The sound of the child taking a first, desperate gasp of air in too long a time happened at the same time he lifted up the forceps holding the large, firm green olive. The cry from the child’s mother was almost lost in the sound of other voices as the emergency crew stepped in to help provide oxygen and assess their young patient to ensure she was breathing adequately.

  She was doing even better than that. She was regaining consciousness, at first confused and frightened, but then she saw her mother and reached out with both her small arms, and her first word cut through every other sound in the room with piercing clarity.

  ‘Maman.’

  Oh, God…

  That word. With all its connotations and, on this occasion, the overwhelming relief that was more than enough to bring tears to Ellie’s eyes as she stepped further back to allow the medics to do their job. She could understand nothing of what was being said, but it was obvious they were comforting the mother as they did things like listening to her daughter’s chest. Everybody was clearly very happy with the outcome of this crisis, but it appeared that they were going to take both mother and child away – presumably for a more thorough check in a hospital – so, in what seemed like a very short space of time, Ellie found herself alone with Julien.

  She needed to say something. To tell him how incredibly impressed she was with his ability to save a life. That she knew exactly what it would mean to that young mother, but she knew she would burst into tears if she tried to say anything. And maybe she didn’t need to, because the expression in Julien’s eyes suggested that he understood completely how she was feeling about the crisis she’d just witnessed.

  More than that, even. That, because he knew about Jack, he understood how it had made her feel when she’d been holding his son in her arms and he’d opened his eyes and said the same thing this child had said when she’d woken?

  Maman.

  Mammy.

  Julien didn’t say anything, either. He took a step towards Ellie. And another. And then he simply took her into his arms and held her. She could feel his warmth. The beating of his heart against her cheek. The strength of his arms as he tightened his hold when she did burst into tears. And still he said nothing. He didn’t move – as if he had all the time in the world to hold her. To comfort her. To let her know that he understood.

  To tell her that it was okay? That she was safe?

  Ellie wanted all the time in the world. She didn’t want to move. She’d never felt quite this safe in her life and… it was a feeling that was so powerful it was impossible to pull away from it. Far more powerful than any physical attraction she’d discovered to this man, in fact.

  You could fall in love with someone who could make you feel this safe.

  For a heartbeat, all Ellie wanted was to sink into that feeling. To let herself start falling, even, knowing that the process would be anything but painful. The triggering of an internal alarm might have been entirely silent, but it was palpable enough to make the hairs on the back of Ellie’s neck prickle.

  Safety was only an illusion, wasn’t it? It could get snatched away in the blink of an eye and, the more you believed in it, the more shattering it was when that happened. Falling in love might be deliciously painless, but losing it could tear your heart into a million bleeding pieces.

  Ellie couldn’t allow it to happen again. She was nowhere near ready to even think about it happening. She felt as though she wouldn’t survive another loss of someone she loved, so she couldn’t afford to trust any impression of safety. With an enormous effort, she pushed back. Julien released her instantly, but Ellie made the mistake of looking up as she stepped out of his embrace.

  Dark, dark eyes. So full of compassion that she was caught all over again. He did understand. Of course he did – he’d lost someone he loved that much, too. And, while that connection of shared loss was a layer of attraction quite apart from anything physical, the combination – in the aftermath of an emotional rollercoaster of fear and relief – was proving to be an irresistible force. Was Julien also aware of it?

  He seemed to be. His expression was changing as he held eye contact, and then his gaze dropped to her lips, and Ellie knew he was thinking about kissing her.

  And, heaven help her, she wanted him to.

  So much.

  Too much.

  She’d avoided feeling anything this strong in a very long time. She’d known that panic would be close behind, and she could feel it now, snapping at the heels of any thoughts of letting herself give in to a longing this powerful.

  She had to escape.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. Inspiration sprang from sudden anxiety as she turned swiftly away from Julien. ‘Oh, my God… I left Pascal tied up to that bench.’ She was already halfway to the door. ‘I hope he’s still there.’

  10

  The relief of finding the little white dog curled up and asleep in the shade beneath the bench had been oddly overwhelming. Ellie hid her face against his scruffy curls for a moment or two while she regained her composure, but she still needed to swipe a tear away as they headed back to where she’d left her bicycle.

  The relief of getting back to what was her safe space in this temporary new life was also huge. Walking into this small, solid, golden-stoned house felt like walking into a mother’s hug.

  It felt like home.

  But it was a home that was very different to anything Ellie had ever known before. This was nothing like the cluttered bustle of growing up with her sisters, with the sound of laughter interwoven with the sharp tones of yet another dispute between the girls or the authoritative tone of Mam, or Laura, taking control. It was nothing like the frequent silences of living above that rented studio with Liam, either. Not the creative kind of silences when they were both immersed in the art that had been a huge part of the attraction between them, but the ones where it was dangerous to say or do anything because eggshells would get broken, and it would always, always be Ellie who got hurt by the shards of those shells.

