Chapter One
 Frank Ballard memorized the mane of chestnut hair, the way the mademoiselle’s hips moved under the fabric of her skirt, and the slope of back to slim waist. In his mind’s eye, he buried his face in soft curls smelling of lavender and explored forbidden territory. He enjoyed this pastime until she turned around.
Seillans, France, the sidewalk cafe, the iron balconies dripping bougainvillea, and the heavy scent of cherry trees became background noise. A muddy stain spread across the white tablecloth as his coffee cup slipped from his hand.
Forty feet away in the town square the unattainable had materialized. Frank didn’t need pheromones to tell him that by some twist of the supernatural, he looked into the perfect features of an angel. Her oil painting, blazing with strokes of bold color, couldn’t match the shimmer of radiance surrounding her. She had been constructed in his mind many times, but as fate would have it, couldn’t have been more than a child of sixteen or seventeen.
Not one to dwell on life’s injustice, he got up from his chair. Purchasing her painting was the least he could do. Besides, a beauty of her magnitude wouldn’t give a man twenty years older a second glance.
He tucked his newspaper under his arm and strolled over. “Do you speak English?”
She shook her head no.
Motioning at her work, he spoke slowly, as if it would make a difference in her understanding. “I...would...like...to...buy...your...painting.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
He moved into her personal space. She did indeed smell of lavender. “Is your painting for sale?” he asked louder. She still looked puzzled.
A teenaged boy wearing hiking boots and a backpack sauntered up. “She’s not deaf, just French.”
“You speak the language?”
“Fluently.”
“Good. Ask her if the painting is for sale...no wait. Ask her what her name is.”
The kid lifted his lip in a sneer. “You’re kinda old to be hitting on her.”
“Just ask her.”
“Do you want her phone number too? Cause I can get it.”
He thinks he’s super-fly. “Listen closely.” Frank narrowed his eyes and spoke quietly to emphasize his request. “All I want you to do is ask what her name is and can I buy her painting. That’s all, no more, no less.”
“Yeah? I could tell her anything and you wouldn’t know what I was saying.”
“If she answers with anything but her name and yes or no, you’re a dead pimple popper.” Frank opened his jacket and flashed his National Security Agency badge. “Remember, you little bastard, you’re in a foreign country and by the bug-eyed look on your face, you’ve been doing some blow. Got some in your backpack? I could call the local police over and we could check.”
The kid backed up a step. “Hey Dude, I was just messin’ with you.”
“Hey Dude. Ask her,” he said, his voice flat.
The kid turned to the beauty, flashed her a smile which reflected a fortune in orthodontic work, and rattled off a stream of French words Frank took to mean: The old fart wants to know your name. You don’t have to tell him. I’ll just get rid of him and we can go some place quiet for lunch. He placed a hand on Pimple Popper’s shoulder and squeezed. The kid winced. Her eyes met Frank’s. He leaned into the chocolate depths.
She spoke and the divine rejoiced. “Yes...for sale.”
“You speak English?” they asked in unison.
She held her thumb and index finger slightly apart. “Little.”
Frank pushed his translator away. “I won’t be needing you.”
The kid stumbled and then regained his composure. “Yeah? Then why didn’t she speak up before?”
“Did your parents send you here to find yourself or get rid of you?”
Pimple Popper gave him a one-finger salute and walked away.
She smiled at Frank, obviously enjoying her own joke.
He smiled back and offered his hand. “Frank Ballard.”
She took it. “Gabrielle Bouchard.”
They stood holding the handshake a moment too long. She pulled her hand away and lowered her eyes. He cleared his throat. “Can I purchase your painting?”
Gabrielle looked up at him. “No finish...tomorrow...or next day.”
“I can wait.”
The clock on the tower chimed.
“Must go.” She tucked her brushes and palette into a small black case and folded the easel into a canvas carrier.
Where is she going? He tried to carry her things. “May I help?”
“Non...no. Tomorrow.”
She hurried away and disappeared down a narrow street. The air was, all at once, ordinary, and the beauty of the place reduced to old buildings and uneven streets. He shielded his eyes and looked up. The cloudless sky seemed harsh. Tomorrow, Gabrielle had said. How could he wait that long?
The next morning Frank paced in front of the café. Patience had never been one of his strong qualities. He hurried across the square to the street that had swallowed Gabrielle the day before. No sign of her.
What if she doesn’t come? How would he find her again? What if she’s married? Couldn’t be. She’s a child. Maybe he should walk down the street. But wasn’t that sophomoric? “Sonnava...I’m turning into a teenager.”
He could feel eyes watching him and looked up at the buildings. Every window had a head in it. He turned on his heels and walked back to the café. “Yes, I’m a crazy American with too much time on my hands,” he mumbled.
The café proprietor, Henri, a wiry man with a mustache and knowing smile, opened and started sweeping the sidewalk. Fresh-coffee fragrance spilled out the door. Frank doubted he needed the caffeine but ordered coffee anyway. He sat in the same chair, facing the same direction, trying to recreate yesterday. He flipped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it with shaking hands. His cool factor slipped a few notches.
The proprietor brought him coffee and a croissant. “Eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry, but thank you.”
“She will come.”
Frank studied his face. “Tell me about her.”
“Ahhh...she is exquisite, no?”
“Yes.”
“Her papa is very strict. She is well past the age of marriage.”
“She’s a child.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Gabrielle will soon be twenty.”
“Twenty,” Frank echoed. That would make him seventeen years older. Doable.
Customers started filling the tables. The owner excused himself and went to take care of other patrons. Frank knocked the fire off the end of his cigarette, stuck it back in the pack, and took a big gulp of coffee. At the very moment he decided he wasn’t a pervert, Gabrielle appeared in the square with her painting and supplies. She looked in his direction and smiled. The way the air sparkled made it hard to breathe. He swallowed hard and waived Henri over. “How does she take her coffee?”
