Chapter Thirty-Seven

Nancy woke to the sun filtering through the pine trees outside the window, the wooden shutters thrown wide. Jim was leaning on the stone sill in his boxers, his eyes closed against the bright morning light, basking in the warmth. He must have heard her stir, because he swung round, a lazy smile on his lips, and let out a long, contented sigh. She had never seen him so relaxed.

“Isn’t it heaven here?”

She lay back on the pillows and beamed back at him. “Heaven.” And it was. Maison Lavande—Lavender House—was a seventeenth-century farmhouse in the hills above Apt. With a view from the terrace over the spectacular Luberon valley and the spreading lavender fields, olive groves, the mountains in the distance, Stevie’s gîte was a sort of paradise. Jim’s brother had bought it with his French partner, Pascal, in the eighties and slowly, lovingly, converted it to include four guest bedrooms and two bathrooms in one side of the house, their own quarters on the other—all downstairs—the large kitchen and living space across the whole upstairs, so that they could run it as a bed and breakfast. It had been very successful, Pascal loving to cook and bond with the visitors. Stevie, less sociable, could fix anything from a pump to a boiler to anything electrical.

Then two years ago last October, Pascal had died, cycling up the hill to the mas, baguettes and croissants for the guests tied to the back of the bike, just after eight on a similarly beautiful autumn day. A bin lorry speeding round the corner had clipped his front wheel, spinning him over the side. He had died in hospital later that morning from head injuries, a few days shy of his fiftieth birthday. Stevie, Jim said, had not recovered. He had continued to run the gîte, but without Pascal, the place had lost its spirit and the guests had started to fall off.

“Thought we’d take in Apt market this morning,” he was saying, as he padded across the terracotta tiles and sat down on the bed. “It’s huge and famous. You’ll love it. We could do the meal tonight . . . There’ll be stuff we can get that doesn’t involve too much cooking.” He grinned.

Since Pascal’s death, Stevie had hired a cook/housekeeper, Madame Laverne, during the season, but now that it was quiet she came in only a couple of days a week.

Nancy took Jim’s hand. “I don’t know Stevie, but he seems quite withdrawn sometimes, like the light’s on, then all of a sudden it flicks off and he’s gone. Is he on pills for the depression?”

Jim sighed. “He certainly was. But he’s obviously not in a good state. I worry about the winter. He doesn’t take guests from November to March and he’s all alone here. He and Pascal used to love it when they had the place to themselves, but without him . . .”

“It’s pretty isolated.”

“Yeah, there’s Izzy in the house just down the hill, the one with the wooden dolphin sculpture outside. She’s away at the moment, but Stevie says she may be coming back tomorrow, so you’ll meet her. She’s from New Zealand, a bit bonkers, I reckon, but a very good friend to Stevie since Pascal died.”

“Is that her sculpture?”

“No, her boyfriend’s . . . ex-boyfriend now. Izzy does some kind of life-coach thing—she’s got a studio in Avignon and I think she does online stuff too. But she must have money from somewhere, because she never seems short and I can’t imagine she makes much from the work.”

“Life-coaches can charge a bomb.”

“Hmm, maybe, but when you meet her you’ll see she’s a bit of a hippie. But it’s good to know someone’s close at hand for Stevie.”

*

Stevie was not at all what Nancy had imagined. And, apart from his very blue eyes, he was not at all like his brother. At least four inches shorter than Jim and weighing considerably more, his kind smile and rather morose features peered from a sea of smooth flesh that bulked around his neck, giving the impression that his body started at his chin. He did not have Jim’s long hair, and the sparse, greying, Caesar-style cut seemed to perch on his head like a wig. But the most marked difference between the brothers was their vitality. Whereas Jim demonstrated a contained energy, an elegance in the way he moved, Stevie dragged himself from place to place, heaving his bulk up from a chair with marked reluctance, breathing heavily at any exertion, slumping with a weary sigh that seemed to Nancy the biggest indication that he wasn’t coping.

