Moonlight Over Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

Duchamp to a clutch of disbelieving and pinch-faced matrons. Though normally shy when meeting new people, Helena hadn’t hesitated before chiming in, avowing her admiration for Duchamp and his fellow Cubists. She and Sara had talked non-stop for the rest of the afternoon.
    The Wiborg family had departed for Italy not long after, but Sara and Helena had maintained a faithful, if irregular, correspondence throughout the intervening years. In 1915 shehad married Gerald, and not so long ago they had moved to France, it would seem for good.
    As far as Helena had known, they’d been living in Paris; she had meant to call on them once she was settled there in September. So it had been a lovely surprise to discover the entire family at the little beach at La Garoupe one afternoon a few weeks earlier, and then to learn they were staying for the rest of the summer.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tonight Auntie A and I are dining with the Murphys, along with an American friend of Gerald’s. As I write this it’s nearly eleven in the morning, so if I’m to get in any plein air work today I must be off. Although people don’t really dress for dinner here in Antibes our aunt does expect me to be presentable—and that means I need to set aside a solid hour at the end of the day to scrub the paint from under my fingernails and render the rest of my person fit for company!
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I promise to write again soon—Auntie A sends her best wishes—
    With much love,
    Helena
    Having packed her satchel after breakfast, it remained only to fetch a sandwich and a flask of water from the kitchen, leave the letter to Amalia on the hall table for Vincent to post later, and haul her bicycle out of the garage. She’d found it a few weeks earlier, tucked away in the back of the old stables, and although it was old and rather heavy it worked well once Vincent had cleaned off the cobwebs and set it to rights.
    The ride into the hills north of Antibes was ever so pleasant, and in the hours that followed she made some very satisfactory sketches of lavender growing wild in an ancient groveof olive trees. She worked happily for ages, only noticing the time when she paused for a drink of water, and realized the afternoon was nearly gone.
    She packed up her things and began the journey home, but her bicycle dropped its chain before she’d gone even a mile, and despite her best efforts the chain stubbornly refused to stay put. Helena was so intent on trying to fix her bicycle that she didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until it pulled to a growling halt only a few yards away.
    Turning around, she expected to see one of the goods lorries or delivery vans that comprised most of the limited traffic on the narrow, unpaved roads. Instead, she was surprised to discover a small and low-slung coupe, its exterior painted with red and blue racing stripes. The driver, a man only a few years older than she, switched off the engine.
    â€œDo you need a hand there?” he asked in a faintly amused American baritone.
    He seemed friendly enough, but he was looking at her far too boldly, and she felt certain he was holding back a smile. No, not a smile—a smirk. He hadn’t even bothered to say hello, or to introduce himself properly.
    â€œThank you, but no. I’m quite all right.” She stared back, unblinking, her posture so perfect even her mother would have approved. Only then did she realize he hadn’t spoken to her in French. “How did you know . . . ?”
    â€œThat you’re English? You don’t often see Frenchwomen on bicycles.”
    â€œYou aren’t French, either.”
    â€œNope. My accent give me away?” He grinned at her.
    â€œWell, yes. That and . . . I suppose you just look like an American.”
    â€œHuh. I guess I’d better take that as a