LITMIR.BIZ

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instead of Bourdeaux, we came upon the village of Crupies. Turn around and backtrack, or keep going? We kept going, only to find that the next village was Bouvières . . . We were lost. After another discussion, it seemed sensible that if we always took the road to the right, we would find our way back to the autoroute.

      We kept going, headlights on an empty road, hoping to see something familiar. But I sensed that we were well off track, and if we wound up in the mountains we wouldn’t find our way out until dawn. The headlights of our car illuminated a panorama of whorling snowflakes that remained suspended momentarily in the air before dashing madly toward the windshield.

      Then I saw a signpost:

      Défilé de Trente-Pas »

      The narrow defile had been carved through a hill by eons of water runoff; at one point it was just thirty paces—trente-pas wide. A road was built through this gorge to link one valley with another. We had driven it once in daylight and found it beautiful. The tall rock rose up next to the road that was covered with undisturbed snow. We drove beneath a long outcropping of rock that seemed to flow by us like red curtains on a moving stage, then back out into the snowfall. We were the only ones foolish enough to come this way since it had fallen. And then abruptly the gorge was behind us, and we recognized the tiny village of St-Ferréol Trente-Pas. Within another fifteen minutes we found the D94 highway leading west to Nyons.

      We were approaching Nyons from the wrong direction, having strayed too far into the hills, but we were not lost on some forlorn mountain road, driving blindly in a snowstorm. As the headlights lit a road sign for Nyons, we both shifted in our seats with a heightened sense of relief. Shortly after that we saw the lights of Nyons. The storm had let up, and the last flakes floated lightly down onto an undisturbed white bed of snow.

      • • •

      As bright sunshine streamed into our bedroom, I got up, walked over and opened the window. The air was crisp and cold, the morning sky razor-blue. The only sound was the dripping of water from the snow melting on the trees and the rooftops. I breathed in to fill my lungs with the cold air, exhaled and then did it a second time. From the hillside perch of our villa, I could see light glint off the wet, red roof tiles in the village below. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from chimneys here and there.

      Hélène got out of bed and walked over to the open window to stand beside me. She had slipped on a robe and was hugging it like a blanket. “It’s beautiful, but it’s so cold,” she said, tightening her arms around herself.

      “I’ve never seen snow on those peaks across the valley. Mont Garde Grosse is stunning.”

      “Well, at least with the heat on the house is warmer. The tile floor doesn’t feel like a skating rink anymore.”

      Chapter 2

      settling in

      A CLOSED-UP AND SHUTTERED HOUSE is like a hibernating animal waiting for spring to arrive. Throwing open the shutters, opening the windows and letting in the fresh air disturbed the stillness that had accumulated over the winter months. The house responded as if awakening, blinking and stretching in the unexpected light.

      After months of absence we were anxious to see if everything was still in order and if anything had gone wrong that needed immediate attention. I did a quick inspection of all the rooms and the garage and then walked around the outside of the house. Our villa was small, with the kitchen, our bedroom and the den up one floor. The exterior was ochre stucco with a tiled roof.

      The garden sloped down the hillside to a road that swept in one large curve around three sides of the property. The villa’s former owner, a crusty old French bureaucrat, had once been a proud gardener but had possibly lost interest after his wife had died. There were a dozen olive trees and some pines, as well as indigenous, gnarly-looking oaks and a tangle of overgrown shrubs framed by rosemary hedging that, despite our efforts a year earlier, still needed more serious attention. We had trimmed the shrubs and repaired the eroded garden paths that meandered along the slope. The olives had been picked by our neighbours in December and pruned by François, our gardener. As it was only March, there was very little greenery at all, mostly leafless limbs and branches. The rose bushes we had planted last year were among the few things still green and looked much the same as when we had left the previous fall. Nevertheless, the winter had taken its toll on an oak tree next to the road that had died.

      Patches of snow remained among the trees. The neighbouring vineyards were bleak and lifeless, their bare, black stumps aligned in long rows strung with strands of wire for support. Some vines had already been pruned in preparation for the coming season, while others looked messy with the long canes still uncut from last year’s growth. There was a stillness in the air as the fields lay lifeless, biding their time for the warmer weather. Only the wild almond trees with their fragrant pale blossoms offered a sign that spring was coming.

      We had thought that we had left the house and yard in good condition; however, upon inspecting it after our return we realized that there was a lot more to do. The wooden gate to the driveway had not withstood the winter very well. It sagged and scraped on the driveway as the screws holding the hinges had come loose in the decayed wood. We decided to replace it with a wrought-iron gate that would have to be custom-made to fit the opening. That meant a visit to a ferronnier, or ironworker, who had been recommended to us. We wanted an old stone bench for the garden. And finally, I realized that I would have to edge the garden paths with stones to prevent the soil from eroding on the sloping hillside of the garden. I called François and asked him if he could deliver the stones.

      While Hélène got out her pruners and set to work on the rose bushes, I decided to tackle the dead oak. My plan was to cut it down, keep some of the wood for the barbeque and give the rest to our neighbours Jean and Suzette to burn in their fireplace next winter.

      On one wall in the garage hung garden tools, against another was a work bench and on the third wall was a furnace and water heater. I found the ladder, carried it out, rested it against the tree and climbed up to begin sawing off the branches. Just as I began to work, a green Citroën 2CV rattled up and braked to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road.

      “Allo, allo!” the driver hollered out the half-open car window. It was Pierre Luc with his daughter, Violette, in the passenger seat.

      “Bonjour, Violette,” I said, waving at her as I climbed down the ladder.

      She giggled and waved back at me.

      Pierre Luc leapt from the car, leaving the door ajar, and walked over, his face one great radiant smile. He was already talking as I came down the ladder. “C’est bon, c’est bon. Vous êtes arrivés.”

      “Yes, we’re back for the summer, maybe longer,” I said while reaching over the fence to shake his hand. He started to raise his arm and then quickly offered his left hand instead. This brought a quirky grin to his face. Then I saw why. His right hand was bandaged in white gauze.

      I had gotten to know Pierre Luc last summer when his wife, Fanny, had moved to Paris with their daughter, Violette. He had been a lonely man, with only the company of his dog, Fidel. He had been unfocused and had not tended his vineyards, which may have been why his wife had left him, and he had put his property up for sale in order to follow his wife and daughter to Paris. He had never been what the French call un homme sérieux—a hard-working man, for he preferred to hang out at the local bars with his copains, or buddies. The odd jobs he took on for other people in order to raise some money were rarely finished. Then Fanny and Violette returned, and he vowed to change and rebuild the vineyards.

      “What happened to your hand?”

      “Ça fait très mal,” he said, waving his bandaged hand. “I was pruning my grapevines and almost cut my thumb off with a sécateur. Now I can’t get my vineyard pruned before the budding starts this spring.”

      “Can’t your copains from the bar help out?”

      “Non,” he said, then laughed at the suggestion.

      “So what will you do?”

      “Mon oncle—my uncle Jules—helps, but we’re running

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