Sunflowers by Sheramy Bundrick Read Free Book Online Page B

grocer, who was sweeping her threshold when I approached. She smiled in a friendly way and helped me with my purchases, but she must have wondered who I was and what brought me to Vincent’s.
    I lit the fire in the stove and started supper when I returned, humming to myself as I chopped vegetables and pounded herbs. Like any Provençal girl, I started learning from Maman before I was tall enough to reach the stewpot, and like any Provençal woman, Maman had a way with herbs and spices, which she passed on to me. In no time the pungent aromas of basil and garlic challenged the smell of turpentine, and in no time, Vincent was lured downstairs. “You’re cooking for me?” he asked.
    I smiled as I gave the soup a leisurely stir. “You should have a good supper on your first night. How do you like your new kitchen?”
    “ Mon Dieu , you’ve worked a miracle.” He frowned at the glistening red tiles. “But you didn’t have to clean the floor, ma petite , I could have done that.”
    “I wanted everything to be perfect,” I replied, then turned back to the stewpot to hide my blush. Ma petite . He’d called me his little one. He’d never done that before.
    He lured me away from the stove to see his bedroom. It was too small to put much in it, so he’d filled it with color: blue walls, red blanket on the wooden bed, cheerful paintings and prints. In the corner stood a plain table instead of a washstand, and above it hung a mirror for shaving. He’d tacked pegs behind the bed for his clothes, including his yellow straw hat, and squeezed a chest of drawers next to the fireplace. He’d brought up two rush-seated chairs even though they made for a tight fit, and he’d put two pillows on the bed, like he didn’t expect to sleep alone.
    I walked to the wide-open shutters to lean on the sill. Some of the men strolling through the Place Lamartine garden were probably on their way to visit their mistresses or have a beer at a café, while their wives hurried home, baskets overflowing with food for supper. Friends called to one another, children laughed during their games, and in the distance whistled the afternoon train arriving from Marseille. So many stories beyond this window. Every morning Vincent could watch the dawn awaken the city, and every night, he’d see the stars from where he lay.
    “You should have seen how it looked before,” he said. “A rat wouldn’t have slept here. Things cost more than I expected, but I wanted good, solid country beds, something durable that will last.” He nodded toward a closed door. “The other bedroom is through there, but I’ll work on that another day.”
    As he kept puttering around his bedroom, I finished supper. Bread sliced, table set, soup hot. Wiping my hands on my apron, I called up from the hallway, “ À table! ”
    The stairs creaked under Vincent’s feet as he descended. “Smells good,” he said, catching me round the waist before plunking himself down at the table. “You should see what happens when I try to cook.”
    “Does it taste like paint?” I teased as I brought over a pair of bowls, and he laughed the musical laugh of a completely contented man. He ate two helpings of my soupe au pistou , and I was so glad he liked it that I pretended not to notice his gleeful slurping and the dribbles in his beard. After we finished eating I made coffee in the pert blue coffeepot—he told me he’d painted a picture of his coffeepot, he’d been so proud to buy it—and we talked at the table until the sun had nearly lowered. He helped wash the dishes and put things away, then, cheeks rosy with embarrassment, he asked if I’d mend his painting trousers.
    I had to smile at this grown man of thirty-five who desperately needed a woman looking after him. He lit a fire in the kitchen fireplace so I could have good light while I worked, then dropped the trousers into my lap together with a battered red lacquer teabox and a muttered “There should be a needle and thread