  This room, with the golden glow of stonework, the rich red of the floor and the tantalising streaks of sunshine finding their way through the bars of the shutters, offered a silence that was imbued with a sense of… peace, that’s what it was. Ellie crouched to detach Pascal’s lead and then found herself sitting on the cool tiles, wrapping her arms around her knees and closing her eyes as she breathed in exactly what she needed in this moment: an opportunity to step back from the emotional rollercoaster, with the drama of that choking child and that desperate desire to stay in Julien’s arms, and to find a calm place in her head – and her heart. To sink into the stillness that hung in the air in here and seemed to offer the promise that everything would be okay. That she was going to be okay. That life would feel like it was really worth living again. All she needed to do was to breathe in the sense of peace that was the result of a unique alchemy of components that she was only just beginning to identify, and to take one step at a time.

  She’d felt it before, without being able to identify it, when she’d known that she needed to stay here, because she’d felt the possibility of finding the person that was still buried in the aftermath of soul-destroying events. She’d felt the magic of a particular combination of elements, and it was a magic that could shift its shape. It could be a glow of inspiration. This sense of peace. Hope for the future.

  The polite scratch of a small paw against the doors to the terrace got Ellie to her feet, but she could still feel that stillness, even as she began moving again.

  ‘I think it’s going to be okay,’ she told Pascal as she let him outside. ‘What do you think?’

  He was heading towards the nearest lemon tree in the orchard but paused at her questioning tone and looked back. Ellie knew it was hot and that Pascal was panting, but it looked, for all the world, as if he was smiling at her. As if he agreed.

  She was aware of another wash of that relief she’d felt seeing him still tied to the bench, curled up safely asleep beneath the seat. How awful would she have felt if he’d somehow become untied and run away in fear? That anxiety had been disturbing because it suggested that she might still be capable of feeling the warmth and protectiveness and relief that only came when you cared deeply about someone or something. When you loved them. And that would mean that Pascal had somehow found a chink in the armour she was relying on to protect her heart.

  That didn’t ring the same alarm bells that the thought of falling in love with Julien had, however, because this was just a small dog, not a person. And it was only temporary. She would be leaving France and Pascal would have a new home with Julien’s grandmother. Surely it was safe enough to enjoy something that would only be a memory soon? Like so many things that were making it feel that this tiny patch of the earth was custom-made to heal her soul – the soft light and colours, the musical drift of the language and the taste and heat of socca straight from the oven. Pascal was a part of that mix in his own right, and she would never forget sitting in the square with him today or being in this tiny orchard with this deliciously fresh scent of lemons. The more memories like this that she could hold close to her heart in the future, the better.

  Ellie followed Pascal further into the orchard, stooping to pick up some of the fruit. Maybe she was also searching for enough distraction, for more distance, to prevent her thoughts returning to the drama of the market.

  ‘I’m going to make some lemonade,’ she decided. ‘And lemon honey. And… what else can you do with lemons?’

  The Internet provided an answer to that question when she and Pascal curled up on the sofa to escape the intense mid-afternoon heat.

  ‘Limoncello,’ she read aloud. ‘A sweet, smooth drink that can be sipped straight from the bottle you keep in the freezer will bestow the tang of lemons to sparkling water and can be shaken into cocktails that will be a favourite party tipple. Wow… that sounds quite a bit more exciting than lemonade, doesn’t it?’

  Pascal’s tail thumped against the worn leather of the sofa.

  ‘It says that the lemon skin is the most important ingredient, and they have to be the right sort of lemons, like the ones that grow on the Amalfi Coast in Italy. I’m guessing we have the right sort of lemons here – we’re not that far from the Italian border, are we?’ Ellie lapsed into silence, making a mental list of other ingredients she’d need to buy, like vodka and sugar.

  She needed to write this recipe down so she didn’t have to go online to find it again, and the only paper she knew she had was that sketchbook she’d left in the suitcase Laura had sent over. It was only natural to pick up the case of pencils that had been packed with it, to save her hunting for another writing implement. As a teenager Ellie had had a bit of a passion for calligraphy, and it was a skill she’d used ever since if she had something like a card to write. It was too hot to do anything too energetic in the way of house or garden improvements at the moment, anyway, and taking her time to add the curls and flourishes to these words should be an enjoyable distraction.

  Pascal had taken up the spot on the sofa beside her again, and Ellie was getting quite used to sharing what she was thinking aloud.

  ‘Six ripe lemons, freshly picked. Well, that won’t be difficult, will it?’

  Ellie brushed her fingertips over the familiar texture of the cold-pressed watercolour paper. A4 size was rather too big to write a recipe on, but she was reluctant to cut it into smaller pieces. Instead, she found herself planning a way to fill the entire space in a way that could turn it into something special, which could become a gift. Picking up an HB pencil, she softly outlined a title, thought about how much space would be needed to write the list of ingredients and the instructions and then began to sketch a lemon tree branch in the centre of the paper. She had the vase on the kitchen table to glance at as she drew the fruit and stalks, and the leaves with that little curl at the end. Her case was full of watercolour pencils and the brushes she used to activate them with water, and they were the perfect medium for this subject. By the time Ellie was happy with the shading of the yellows and greens she was using and she’d added the smudge of darker marks and lines of small imperfections, she’d almost forgotten about the text she wanted to add, but it was a welcome change to switch to a calligraphy pen and write with the kind of focus that produced letters to rival the neatness of a digital font.

