Alex caught up to her; she could feel his presence right behind her. Large, gentle hands on her shoulders spun her around. He looked horrified. “Jacyn! You’re crying? Did I do something wrong?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“I’m sorry. Look, we can leave.”
“No!” she protested. “I love it here. This is paradise to me. This is a dream.”
“Then why are you weepy?” His face was the picture of helpless puzzlement.
“It’s just that, nobody has ever done anything so kind for me. For no reason at all.”
“I have every reason,” he countered softly. “You’re passionate and ambitions about your business, and I wanted you to experience it from the inside out. From the place it began. As you told me once, Provence is a mecca for perfumers and soap makers,non?”
She nodded vigorously.
He reached out and brushed the wetness from her cheek. “Then, let us explore paradise.”
There was a soft cough behind them, and Jacyn turned to see a short, rotund man in faded denim coveralls and a gray flat cap. He walked towards them, a broad grin splitting his face.
“Jacyn, this is Jean-Louis. He’s my mother’s cousin. His family has owned the Miracle Provençal cosmetics atelier for a hundred and eighty years.”
She held out her hand politely, only to be swept up into a hug as the man plastered loud, smacking kisses on her cheeks. “Welcome, my dear. Oh, fiancée of Alexandre, you are a beauty. So very welcome!”
He was so comical that she begin to smile, her tears forgotten.
Alex chimed in, “Jacyn, this is the atelier where the products in your bathroom comes from. We purchase almost exclusively from them.”
She looked at her host in awe. “Your products are amazing!”
He nodded as if this was an incontrovertible fact. “Alex tells me you make perfume?”
“Hair and skin products, actually,” she corrected. “But I use essential oils in everything I make.”
“Well,” he said, his chest puffing up, “You come to the right place. We have the best—thebest, je veux dire—of all perfumes in the whole of Provence! Come!” And then he hurried on ahead like Alice in Wonderland’s White Rabbit, leading them on a twisting trail through the flower beds, pointing out the varietals of blooms, and going into detailed explanations about the properties of each.
“The aloes,” he said, pointing, “sometimes they grow so fast we struggle to keep them under control. They rarely bear flowers, but when they do, it’s like they are reaching up to touch heaven.” He went on. “Geranium.” He plucked a deep orange blossom and handed it to her. “Is good for sadness. Your tears. Est-ce que vous êtes triste?’’
Seeing the look on confusion on her face, Alex translated what the man had asked. He had been translating throughout their tour.
She couldn’t stop smiling as she tucked the flower behind her ear. “No, Jean-Louis. Not sad. Not at all. This is the happiest day—”
“Good, good, good!” He flashed her a big-toothed grin, and then got to moving again. In the citrus orchard, he loaded her up with so many fresh lemons and limes that even though Alex filled his pockets with as many as he could, she still had to fill the front of her skirt with the fruit, and hobble awkwardly back to the large stone buildings until a kind field worker took them away, promising to bag them for her and have them waiting when she was ready to leave.
The tour continued into the atelier itself, where she found room after room of miracles. Huge trays where the blooms were dried, and presses where others were squeezed until every last drop of essential oil was extracted.
Louis led her to a large vat where a worker was patiently stirring a mixture of oils and lye to make soap. She watched, fascinated to see the process she enjoyed so much at home being performed on a much larger scale.
Jean-Louis put his finger to his lips and made an exaggeratedShhhhsound. “There are elements of our process, my dear mademoiselle. C’est un secret. We do not easily allow strangers to enter. But for my dearcousineMadeline, you are of course welcome.”
“Your trade secrets are safe with me, Jean-Louis,” she assured him. “I am just awed by your mastery.”
The approving glance that Alex sent her way filled her with a warm happiness.
When the tour was over, they were invited into the cozy kitchen where they were piled with an assortment of fresh breads, cold cuts, and hot pumpkin soup liberally laced with brandy. They enjoyed on a balcony overlooking the fields.
Jacyn had expected Madeline’s cousin to join them, but he bowed graciously and backed away, leaving them to their own devices. They fell into contented, comfortable conversation, rounding out the meal with a dessert of assorted cheeses and a warmtarte tatin—a delightful apple pie on puff pastry—topped with a surprising dollop of sour cream.
When the plates had been cleared away, Jacyn leaned back in her comfy chair and closed her eyes. “Wake me up in a couple of hours.”