the basket of fresh-baked brioche.
“We’ve got dinner taken care of,” he said as she slathered on butter and thick strawberry jam. “What would you like to do until then?”
She sent him a quick look, saw he hadn’t packed some hidden meaning into the suggestion, and relaxed into her first genuine smile of the morning.
“You mentioned a Van Gogh trail. I’d love to explore that, if you’re up for it.”
Resolutely, Blake suppressed the memory of his mother ruthlessly dragging Alex and him along every step of the route commemorating Saint-Rémy’s most famous artist.
“I’m up for it.”
Grace couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to explore. Sometime while they’d been over the Atlantic, August had rolled into September. The absolute best time to enjoy Provence’s balmy breezes and dazzling sunshine, Blake assured her as the sporty red convertible crunched down the front drive. It was still warm enough for her to be glad she’d opted for linen slacks and a cap-sleeved black T-shirt with I ♥ Texas picked out in sparkly rhinestones. She’d caught her hair back in a similarly adorned ball cap to keep the ends from whipping her face.
Blake hadn’t bothered with a hat, but his mirrored aviation sunglasses protected his eyes from the glare. With his blue shirt open at the neck and the cuffs rolled up on his forearms, he looked cool and comfortable and too damned sexy for his own or Grace’s good.
“I wasn’t sure how much you know about Vincent van Gogh,” he said with a sideways glance, “so I printed off a short bio while you were getting ready.”
“Thanks.” She gratefully accepted the folded page he pulled out of his shirt pocket. “I went to a traveling exhibit at the San Antonio Museum of Art that featured several of his sketches a few years ago. I don’t know much about the man himself, though, except that he was Dutch and disturbed enough to cut off his left ear.”
“He was certainly disturbed, but there’s some dispute over whether he deliberately hacked off his ear or lost it in the scuffle when he went after his pal Gauguin with a straight razor.”
While Blake navigated shaded streets toward the outskirts of Saint-Rémy, Grace absorbed the details in the life of the brilliant, tormented artist who killed himself at the age of thirty-seven.
“It says here Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime and died thinking himself a failure. How sad.”
“Very sad,” Blake agreed.
“Especially since his self-portrait is listed here as one of the ten most expensive paintings ever sold,” Grace read, her eyes widening. “It went for $71 million in 1998.”
“Which would equate to about $90 million today, adjusted for inflation.”
“Good grief!”
She couldn’t imagine paying that kind of money for anything short of a supersonic jet transport. Then she remembered the painting of the irises at the villa, and Blake’s casual comment that his mother had donated the original to the Smithsonian.
She’d known the Daltons operated in a rarified financial atmosphere, of course. She’d lived in Delilah’s rambling Oklahoma City mansion for several months and assisted her with some of her pet charity projects. She’d also picked up bits and pieces about the various megadeals Alex and Blake had in the works at DI. And she’d certainly gotten a firsthand taste of the luxury she’d married into during the flight across the Atlantic and at the Hôtel des Elmes. But for some reason the idea of forking over eighty or ninety million for a painting made it all seem surreal.
Her glance dropped to the diamonds banding her finger. They were certainly real enough. A whole lot more real than the union they supposedly symbolized. Although yesterday, at the pool…
No! Better not go there! She’d just get all confused and conflicted again. Best just to enjoy the sun and the company of the intriguing man she’d married.
A flash of white diverted her attention to the right side of the road. Eyes popping, she stared at a massive arch and white marble tower spearing up toward the sky. “What are those?”
“They’re called Les Antiques. They’re the most visible remnants of the Roman town of Glanum that once occupied this site. The rest of the ruins are a little farther down the road. We’ll save exploring them for another day.”
He turned left instead of right and drove down a tree-shaded lane bordered on one side by a vacant field and on the other by tall cypresses and the twisted trunks of an olive grove. Beyond the grove the rocky spine of the Alpilles slashed across the horizon.
“Here we are.”
“Here,” Grace discovered, was the Saint-Paul de Mausole Asylum, which Van Gogh had voluntarily entered in May 1889. Behind its ivy-covered gray stone walls she glimpsed a church tower and a two- or three-story rectangular building.
“Saint-Paul’s was originally an Augustine monastery,” Blake explained as he maneuvered into a parking space next to two tour buses. “Built in the eleventh or twelfth century, I think. It was converted to an asylum in the 1800s and is still used as a psychiatric hospital. The hospital is off-limits, of course, but the church, the cloister and the rooms where Van Gogh lived and painted are open to the public.”
A very interested public, it turned out. The tour buses had evidently just disgorged their passengers. Guides shepherded their charges through the gates and up to the ticket booth. After the chattering tourists clicked through the turnstile single file, Blake paid for two entries and picked up an informational brochure but caught Grace’s elbow once they’d passed through the turnstile.
“Let them get a little way ahead. You’ll want to experience some of the tranquility Van Gogh did when he was allowed outside to paint.”
She had no problem dawdling. The path leading to the church and other buildings was long and shady and lined on both sides by glossy rhododendron and colorful flowers. Adding to her delight, plaques spaced along the walk highlighted a particular view and contrasted it with Van Gogh’s interpretation of that same scene.
A depiction of one of his famous sunflower paintings was displayed above a row of almost identical bright yellow flowers nodding in the sun. A low point in the wall provided a sweeping view of silvery-leafed olive trees dominated by the razor-backed mountain peaks in the distance. Van Gogh’s version of that scene was done with his signature intense colors and short, bold brushstrokes. Fascinated, Grace stood before the plaque and glanced repeatedly from the trees’ gnarled, twisted trunks to the artist’s interpretation.
“This is amazing!” she breathed. “It’s like stepping into a painting and seeing everything that went into it through different eyes.”
She lingered at that plaque for several moments before meandering down the shady path to the next. Blake followed, far more interested in her reaction to Van Gogh’s masterpieces than the compositions themselves.
She was like one of the scenes the artist had painted, he mused. She’d come into his life shortly after Molly had, but he’d been so absorbed with the baby it had taken weeks for him to see her as something more than a quietly efficient nanny. The attraction had
