Moonlight Over Paris(14)
And a year from now? What would she be capable of creating then? The possibilities alone were enough to make her feel nearly dizzy with excitement.
Just then, a bell rang inside. Micheline was reduced to almost comical levels of anxiety at the thought of interrupting Helena while she was painting, so they had come up with the bell as a tolerable means of summoning her to meals. She tidied away her things and headed back to the house.
The villa was cool and dark, its shutters still drawn against the sun, and its tiled floors felt pleasantly cool against Helena’s bare feet as she went upstairs to wash her face and hands.
Agnes had a love of cold soups, the more exotically flavored the better, and as Helena joined her aunt in the dining room she braced herself for that day’s offering. The soup from yesterday, which had contained ground almonds, of all things, had reminded her unpleasantly of melted ice cream.
Today’s first course, however, was a concoction of tomato, cucumbers, and onions, as well as a headily fragrant amount of garlic; when they’d first had it the week before she had thought it delicious.
“I’ve forgotten the name for this,” she said.
“It’s gazpacho. The Princesse de Polignac has a Spanish chef and I persuaded him to explain how it’s made. So wonderfully refreshing.”
It was, and Helena had a second helping before devouring a plate of cold, grilled vegetables and several slices of day-old bread, also grilled, that had been rubbed with olive oil and yet more garlic.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” her aunt asked.
“I’m going down to the beach, as usual. Why don’t you come with me? The Murphys have half a dozen parasols all set up, so you’ll be in the shade, and—”
“Not today, my dear. I didn’t sleep at all well last night. Bad memories, you know.”
“Then you should stay here and rest. May I bring Hamish, though? He loves playing with the Murphys’ dogs.”
“Those wild things?”
“They’re no bigger than Hamish, and very friendly animals.”
“Oh, I suppose,” her aunt said, sighing gustily. “You will carry him home, won’t you? He’ll be far too tired to manage.”
“Of course I will, and I’ll have a spot in the shade where he can rest, and a bowl of water, too.”
“Don’t forget the lemon. He loves a squeeze of lemon juice in his water.”
“I won’t forget.”
It didn’t take long to prepare for the afternoon, for Helena kept a bag ready packed with almost everything she needed, her swimming costume included. All she had to do was rub some sun cream on her nose, put on her espadrilles, and clip Hamish’s lead to his collar.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Rrruff,” he answered, and together they set off for their afternoon in the sun.
THE MURPHYS WERE already at the beach, with Gerald hard at work, as he had been every day since their arrival, on the task of clearing away the mountains of seaweed that had been allowed to accumulate. Only the hardiest winter holidaymakers ever went swimming, and the locals appeared immune to the charms of sand and sea. The section of beach he and his friends had cleared, while modest, was more than sufficient for the purposes of their small group, though the smell of the remaining seaweed could be a trifle overpowering at times.
“Hello, Helena,” called Sara from the water, where she and Honoria were paddling. “Agnes didn’t come with you?”
“Not today. But I did bring Hamish.” She bent to unclip his lead, watching fondly as he waddled off to join the other dogs.
“Do help yourself to a glass of sherry or lemonade. And there are sandwiches in the basket.”
“I think I’ll change first.”
Never inclined to do anything by half measures, the Murphys had set up a small pavilion-style tent for use as a changing room. Helena slipped inside, taking care to tie shut its flaps—she didn’t wish to see her modesty in tatters thanks to a sudden breeze—shrugged out of her frock, cami-knickers, and espadrilles, and wriggled into her bathing costume. It was new, bought in Nice at the beginning of the summer, and while not immodest, at least not compared to others she had seen, its skimpy décolletage and abbreviated skirt would certainly have alarmed her mother. What her father might think of it she didn’t care to imagine.
Only then did she remember that Mr. Howard would be at the beach, and she very nearly balked before urging herself forward. Of course he wasn’t likely to notice what she was wearing, or even care. It had been years since anyone had noticed her in that way, and that state of affairs was unlikely to change as a result of one passably chic swimming costume. Besides, she really did want to go for a swim.
She spotted Mr. Howard as she was leaving the tent, and rather than walk down to the water right away she stood and watched him for a moment, admiring the way he played so unaffectedly with the Murphy children. He had rolled up his trouser legs, shed his shoes, and, at the boys’ direction, was patiently excavating a moat around a sand castle they were building.
“Helena! Are you coming?” called Sara. “If you are, could you bring me my hat? It’s on the table.”
“Coming!” she called back. She collected Sara’s hat and, holding it well above her head, crossed the hot sand to the water’s edge. A few more steps and the water was past her knees, then her waist, and then she was standing on tiptoes an arm’s length away from Sara and her daughter.