One of my first memories of La Bastide Blanche was on the fourth of July—when all the trouble started—opening the windows, then the shutters, and yelling, “Turn it off!” I had remembered the heat but forgotten about the cigales. I can see you look confused. Cicadas. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and they were screeching. I stuck my head out one of the three enormous bedroom windows and unlatched the weathered shutters. More cigales joined in, their song sounding like dozens of Parisian car alarms or thousands of tiny chainsaws. I yelled out once more, for theatrical effect, “I said, turn it off!” and closed the shutters and then the ancient single-paned window with a purposeful loud bang. I felt like Agathe was watching me, annoyed that it was already nine o’clock. I raced across the tiled floor, which felt cool on the soles of my feet, and closed the shutters and windows of the two south-facing windows.
When we’d vacationed in Provence, I’d found the cigales charming—a symbol of the South, of summer, of friends and rosé wine, of endless lunches, siestas, aperitifs, and dinners. We’d been on holiday then, not working. That night I had worked until three and fell asleep around four.
And it was not a restful sleep. But more about that later.
Just before closing the last shutter, I looked at the landscape, trying to remind myself why I’d bought this grand house. Just below the garden lay a pebbled terrace, which I had furnished with expensive wrought-iron furniture bought from a pretentious antiques dealer in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The terrace was edged by a single row of lavender, which at the time my story begins was in full bloom. Below the terrace was a silvery-green olive orchard that I had intended to cultivate on my own. How hard could it be to pick olives every winter? And beyond that, the rolling vineyards, some of which belonged to me and the rest to a neighbor whose golden-stone farmhouse showed, at the edge of the vines, its newly painted white shutters. The village of Puyloubier sat at the edge of the vineyard, for centuries poised firmly on its bed of white rock. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to Aix, a fact that attracted me to the house. I can’t think of many towns as small as Aix—what does it have, 150,000 people?—that have the same beauty, serenity, and culture. And so it’s ironic that that summer I hardly ever got into town.
That morning I carefully made my bed, resisting the temptation to crawl back in. Looking around the vast room, I sighed at the work ahead of me. Cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls, waiting to be unpacked. Books mostly. Suitcases of varying sizes, from when we used to travel. Surely those could go in an outbuilding? Or in the attic? My clothes were heaped beside the bed in a crumpled mess. I bent down, picked them up, then walked across the room and threw them into the wicker laundry hamper.
I then remembered that I had—very uncharacteristically, I might add—invited the neighbors over for tea that afternoon. I had met them at the foot of the drive the day before—our mailboxes were side by side. I knew that Hélène made wine—I recognized her name and face from the better wine magazines. Her husband was a big brute of a fellow, with a bald head but brown puppy-dog eyes with long, dark lashes; their daughter, who looked to be about ten or so, was, well, completely charming. She was why I invited them over, spur of the moment. Kids have never moved me one way or another. And when Agathe and I found out that I shot blanks—excuse the expression—she didn’t seem upset. She already had a son—an oaf who will make an appearance later in my story. But this girl, Léa, was bright, and original.
The winemaker, Hélène, was clearly nervous when she shook my hand—I was used to that. Her husband feigned indifference, and I was also used to that. But their daughter jumped out of the car to look at the grapes hanging in big fat bunches from their gnarled, ancient limbs. She took no notice of me or the scorching dry heat. “Léa, come meet our new neighbor,” Hélène said, taking her daughter by the hand and bringing her over. Léa smiled, and I bent down so that she could give me the bise. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “It’s nice here, isn’t it?”
“Extraordinary,” I replied. I felt her chubby cheek and could smell fresh air, dust, and something else. Apples.
“The grapes are green but will soon turn red,” Léa continued. “You’ll see.”
“Come for tea,” I said, before I could stop myself or change my mind. I’d been on my own at the new house for a little over a week and was lonely. “Tomorrow afternoon, around four. There’s no electricity yet, but I have a gas stove and can at least make tea.”
“Thank you. I’ll bring cake,” Hélène offered. “The boulangerie in the village is quite good, and they make a few cakes. We’re lucky.”
The big guy smiled and put his arm around his wife. “Tomorrow, then,” I said. I fumbled while trying to get my mail out of the
