an admonishment. “When do you come back, dear?”
“My ticket is up in four days.” Unless she extended her stay. Maybe there would be a general strike and they’d close the airports. That grim thought cheered her up.
“Please call when you get back. And come see us here in Philly. We’ve finished remodeling the carriage house kitchen and it’s Stan’s pride and joy.”
“He cooks at home?” Why would he want to, after a long day in the kitchen at the main house?
Mother giggled like a teenager. Lily’s jaw fell open—she’d never heard that sound before. “Sure, he does. He takes good care of me.” That simple statement, filled with pride and love, made Lily’s heart flip and her eyes tear.
“He’d better,” she blustered, sniffing discreetly. “Or else I’ll hide his favorite knives and sharpening stone.” She’d grown up in a kitchen and knew how to punish a chef.
“Oh, my, how fierce.” Her mother laughed again but cleared her throat. “And Lily, be careful with this man. I would hate to see you hurt.”
“Mother, he’s very nice.”
“A nice man can break your heart as easily as a bad man. Sometimes worse, because you’re not expecting it.” Her tone had the ring of past experience.
Lily hesitated, but didn’t know how to reply. “I understand,” she finally said.
“I hope you won’t have to,” she said simply. “But keep up the good work and get those recipes for Stan and me,” she emphasized with a chuckle.
Lily agreed and blew a kiss into her phone before hanging up.
Mother had found happiness after heartbreak and many long, hard years alone. Lily knew she wasn’t ready to settle down herself, but couldn’t help wondering what the future would bring.
Hopefully not heartbreak, but like Mother had said, it was unexpected. Lily just hoped Jack wouldn’t be the one to bring it.
13
LILY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the stone patio behind the guesthouse kitchen, her camera aimed at an industrious bee buzzing around a purple sage plant. Not being a fan of bee stings, she moved slowly to frame her shots. One set had the golden-and-black insect in front of a solid wall of purple blooms, and for the second set, she lay down on her back and aimed upward. That angle showed the bee more in profile against the blue, blue sky.
She took a few pictures of the sky to capture the color. No wonder painting legends like Cézanne and Van Gogh, Picasso and Matisse had immortalized Provence in their art. She only wished she had the talent to do the same.
Ah, well. Her talent was with words, and maybe her photos would illustrate the land in some small way.
A shadow fell over her and, still looking through the viewfinder, she rotated to see Jack looking down at her. She fired off a couple shots of him silhouetted against the sky.
He looked startled. “That’s an odd angle for a photo. Wouldn’t you like my regal profile instead?” He turned his head to the right and put his finger under his chin, staring haughtily into the distance.
“I’m aiming for the artsy look. Don’t worry, I won’t put that one on my blog. But you do have that snooty expression just right.”
He chuckled and extended a hand to her, the bee buzzing around him for a second until it decided to find greener pastures.
“You must not be scared of bees,” she told him, standing and shutting down her camera.
He grinned. “Working on a flower farm knocks that out of you pretty fast. I don’t bug them and they don’t bug me.”
She groaned at his pun.
“Bee-sides,” he continued, “you have probably never had lavender honey. It is a local delicacy and Marthe-Louise has a wonderful recipe of duck glazed with lavender honey.”
“Oh, yum. Do you think she would give me the recipe?”
He shrugged. “Sure, but she’ll cook it for us if we ask.”
“We could bring her the ingredients.”
Jack rubbed his chin. “Let me talk with her and see what she would prefer. I know she has a little understanding with the butcher and likes to pick out her own fowl.”
“The sign of a true artist,” she told him. “Stan would never let anyone else pick the giant beef roasts that Mrs. Wyndham likes to serve at her dinner parties.”
“Fortunately for us today, we will benefit from Marthe-Louise’s culinary generosity. You can’t come to Provence in the summer and not have a picnic. She fixed us a basket full of food and we’re going up into the hills for the afternoon.”
“Great.” Lily tightened the laces