Free A Summer in Paris by Cynthia Baxter Page A

was getting a warm feeling from the people who lived here.
    Yes, Sainte Marie was special, a picture postcard come to life. It was precisely the kind of place in which she would expect Marcel du Lac to be living.
    “Pardon, Monsieur,” Nina said, approaching the grocer. He was a heavyset man in an apron. He had gotten the awning in place, and now he was patiently unpacking a huge basket of peaches and arranging them on a wooden counter underneath the awning.
    She showed him the address she had carefully printed on a piece of paper, wanting to make certain she did not make any mistakes. The man nodded, pointing and letting forth with a spew of sentences. He spoke so quickly that Nina didn’t catch everything he said. But she understood enough.
    What an adventure this is turning out to be, she thought. On an impulse, she stopped and bought a small bouquet of flowers. Clutching it tightly in her hand, she continued on, still relishing the feeling of the early morning sun on her back, the sweet sound of the birds chirping, the peaceful sight of this small French town getting ready for the new day.
    When she found herself standing in front of the house whose address matched the listing she had found in the telephone book, Nina was certain this had to be the right place. The house was small but carefully kept. It was white with pale blue shutters that looked as if they had just been painted. As she peeked around the corner, Nina saw that in the back there was an exquisite garden, a lush growth of vibrant flowers in every color of the rainbow.
    And in the front, there were no fewer than six rosebushes. And every one of them was bursting with bright yellow blossoms.
    Nina laughed. This simply had to be the right place.
    Suddenly her smile faded. What if Marcel du Lac wasn’t here? She hadn’t even considered that possibility up until now. She had been so determined to find him, so excited over finally having the chance to talk to him, that she had never even entertained the idea that he might not be in. He could have gone away for the summer, he could have moved to a new house ... there were a hundred different possibilities.
    Suddenly she could wait no more. Nina opened the gate and strode through the tiny front garden, crossing in just a few short steps. Her heart was pounding as she knocked loudly on the wooden door.
    “Please, please be home,” she muttered. “And please be the right Marcel du Lac!”
    The moment the old man opened the door, Nina knew she had found him. His eyes perfectly matched the description her grandmother had given in her letters. They were warm and lively ... and the color of the sky on a cloudless June morning.
    “Monsieur du Lac?” Nina asked breathlessly.
    “Oui,” the man said, nodding his head and looking a bit confused.
    “Marcel du Lac?”
    “Oui, c’est moi.” Yes, that’s me.
    Nina took a deep breath, then spoke in slow, careful French to make sure he would understand.
    “Monsieur,” she said, “my name is Nina Shaw. I am the granddaughter of Anna Wentworth.”
    * * * *
    “When I heard you say her name,” Marcel du Lac said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “that was the first time I have heard anyone speak of her in almost fifty years. I thought my heart would stop beating.”
    Nina and Marcel were in the small living room, sitting next to the front window that looked out on the rosebushes. The shutters were open, and as a breeze wafted in, it caused the yellowing lace tablecloth thrown over a rickety table to flutter. On it was the tea Marcel had made, served in delicate china cups. He had also brought out a loaf of dark brown bread and a small piece of cheese. But so far, neither of them had touched the food.
    “And Anna, you say, has been gone now for ... for how many years?”
    “Almost four,” Nina replied. “I miss her terribly.”
    Marcel leaned forward in his old wooden chair, his blue eyes narrowing as he peered at Nina. “Ah, yes. I can see it. I can see Anna