  She knew the recipe off by heart by the time the afternoon light was softening into evening, and she had been so immersed in what she was doing that it was still filling her mind as she wandered outside. The percentage of alcohol in vodka was not something Ellie had ever taken note of, but 95 per cent sounded rather a lot. She needed to go to the bricolage shop again because she needed a couple of bottles, firstly to put the lemon rinds and alcohol together to shake occasionally for a week, and then to filter the addition of the syrup before leaving the concoction for another three weeks until it was ready to drink.

  It would be nearly a month before she could taste it.

  A good chunk of the time she had available to finish renovating the house. Laura was thinking of coming back for a weekend about then, to check on progress and take photographs of anything that might be ready and suitable for the advertising campaign. Ellie needed to make another list. Not ingredients this time, or the steps of a recipe, and there would be no reason to illustrate a description of the work still needing to be done on the house and garden. It would be a waste of time to make a list like that into an artwork.

  An artwork…?

  Ellie found herself standing very, very still. With her eyes closed. Because that was what she had done with the recipe, wasn’t it? For the first time since Jack’s death she had lost herself in the process of creating something beautiful. It had snuck up on her, disguised as a practical task to record information she needed, and perhaps it had been her need for distraction from any thoughts of a child who nearly died or a man who could potentially steal her heart that had led her back to doing something she’d thought could never provide satisfaction. Or pleasure.

  Maybe she hadn’t wanted to find that satisfaction, let alone any pleasure.

  Because she didn’t deserve it?

  Because she had failed as a mother and been unable to protect her precious baby even as he slept so close in his bassinet, right beside her pillow.

  No wonder it had been overwhelming to find that Pascal had still been tied safely to that bench today. She’d almost witnessed another mother facing the loss of her child and… and she’d felt the touch of being held in someone’s arms.

  Feeling protected.

  Safe…

  It was all too much, and whatever peace she’d found in coming home to this house was suddenly shattered. Ellie didn’t want to feel protected. She didn’t want the warmth of being cared for that much. Or of caring that much. Because she didn’t want the fear that came with it. She could never face the grief of losing it again, and the only way to stay completely safe was to avoid the risk.

  She opened her eyes. She picked up that sheet of paper with its soft colours and beautiful words, crumpled it into a ball and dropped into one of the half-glazed pots beside the fireplace so that it was out of sight. She had to blink hard to clear the tears that were gathering, but Ellie knew that if she let them start falling now, they might never stop. She tried to focus on what was right before her eyes, to bring herself into the moment and escape both the past and any fear of the future, and she found herself staring at the floor. At the hexagonal tiles that Mike had called tomettes. She was noting the range of shades of terracotta and the cracks and chips and wondering if they had always had such a matt surface or whether they had just been neglected for a very long time.

  The afternoon heat still hung heavily in the air, but Ellie’s need for a task that could keep her entirely in the moment overrode any reluctance to engage in physical effort. Within a very short time, she had a bucket of hot, soapy water, a scrubbing brush and a pile of old towels. She was ready to scrub. One tile at a time, if necessary, and she would keep going until every single one of them was as clean as she could possibly make it.

  Despite how often she had swept this floor, there was enough grime caked onto the tiles to make it necessary to replace the water in the bucket again and again. When the scrubbing brush proved inadequate for the task, Ellie switched to a pot scourer. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the unforgiving surface, her fingertips turned into prunes from being wet for so long and she had curls of her hair stuck to her face with perspiration. The dust from where she had been chipping away the plaster covering on the stone wall added an extra layer of dirt – and maybe it would have been more sensible to have waited until that renovation task had been completed – but she wasn’t going to stop, because this was helping.

  This was the safest thing she had done all day.

  She could allow herself to care about how clean a collection of ancient tiles was. To care about bringing an old house back to life so that it could be sold more easily and relieve her family of a burden they didn’t need or want. What Ellie couldn’t do was to allow herself to care too much about someone else’s child who’d nearly died. About a small dog that was going to go and live with someone else in the near future. And, maybe especially, about a man who’d reminded her of what it felt like to be held.

  And cared for…

  ‘So… what did you think?’

  ‘About what?’ Laura sounded as though she had the phone on speaker. Ellie could hear the shuffle of papers and the scratch of a pen that suggested her sister was multitasking as she took this call.

  ‘About the photos I sent. The floor.’

  ‘Oh… right. Those old tiles.’

  ‘Tomettes. A really traditional flooring in France. Sometimes they’re square, but they’re almost always hexagonal in Provence. I scrubbed them yesterday, and today I went and found a special polish for them in the bricolage.’