Drawing Lessons Page 6

  Arianna noticed her luggage had been spirited away by a young man who had left as silently as he had appeared.

  “That was Stefan,” Juliette said. “He’s very shy but most helpful. You will meet him later. Allons—come and get to know the others.”

  With Maximus leading the way, they walked along the terrace to where it wrapped around the side of the rambling house. Rosebushes bloomed profusely in clouds of palest pink and ruby red. Some climbed the side of the house to meet the purple wisteria blossoms cascading from thick, well-aged vines.

  Mounds of lavender, buds still forming, bordered the terrace, preparing for their spectacular explosion of color and fragrance in another month. Beds of iris were beginning to fade.

  Arianna smiled at the chirping of the cicadas, their song not quite as intense as the evening temperature began to cool.

  The group on the terrace rose to greet Arianna. Warm smiles, friendly voices, and extended hands made her feel at ease.

  Juliette’s mellow laughter preceded her words. “Ah, handshakes . . . By the end of the evening you will all be offering each other bises. Je vous assure!”

  A pleasant voice interrupted her. “Like this. Bienvenue, Arianna. I am Juliette’s husband, Maurice.” He leaned toward Arianna and greeted her the French way. Then he offered her a woven-wicker armchair like the ones the other guests had settled back into. Arianna smiled gratefully, murmured a soft, self-conscious “merci,” and sank into the plump, brightly upholstered cushion.

  “Now that we’re all gathered, I want to offer you an official bienvenue . . . welcome. We are thrilled you chose to visit with us, and it will be our pleasure to have you feel at home here,” Juliette said, her mellow voice instantly putting everyone at ease. “Let’s go around and introduce ourselves. You, of course, know who we are . . . Juliette and Maurice LaChapelle, and our families have lived around Arles for generations. We’ve been offering art courses here at the Mas des Artistes for twenty years. I studied in England for a few years, long ago, but please forgive my mistakes in your language.”

  Maurice popped corks and poured champagne into slender flutes.

  “Let me clarify Juliette’s words. She is the artist, and I am her steadfast majordome—majordomo. It is our distinct pleasure to share our home with all of you.”

  When the champagne had been passed around, a welcome toast followed before Juliette spoke about the course.

  “In the morning, we will begin. This drawing and painting retreat is our favorite course, and you soon will see why. Van Gogh settled here in 1888 in search of the very special light of Arles and the surrounding region. You will draw and paint in some of the same places as Vincent. The breezes, fragrances, birdsong, cicada harmonies, and, most of all, unique light that inspired him will be part of your world here. Magic will happen!”

  Her gaze rested on each of them before she continued. “Tomorrow we will immerse ourselves in our art. For tonight, we want to learn about you. We want you to learn about each other. Who would like to begin?”

  Without hesitation, a man and woman stood in unison. Their gleaming smiles matched their silvery hair. He was as tall as she was short, and there was no mistaking they were a very tight couple.

  “I’m John Mitchell, and this is my wife, Joanie. We met in an art class almost forty years ago.” He leaned back slightly and slipped his arm around her shoulder. They both chuckled. “We retired to Florida from New York five years ago and have never looked back . . .”

  Joan’s eyes sparkled and a warm smile lit her face. “Yup, we love the sun, surf, and palm trees! We live in a retirement community where we’re almost the youngest, and we love that too! My role models are all in their nineties!” Her strong Brooklyn accent and contagious laugh immediately created a light atmosphere.

  Straightening the collar of his bright Hawaiian-print shirt, John said, “I work primarily in oils. I like to get messy . . . very messy!”

  Rolling her eyes, his wife shook her head in feigned dismay. “I, on the other hand, am a dainty and dedicated watercolorist. I don’t like to get messy.”

  With a theatrical leap in front of Joan, his arms spread wide, John said, “Except with me! He-he!” Then he waggled his eyebrows Groucho Marx style and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. Everyone laughed, and Joan rolled her eyes again.

