Grace discovered it was market day in Saint-Rémy. Busy sellers offered everything from books and antiques to fresh vegetables, strings of sausages and giant wheels of cheese. A good many of the stalls displayed the products in the dreamy colors of Provence—pale yellows and pinks and lavenders of the soaps, earthy reds and golds in the pottery and linens.
She wandered the crowded streets and lanes, sniffing the heady scents, eagerly accepting free samples when offered. She bought boxed soaps for friends back in San Antonio, a hand-sewn sundress and floppy-brimmed hat exploding with sunflowers for Molly, a small but exquisitely worked antique cameo brooch as a peace offering for Delilah.
She’d thanked the dealer and was turning away when a wooden case at the back of the umbrella-shaded stall caught her eye. It held what looked like antique man stuff—intricately worked silver shoe buckles, pearl stickpins, a gold-rimmed monocle with a black ribbon loop.
And one ring.
Compared with the other ornate pieces in the case, the ring was relatively plain. The only design on the wide yellow gold band was a fleur-de-lis set in onyx. At least, Grace assumed those glittering black stones were onyx. She learned her mistake when the dealer lifted the ring from the case to give her a closer look.
“Madame has a good eye,” he commented. “This piece is very old and very rare. From the seventeenth century. Those are black sapphires in the center.”
“I didn’t know there were black sapphires.”
“But yes! Hold the ring to the light. You will see the fineness of their cut.”
She did as instructed and couldn’t tell squat about the cut, but the stones threw back a black fire that made Grace gasp and gave the dealer the scent of a deal in the making. He added subtle pressure by dropping some of the ring’s history.
“It is rumored to have once belonged to the Count of Provence. But the last of the count’s descendants lost his head in the Revolution and the rabble sacked and burned his hôtel, so we have no written records of this ring. No—how do you call it? Certificate of authenticity. Only this rumor, you understand.”
Grace didn’t care. She’d walked out of Judge Honeywell’s office wearing a band of diamonds. Blake’s ring finger was still bare. She didn’t need a certificate to rectify the situation. Those shimmering black sparks were authentic enough for her.
“How much is it?”
He named a figure that made her gulp until she realized it was a starting point for further negotiations. She countered. He shook his head and came back with another price. She sighed and put the ring back in the case. He plucked it out again.
“But look at these stones, madame. This workmanship.”
“I don’t know if it will fit my husband,” she argued.
“It can always be resized.”
He dropped his glance to the sparkling gems circling her finger. His expression said she could certainly afford to have it fitted, but he cut the price by another fifty euros. Grace did the conversion to dollars in her head, gulped again and tried to remember the exact balance in her much-depleted bank account.
She could cover it. Barely. Squaring her shoulders, she took the plunge. “Do you take Visa?”
* * *
The velvet bag containing the ring remained tucked in her purse when she returned to the villa. A local official had delivered documents couriered in from some government source, and Blake had invited her to join them for lunch. The woman was lively company and was delighted to learn Blake intended to show his bride Saint-Rémy’s ancient Roman ruins. She also warned they must go that very afternoon, as the archeological site could be affected if the transportation unions went on strike the following day as they’d threatened.
Grace couldn’t see the connection but didn’t argue when Blake said he was satisfied with his review of the contingency plans and was free to roam for a few hours. Before they left the villa, though, he made sure his mobile phone was fully charged, then tucked it close at hand in the breast pocket of his shirt.
The monuments she’d spotted through the trees yesterday were even more impressive up close and personal. Blake parked in a dusty, unpaved lot filled with cars and what turned out to be school buses. Grace had to smile at the noisy, exuberant teens piling out of the buses.
“I’ve taken my classes on a few field trips like this one,” she commented. “It’s always tough to judge how much of what they’ll see actually sinks in.”
Not much, Blake guessed. At least for the young, would-be studs in the crowd. As both he and his brother could verify, the attention of boys that age centered a whole lot more on girls in tight jeans than ancient ruins.
Boys of any age, actually. Grace wasn’t in jeans, but she snagged more than one admiring look from the male students and their teachers as she and Blake joined the line straggling along the dirt path to Les Antiques.
The two monuments gleamed white in the afternoon sun. Blake couldn’t remember which triumph the massive arch was supposed to commemorate—the conquest of Marseille, he thought—but he knew the perfectly preserved marble tower beside the arch had served as a mausoleum for a prominent Roman family. Luckily, descriptive plaques alongside each monument provided the details in both French and English.
Blake wasn’t surprised that the teacher in Grace had to read every word, much as she had on the Van Gogh trail yesterday. Peering over the heads of the kids, she glanced from the plaque to the intricate pattern decorating the underside of the arch.
“This is interesting. Those flowers and vines represent the fertility of ‘the Roman Province,’ aka Provence. I didn’t know that’s where the region’s name came from.”
Two of the teens obviously thought she’d addressed the comment to them. One turned and pulled an earbud from his ear. The other tucked what looked like a sketchbook under his arm and asked politely, “Pardon, madame?”
“The name, Provence.” She gestured to the sign. “It’s from the Latin.”
“Ah, oui.”
Blake hid a smile as the boys looked her over with the instinctive appreciation of the male of the species. They obviously liked what they saw. And who wouldn’t? Her hair was a wind-tossed tangle of pale silk, and the skin displayed all too enticingly by the white lace camisole had been warmed to a golden tan by the hot Provencal sun. Not surprisingly, the boys lagged behind while the rest of their group posed and snapped pictures of each other under the watchful eyes of their teachers.
“You are from the U.S.?” the taller of the two asked.
“I am,” she confirmed. “From Texas.”
“Ahhh, Texas. Cowboys, yes? And cows with the horns like this.”
When he extended his arms, Grace grinned and spread hers as far as they would go. “More like this.”
“Oui?”
“Oui. And you? Where are you from?”
“Lyon, madame.”
The shorter kid was as eager as his pal to show
