Moonlight Over Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

let them know I’ve arrived? I ought to have said something before we left the station.”
    â€œNever you mind—you can write it out as soon as we get home and Vincent will drive it down to the post office. He won’t mind—will you, Vincent?”
    â€œNot at all, madame.”
    â€œOh, look—we’re here. Welcome to Villa Vesna!”
    Away from the seafront, with its grand hotels and more modest pensions, the residences of Cap d’Antibes were hidden behind whitewashed walls or tall hedges, so Helena had littlesense of how her aunt’s neighbors lived. The car slowed, turning carefully into a short drive, and drew up by the front door of a square, squat, flat-roofed house that charmed her with its pale pink walls and turquoise shutters.
    Far more striking, though, was the garden, which spilled down the hillside in three lushly planted terraces. Framing the magnificent view were trees that would never survive an English winter—date palms and olives, figs and mimosa. There was even a little grove of lemon and orange trees. Whitewashed trellises supported tangled vines of clematis, heliotrope, Chinese roses, and bougainvillea, while spreading beds of thyme, chamomile, and lavender tumbled over their low stone walls onto undulating pathways of crushed limestone. Birdsong was everywhere, melodic and joyful; later, she knew, it would be eclipsed by the rising drone of cicadas.
    â€œHelena? Shall we see you settled? We’ll do that, then we’ll have a late breakfast out on the terrace, and after that we’ll go down to the water and have a sunbath. Do you have a bathing costume with you?”
    â€œThere’s one in my trunk.”
    â€œOh, good. Leave your valise—Vincent will bring it in. And you can put Hamish down. He knows the way.”
    Inside, all was dark and cool, the villa’s windows still shuttered to keep out the heat of the day. Aunt Agnes led them to a flight of stairs, its banister a sinuous curve of weathered wrought iron, and the three of them climbed the steps, Hamish’s claws clicking softly against the terra-cotta floor tiles.
    â€œI’ve given you the best of the guest rooms, darling—my room is at the other end of the corridor. I think you’ll adore it. Do come in and tell me what you think.”
    Agnes hurried to fling open the shutters on two largewindows, revealing an expansive view of the terraced garden and, beyond, the infinite azure arc of the Mediterranean. “Will the room suit? I mean, apart from the view? You’ve the bed, and a desk and chair, and a little fauteuil if you feel like lounging. Is anything missing? I do want it to be perfect.”
    â€œIt is,” Helena promised.
    â€œOh—I almost forgot! Come with me—I’ve been dying to show you. Perhaps you could carry dear Hamish? He’s a little out of breath.”
    Helena scooped up the dog and followed her aunt back downstairs and outside again, this time via a side door. They stood on a round, elevated patio that was shaded by a pergola blanketed in the scarlet blooms of a trumpet vine. Just beyond was a low, stuccoed outbuilding, its façade dominated by a set of rough-hewn doors. Her aunt opened both doors wide and beckoned impatiently to Helena. “Come in. Come and see.”
    The interior was dim, especially compared to the glare of the midday sun. She lingered at the threshold, intrigued by her aunt’s enthusiasm for the shabby old shed, and blinked as her eyes struggled to discern what lay beyond.
    She saw the easel first. She blinked, and a table came into focus. A long table, pushed against the back wall, its surface covered with everything to tempt an artist’s heart: stacks of stretched canvases, reams of paper, boxes of pastels, tins of watercolors, a clutch of sharpened pencils in a tin. There were empty palettes, too, and an open case of brushes, every size and shape, all waiting for her.
    And there