The Dark Petals of Provence

By Karen Hugg

Fresh off a divorce, April Pearce arrives in Provence to photograph its hidden places for a travel magazine. But on her first night in a lavender field, she accidentally snaps a teenager running in the distance covered in blood. When she enquires about him in the local village, no one wants to talk. They don't like April and she can't figure out why. As she witnesses other disturbing events, her concern for the teen grows, but the more she investigates, the more she's threatened and her work vandalized. Then she meets some wealthy celebrities who may or may not help her. As April struggles to stand up for what's right, she in turn reveals the shameful secret the village has kept hidden for years. The Dark Petals of Provence is a thrilling mainstream novel rich with atmosphere and dark questions. It brings the beauty and culture of rural France to life while enticing readers with the magic and allure of plants. In the tradition of Joanne Harris's Chocolat, The Dark Petals will not only entertain readers with its compelling plot but move people with its memorable characters and emotionally profound theme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodhall Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954907584

Book preview

Front Cover of The Dark Petals of ProvenceBook Title of The Dark Petals of Provence

Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

WoodhallPress.com

Copyright © 2022 Karen Hugg

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.

Cover design: Jessica Dionne

Layout artist: Jessica Dionne

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

First Edition

Distributed by Independent Publishers Group

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Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Half Title of The Dark Petals of Provence

ETHAN

CHAPTER 1

April leaned out the taxi’s window with her camera, ready to capture the secret treasures of Provence, but all she saw through the lens were cliché scenes of the countryside. Purple lavender, tidy grapevines, and velvety forests. Not a gnarled fence or lone dead tree to be found. She snapped a few shots of a farm house with crumbling stucco and chipped shutters, but the horizon behind rose in a flat welcoming blue. Not the unseen moment that would please her boss at Travel Life. She slumped down and set the camera aside, a minor defeat in her gut. Something special was out there but finding it would be like finding a red scarf in a field of poppies.

The taxi whipped around the curves of the one-lane road, a hot breeze blowing in the window. Her blouse clung to her back and her capris stuck to damp legs on the vinyl seat. She felt a touch sick from the combination of jet lag and the car’s jerky movements but downright alarmed whenever the driver mumbled words in French.

She thought he’d said, This is the mayor’s vineyard, but his Southern accent was so thick she barely recognized the words. She nodded, swallowing her anxiety. She’d learned French as a child but only used it nowadays when talking to her aunt who lived in Montreal. She forced herself to say, "C’est une belle cave. When he didn’t answer, she waited, studying his stern face and bushy eyebrows, wondering if cave" was the right word and whether she should keep her clunky mouth shut and get to the hotel.

Soon enough, the road leveled and Saint Lazare came into view. A stony village perched on a diamond-shaped hill. The driver wove into a maze of buildings, the cobbled street rumbling underneath. As if to show the American to the residents, he brought the car to a crawl in the town square, passing its round fountain, the rustic church, and the open hills to the west. They rolled by the café, mostly empty in the late afternoon save for two white-haired men drinking citron pressé. They turned with a start and peered at the cab. The waitress squinted. April slouched in the seat.

The taxi bounced past a tabac, where a young man smoked a crumpled cigarette on the stoop. He leaned against the doorway in a sleeveless T-shirt, his tawny hair sticking up at the side as if he’d just rolled out of bed. He gave a foolish grin to the driver and raised a hand. The driver raised a hand back, more of a stoic signal than a wave, as if to say, Yes, I bring another one. Unsuspecting Tourist Number 9,653. Wants ‘true’ French food and to see the lavender.

April did want true French food and to see lavender but the driver didn’t know her story. That it was about her career. A true break. A chance to be a staff photographer, an opportunity that worried more than excited. Don’t give me only the touristy stuff, though we need that too, Howie had said. Big Howie. His beard and hair were bushy like a hippie musician but his twinkly eyes were sharp and observant like a stock trader. "This is all about discovery, April. Capital D. That’s why I chose Saint Lazare. No one knows about it. New to tourism. Off-the-beaten-path. Readers love knowing what no one else knows. So, get over there and bring back the town’s secrets."

Yes, secrets. How does one photograph secrets?

Then later, when she’d called Dad to tell him the news: Ah. France. This could be most advantageous, he’d said. What a delightful opportunity! I wish I could join you. You must find a bottle of Côtes du Ventoux and take your time drinking it – the best wine I ever tasted. Oh, and don’t forget some sensible shoes.

