Chapter 19
Mougins was surrounded by forests and fields of lavender and roses and jasmine, all farmed for the perfumes of the fabled French houses of Guerlain, Houbigant, Fragonard, and L’Etoile. Rather than settling down to paint, for the next two weeks I found myself spending more time roaming the countryside than inside my studio. I sat in fields and on rocks, leaned against trees and fences, and sketched the flowers, imagining how I might translate them into surrealistic images. Yet they remained simple studies, showing no creativity or verve. And the paints? The palette? Those lush sable brushes? They sat unused on the pretty rosewood taboret.
“You just need more time to recover,” my mother said, one afternoon in mid-June. “Or maybe some help? I could go to work mixing up some soothing teas and inspirational tinctures.”
I’d driven down to Cannes to spend the day with her. Anything to distract myself from the empty canvases.
We’d gone shopping on the Croisette to buy a birthday gift for my great-grandmother and afterward stopped for refreshments on the terrace of the Hotel Carlton, overlooking the perfect azure sea. It was the most popular hotel in town, and before I’d gone to New York, when Sebastian had brought clients down from Paris, they’d always stayed here.
My mother ordered champagne, her drink of choice, and the waiter brought it along with a plate of canapés, including radish roses, savory cheese balls, and deviled eggs.
The breeze was blowing, as it often did by the beach, and we were relaxing and watching the sailboats in the distance and the foot traffic on the avenue as men and women strolled by. The fashion parade of chic costumes and fabulous jewels entertained us as we sipped our drinks.
“You know, there have been a couple of times in my career when I needed to open my grimoire and find remedies.”
“When?” I asked, curious. She’d never referred to barren periods before.
My mother looked out across the terrace to the sea. “When you and your brother were born, I bled too much. If I’d been a normal woman, I might not have made it, but the spirit of La Lune saw to it that I pulled through. Afterward, once I was healed and you and your brother were thriving, I had no drive to paint. It was as if I’d lost it with all that blood. So eventually, I used the book of spells and cured myself.”
“I had no idea. I feel guilty that we were responsible.”
“Which is exactly why I never told you. I know you well enough to know it’s the kind of thing that would have that effect. But you understand now how ridiculous that way of thinking is?”
I did, yet I was still disturbed. “And the other time?”
My mother shook her head. “You and your sisters all have an insatiable curiosity.”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“Because you are too sensitive, and I know it’s going to upset you.”
“I won’t be upset.”
She looked at me for a moment, then took a breath. “When you lost your sight,” she said quietly.
I fought my instincts and tried to keep my voice even. “What happened?”
She sighed. “We’ve talked so little about this, and there’s so much about it that I’ve never explained. In order to get your sight back, I gave you some of mine. That’s how I cured you. I—”
“You mean you see less well because of me?”
“Not now. I regained all the vision I lost within two years.”
“But you did lose some of your vision?”
“It was an ancient, complicated spell.”
“Maman, it took more than a year to give me back my sight.”
She nodded.
“So you couldn’t paint all that time?” I couldn’t imagine her not standing at her easel every day, one paintbrush in her mouth, another in her hand, creating the complex, colorful paintings that were worlds unto themselves.
“I had a much more important job to do.” My mother took my hand. “So I know how you feel now. You want to work, but you can’t. It’s not quite the same. Your inability to paint isn’t physical. Yours springs from fear. I was incapacitated. But the result is identical.”
“Do you think the cure is also identical?”
“It might be. My eyes needed time to heal and regenerate. For you, it’s your spirit. And I can help. You’re already back on the right path. It’s just not a straightforward one. I’ll make up some tinctures that will help. This is going to be a complicated summer and fall for you.”
I laughed sardonically. “My winter and my spring were complicated, Maman. This is going to be easy compared with that.”
“You mean Monty’s death. Because Tommy didn’t break your heart that badly, did he? From your letters and what I saw in the waters, I never sensed that you loved him. Was I wrong?”
She bit her bottom lip, her teeth white against the red lipstick that was part of her signature style. That and the rubies she wore, either in ropes around her neck or in rings on all her fingers. No matter what other jewelry she wore, she was always bedecked in rubies.
The lip biting was her tell that she was nervous about my answer. And I knew why she was. My mother was worried that I had fallen in love with Tommy. That I’d squandered the one chance that daughters of La Lune are given at that game.
“No, you were right. I wasn’t in love with him. But I was content with him, Maman. I liked our life and looked forward to our future but for all the wrong reasons. Because he was safe. Because when I sketched him, he had no secrets. But then he threw me over for his parents, and I felt like such a fool. I never could have guessed anyone would reject me because we’re Jewish. For being a witch, yes. But our religion? We don’t even practice.”
“You’ve been sheltered here and in Paris, where people are much less prejudiced. Or, at least, those you’ve been exposed to. Goodness knows there are provincial people everywhere.” She took a sip of her champagne. “I’m glad you didn’t fall in love. Someday you will, though.”
I’d never told her about Mathieu, and that moment didn’t seem the right time for it. “And fulfill the curse of La Lune’s descendants.”
“It’s not always a curse. It hasn’t been for me and your papa.”
“No. But you came close to losing him. Wouldn’t it have been the tragedy of your life?”
She nodded.
We all knew the story of how my father had fought a duel for my mother’s honor in 1894 and had almost been killed. My mother had risked her own life to save his and sacrificed her soul in the process.
She drained her glass and caught the waiter’s eye. He was there in a moment to refill her crystal flute.
“Has anyone ever been able to break the curse?” I asked.
“Not that I know of, but if you ever need to, I promise to help. I know it seems bleak . . .” She waited until the waiter walked off. “With your work, in your life, with love . . . but if you trust your sight, it will show you the way.”