sharing a glass in the evenings. After they finished the chouchenn, Maëlle tasted cognac for the first time, and tried some local bitters and sherries. They shared confidences, Josephine telling Maëlle that the local Provençal people didn’t trust her or like her much—they thought Bretons were sneaky and secretive, and drank too much. Also, she feared Château Clement’s finances were in worse condition than her husband would admit—he had the soul of an artist, not a bus
inessman, and his brother Thierry was putting pressure on him to give up the château entirely.

  Maëlle told Josephine that she had turned down two marriage proposals from men in her village, and that her mother had cried at night both times. And after her mother got sick, she vowed to accept the next proposal, but her mother’s condition worsened rapidly and she died too quickly for Maëlle to fulfill her promise. And Maëlle gave Josephine the little wooden animals she had made; Josephine had cooed in delight, and declared she would give them pride of place on the mantel in the nursery.

  But now . . . Maëlle manages to avoid her patroness for two days. Finally, Josephine comes out to the carousel building.

  The clanking and sawing stops immediately as the men stand respectfully. Maëlle does the same, putting down her paints—but swearing under her breath.

  “Oh, it is lovely!” Josephine says breathlessly. “I didn’t want to see it until it was finished, but I simply could not wait any longer. It is astounding!”

  Josephine pauses, then says, “Maëlle, could I speak to you a moment?”

  “Of course, madame.”

  “Outside?” Josephine leads the way to the courtyard, where a warm, strong summer breeze caresses their cheeks. She turns to Maëlle, searching her face. “Is everything all right, Maëlle?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I thought . . . We had such a nice time in the evenings, but I haven’t seen you lately.”

  “I’ve been busy, and very tired at the end of the day, that’s all.”

  “I understand that Léon Morice has not been showing up to work consistently,” Josephine says. “Is that true?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of my ‘informants,’” she replies with a little laugh. “Believe me, Maëlle, there aren’t many secrets kept on an estate like this one. Gossip is rampant. So don’t try to deny it. I know he has abandoned you.”

  Maëlle meets Josephine’s eyes, wanting desperately to confide in her friend. But then she reminds herself: Josephine probably knows all this, since she herself has been with him.

  “Oh dear, you have such a bleak expression in your eyes!” exclaims Josephine. “But of course you do. You are trying to do everything now, aren’t you? You’re running things here, a whole crew of men. You really are the most astonishing young woman.”

  “Thank you, but I have to get back to work.”

  “I—of course,” Josephine says. “I’m sorry to have kept you. Silly me, with nothing to do but flutter about, whilst you must do the job of two men. I understand now. Just know that I have enjoyed our talks, and would love to see you this evening, even for a short time, if you aren’t too tired.”

  Maëlle nods, fighting tears.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next evening, Josephine calls out to Maëlle as she enters the house after work.

  “Maëlle, it has been so long. Won’t you join me for a chat?”

  “I’m sorry, I have been very busy, madame. Bonne continuation,” Maëlle murmurs as she walks swiftly past, avoiding Josephine’s eyes.

  “‘Madame’?” Josephine says. “You’re calling me madame now? Now I know there’s something wrong.”

  Maëlle shakes her head, wanting only to be back in the privacy of her bedroom.

  “What is it, Maëlle? Please tell me. Are we not friends?”

  Maëlle bursts into tears.

  “Oh, oh dear,” Josephine says, putting her arm around Maëlle and rushing her into the parlor, then closing the door. She escorts her to the chair she had become accustomed to sitting in during their evening chats, hands her a handkerchief, and perches on the seat across from her.

  “My dear, dear Maëlle. I know we’ve known each other only a very short time. But I feel so close to you already. As women, as Bretons. As kindred souls. Please, tell me?”

  “Do you . . . do you love your husband, Josephine?”

  “But of course! He is the kindest man I have ever known. Even in the family they say that Yves got all the sweet, and his brother, Thierry, the sour.” She smiles, slightly chagrined. “Then again, Thierry has three children already, and was married the year after Yves and I. So perhaps there is a reason he is blessed, and we are not.”

  “I . . .” Maëlle blew her nose in the handkerchief, then squared her shoulders and blurted out: “Are you having an affair with Léon Morice?”

  Josephine rears back as though Maëlle had thrown a punch.

