Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard

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СКАЧАТЬ a completely different perspective, just as Blake was viewing her. How many variations of her were there left to discover?

      The question both intrigued and concerned him as he walked with her into the round-towered church that formed part of the original monastery. In keeping with the canons of poverty, chastity and obedience embraced by the Augustinian monks, the chapel was small and not overly ornate. The enclosed cloister beside it was also small, maybe thirty yards on each of its four sides. The cloister’s outer walls were solid gray stone. Arched pillars framed the inner courtyard and formed a cool, shady colonnade. Sunlight angled through the intricately carved pillars to illuminate a stone sundial set amid a profusion of herbs and plants.

      “Oooh,” Grace murmured, her admiring gaze on the colonnade’s intricately carved pillars. “I can almost see the monks walking two by two here, meditating or fingering their wooden rosaries. And Van Gogh aching to capture this juxtaposition of sunlight and shadow.”

      The artist couldn’t have hurt any more than Blake did at the moment. The same intermingling of sun and shadow played across Grace’s expressive face. The warm smile she tipped his way didn’t help, either.

      “I know you must have visited here several times during your stays in Saint-Rémy. Thanks for making another trek with me. I’m gaining a real appreciation for an artist I knew so little about before.”

      He masked his thoughts behind his customary calm. “You’re welcome, but we’re still at the beginning of the Van Gogh trail. You’ll discover a good deal more about him as we go.”

      She made a sweeping gesture toward the far corner of the cloister. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

      * * *

      They spent another half hour at Saint-Paul’s. The windows in the two austere rooms where Van Gogh had lived and painted for more than a year gave narrow views of the gardens at the rear of the asylum and the rolling wheat fields beyond, both of which the artist had captured in numerous paintings. The garden’s long rows of lavender had shed their purple blossoms, but the scent lingered in the air as Grace compared the scene with the plaques mounted along the garden’s wall.

      At the exit she lingered for a good five minutes in the spot reputedly depicted in Starry Night, arguably one of the artist’s most celebrated canvases. The glowing golden balls flung across a dark cobalt sky utterly fascinated her and prompted Blake to purchase a framed print of the work at the gift shop. She started to protest that it was too expensive but bit back the words, knowing the stiff price wouldn’t deter him any more than the price of the perfumed oil he’d purchased yesterday.

      * * *

      They stopped at the villa to drop off the purchase, then spent a leisurely two hours following the rest of the trail as it wound through the fields and narrow lanes Van Gogh painted when he was allowed to spend time away from the asylum. The trail ended in the center of town at the elegant eighteenth-century hôtel that had been converted to a museum and study center dedicated to the artist’s life and unique style.

      After another hour spent at the museum, Blake suggested lunch in town at a popular restaurant with more tables outside than in. Grace declared the location on one of Saint-Rémy’s pedestrians-only streets perfect for people watching. Chin propped in both hands, she did just that while Blake scoped out the wine list. He went with a light, fruity local white and a melted ham-and-cheese sandwich, followed by a dessert of paper-thin crepes dribbling caramel sauce and powdered sugar. Grace opted for a crock of bouillabaisse brimming with carrots, peppers, tomatoes and celery in addition to five varieties of fresh fish, half-shelled oysters, shrimp and lobster. She passed on dessert after that feast, but couldn’t resist sneaking a couple of bites of Blake’s crepes.

      They lingered at the restaurant, enjoying the wine and shade. Grace was sated and languid when they left, and distinctly sleepy-eyed when she settled into the sun-warmed leather of the convertible’s passenger seat.

      The crunch of tires on the villa’s crushed-shell driveway woke her. She sat up, blinking, and laughed an apology.

      “Sorry. I didn’t mean to doze off on you.”

      “No problem.” He braked to a halt just beyond the fountain of leaping, pawing horses. “At least you didn’t go totally unconscious, like I did yesterday.”

      A hint of color rose in her cheeks. Blake sincerely hoped she was remembering the wild activity that had preceded yesterday’s lengthy snooze. He certainly was. The color deepened when he asked with totally spurious nonchalance if she felt like a swim.

      “I think I’ll clean up a bit and see what’s in the library. You go ahead if you want.”

      “I’ll take a pass, too. I’ve got some emails I need to attend to.”

      “Okay. I’ll, uh, see you later.” She swung away, turned back. “Thanks again for sharing Van Gogh with me. I really enjoyed it.”

      “So did I.”

      * * *

      This was what she’d wanted. What she’d insisted on. Grace muttered the mantra several times under her breath as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Tugging off her ball cap, she freed her wind-tangled hair and tried a futile finger comb. When she opened the door to the Green Suite, she took two steps inside and stopped dead.

      “Omigosh!”

      Starry Night held a place of honor above the marble fireplace, all but obscuring the faint outline of whatever painting had hung there before. The print’s cool, dark colors seemed to add depth to the silk wall coverings. The swirling stars and crescent moon blazed luminescent trails across the night sky, while the slumbering village below created a sense of quiet and peace. The dark, irregular, almost brooding shape dominating the left side of the print might seem a little sinister to some, but to Grace it was one of the cypress trees Van Gogh had captured in so many of his other works.

      She walked into the suite, took a few steps to the side and marveled at how the stars seemed to follow her movements. Then she just stood for long moments, drinking in the print’s vibrant colors and thinking of the man who’d obviously instructed it be hung where she could enjoy it during her stay.

      Okay, no sense denying the truth when it was there, right in front of her eyes. Blake Dalton was pretty much everything she’d ever dreamed of in a husband. Smart, considerate, fun to be with, too handsome for words. And soooooo good with his hands and mouth and that hard, honed body of his.

      She could fall in love with him so easily. Already had, a little. All right, more than a little. She wouldn’t let herself tumble all the way, though. Not with her cousin’s memory hanging between them like a thin, dark curtain. As fragile as that curtain was, it formed an impenetrable barrier. Grace couldn’t tell him the truth, and he couldn’t trust her until she did.

      Sighing, she turned away from the print and headed for the shower.

      * * *

      The curtain seemed even more impenetrable when she joined Blake for dinner that evening. As promised, Auguste had prepared his version of coquilles St. Jacques. It would be served, she’d been informed, in the small dining room. Small being a relative term, of course. Compared with the formal dining hall, which could seat thirty-six with elbow room to spare, this one was used for intimate dinners for ten or twelve. Silver candelabra anchored each end of the gleaming parquet-wood table. Between them sat a silver bowl containing a ginormous arrangement of white lilies and pink roses.

      Blake СКАЧАТЬ