Love & French Lavender

By Louise Armstrong

Would you like to escape to a French Farmhouse?

Helen Oliver was living the dream, until childhood sweetheart Ryan Rogers came back into her life.

Why won't Ryan tell her why he walked out, all those years ago?

And will the fortune-teller's prophecy come true?

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Louise Armstrong
• Release date: Jun 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458115904

Louise Armstrong

The first story Louise Armstrong ever finished and sent off won the 1993 Crystal Heart Award from the Guild of Romance Writers, and she's been writing sweet romantic comedies ever since. 'I like to look on the light side of life,' she says. 'All my stories feature fun and adventure, and of course, they all have a happy ending.' LENA: leave your email address on my blog and I'll send you a coupon for a free copy of Hold on to Paradise.

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LOUISE ARMSTRONG PUBLISHING

Love & French Lavender

Louise Armstrong

Sweet Romance

Smashwords Edition Copyright Louise Armstrong 2011

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CHAPTER 1

On a hot summer’s afternoon, the stone farmhouse of Mas de la Lavande slumbers as deeply as any sensible French citizen taking a siesta. The soft, peach-coloured stone seems to settle itself comfortably and dream in the sunshine. I was inside, cool inside the thick walls, curled up on one of the shabby but comfortable sofas, and I have to admit that I was more or less dreaming as well.

I had been reading about the history of lavender, but when the telephone rang, I realised that the book was slipping between my fingers. I didn’t feel awake enough to get off the sofa or to speak to anyone. I yawned, caught up the book and tried to find my place.

'Lavender and love have belonged together since biblical times. It is said that Judith anointed herself with spikenard, as lavender was then called, before seducing Holofernes.'

I grow six acres of lavender on the terraced hillsides all about the house. They lie, beneath the blue of a Provencal sky, purple and beautiful, watched over by my lovely, lovely olive trees whose leaves have silver undersides that ripple like fish when the breeze blows. I have eighteen trees, all of them old, all of them with a soft, downy, luminous side to each leaf.

I yawned again, letting the phone ring on. My answer machine clicked and a red light blinked on. My own voice sounded chirpy in the soft afternoon. ‘Hi! This is Helen Oliver. I’m busy with the farm right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

I read the next line in my book.

‘...Lavender’s unique fragrance comes from a combination of 180 different constitutes ...’

Those words don’t come anywhere close to explaining the miracle of sweetness that my acres of flowering lavender bushes exude under the hot sun. The spikes of blue flowers seem to breathe out the distilled essence of summer. This is a book with no soul, I decide, yawning. And then I realise that my name is being called out loud.

'Helen! Come on, honey. Pick up the phone. It's Portia. I’m not leaving a message. I want you to take your nose out of that book and answer the phone.'

I uncurled my legs, and got up. My bare feet brushed over cool terracotta tiles as I reached for the phone.

'I wasn’t reading.'

'I bet you were! Listen, I’m so glad you’re home. I need you! You know this film star of mine? She's only flown her Feng Shui guy over from Hong Kong! And then she expects me to find a suite for him. A suite, in the middle of the Cannes Film Festival. I said to her I'm good at what I do; I'm one of the best. But I'm not a miracle worker and a miracle is what it'll take. Luckily there was a guy staying at the hotel who owed me a favour so I called it in and nicked his suite. The Feng Shui guy is happy. The film star is happy. But my producer is homeless. There is so not a vacancy anywhere in Cannes.'

'I suppose you want him to stay with me. Well, that’s OK, but my sister, Diana, and my nephews arrive in a few days so he’ll have to make do. Does he know that Mas de la Lavande is still a ruin?'

'I showed him those photographs from the estate agent. The ones that say: 'Ripe for potential improvement.'

'Didn't he change his mind?'

'He laughed and went out and bought a sleeping bag. Honestly, Helen, he's nice, this guy. He goes all over the world making documentaries. You'll like him.'

'I thought you said that he was a producer like you.'

'Some of us do more than raise money. Ryan is very hands on, and he’s one of the best. Can he stay?'

Ryan! Ridiculous to mind, after all these years, but the name ‘Ryan’ always caused a flash of pain in my heart. But I couldn’t tell Portia that I wouldn’t do her a favour because I didn’t like her friend’s name!

'I'm only worried that he'll be uncomfortable. Does he know that it is at least a forty minute drive to Cannes from here? Will he be able to do all his business OK?'

'He's rented a jeep thing. He'll be fine.'

I accepted the inevitable.

'I’ll see you both in an hour.’

For all her fluff and extravagance, I knew that Portia would have told her friend exactly what to expect. She was as accurate as a Swiss watch.

As I went up the creaking wooden stairs I tried to imagine what she might have said to the producer. Expect two crumbling wrecks, no doubt. One old French farmhouse, (Mas is a Provencal dialect word that means farmhouse) and one young and slightly crumbling, English woman.

The two bedrooms that didn’t leak were promised to my sister Diana and her boys, James and Matthew. As I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the fourth and last bedroom I realised it hadn’t been spring-cleaned. I’d been so busy on the lavender farm, that I’d never given it a thought.

Like many people I used to while away dull moments building a fantasy of living in a country environment where I drifted through flower-studded meadows in a chiffon frock. Never once in my dreams had I worked so hard, or dealt with so much paperwork. Only this morning I had answered the door to find a representative of the local council standing there. He’d insisted on taking me around the side of my land that bordered the hilly slopes at the back of the farm. After nine months at Mas de la Lavande my French isn’t bad, but I’d had trouble believing my ears.

'You mean, if I don't cut back all this long grass the council will do it for me and send me a bill?'

‘Oui Mademoiselle.’

We stood in the shade of a tall slender cypress tree. It was one of the thirty five tall, finger-like green trees that dotted my land like exclamation marks. The sun beat down outside the tiny patch of shade we were standing in. The song of the cicadas rose all around us, so loud that the air seemed to tremble. The smell of dusty grass and herbs was strong.

The official darted out of the shade and sprayed a final bright splotch of orange. He’d walked from one end of my land to the other. And he'd marked out a strip at least five-hundred meters wide.

‘It is necessary for fire control. Because we have such dryness this year, the work must be carried out within the next two weeks. I shall return in fourteen days exactly to check your progress.'

I couldn’t pay a large bill from the council. But looking at the huge strip of land that needed cutting back, I knew I had no chance of doing it alone before the deadline. Despite his uniform, official forms and clipboard, the man’s eyes were kind as they looked at me.

'I suggest that you hire some labourers to help you. They will work for a reasonable rate if you can bargain a little.'

'That’s a good idea. I'll ask Monsieur Andre to arrange it.’

'Andre Bovier?' the official had said, beaming. 'All will be done to the highest standard if Andre is involved. I am sure there will be no problem when I return, Madame.'

I still needed to see Andre about the firebreak. I would pay him a visit as soon as I had settled my new guest.

I opened the windows and the shutters and light poured into the room. It still seemed impossibly romantic to me, owning a house with shutters. The difference between the dream and reality was that the paint on my wooden shutters (all twenty-four of them) was cracked and bubbled by the sun. They needed stripping, repairing, sanding, sealing, undercoating and painting with two coats of gloss paint. Oh, and the hinges and fastenings needed attention as well. But still, I felt cheerful as I leaned out of the window and sniffed at the sun-drenched roses that tumbled enchantingly up the wall. Hard work never killed anyone, and it would all get done in the end.

I picked up