  “What? I am most certainly not having an affair—I would never, and least of all with that scoundrel.”

  “You don’t . . . You don’t like Léon?”

  “Well, he’s a beautiful man, and I do love beautiful things,” Josephine says with a smile and a nod. “But it is clear he has a wandering eye. And here he has left you to run this entire project, a young woman like you! I know you are very capable, remarkably so. But it doesn’t seem fair to put all this on your shoulders.”

  Maëlle remains silent in her misery.

  “I’m sure this is why you’re crying, sweet Maëlle. You’re overtired. We’re working you too hard. Why don’t you take a day or two off—all of the men could use a rest day, I’m sure.”

  “It’s not that. I love the work,” says Maëlle. “It’s just that I’m . . . I think I’m with child.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  The following afternoon, after doing her daily grocery shopping, Cady stopped in at the Hound Dog Café.

  “Bonjour,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over “Heartbreak Hotel,” which was blaring in the background.

  “Bonjour, Americaine!” Hubert called out.

  Cady noticed yet another silent old man hunched over the bar and decided that Fabrice was looking better all the time. He might be grumpy, but at least he didn’t drink the hours away, glowering at strangers over his beer.

  “Un café allongé, s’il vous plait,” Cady said in Hubert’s general direction as she moved toward her usual table in the corner near the window. Her order was for a coffee with a dash of extra water in it. In France café meant espresso, which was sometimes too strong for her. But she had made the mistake of ordering an Americano in Paris, and didn’t enjoy the overly watered-down taste. Goldilocks-like, she had found the allongé to be just right.

  She opened her e-mail and was happy to find a new message from Olivia. She treasured this connection with an old friend, someone who knew her as something other than “the American girl staying with Fabrice Clement.” France had offered Cady the chance to explore a different part of herself, but it was grounding to have someone who knew where she was from. She hadn’t realized how cut off she had been feeling, how adrift.

  Cady barely noticed when Hubert placed the cup of coffee in front of her.

  Hello, my dear friend,

  Well! You don’t do things halfway, do you? Little did I know, when I was forcing you to go to Europe, that you would ingratiate yourself into a situation at a château out in the country, of all places. Maybe Sebastian and I should come visit you there?

  So, I talked to Marjorie at Addison Avenue Books, and she talked with her people.

  They didn’t exactly go for your idea. They don’t like the idea of your derelict carousel forming a chapter in the book.

  Instead, they’re interested in the possibility of making it into a different book entirely! Apparently a lot of people like abandoned things (see? It’s not just you), and they think that with the photos, it could be really interesting. They want to see some examples. One thing: They want you to include the old man and his dog. Classic.

  You’ll still talk to me when you’re a bestselling author, right?

  The e-mail went on with some chatty details about the local farmers market and a show she had
seen at Oakland’s famous Paramount Theatre, making Cady feel like she had been chatting over coffee with her best friend. Only friend, really. It made her smile, but it also made her miss Olivia with a visceral yearning.

  It wasn’t just the ease of the language that Cady longed for, but the feeling of being understood without speaking.

  Cady read through the e-mail message twice, and the part about the book three times. She sat back in her chair and gazed out at the alley beyond the window. Two elementary-age children walked past on either side of their mother, talking excitedly while she smiled and nodded, Madonna-like, exuding eternal patience. A hunched-over old woman held on to the arm of a middle-aged man who had two baguettes tucked under his other arm. An orange tabby perched on a windowsill across the way; Cady watched while the feline focused on the same passersby she did, its wide, intelligent green eyes taking in . . . what?

  A book. An entire book about the dilapidated Château Clement and the process of restoring its damaged carousel. Could she pull it off?

  One worry immediately gnawed at her, deep down. She was only now earning Fabrice’s trust. Was it possible that he would cooperate, or—more likely—would he see it as the ultimate invasion of his privacy? He was so prickly. . . . How could she even approach the idea with him?

  “You’re the American?” came the raspy voice of an old man standing next to her table.

  Cady had become so accustomed to strangers in Saint-Véran being nice to her that she wasn’t on guard. But this man was agitated, swaying slightly on his feet. Her Oakland defensive stance came out.

  “And who are you?” As she asked the question, she realized he was the man who had been sitting at the bar, hunched over his beer.