  They described how they had exhibited their work for many years, first in New York, and then in Florida.

  “We love the fun of competition . . . stress doesn’t seem to bother us,” John explained.

  “And the characters we meet make it all worthwhile,” Joan chimed in.

  It was clear that art was the focus of their retirement.

  “We’re a bit embarrassed to admit that this is our first trip outside the States—” John said before Joan interrupted.

  “Yup, like a kinda high percentage of Americans, we didn’t have passports either, until recently. And after five days in Paris and then coming here, we’ve been kicking ourselves! Why on earth did we wait so long? I think this is just the beginning of our new life as world travelers.” Smiling widely, they looked at each other and high-fived before they sat down.

  A corpulent, puffy-eyed man fumbled with his chair as he stood. He appeared to be hovering around the age of sixty. “Good evening, one and all,” he began in a very proper British accent. “My name is Bertram Lloyd-Goldsmith. I am from London, England. I’m here because I’ve studied the work of van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, and other impressionists who created art in this area.”

  Pausing and clearing his throat loudly, he ran one hand over his thinning hair as he straightened his back and boasted, “I consider myself rather an expert on that. I have traveled a great deal in this area and was attracted to the details of the approach of this course . . . and besides, it fit into my calendar.”

  He hesitated as though he had finished speaking, and he was halfway into his chair when he added, “I have a wife who has no interest in art or history and is at a spa.” He lifted his glass, gesturing to the group. “Pleasure to be here with you.”

  Then he drained his champagne, held out his glass to Maurice, and said, “I’ll have a refill, my good man.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment before a petite, blond, fiftyish woman with a stunning smile literally popped out of her chair.

  “Hello! My name is Marti Smythe. I’m from just outside Napa, California. I’m here with my wife, Lisa Marshall, who is the true artist in our family. I’m kind of an interloper at this course. I love to draw and am more of an illustrator . . . and I’m delighted to be here.”

  Equally petite and blond and of a similar age, Lisa remained seated but waved her hand and looked about shyly, even as she avoided eye contact.

  Marti reached over and took Lisa’s hand. “Lisa and I want you to know that she has Asperger’s syndrome, or what is now referred to as an autism spectrum disorder. I share this information with her complete approval, of course. You will find she may be short on words, but she’s the one who pushed me to come to this course. And she is a fine, fine artist . . . which you will see. She works primarily in acrylics because she likes to charge right onto her canvas and go wild—her words—and she’s delighted to be here too.”

  Marti reached over and clinked glasses with Lisa before she continued.

  Flashing a dazzling smile, Marti raised her glass to everyone. “When Lis and I talked about this, she wanted me to end the introduction by saying that she’s an ‘aspie’ and proud of it.”

  Lisa looked down and nodded. A thin smile played on her lips as she shyly gave a thumbs-up to the group.

  Arianna stood next. Her pulse thumped in her neck. Then she heard her words tumble out.

  “I’m Arianna Papadopoulos-Miller from Toronto, Canada. Art has been my passion for as far back as I can remember, but after a while, life got in the way and I set it aside. I’m here to rekindle that desire to draw and paint and to see this part of France.”

  She stopped and took a b
reath, suddenly aware she had spoken with barely a pause.

  “Sorry. Let me slow down. I’m very happy to be here. The last time I was in France was for a month in Paris when I was twenty-three. I love everything about the work of Vincent van Gogh.”

  She sat down and wondered why she had added that last sentence.

  An elegant, white-haired woman stood next. “Hi, everyone. My name is Barbara McNeilly. I’m from Vancouver, British Columbia, and I like to believe I am an artist. I was a high school art teacher for forty years. During the past ten years of my husband’s illness, my saving grace was painting detailed street scenes and sometimes florals. I work in all mediums, but these days I seem to be favoring acrylics.”

  She turned to the younger woman sitting next to her and proudly told the group, “This beautiful girl is my granddaughter, Cecilia, whom I adore. I’ll let her tell you her story.”