“You guys go, not sure I’m in the mood for a crazy market this morning.” Stevie was sitting in the sun on the first-floor balcony, which led from the kitchen and living area; his bedroom and bathroom were tucked into the hill on the ground floor.

“Nah, come with us,” Jim said. “We can do a potter, show Nancy the stalls, then have a coffee. If we go now, it won’t be too manic.”

Stevie didn’t reply at once, just sipped from a French coffee bowl, his large hands cradling the fluted white pottery as he stared out over the plain. On the table in front of him was an Italian-style aluminum espresso machine, a plate of golden croissants, a jar of homemade apricot jam—Madame Laverne’s specialty—and a small section of honeycomb on a blue saucer. Crockery and knives, two mustard-yellow cotton napkins, carefully ironed, had been laid out for Nancy and Jim.

“I suppose I could.” He turned his face up to Nancy. “It’s a pretty spectacular market, been going for nine hundred years, they say.”

Nancy gave him an encouraging smile. “Come with us, then,” she said.

Sitting and gazing out at the extraordinary view, she took a deep breath. Such beauty seemed to require happiness, but perhaps for Jim’s brother it served only to remind him of what he had lost. She had a sudden urge to hug him, pass on to him some of the strength, energy and love she felt right now. It was an unfair balance, his dull misery against her intense happiness. She looked up at Jim, who was leaning against the balcony rail also gazing out across the landscape. They had been so close on this holiday, both relaxing, having time just to enjoy each other without the awkwardness engendered by their domestic situation at home. Neither her house, nor his, the mas was a neutral place where Nancy felt no responsibility for Jim. Here, there was no pressure to make choices about how she spent her time. They would be going back on Monday, and Nancy felt the flutter of anxiety building in her gut at the thought.

*

Stevie had brought two traditional French shopping baskets—pale woven palm leaves with leather handles—and given one to Jim. Every few minutes, someone would greet Stevie, drop the obligatory kiss, kiss, kiss on his cheeks, exchange a sentence or two in French, then move on. There were tourists among the crowd, but it seemed to be made up predominantly of locals.

Nancy’s French was not bad, she had spent two summer holidays in Paris with a musician’s family—all four children played different instruments, so they did nothing but practice, compose and perform with each other—at the impressionable age of fifteen and sixteen. But she lacked the courage, after so many years, to speak much. Jim, on the other hand, had no such reticence, although his grammar and vocabulary were patchy, claiming there was an acknowledged link between being a musician and a linguist. He seemed unafraid of trying out his skills on anyone who’d listen.

Nancy bought two small, brightly colored Provençal-patterned bags for Hope and Jazzy, woven mats for Louise, a pot of mustard for Ross, and an embroidered organza lavender bag for her mother.

“Goat?” Jim asked, pointing to the tempting array of cheeses set out on straw mats on one of the stalls in the main square.

“The banon’s good,” Stevie pointed to a small round cheese, neatly wrapped in brown leaves, “and I like the ashy one.”

They ended up with mountains of food: ripe, juicy tomatoes that smelt of the earth, frisée lettuces, salamis, cheeses, a warm rotisserie chicken, plump green beans, rillettes, celeriac remoulade, golden pears, fresh eggs and baguettes. Carrying their spoils they made their way to Stevie’s favorite tabac, tucked back in a cool alleyway away from the throng, where they sat outside in the shade on hard aluminum chairs and sighed with relief. Nancy ordered a cafe crème, the two men, black coffee.

Jim, after a few minutes of inconsequential chat, fell silent, biting his lip.

“How’s it going to be, over the winter?” he asked his brother.

Stevie, his round face pink and sweaty, his chest still heaving beneath his faded blue polo shirt, just shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I survived last year.”

“Must get pretty lonely.”

Stevie blinked, and Nancy, wincing, saw the glint of tears. Addressing his remark to the house opposite, he said, “Pretty lonely all the time. Winter’s no different.”

Jim glanced at her, raised his eyebrows. “Why not come home for Christmas, catch up with a few people . . .?” He trailed off, as if even he were unconvinced by his own words.

“This is home,” Steve said softly, turning his blue eyes, now wet with tears, on his brother.

