THE SPIGOT
part two
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| Lavender, ready for harvest, watercolor by Elaine |
Mel looked around her tiny house for a place to use as her studio. The logical place was the large kitchen and living area. But where? The island dining area? But if she set up there, where would she prepare food or dine?
She piled the boxes of art supplies on the island and realized it wouldn’t work.
Now on her third cup of coffee, she went outside and walked around to the garden out back and stopped short.
“Goodness, you really scared me!” she gasped.
There stood the abrupt young man with measuring tape, table, and drafting supplies.
“What…? she began.
He cut her off. “Do you want to start with a patio studio or the new bathroom?”
“You are a presumptuous man! How do you assume you know what I want?” she demanded.
“You need a studio, and you need a new bathroom. It is just a question of which you want first,” he stated confidently. “And my name is Philippe.”
“I knew that already.”
“You can call me Bob,” he smirked. “Only my friends call me Phillippe.”
“Oh, God, he’s insufferable,” she thought.
“What’s that?” he asked. “If you think I’m insufferable, what does that make you?”
Had she spoken her thought aloud, or was Bob a mind reader, too?
Swallowing her pride, “Ok, tell me why I should listen to you.”
“Because I’m very good at what I do!”
“And what is that?” she demanded.
“ I make a helluva good cuppa’ Joe.”
“Go on …”
“I make a mean beef stew … “
“Uh, huh, continue.”
“And I’m one fine architect,” he bragged.
“Humph, self taught, I bet.” Mel was laughing now.
“No, sirree, ma’am, “he slid into a deep Southern drawl.
“Well, I’m waiting,” Mel said as he paused.
“I completed my post grad at the Sorbonne in Paris before settling here.” A statement. No bragging now.
Mel hesitated, a bit shocked. “For real?”
“I can show you my degrees if you like. All four of them!”
Mel felt a blush creep into her cheeks.
Putting her cup down, “Ok, then, tell me what you have in mind.”
The hours passed as he showed her his designs for the house. She liked the idea of a large marble patio covered by a pergola with a canvas shade which she could open and close to get the perfect light. There would be a large, enclosed cabinet where she could store all her watercolor supplies. He listened as she explained what her art table needed as well. It would be perfect.
Then they went on to the design for the bathroom which, surprisingly, was large enough for a good-sized shower. The bath would feature hand made and hand-painted tiles. He showed her drawings of everything he had in mind. Even the kitchen would get a modern vintage looking French stove and a new refrigerator.
Ah, but could she afford it? He explained the cost of supplies and tradesmen. It was possible, mostly because the house was sound, including roof, electrical, and plumbing, all recently revised by earlier owners.
“Plumbing, too?” Mel questioned. “Then what’s going on with the outside spigot? I can’t turn it off!”
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| The village street, for lunch Ed watercolor by Elaine |
“First, how about lunch? Down the hill there is a wonderful café. I know it’s good because my gran-mere owns it.”
Philippe’s grandmother, a sprite, little woman with flour on her apron and rosy cheeks, greeted her with a big hug and a warm invitation to the summer harvest festival.
Over delicious homemade soup, baguette, and wine, Philippe told her the story.
“It is a legend really, Mel. The spigot will not turn off because a century ago, the owner of the cottage died of unrequited love. The story goes that a young woman gave herself to the man she loved. In the very bed you sleep in now. It was a whirlwind love affair.” He paused and poured more wine.
Eager for more of the story, Mel took a sip. “Please continue,” she urged.
“Well, as the legend goes, he left her for another woman. Same old story. Except …”
“Except what?” Mel pleaded.
“This is the tragic part,” Philippe said. “A few days later, the young woman committed suicide, because of a broken heart. Can you believe it?”
“Well, the romantic part of me says,” Mel hesitated to bare herself to Philippe, “Yes … yes I can!”
“I knew it,” he said. “Artists are romantics!”
“Ah, but you are a kind of artist. Now what do you say to that, wise guy?”
“Touché!” He raised his glass.
“Oh, my God, you are saying she killed herself in MY house?” Suddenly the realization horrified her. Tears brimmed.
Philippe took her hand, “I’m sorry, Mel. I told you too much.”
“How did she …”
“She took an overdose of something and died in the garden she loved … your garden now.”
Collecting herself, she withdrew her hand. “I think I need to go back to the cottage. Thank your gran-mere for the wonderful lunch. And tell her I accept her invitation to the town party on Saturday night. I am anxious to meet my neighbors,” she added, turning to leave.
She was surprised at how she could become so emotional over something that had happened so long ago. But she had interrupted the story.
“I need to know more about the young woman. Who was she?”
“Her name was Marissa, and she was a fine artist. Her lover was an artist as well. They used your garden as their studio. In fact, he was her benefactor.” He paused for a sip of wine.
“What became of her paintings?” Mel asked. “Did her benefactor return for them?”
“No one ever heard from him again. Without kin, she was buried in the little cemetery a short walk from here. I can take you there sometime … when you are ready.”
“But her paintings?” Mel asked.
“Well, that brings us back to the legend,” he explained. “No one knows for sure, but some believe her paintings are in her supply chest …” Philippe took a long pause.
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| Marissa and her box watercolor by Elaine |
Mel felt a shiver up her spine. “Are you suggesting that it’s still in the house after all these years?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not in the house. Or I would have discovered it when I readied the cottage.”
“Then where?” she asked. “In her grave then?”
“I thought that, too, Mel. But most of the villagers believe the art chest was buried in her, oops I mean in your … garden.”
“Come on, Bob. You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Okay, it’s time for you to call me by my given name, Mel.” He smiled broadly.
“Fine then, Philippe it is. Surely you don’t believe that” she said.
“All I can say is that the chest … even if there is a chest … was never found!”
“Hmmm.” She murmured, not knowing what to think. “Oh, and the spigot … how does that fit into the legend?”
“Ahh, now we are at the crux of the story,” he paused dramatically. “Drumroll please.”
Mel smiled at his dramatic flare. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Well, the spigot won’t stop running until a young artist moves into the house again … and falls in love with another artist and they make beautiful music together. Or in this case, beautiful art together! There you have it, Mel. The story of your house.”
Mel’s jaw went slack, her heart was racing, and she was blushing unabashedly. At a loss for words.
Well, now, readers. You have the legend. What will happen in part 3. Find out in two weeks.
I’m listening.
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