Her dad, Arthur, the botany professor, was enthusiastic not only for the wine but the region’s plants, territory he hadn’t studied since a young man. But he was right. She’d been stumbling around in freelance photography for years. Contracting at photo library companies, archiving bland images of people in offices, mock-arguing, mock-flirting, or mock-typing. Sometimes selling her own photos, sometimes not. Then finally, she landed at West Coast Life, working part-time by shooting regional sights for articles. When Howie Grunwald, the CEO of Travel Media, Inc., discovered she spoke some French, he yanked her off the West Coast region and assigned her to the special issue on France, overseeing the assignment himself, dangling the carrot of on-staff photographer if she produced the goods on this trip. And April, thirty-seven as of last April, desperately wanted the opportunity to assure herself she hadn’t wasted her youth on a flighty dream.

As the taxi curved into the lane’s end, the road opened to an expansive grit area of broad trees. Ah, finally, shade. To her left stood a narrow, three-story hotel and kitchen garden facing a flagstone terrace, the road, and to her right, a steep drop to the fields. The hotel’s upper façade was pretty but worn. It rose in a smooth wash of coral, its lower base, a random stacking of rough stones. By the first-floor window, a weathered box of red petunias hung, an old bike leaned against the wall, but the wooden sign above, showing a vase of flowers and the words Hôtel du Bouquet, was freshly painted. The heavy door sat wedged open as if the owner were waiting for a guest.

April paid the driver and he spun into a U-turn before speeding off. She stood in a cloud of lime, peering into the entrance of a dark musty hole veiled by a bead curtain. Inside the snug lobby, a wooden counter stood to her right, two arm chairs and a table at her left. Toward the back, a buffet stood with coffeemaker and water jug beside a closed door with a sign that said, Bureau. Before her, wooden stairs spiraled toward weak daylight.

On the counter lay a slip of paper and key. "April, bienvenue à Provence. We hope you are comfortable. Please excuse us. We are doing an errand. Room 4."

She took the key and hauled her suitcase upstairs. The door opened to a small but efficient space. A wooden floor with a blue rug, a bed with a yellow quilt, brass headboard, wash stand, tiny closet, desk, and a snug bathroom. A chipped tub with a modern handheld shower. She plopped on the bed, the mattress answering with a squeaky springiness. Behind her a tall window rose with open pane doors and closed outer shutters, dimming the room. The scent of lavender wafted in. She unhooked the shutters and pushed them open, taking in a sudden breath.

The sun’s rays slanted with buttery light across a lavender field. Oh my. The golden hour. Because the plants grew in a lower flat area, she guessed they might be a lavandin species. "Perhaps, lavandula hybrid abrialis, she heard Dad say. It grows in the lowlands." Like enormous strings of purple yarn, they ran toward the darkening hills. One of the closer ridgelines, maybe five kilometers away, resembled a sleeping giant of a man, its downward curve of land like a head, its upper bulging hill, a shoulder, and trees sloping in a shallow line across as if an arm rested against a chest. Even a few outcroppings of whitish rock resembled fingers, curved, as if gripping the land.

Her head buzzed with inspiration. The first photo on her assignment sheet: a sunset. And what a sunset. The sun hung like a giant orange ember in the sky, the surrounding light glowing as if warm yellow silk. If she could get into the field and shoot from the lavender, she’d capture the rocky giant and send Howie a photo before bed. Oh, bed. Sweet sleep. Her eyes felt heavy, her body ached with jet lag. She ignored it and went to her equipment backpack.

A knock sounded on the open door.

"Allô? A woman inched in the room. Tall with walnut hair and a thick body. She wore a plain country dress, but gold sandals, gold bracelet, and gold necklace. Painted nails. A Gucci purse lay at her shoulder and a crystal bauble keychain was in hand. Her brown eyes shimmered as her mouth held a fixed smile. It was the expression of a person who often dealt with strangers and had a professional incentive to become their friend. In English, she said, Ms. Pearce? I’m Caroline Fournier."

April went around the bed to shake her hand.

The older woman’s mouth opened. Her eyes flashed with surprise.

Is something wrong? April said.

No … you look like someone I … uh -- your pendant is very pretty.

April touched it. A fleur-de-lis made of nacre, given to her by her mother on her fifteenth birthday, the same year she’d died.

Caroline cleared her throat. So, do you have everything you need here?