“I get that. But you seem so unhappy, Stevie. Do you think you should get another assessment, maybe take a different pill . . . or a different dose?”

“There isn’t a pill on the planet that’ll help how I feel.”

“But that’s exactly what antidepressants do, isn’t it?”

Stevie shrugged again, looked away.

“You are on them, aren’t you?”

This time, when Jim’s brother turned to them, his eyes were full of irritation. “Leave it, Jim. I know you mean well, but just stay out of it . . . please.” He got up, wiping his sweaty forehead with a hanky and reached into the pocket of his beige cargo pants for his wallet. But as he drew it out, he suddenly staggered backward, fell over the chair, crashed against the glass front of the cafe. Jim was on his feet in a flash, heaving his brother’s bulk upright and guiding him onto a chair. A man passing by grabbed Stevie’s other arm.

Merci, merci . . . je vais bien maintenant. La chaleur . . .” Nancy heard Jim’s brother mumble breathlessly to the Frenchman, obviously making a supreme effort to appear as fine as he said he was.

Jim hovered over him anxiously. “What happened there, mate?”

Stevie pushed him away. “Too much caffeine, I expect. Takes me like that sometimes. Stop fussing, will you?” He looked at Nancy. “Sorry about all the drama.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” Jim was asking.

Ignoring his brother, Stevie tentatively got to his feet. “Come on, let’s get back.”

And that was an end to it, as far as Stevie was concerned. On the walk through the crowded streets to the car park, Jim kept glancing sideways at his brother and asking him how he was feeling, only to be brushed off.

*

Their last night loomed. Nancy and Jim sat on the balcony as the sun went down, both with a glass of cold white wine, silent as they took in the glorious panorama sweeping away in front of them. As the light dipped behind the far hills, the slopes of olive trees and fields of lavender—now reduced to green-brown rows after the harvest—took on a soft shadowy indigo hue, a small breeze lifting the heat from the day, Nancy felt a rare sense of peace steal over her. It was so beautiful, so still, so absolutely perfect. Jim caught her expression and reached over to take her hand.

“You like it here,” he said. It was not a question.

She nodded. “I don’t know it in the way you do, but I feel at home somehow.” She smiled at him. “Maybe because you’re here.”

“Don’t know . . . It’s just one of those places. I understand why Stevie doesn’t want to leave.”

“Did you talk to him about the antidepressants?” Nancy lowered her voice, glancing back toward the house. There was no sign of Stevie in the darkening kitchen behind her.

Jim sighed. “I tried, but he just keeps repeating that he’s fine. I can’t force him to open up to me.” He paused. “He was always a brooder—used to drive Mum nuts when we were kids.”

They fell silent.

“Perhaps it’s like my mother . . . We have to respect that it’s his life.”

Jim gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, easy advice to give when it’s not your own relative.”

She laughed. “I’m sure. Listen, we can come back . . . if Stevie’s okay with it. Maybe visit over the winter. I’d love that.”

Jim squeezed her hand gratefully. “Good idea.”

*

That night, Stevie was a different person. Freshly showered and dressed in pale chinos, with a pressed blue-and-white striped shirt, he was already getting the supper together when Nancy and Jim came upstairs. It was after nine and quite dark outside, the pinprick lights from hundreds of homes glinting in clusters and trails across the plain, like gemstones in a necklace.

“Hey, there you are. Get yourselves a drink. White’s in the fridge, red’s on the side, or there’s vodka in the freezer—Pascal’s favorite.” The mention of his lover’s name was accompanied by an unusually cheerful grin.

“Let me do that,” Jim said, wresting from his brother the knife with which Stevie had been slicing the tomatoes. “We’re supposed to be doing supper tonight.”

Stevie didn’t protest. “Great. I’ll just sit back and get tanked then.” He took the bottle of red wine from the side and filled his glass, moving to the sofa where he plunked himself down, leaning back against the cushions with a sigh and a look of quiet pleasure. His blue eyes, normally so sorrowful, seemed suddenly full of life. “Santé, folks!”

“Are you so cheerful because you’re getting rid of us?” Jim asked.

