IntheArmsofaLover Read Online Free PDF Page A

up and down the coast and inland on
the local buses at a euro and a half a go, but even that was losing its
attraction. Her French was coming back. Every day she made a point of stopping
to talk to her landlady and she prolonged conversation in the shops as much as
politeness allowed. And, as time passed, she became more and more convinced
that here was where she wanted to stay.
    That decision spurred her into looking for employment. The
fleeting hope of actually running another farm faded fast. She’d heard nothing from
the woman, Helen Crewe, and Poppy had resisted the temptation to ring her and
ask. It had been idle chat, nothing more. But with the season just starting up,
there were several temporary opportunities in shops and cafés gearing up.
    She took a job working four days a week in a gift shop in
the flower market and calculated, if she were very frugal, she could add
another month to her stay. And who knew? If the manager was pleased enough with
her work, she might pick up more days and settle here.
    Okay, that last was wishful thinking unless she acquired a
rich lover, and there she was verging into the realms of fantasy. Far better to
concentrate on tagging prices on packets of Herbs de Provence , and
folding table cloths.
    Or answering her mobile during her lunch break. “Where R U?”
It was Audrey, her sister. Again. Still in France. She texted back,
wondering why she was so reluctant to be more specific. Because she didn’t one-hundred
percent trust her? Unfair! Audrey was her sister. Albeit her younger sister and
was no doubt still worried about her. She texted a second message. Am fine.
Just got a job. There that should keep her at bay a bit. And yes, sooner or
later she’d be more specific about her whereabouts now she was enjoying being
out of touch and unreachable. She’d have to face Tommy’s offspring eventually but
right now “disinclined to” was putting it mildly.
    “Madame, excuse, but you are the lady of the purple hands,
are you not?”
    It was the younger half of the odd pair from a week or so
back. Didier something or other if she remembered rightly from his business
card. “Yes,” Poppy replied. “Only now…” she held up her hands. “They are pink.”
    He smiled, really a rather attractive smile. “You look so
serious.”
    She bet she did. “I was just replying to my sister. My
younger sister.”
    “And you are worried about her?”
    No point to saying it was the total reverse. It was none of
his business anyway. “Just catching up with her during lunch.” If you could
call a croque monsieur and a bottle of San Pellegrino lunch.
    “Would you permit me to join you?”
    Would she? Why the hell not? “By all means but I have to be
back a work in fifteen minutes.”
    “You have a job?”
    At least he didn’t sound surprised. More curious really. “Yes,
in one of the shops. I decided I wanted to stay here.”
    “That is good.” Really? “Next week there is a show of my
grandfather’s photographs. Just a small exhibition you understand but perhaps
you would like to come? You have my card.”
    She did, somewhere in the depths of her handbag. “Better
give me another, just in case.”
    It appeared as if he’d produced it from up his sleeve, along
with a small flyer. “About the exhibition. Please take it.”
    * * * * *
    A week later, Poppy rode the tram out to a small church in
the suburbs and walked into the meeting room to stop short at the incredible
array of photographs. Monsieur Mainard, the old man from the Promenade des
Anglais, wasn’t just an eccentric with a camera. He was an incredible
artist. Thirty or forty photos hung from the walls and a divider that spanned
the middle of the room. She found hers and marveled that the shading on her
book cover reflected the purple of her nail varnish. She’d never noticed that,
but he had. Other photos caught her eye, one of a small child’s hand trustingly
enfolded in a wrinkled, elderly one and she had to smile at a