Before April could answer, Caroline handed her a brochure, Here is information about dining, sightseeing, the Wi-Fi, etc. The password is ‘lavender61,’ but you must write it down as we don’t print that. She smiled with a sheen.

Lavender, yes, April said. Do you know how I can get into that field? I’m here to take photographs for work.

Caroline blinked, swallowed. To that particular field?

Yes.

That one? She pointed at the window.

Yes.

Her eyes shifted, as if deciding what to say. She scratched her forehead, set a loose hair carefully in place.

April stiffened with self-conscious thoughts. Her ponytail hung messed from the car wind, her blouse and pants wrinkled from trying to sleep on the plane, her skin stale with sweat. And she felt swollen with fatigue, her body like a soaked log. Caroline’s clothes were pressed, her shoes clean. Her hair, medium-length, swooped around her face in a dignified fullness like a vintage film star. When April thought of famous French actresses of the ’60s, she heard her ex-husband, Kevin, say, Yeah, and you’re no Sophia Loren.

Well, that is a very small lavender field, Caroline said. Her voice held a fixed hesitation. Perhaps, you would like a larger field. There is one north of here.

Oh no, this one is perfect, but I need to get down there soon.

Caroline’s head shook a little. Oh well, the field is closed.

Closed?

Yes.

Like with a shut gate or … a fence?

Reluctance cooled the older woman’s eyes.

April checked the window. The golden light would thin out soon. I’ll be very quick.

With a frustrated sigh, Caroline stepped to the window. And so, if you walk to the left, down the road for about 400 meters, you will come to a flat road. Then, in another maybe, 200 meters, there is a dirt road that goes through the field. She folded her arms. "But it’s not open to tourists. The farmer, the owner, closes the gate at night. He’s very strict with who goes in and out of his property. I recommend only taking photographs from the road and nowhere else."

Minutes later, April hurried out of the hotel, racing against the dusk and down the curving road. The narrow lane hugged a rocky slope of shrubs rising at her left while on her right, the fields lay in a flat openness, stretching far to the south before trees and rolling land took over. Now don’t rush and break all of your fancy stuff, Kevin said in her head. She balanced her tripod on her shoulder, careful to avoid bumping it against the camera she’d saved for a year to buy.

Once at the bottom, the lane ended at the wider road running along the field. She shaded her eyes and searched for the dirt drive. It seemed more like a quarter-mile away, a solid ten-minute walk. Was that where the gate was? Meanwhile, the sun’s light brought forth a deep indigo color in the lavender and a juicy orange in the sky. Now was the time to shoot. And the best perspectives would be from inside the field, not from an asphalt road. What to do… He’s very strict with who goes in and out… She checked the horizon. No cars, no people. No farmer who might be upset about a trespasser. And the trespassing would take all of five minutes.

Before her, the rows of lavender were separated by a six-foot-wide ditch from the road. At first, she walked back and forth, eyeing where the embankment might be shallower and easier to cross but the gully was uniform for many yards, so she half-walked, half-slid sidewise into the chalky earth. She struggled to climb up the other side, the dirt squeezing between her sandaled toes, her tripod slipping from her hand. It rolled into the ditch and lay amidst the weeds. She slid back down and grabbed the chunky framework.

As she tried to hike up again, she thought of Howie. When he’d given her the assignment months ago, they’d sat in his offi ce, packed with books on shelves, magazines on the floor, and papers on benches. He’d waved around his daughter’s birthday present to him, a large rainbow-striped pen with a troll glued to the top and purple ribbons flopping from the feet. It was as if he were conducting the orchestra of their conversation with an unpredictable baton.

Crikey, I studied French for years in school and don’t speak half as well as you! he’d said in a gleeful song. Back then, I hitchhiked from Marseille all the way up to Alsace. His voice snapped with a reedy twitch, as if he could have voiced a cartoon character.

That must have been … amazing.

"Ha, it was amazing. I love Provence, live for Provence, God the food, I can’t stay away from it, especially the ham, but I can’t exactly go on this assignment myself!" He nodded as if to say, You know what I mean? And shook his head, giggling a hoarse laugh.

She sat with her hands folded, her fingers pinching together, hoping he’d formally offer her the gig. And hoping there wouldn’t be a strange catch like paying for her flight. As he talked about swimming in the Mediterranean in Nice, April noticed behind his head on a shelf, an animatronic helicopter with a clock inside, its propeller slowly spinning in circles.

Those were amazing times, but hey, let’s talk present day. Business. I love what you did at Big Sur, April. Simply fantastic. What you found was delicious.