“Absolutely! Can’t stand the sight of you.”

“Pity, because me and Nancy thought we might come back over the winter.”

Stevie’s eyebrows raised. “So you can check up on me, make sure I haven’t slit my throat?”

“Something like that. Certainly not because we like you and want to hang out with you.”

Stevie chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to think anyone actually liked me.”

Nancy wondered at the transformation. Had he taken some sort of stimulant? Or was it just the seesaw nature of his depression?

The brothers’ banter was interrupted by a call from downstairs. “Hi there! Anyone home?” then the soft padding of feet on the wooden staircase, followed by the door opening and a woman appearing.

“Darling! I didn’t think you’d be back till tomorrow.” Stevie hauled himself to his feet as she raced across the room, arms open to embrace him, apparently squeezing the life out of him until he begged for mercy and they both fell onto the sofa in a breathless heap. It was a moment before she seemed to notice there were other people in the room. Then she leaped to her feet.

“Jim! Oh, God, what a treat,” she said, giving Jim the same treatment, Jim’s hand holding the knife waving dangerously behind her back as she hugged him.

“Very pleased to meet you, Nancy,” she said, when Jim introduced them, shaking Nancy’s hand warmly. “Didn’t know you’d hooked up with someone new, Jim,” she said, smiling broadly. “What have you done with Chrissie?”

“Shut up, Izzy,” Stevie said affectionately, going to the cupboard to find a glass for his guest.

“Have I said something wrong?”

“No, no, just your usual lack of filter.”

Nancy watched Izzy, fascinated. Tall and slim, dressed in a strappy white linen dress, short, mint-green cardigan and sandals, she had the sort of unselfconscious beauty that drew the eye. Her thick, corn-blonde hair waved halfway down her back, and her large light brown eyes were set in a face blessed with perfect tan-gold skin, free of any make-up, blonde eyebrows and lashes blending seamlessly into the whole. Nancy reckoned she must be in her forties, no older, and it was hard not to feel a small stab of envy at her beauty and comparative youth.

But Izzy brought a welcome boost to the party, recounting tales of her trip to Milan, where she’d been summoned to counsel a rich, high-powered client who was prone to panic attacks and needed on-the-spot help.

“The hotel staff must have thought I was a tart,” she said, as they sat round the oak table in candlelight, eating thick slices of pissaladière, the melting onions, black olives and salty anchovies delicious with the tomato salad, celeriac remoulade and chilled rosé that Jim had got together for supper. “I was called to Didier’s room at all hours of the day and night, whenever he felt a wobble coming on.”

“He was probably hoping you would have sex with him,” Stevie joked.

“You’re not wrong. He kept asking me if I did massage, dirty beast.” She laughed. “What we have to do to earn a crust, eh?”

Nancy found it hard not to like the woman. She thought Stevie was a bit in love with her, his eyes lingering fondly on her whenever she spoke. But as the evening wore on, he seemed to lose interest in the people around him. He sat back from the table, pouring down wine in alarming quantities, his previous animation evaporating, to be replaced by a morose drunkenness that seemed full of self-pity. She glanced at Jim, who was sitting next to Izzy on the other side of the table, but he was turned sideways, one long leg crossed over the other and seemed absorbed in an intense story Izzy was recounting in a low, intimate voice.

“You see,” Stevie grabbed hold of Nancy’s arm, pressing his fingers into her flesh as if he were a drowning man, “Pascal was a life force. He had this spirit . . . I wish you’d known him . . .” He drifted into silence, his grip loosening.

“You must miss him terribly,” she said softly. Stevie seldom talked about his lover, although his presence hovered over every word he uttered.

Stevie’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t seem to find a way to live without him,” he said. Which broke Nancy’s heart. A few minutes later, he looked at her, a small smile on his lips. “You love him?” He dropped his voice, inclining his head toward his brother.

She nodded.

“You seem good together,” he said, then closed his eyes, took a long, slow breath. When he opened them, he appeared to have found his spirit again. “Stop flirting with my girlfriend,” he shouted across the table, making Izzy jump. Jim just grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. Your ‘girlfriend,’ as you put it, was telling me about this drummer she knows, lives in Avignon.”

