The House of Dreams by Kate Lord Brown Page A

fingertips along the flaking white clapboard as we skirt around the side to the beach path. Every time we had a few bucks, or a new baby, we added on a room. It’s higgledy-piggledy, as Vita used to say, but we love it. Now, the house and I have both seen better days. I glance up at the terrace where Annie, my Annie, sits gazing out at the sea, a smile on her lips. Our home, the place we chose to plant our flag. Gabe and Annie, a couple of kids playing house. I always expected at some point it would feel like we were grown-ups, but it never did. Still doesn’t. Sometimes it still surprises me to look in my shaving mirror and see an old guy staring back. My hip twinges as I climb gingerly down the wooden steps and shuffle onto the beach. I pick up the stick I turned one winter from its place beside the steps, and we walk down toward the hard-packed shore, where it’s easier walking. “We lost everything in France. Once that’s happened to you, you realize how little things matter. We never needed anything more than one another.” I wave my stick at the sea. “Than this.”
    â€œHow many kids do you have?”
    â€œKids?” I laugh. “Our babies are old crones now. My youngest grandson Harry’s about your age.” Come to think of it, this girl would be just his type. He likes these city girls, tough and polished as hazelnuts, sweet and yielding inside. Maybe I’ll get him to drive her back to the station, work his magic. Maybe a distraction will make her forget she hasn’t found out what she came here for.
    â€œHarry?” She sounds wistful. Perhaps luck’s on my side and she’s alone or lonely. “You’re lucky, having family nearby. Are they all painters too?”
    â€œMy kids? No, they took after their mother, far too sensible. I didn’t care as long as they did something vaguely creative. I couldn’t have borne it if they’d become bankers and lawyers.” I throw her a bone. “My grandson’s a painter, though.” I know you shouldn’t have favorites, but I love that kid. He looks just like me at that age. All our children turned out blond and fair, just like Annie, but he has my olive skin and dark hair.
    â€œIs he any good?”
    â€œIt’s too soon to tell if he has it in him.”
    â€œSo how did you and Annie end up here, from France, I mean?” She hesitates, wary now, trying to hide how much she wants her answers. “I’m surprised. You don’t even sound French.”
    At that, I laugh. “It was a long time ago, and it’s a long story.” I turn to her, the surf crashing against the shore, the sunlight glancing off a mirror mobile spinning in the breeze on the porch. The infernal tinkling of Annie’s wind chimes drifts across to us. “Listen, I’ll cut you a deal. If you leave me and Annie out of the story, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Vita.” She waits silently, until I give in. Patience will serve this Sophie well. It’s amazing how many people will talk to fill a silence and say more than they intend. “Damn it. You want me to tell you everything, don’t you?”
    She nods. “Tell me about France. Start at the beginning.”

 
    THIRTEEN
    M ARSEILLE
    1940
    M ARY J AYNE
    Mary Jayne and Miriam settled into their seats as the blue-and-cream tram lurched away along La Canebière toward Aubagne, sounding its foghorn. Dagobert, Mary Jayne’s large black poodle, circled once, twice, then flopped down in the aisle beside them, his snout on his paws. The landscape opened up as they headed east toward the suburbs; gray limestone hills, palm trees, and the dancing light of autumn sun on the water trundled past. “I do love the smell of these old things,” Mary Jayne said, checking her reflection in a platinum compact. The air was rich with the scent of charcoal burning. Sometimes the city seemed to smell like