Page 33 of A French Adventure
Maxine had reeled in shock, barely managing to stay upright, and ran frantically back to the apartment. His mother had died a year ago. Daiva had finally done what he’d threatened to do so many times when, according to him, she was being ‘difficult’. He’d taken Leonie and disappeared.
Maxine’s hand was shaking as she picked up her glass and took a sip, staring at the envelope. Since that fateful day, she’d had no contact with either Daiva or her daughter. She’d gone straight to the gendarmes, saying her daughter had been kidnapped, but they basically told her, he was the child’s father so there was nothing they could do about it. Six anxious, despairing months later, Maxine had received a letter from the London solicitors, telling her that in future they would be her only way of contacting Daiva Toussaint. They also told her that their client did not reside in London and that the child was safe and living happily with her father. Maxine, heartbroken and desperate to find Leonie, tried every avenue she could find to trace her daughter, all to no avail. Daiva had covered their traces well. In the end she had no choice but give up looking – but she never gave up hope.
Were the contents of this envelope about to give her the means of contacting her daughter – bringing her back into her life after thirty years? Or would it all be a waste of time, ending in a rebuff with Leonie deciding not to meet her after all these years? Because there was no doubting the fact that Daiva would have filled Leonie’s mind with poisonous thoughts about her absent mother.
23
As she prepared for the day out with Thierry, Olivia couldn’t help but wonder what sort of business he was investigating in Tourrettes-sur-Loup. He’d refused to tell her, teasingly saying ‘wait and see’. She’d visited the perched village several times and knew that it had fabulous views overlooking the gorge it was positioned above, with glimpses of the Mediterranean Sea in the distance. She also knew that it was home to lots of artists, sculptors and was known for its violets that grew all year round and were used for conserves, perfume and the crystallised fruits the village was famous for.
Thierry arrived promptly at nine thirty and they set off, with Thierry driving her car as she’d promised. It wasn’t long before they were on the mountain road that would take them up to the village. Thierry’s rendez-vous wasn’t until eleven o’clock, so there was plenty of time for a wander around. Still early in the day, there were relatively few people about as they parked in the car park outside the village and walked into the centre of the medieval stronghold.
Olivia sighed contentedly as they wandered around, getting lost in narrow streets, discovering little squares – one with alovely circular fountain – passing through vaulted passageways and climbing stepped streets with blowsy red geraniums lined up on individual steps. Together, they strolled in and out of artists’ workshops and galleries, admiring the work and discovering they had similar ‘arty’ tastes. They sampled various violet jams and crystallised flowers and sniffed violet perfume. ‘It’s truly the Village of Violets,’ she said to Thierry.
Stepping to one side to allow a couple with a toddling little girl to pass on one of the narrow streets, Olivia smiled as she glanced from the laughing child to the happy parents. They looked about her own age and for a split second she wondered whether she would ever scoop a small child up and cuddle it, like the mother was doing now. She watched them, deep in thought for several seconds, before they disappeared from her sight and Thierry broke the silence.
‘Do you hope for a family like that one day?’ he asked quietly.
‘Do you know, I’ve never been really sure about having children, as much as my mother longs for grandchildren, but I realised recently, yes, I do want a family. Not sure what kind of mother I’ll make, though,’ she said, laughing.
‘Nobody knows what kind of parent they’re going to be until it happens, I don’t think,’ Thierry said. ‘But most people I know muddle along and the children turn out okay.’
‘How about you? Do you want a family someday?’
Thierry nodded. ‘I would like the full works – a wife, two or three children and a dog or two, even a paddock with a horse in it.’ He laughed. ‘But someday is the operative word – when I’ve got myself sorted out. Talking of which, we’d better make tracks and meet up with Madame Jackman. We should get back to the car if we go down this way.’
‘Where are we meeting her?’
‘She lives about half a kilometre outside the village. The details are in the satnav. Shouldn’t be difficult to find,’ Thierry said.
Ten minutes later, he turned the car onto a tarmacked lane with neatly tended verges and a stone built mas covered in purple bougainvillea at the end.
‘What a lovely house,’ Olivia said.
Madame Jackman had clearly heard the car arriving and was waiting to greet them at the front of the mas.
‘Bonjour, Thierry. Please call me Marie-France. How lovely, you’ve brought your wife.’
Before Olivia could deny it and say they were just friends, Thierry had shaken his head and smiled. ‘Olivia is my business partner. She owns the pink flowers and champagne taxi in Antibes. You may have seen it.’
Olivia, rendered speechless by the idea that she was Thierry’s business partner, could only smile weakly at Marie-France.
‘That would certainly fit in well with my side of the business,’ Marie-France said. ‘Let me show you around.’
Following Marie-France to the back of the house, Olivia wondered what she’d meant by her side of the business. Exactly what sort of business was Thierry looking at here? Stepping around the corner of the house, she got her answer. It was a violet farm. A large greenhouse filled with violets and an open field with row after row of the earth-hugging plants greeted them.
‘Two different varieties,’ Marie-France said. ‘The outdoor one is hardier than the one in the greenhouse. It helps to stagger production.’
During the next quarter of an hour, Marie-France showed them the barn with its small but immaculate kitchen where the spring flowers were taken to be turned into the jams and confectionary they’d seen in the village.
‘In summer, the leaves are picked and sent down to the Grasse perfumery, and in winter, the flowers are picked for bouquets. There is something to do every season,’ Marie-France said. ‘We have two permanent employees and several seasonal workers. And, of course, Charles and I work with them. Well, it’s just me now since he died.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Olivia said. ‘Is that why you’re selling the business? It’s too much for you on your own?’
Marie-France nodded. She glanced at Thierry. ‘This side of the business was my responsibility and the other, the one I think you’re really interested in, was Charles’s domain.’
Olivia looked from one to the other. ‘What sort of business is that?’
‘Outdoor activity centre,’ Thierry said. ‘And yes, that’s of more interest to me. The house would be included if both were sold together?’
