“She’s beautiful.”

“She looks just like you.”

Emily’s hand strayed to her scar, covering it with her palm, and she shook her head in response.

“You painted it, in 1965?”

“She told you?”

“In a way.” She didn’t know whether to tell him about all the diary entries. Wasn’t yet sure how much she wanted to share.

“It is all because of her,” he said as he nodded at the painting. “My crazy Catriona, my muse, my beloved. She was the one who inspired such a fury in me, a desire to put that face onto canvas, for the whole world to see.”

“It’s incredible.” The way he had captured the light on her face, the look in her eye, with only a few strokes of brush. Emily stepped forward, wanted to try to understand how he had accomplished such detail with so little paint.

“It belongs to you.”

“Me?”

“She bought it many years ago. Sent it back to me on the condition that, one day, I should pass it on to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Antoine looped his arm around Emily, drew her close and placed a kiss on her head. Then he took her chin in his hands, turned her head to the light, exposing her scar, but she didn’t pull away, found she didn’t want to hide, not from him. He made her feel at ease, the same way he had Catriona. A gift of sorts, one that was impossible to explain or describe.

“I think she wanted you to understand that happiness isn’t ever constant.” He cupped her face with both hands. “That summer was magical in so many ways, but it also nearly destroyed her.”

“You mean Noah.”

“You know about Noah.” It wasn’t a question, accompanied only by a small nod of his head as he moved to the back of the house, taking Emily by the hand and walking out onto the terrace.

Two bright ceramic flamingos stood guard by the pool as Emily shielded her eyes and looked across the coastline of Sainte-Maxime, tiny dots of white that interspersed the green. There was the faintest of winds, carrying the scent of the sea and of lavender from the various bushes dotted around the garden.

“Lavender always makes me think of Catriona.” Antoine twirled a lock of Emily’s hair through his fingers, then handed over a glass of iced tea from a tray that had miraculously appeared on a nearby table. He took a sip from his own drink, regarding her over the rim.

“Why did she leave?” Emily held her glass with both hands, registered the shiver along her spine in response to the chill.

“Right to the point.” Antoine gave a small chuckle. “Just like her.”

“Because of Noah?”

“He was an utter bastard. Playing with her emotions, her love, as if it were something she would give to just about anybody.”

“But did they ever…?” Emily left the question hanging, unsure whether or not she wanted to know the answer. To find out if her grandfather was the man responsible for causing so much pain.