Her photo spread of Big Sur for West Coast Life sat open on his desk, his meaty forearms in threadbare flannel crinkling the pages. As he leaned forward and back while talking, a photo of a white-haired woman standing in her yurt stuffed with abstract paintings, danced under his elbow. Her hair, in a long braid, hung to her ankles, swiveling back and forth.

Now, let’s do it again, only this time in France.

There, in the lavender field, she whispered, Okay, let’s do it. She stretched her aching back, her stiff legs. At thirty-seven, she often experienced new little pains to remind her middle age approached. She searched the ditch for a stone or timber on which to get footing. Nothing.

When I talked to the mayor, Howie had said, he practically flipped his lid. He’s crazy excited to show you his vineyard and a couple other places, so make sure to rent a car.

Yes, rent a car. But all of the cars had been reserved. The travel agency Travel Media worked through had made a mistake. They’d booked a car in Aix-en-Provence. Her train had taken her to Avignon. She knew the error but had forgotten to call the rental company. At the airport, all cars were booked, the choice was van or cargo truck. She’d opted for the train and a taxi, hoping to rent a car later.

She closed her eyes, feeling warm and faint. Her arms felt like sludge. Even in the early evening, the sun baked the ground and all atop it. Her mouth snapped with a dry pastiness when she absently said, I need water.

The buzzing of cicadas answered.

April circled around. How the hell to get up. But she had to, the light was dying. These shots, if she could pull them off, would not only be in magazines, but featured on Reed Images’ premier screen saver. And she could sell her extras to stock libraries for decent money. But most of all, that staff position. It would be incredible. She’d be a legit pro photographer. Her heart burst at the possibility of being sent to faraway places like India and South Africa, then tightened at the reality of standing in a ditch.

A clump of weeds suddenly shifted.

Are there snakes here?

She took a deep breath and raced up the embankment. Her foot slipped but she hoisted herself to the top. The lavender wands and distant hump of the sleeping giant reassured her. Bees hovered and landed, quietly humming, their fuzzy bodies latching on to the bumpy flowers. The play of purple blooms, green trees, and gold sky created an alluring tapestry. She lived for sinking into that tapestry, the photogenic moment. It was so much easier than dealing with people.

She yawned, screwing her telephoto lens on the camera, rubbed her eyes and dusted herself off before wandering between the tilled rows. In a squat, she popped off a dozen shots of the setting sun, examined the stills. They all featured starbursts peeking from the trees. Not bad. If she went 30 feet south, she’d capture the moon, a lone tree, and a small rocky outcropping, so she walked on, brushing through the lavender, the heads bopping her bare ankles. She paused now and then to photograph the village in the yellow light, its rustic buildings illuminated. The evening air intoxicated her. Maybe it was the jet lag, but the dry scent of lavender, the expansive sky, the humming bees all made her woozy.

In the southern distance, the rocky hills glowed in a bright tangerine so she crouched and brought them into focus while the foreground lavender blurred. As she pressed the button, she noticed movement. A person. Far off, in her viewfinder. She trailed him with her lens, thinking a local in the photo added an authentic tone, but realized the person was young, a teenager. And he was running. Fast. Short black hair. Skinny, in a T-shirt and jeans, nothing unusual, but through the lens, she saw, streaking down his face, red liquid.

She paused, blinked hard, fighting the exhaustion, and peered through the viewfinder again. Yes. No doubt. Her finger pressed the button and a quick five shots popped off. The teen glanced back from where he’d come. His face showed a worried frown, a grimacing mouth. But it wasn’t just his face. His hair, his neck, even his T-shirt: they were all stained with … blood.

Frozen, she followed the boy’s trajectory through the camera, staying low. He ran hard. He’d come from the hillier terrain at the right, the southwest. He flew across the drive; the dirt drive she’d almost walked to. Then, without pause, he rounded the corner and tore down the paved road, running away from the village, narrowing, too far to photograph. She stood, wishing she had binoculars, straining to see him. Was it really blood?

No.

But what else would it be?

The teen’s legs rotated fast as he disappeared into the shadow of trees. She stood motionless, camera in hand, amidst the buzzing bees and bending flowers, breathing in this injured young man, feeling sleep weigh her down, fighting off doubt while struggling to make sense of it all. In the meantime, the day weakened as the last crescent of sun slipped behind the ridge, darkening the sleeping giant.

CHAPTER 2

Later, April arrived