Ondine in the Garden, Mougins, 1983

ONDINE WAS SITTING AT HER kitchen table in the mas when the telephone rang again.

It was Arthur, calling from the maternity ward. “Julie’s fine. She wants me to stay with her a little longer, but I’ll come back to the mas to sleep tonight. Then I have early meetings first thing tomorrow, but I’ll pick you up at noon to go see the baby,” he said firmly, clearly determined to control Ondine’s exposure to his wife. He sounded irritated, as if the baby’s earlier-than-expected arrival was a deliberate plot to keep Julie in France longer than he’d scheduled.

Ondine politely pretended to accept his plan. But after they hung up, she decided that as soon as Arthur left in the morning, she’d get Monsieur Clément to drop her off at the hospital; she couldn’t wait to see Julie and dear little Céline, and she wanted to be certain that they were both really all right.

The more Ondine thought about it, the more she believed that it would be wrong to break her promise to Luc by telling Julie about Picasso being her father. But a nagging feeling persisted, and finally she understood why.

“Somebody in this family ought to know the whole story about me and Picasso and Luc and Julie. I never promised Luc I wouldn’t tell Picasso’s grand-daughter who she really is! It might help Céline to choose wisely and find her true destiny. But, will I still be alive when she is old enough to listen? When she grows up, will she ever come to visit me? Or will Arthur poison her against me? I wish I could tell her now—but how can you whisper a secret to a baby?”

Then, inspired, Ondine reached for her pen. As she wrote, the kitchen echoed with the sound of her pen scratching its way across the last of the Café Paradis stationery she’d kept from the old days:

Cher Céline,

I am entrusting you with a secret I have told no one, not even your mother. I feel it is important for you to know exactly who you really are, but I hope that after you have read everything I have to say, in the end you’ll understand that it’s really up to you to decide who you wish to become, and to find a path to the life you truly want…

—

WHEN AT LAST she got to the end, Ondine uttered a satisfied, “Hah!” and signed it, Your loving grandmother, Ondine. She folded the letter into its envelope and sealed it.

“But how do you mail a letter to a baby?” she brooded. She decided she would entrust it to Monsieur Clément, so he could keep it with the painting in a safe place. And yet, it wouldn’t be wise to leave this letter lying around here even for one night, while Arthur was still sleeping over.

She pondered this quietly for awhile; then she came up with a temporary hiding place where Arthur would never look. At least her letter would be safe from prying eyes until she could meet up with Clément tomorrow to give it to him, so he could lock it up with the painting in his safe.

Ondine felt much better as she picked up her basket and went outside. The sun was still hot, scenting the flower fields; and a light wind mingled its fragrance with that of the salty sea.

“Such a bright, happy day!” Ondine sighed as she dragged a small stepladder over to the cherry tree at the far end of the terrace. The cherries hung there like dark rubies, and quite soon she’d picked enough to fill her basket for the fresh tarte she would bake for Julie.

When she finished she was panting with pleasure, and, feeling a bit short of breath, she left the stepladder as it was. Peering up into the tree in the heat of this day had made her light-headed. Turning now in the direction of the terrace, she felt dizzy, then experienced a queer little pain in her chest.

The next thing she knew, she’d fallen into the soft grass under the tree, just like a ripe fruit. There seemed to be a brief flash of time and consciousness, as if she’d clicked the shutter of an old-fashioned camera and her view had disappeared and gone black momentarily, before reappearing.

“Now what should I do?” Ondine asked herself, perplexed. The sun was setting and there was a chill in the air; but when the wind stirred in the grass, she thought she heard a familiar voice whispering to her, like the swish of the sea with its rushing sound, as if someone were holding a seashell to her ear. Someone who loved her, and would guide her soul home with his sheltering, soothing voice.

“Luc?” Ondine said wonderingly. “I thought you’d been gone all these years, mon cher, but it turns out that you’ve been here all along, out in the garden the whole time, watching over me!”

She was still lying on her back and gazing at the darkening blue sky, where the moon was already hanging like a lustrous pearl.

“Ah,” Ondine sighed, “what a good day to be born.”

—

NOT FAR FROM Ondine’s house, Madame Sylvie had stopped at a roadside farmstand to pick up a few fresh things for dinner and to chat with friends before heading home. Then she continued down the long, dusty road, until a sudden, strong impulse made her halt right there in her tracks like a horse.

“Ondine!” she cried aloud, startling the birds in the trees and the rabbits in the grass. From somewhere overhead, an owl hooted.

Madame Sylvie did not hesitate. She turned right around, and hurried back to Ondine’s house.