  Cecilia set her champagne flute on the side table and stood up. With her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, she had a youthful appearance that was enhanced by her dimples. Arianna thought she couldn’t be much more than thirty.

  “Hi, everyone, I’m Cecilia Hall, also from Vancouver, and I’m so fortunate to be traveling with my grandmother. I have a confession to make, though.”

  She turned and grinned at Marti. “I am the real interloper here! I’m not an artist . . . not even close. I’m a travel writer and blogger. On this wonderful trip with my grandmother, I’m taking photos to post with articles about just that and also about different aspects of the places we are visiting. So thank you for allowing me to tag along and write about this experience.”

  Conversation flowed easily as the group mingled. Spirits were high as everyone shared their hopes for the course and gave thanks for the opportunity to work on their art in Provence.

  Along with the champagne, there was a lightly fruity nonalcoholic alternative and bottles of mineral water . . . still and sparkling. Several of the guests switched before long.

  “One glass of champagne is more than enough for me,” Barbara commented.

  “Oh, my dear, allow me to persuade you to have another. It’s very good for you,” Maurice encouraged. “It’s been proven to benefit spatial and short-term memory, to help your heart, et cerise sur le gâteau . . . it has fewer calories than wine!”

  Barbara laughed and held out her glass. “That was very convincing! Half a glass will be perfect, please.”

  Olivewood boards with pâté, accompanied by fresh figs and fig jam, were on the tables next to baskets of thin baguette toasts. Bright pottery bowls contained three different tapenades, with more fresh baguette next to them.

  Satisfied murmurs drifted around the table as every dish was sampled and enjoyed.

  Bertram raised his champagne glass as he held up a slice of baguette topped with a healthy chunk of pâté. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat loudly. “‘To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw—a wise gentleman, if ever there was one!—there’s nothing better than fine food, and I am besotted with this superb cuisine! And I’ll have another coupe, merci!”

  Maurice topped off Bertram’s champagne.

  There was enthusiastic agreement that everything was delicious, as the enjoyment of the heure de l’apéritif continued.

  At six o’clock, Juliette suggested everyone might wish to unpack and freshen up but cautioned them not to lie down.

  “I know it will be difficult, but our goal this evening is to keep you up until nine or ten. It’s the best way to get on track with the time. Je vous promets! I promise you! We will see you back down here at nineteen thirty . . . seven thirty . . . for dinner. If you absolutely feel you cannot make it, of course we understand. But please try.”

  A middle-aged couple appeared as everyone rose to leave.

  Maurice said, “Attention, everyone, please. May I have the pleasure of introducing Mirielle et Louis-Philippe.” The couple smiled and bowed modestly. “They are the indispensable people who keep our house running as it should. You may have already noticed their son, Stefan, who whisked your luggage away. He also expertly looks after our gardens and vineyard.”

  There were acknowledgments all around.

  Maurice continued, “You may seldom see them but, croyez-moi, believe me, they are the people who truly keep things running. They are part of our family and will be happy to help you with anything if you cannot find Juliette or myself.”

  The couple smiled demurely and began to clear the terrace of dishes as Juliette directed everyone else to the house.

  “I will show you to your room, Arianna,” Juliette offered. She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “It’s particularly special. Did you know your daughter sent us an e-mail with a lovely and emotional request for you to have it?”

  “No! Oh my goodness!” Arianna’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “She must be a special young woman,” Juliette added. “She certainly was eloquent, and it was our pleasure to comply. We hope you will be happy here.”

  Feeling awkward, Arianna wondered just what Faith had said.

  She could not stop grinning as they walked across the terra-cotta tiles of the centuries-old farmhouse. The website and literature for the workshop had not pretended to present anything more than what she was seeing. It was not the most luxurious mas, but instead it was a collection of charmingly restored rooms that exuded an air of welcome and comfort.