“Bruno?” Stevie asked Izzy, who nodded. “Yeah, he’s good. Next time you come we’ll introduce you.”

Stevie got up from the table and crossed the kitchen, pulling another bottle of red wine from the rack beside the fridge, searching for the corkscrew, peeling off the foil around the top and slinging it on the side. The others watched him as he twisted the metal coil into the cork, a tired silence in the room, the candles guttering in the breeze from the open doors onto the balcony. Nancy felt suddenly exhausted and had a desperate urge to be horizontal in bed. She looked at Jim, who raised his eyebrows a little in agreement. But neither of them moved.

“I ought to be getting home,” Izzy said, pushing her chair back as she stood, stretching her arms above her head with feline grace, a long yawn escaping her. “Don’t open that, Stevie, it’ll go to waste.”

Jim nodded, got to his feet at the same time and they began to clear the table, Nancy gathering up the plates they’d used for cheese and the small golden plums Madame Laverne had left in a bowl on the side when they were out. Izzy took a handful of glasses between her fingers, and Jim blew out the candles, rolled the mustard-yellow napkins into the wooden rings, then laid them in a row at the end of the table.

No one noticed Stevie, who was breathing hard, leaning heavily against the worktop, the bottle with the cork sticking out of the top dangling uselessly in his right hand. But all of them heard the strangled cry he made as he teetered, then crashed to the tiled floor with a sickening thump, the bottle smashing as it hit the tiles, wine splashing up as the sea of red spread in a river along the bank of Stevie’s inert body.

“Christ!” Jim was beside him at once, kneeling without care in the wine and broken glass as he shouted at his brother, “Stevie! Stevie!He held the chubby face in both hands. But Stevie lay still, eyes wide, expression empty.

Nancy was rigid with shock. She didn’t dare breathe as Jim looked up at her, frantic, feeling for a pulse among the folds of Stevie’s neck.

“I can’t tell if he has a pulse . . . I can’t tell . . .” Then, turning back to his brother, “Stevie! For Christ’s sake, wake up—wake up!

Nancy shook herself, then bent to pick up Stevie’s wrist and feel for a pulse, but she didn’t know how to do it and couldn’t find the thump-thump that would signal life.

Izzy was on the phone: “Allô . . . aidez-moi s’il vous plaît, aidez-moi. Une ambulance! J’ai besoin d’une ambulance . . . Vite, vite—il ne respire pas!” She gave them the address of the mas in a breathless voice. “Vite, vite! Dépêchez-vous!

Jim, silent now, had linked his hands and was pumping Stevie’s chest frantically, his own breath rasping in grunts as he focused on his task, counting in a whisper, “Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” then starting again.

“Breathe into his mouth,” he said, not looking up, and Nancy took her place behind Stevie’s head, extending his neck as she’d seen it done in various CPR instructions over the years, pressing her mouth to his, his lips cold and tasting of wine. Jim stopped pumping, she took a long breath and exhaled into his mouth. Jim, barely registering it, started pumping again. After another bout of compressions, he stopped and she repeated the task. But Stevie did not respond.

“How long will they take?” Nancy asked Izzy, who was standing beside her, clutching her phone, eyes fixed on the body on the floor. She knew it was an idiotic question to which there was no answer, but she felt she had to say something. In her peripheral vision, she could see Izzy’s feet in their leather flip-flops, long, tanned, the toenails painted a deep carmine red, all ten toes clenched now, as if she were hanging from a cliff. We are all hanging from a cliff, she thought, as she bent to Stevie’s mouth again.

“I don’t know . . . I’ve no idea,” Izzy whispered. “Here, let me do that for a bit.” She pushed Jim out of the way and knelt over Stevie, pumping his sternum as Jim had done. Jim staggered to his feet, knees dark with wine and doubled over as if he were about to throw up. Time had stopped, the three of them caught in a single, nightmarish moment that threatened to last for the rest of their lives. But Stevie never moved again.