The proprietor wiggled his mustache and asked, “Take?”
Frank motioned to the cup. “Uh, what does she put in her coffee?”
“Sweet...eh...sugar.”
“Could you bring me another and one for Gabrielle?”
“Certainly.”
He left and came back with a tray of coffee and pastry.
“The mademoiselle’s favorite,” he whispered in conspiracy.
Frank paid him double. “Could I borrow the table and chairs?”
“Oui,” he said and grabbed a chair.”
Frank laid the second chair on the table, picked up both, and followed Henri to the center of the square. He set the table beside her easel and bowed. It was the only thing he could think to do. When he straightened up and looked into her face, she grinned at him in amusement.
“What is this?”
“Mademoiselle needs nourishment so that she will not faint from her labor.”
“Comment?”
He pulled her chair out and explained, “Please join me for breakfast.”
She sat down. “Thank you.”
He hurried around to his chair and sat down. Her killer smile hit him low and hard. He suppressed the urge to lean across the pastry and taste those lips, but drank his coffee instead and made a face. “I think I got yours.”
She tasted hers and nodded affirmative. He switched the cups and offered her a pastry. “Henri said they were your favorite.”
“He wishes for you to make a good...how you say?...uh...”
“Impression?”
“Oui. That is it.”
“Am I succeeding?”
She leveled the full blast at him, teeth and all. “Oui.”
A strolling minstrel circled them and droned a French love song, stopping their conversation. Frank looked over at the café and saw the entire staff and morning coffee drinkers watching. The singer leaned over and continued his medley.
Is this a community affair?
Gabrielle nibbled at a pastry.
The singer took a breath.
Frank used the lull as an opportunity to ask, “What is the name of my new painting?”
She put the pastry down and licked a dainty finger. He salivated unexpectedly.
“It is called Passion,” she said.
He tried to speak and swallow at the same time, choked on his own saliva, and couldn’t take a breath. Smiling weakly, he turned his head, and coughed. It didn’t work. Holes formed in his vision and needles pricked the ends of his fingers signaling a lack of oxygen. Embarrassment became the least of his worries. Dying on their first date turned into a possibility. His decreased lung capacity from years of smoking made him vow to stop, right then and there. Not another coffin nail would ever touch his lips.
Just let me take a breath.
He pushed back from the table and tried to force air into his lungs. His windpipe closed. The pavement rose to meet him. Thirty-seven years of life passed before his eyes. He was struck by how devoid they were of real meaning. He had been consumed with the need to quench a thirst for sex and money, not necessarily in that order. Where was the white light at the end of the tunnel? The hereafter was a fairy tale and all he could expect was nothingness. Except, he could hear a beautiful voice talking.
I can hear. I can’t be dead.
His eyes opened. He lay on a bed of cobblestones with his head in her lap and her mouth inches from his. This wasn’t exactly how he would want the date to progress, but it would do.
A crowd from the café had gathered to see if he would live. Satisfied, they strolled back to their tables, the day’s excitement over. She helped him get up and sit in the chair.
“You need to lie down.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You come home with me. I take care of you.”
Did she say, come home with me?
“I am a little dizzy.” He clutched the edge of the table for effect.
Seillans was becoming his favorite assignment. He knew it would be a piece of cake. All he had to do was take a vacation on the government dollar and do a couple of hours of work each day. And now, Gabrielle, the girl of his dreams, was taking him home with her like a lost puppy. Could life get any better?
Gabrielle handed her black case to the minstrel, on medley standby, and motioned to the painting. “Bring it.”
She helped Frank up and put an arm around his waist to steady him. He draped his arm across her shoulders and let her lead him across the square and down her street. They stopped at a pale blue door set deep into a wall; the arched top was dissected into eight panes of glass. Lace concealed the interior of her home. Outside, flat against the wall, mahogany stained wooden shutters could be closed to traffic for privacy. Large pots of geraniums graced either side. The flesh colored plaster walls gave no clue where one home ended and the next began.
The door through which she came and went everyday was exactly as he had envisioned. It had a beauty that deepened with time, as he knew her beauty would. He pulled out of her grasp, unable to go farther.
She looked at him with questions. “Come. I make for you food.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Yes.” She stood her ground.
“No.”
He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth but felt if he crossed the threshold, his life would never be the same. Was it fear of commitment? No. Protection. The wall around his heart cracked. She inflicted serious damage to it with just a smile. He ran from emotional investment and learned at an early age that the returns were nonexistent. What she could take from him was far more dangerous than the one-night stands harvested from the local Washington D.C. girls.
He turned and walked back toward the square.
“Frank Ballard,” she called after him.
His step slowed.
“You are afraid.”
He faced her. She walked up to him. Tears blurred his vision. He willed them to stop.
“You are alone because someone has hurt you.”
She was so beautiful. And now he recognized why. Her beauty went through to the bone. The sun had nothing to do with the light in her eyes. It originated from within.
She put her hand over his heart. “Mon Cheri, life waits. Should we begin?”
Frank couldn’t have walked away if he had been given a direct order from the President. He followed her through the door into her life, dragging the unfortunate parts of his own, his faults, his preconceived ideas, and his occupation. As far as he could see, she didn’t have any faults. Maybe one, she liked him.
He sat at her kitchen table and fell over the edge of infatuation into a hopeless quagmire of love. She fed him beef stew made with wine, mushrooms, and black olives, a stew she called Estouffade A La Nicoise. She slathered butter on crusty bread and tempted him with red wine from the Var. When all his senses were in overload, her papa came home.
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