Lavender Fields, Oh La, La.

 

I fell in love with the South of France last month when I accompanied my daughter on a photo shoot! I loved it so much, I now have three books in the works set on the French Riviera. (That's right, I write multiple books at a time because I'm wired this way. It's both my superpower and my downfall.) My daughter and I tried to visit the lavender fields, but we encountered thunderstorms, lightning, and all sorts of weather mischief.

Next week my husband and I are traveling to my hometown in the Pacific Northwest where my Small Town series takes place. Along the way, we're visiting lavender fields! And because my husband is much more courageous than either me or my daughter, nothing will stop us!

Here's the first chapter of The Christmas Letter, a novella set in the fictional town, Verdentcourt, France.

If anyone had told me a year ago I would be standing in a modern art museum in Marseille two weeks before Christmas, I wouldn’t have believed them. I would have laughed. Laughter had come easily then. I would have thought I would be spending the holidays exactly the same way I had for years. Surrounded by family. In the home I had lived in for thirty years. My calendar full of church and community celebrations.

But instead of decorating a Christmas Tree purchased from Jensen’s Farms, I stood in front of a blob of purple, surrounded by strangers sipping wine and chatting in a language I only half understood.

A pianist sat at an ebony baby grand playing a combination of Bach and Christmas carols. I itched to sit beside him and watch his fingers. Earlier, I had strolled past him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sheet music, but he was improvising.

As was I.

I felt as if that had been all I’d been doing for the last twenty months.

“What do you think?” IN FRENCH

I turned to see a tall, thin, angular women with a severe black bob cut at her jawline standing at my elbow. I threw out my pet phrase. “Sorry. Je ne pas parle Francias.”

“Ah, Americaine?”

“Oui.”

“I was curious what you found so mesmerizing about this painting.” She tipped her champaign goblet in the direction of the purple blob. “You have been standing her admiring it for some time.”

“Oh.” She had caught me off-guard. “I was thinking of something else.” I moved away from the painting as if some of its vibrant colors could spill onto my black dress.

The woman slid a sideways glance at a man who matched her height. His blue eyes studied me with a strange mixture of curiosity and compassion. “You do not find the,” she fluttered her hand as if she conjure the word she sought out of the air.

“Juxtaposition,” the man offered.

The woman nodded and her eyes lit with excitement. She continued, staring at me as if my opinion mattered, “The juxtaposition of the menacing sky and lavender fields enchanting?”

So, that was it was. Lavender fields beneath a thunderous sky.

I wilted beneath their collective, eager gazes. “I’m sorry. I really don’t understand art. My daughter, she’s an artist. She would be able to give you helpful feedback. I actually find modern art confusing.”

The woman laughed and it sounded harsh and dismissive. She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but moved away, letting me know my opinion no longer mattered because it didn’t match her own. The man, though, stayed. Unlike the other men in the room, he didn’t wear a red tie in honor of the season. His tie was a purple so deep, it was almost black.

“Your daughter is an artist? Perhaps I have heard of her.”

“I wouldn’t think so. She’s studying at a school in Paris.”

“Which one, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

I hesitated, because I always hesitated before attempting French. “École de L'Art Lumière.”

He seemed impressed, but probably not because of my atrocious accent. “She must be very talented. That is a prestigious school.”

“She’s very excited and honored to be there.” My voice broke over the words.

“But she is far from home, non?”

“Yes.”

“And where is your home?”

“Seattle.”

“Are you missing a white Christmas?”

Missing seemed like the most important word in that sentence, but I answered truthfully. “Seattle Christmas’s are usually more gray than white.” Still, my heart ached for the frosty mornings and the holiday lights dimmed by drizzle.

The man chuckled. “You seem like an honest person. Tell me what do you think of this artist?”

“You really want to know?” I studied him from under my lashes. Tall, broad shouldered, Cary Grant handsome. I glanced around for Mitzi, because I knew she would appreciate him in a way I never could.

“I really want to know,” he said.

“There’s too much color,” I said in a rush. “In fact, there’s too much.”

9:40/ 658

10:24

He waited as if I had more to say, but I didn’t. An awkward beat of silence fell between us.

“Too much?”

I laughed. “Maybe it’s my conservative upbringing, but, yes, all this,” I waved my hand at the painting, “color, emotion? It’s a bit much.”

“What artists do you enjoy? Monet? Renoir?”

“I don’t know a lot about art, but I know what I like. I like pictures that tell a story.” Memories of a long-ago trip to Paris returned and a whirlwind spin through the Louvre. The kids had been little, hungry, uninterested. Tim had wanted to spend more time, so the kids and I went to the café for a lunch of quiche and croissants. Was it sad that the food of that trip had been more memorable than the art? (The croissants had been mouthwatering…)

But, because I didn’t want this handsome man to know I was completely art-illiterate, I scrounged my memory and came up with a name. “Vermeer. I like Vermeer.”

“The Dutch artist?”

Was he Dutch?

“And Toulouse.” I remembered him because we were going to visit the town named after him…or was he named after the town?

The man blanched and I realized I had made a mistake. “Those are two very different sort of artists.”

“What can I say,” I shrugged. “I’m a woman of varied tastes.”

“Luc,” the woman who had spoken to me earlier, snagged the man by the elbow, “Come, there is someone who would like to meet you.”

“Excusez-moi,” the man murmured with a dismissive smile and disappeared into the crowd of people.

I turned my full attention to the painting with its dark swirling sky and wavering lavender fields. Studying it, I noticed something odd. The lavender appeared to be rippling. I reached out to touch it, to reassure myself it was just paint and canvas, but froze. My hand dropped to my side.

I moved onto the next painting. This one wasn’t as ominous. There were the lavender fields again, but this one had a small wooden bridge crossing a stream. I squinted at the stream. It also appeared to be moving. I stepped closer. How was it done? And why hadn’t I noticed it before?

“Pippa!” Mitzi, holding a champaign goblet in one hand and water bottle in the other, breezed my way. She had a round, generous figure, and her skin was flushed pink. “There you are.” She handed me the water. “Was that Luc Bonnette talking to you?”

I blinked at her. “His name was Luc, but we weren’t really introduced.”

Her gaze followed the direction Luc had gone. “Well, I wish I had been introduced. He’s the thing.”

“The thing?” I loved my friend, but I hated the way she objectified people. Maybe it came from her years in advertising. She tended to lump people into target markets. “He’s a person.”

“A person of interest.” She made a yummy sound right before sipping her champaign. I watched her with dread, hoping I wouldn’t have to drive back to the hotel. She drank. I didn’t. I had been the designated driver since college when we first met. She drank less now than she had then. I think a lot of that had to do with her ex-husband, a man who worked hard, but partied harder.

Mitzi handed me a brochure welcoming me to La Galerie Belle Époque with a list of the participating artists on display. There was Luc. Beneath his picture was a couple of his paintings. Of lavender fields. My heart sank. Had I hurt his feelings? I rubbed my eyes and longed for home.

“Do you think you can introduce me?” Mitzi asked.

“No!” I took her elbow. “Didn’t you hear me? I didn’t even get his name.” And I definitely didn’t get his art. How did he make the paint move like that? I wanted to ask him, but I was so embarrassed, I also never wanted to see him again.