  The two-foot-thick textured, irregular stone walls and hand-hewn beamed ceilings surely had centuries of stories to tell. There was a unique patina of what Arianna could only guess were generations of layered paint on the ceiling and beams. Now flaking and peeling in spots, the effect added depth and character.

  As she explained a bit of the history of the property, Juliette described the extensive restoration they’d undertaken over twenty years before. “It was pretty much une ruine, un désastre . . . but we fell in love with it.”

  “I can see why!”

  Arianna could feel the atmosphere all around her. Wrought-iron candle holders accented the walls. The sofas and chairs, in earthy taupe shades, were large with inviting down-filled cushions. Bright Persian carpets dotted the terra-cotta floors. Tucked in one corner was a grand piano, its dark, polished wood gleaming.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” Juliette said as Maurice called out to her. “I’ll be right back.”

  Slipping her phone out of her purse, Arianna took a few photos of the beautiful surroundings. Faith would love it . . . and be amused that her mother was putting her newfound tech skill to work.

  She had never been one to take photos. That had been Ben’s department. Even so, they were not a family to have stacks of photo albums around. Faith, on the other hand, loved using her phone and creating albums. She had been encouraging her mother to do the same ever since she had gotten home.

  Faith, Tad, and Christine had given Arianna the latest iPhone for Christmas. Finally, she had been convinced to give up her old phone that had no camera or data storage. After a couple of intro workshops at the Apple Store, she felt reasonably comfortable with it for her trip.

  She had promised to text and send photos from France. For a moment, as she snapped away, she felt a sense of accomplishment with herself and this new-to-her technology.

  Morning can’t come too soon. I want to sit in every room with my journal and fill page after page.

  “Désolée,” Juliette apologized when she returned. “Sorry to have left you. There was a small flood in the kitchen . . . always something in a house two hundred years old! Even with modern plumbing!” Her laughter sounded to Arianna like tinkling crystal wind chimes.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I grabbed the opportunity to take a few photos to send to my daughter. Your home is simply splendid.”

  Juliette’s eyes shone with pride. “Oh, please do! I’m so happy you like it!”

  They climbed a spiral staircase that took them to the next floor, where a number of decoratively carved wooden doors opened off a wide c
orridor. Wrought-iron light fixtures that resembled medieval lanterns provided an atmospheric glow.

  “These are all the other bedrooms. There is still an empty one if you would rather be on this floor. You can decide.”

  She led Arianna up a narrow stone staircase, the steps worn to a dull sheen. It was described on the website as the former dovecote, and Faith had agreed it looked like the perfect selection when Arianna showed her the pictures online.

  “It looks like an artist’s studio, Mom,” she had exclaimed. “You’ll be inspired just sleeping in that space.”

  The rustic wooden door alone was enough to satisfy her, Arianna thought. The ancient iron hardware and elaborate set of keyholes almost caused her to swoon. How she loved doors like this and the secrets she imagined they held.

  The entire room, wooden beams on the high-arched ceiling included, had been painted a soft grayish white. A set of three shuttered windows overlooked the back garden to neighboring orchards beyond and the pointed, rocky range of Les Alpilles in the background. Above the windows was a row of small glassed-in squares that had, in fact, been how the doves had flown in and out.

  “Voilà!” Juliette sang. Her eyes sparkled. “What do you think?”

  Arianna’s reaction was immediate. “I love it! It’s even more beautiful than the photos. Thank you!”

  Juliette gave an almost imperceptible bow and began to back out of the room. “Make yourself comfortable! I will see you downstairs later.”

  Thanking her again, Arianna then closed the door. Just being in this room was going to make her happy—she could feel that immediately.

  The accent color of dusky Provençal blue on the shutters and cushions and rich pewter-gray linens gave an airy feeling to the space.

  The blue-and-white theme continued into the spacious bathroom with Chinese-porcelain accessories on the floor and counter. A deep claw-foot bathtub was placed in a position to afford a splendid view out the window. Arianna tingled with delight and took another photo to send to Faith.