THE SPIGOT,
part one
"Please reconsider, Mel. I think you're acting impulsively," her dad said, concern etched in his voice. "Buying a house you've never even seen?"
Mel took a deep breath, knowing her dad had a point, but also confident in her decision. "Dad, I've thought this through for over six years, since my junior year abroad. And now thanks to my inheritance from Aunt Lucille, my dream is possible. Please try to understand."
Her dad sighed. "If the house were just down the street, I wouldn't be worried. But Marseilles? That's a big decision. I should have put my foot down when you chose to spend your junior year abroad there, in Provence. If your mother were alive ..."
Mel's voice cracked as she interrupted, "If Mom were alive, she'd be supportive and happy for me!" Tears began to well up in her eyes.
Over the next few weeks, Mel’s dad realized he had to let his grown daughter the freedom to pursue her dreams. He promised to visit soon.
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The driver helped her with her bags and then drove off. There she stood in the hilltop village of Bonnieux, a bit frightened, and alone.
She lifted her eyes from the pile of luggage at her feet, to the sleepy village, looking as though it were tumbling down the steep hill to the Luberon Valley below. “It’s just as I imagined Provence would be!” she spoke aloud in a burst of joy, longing for her paintbox and brushes.
“But first I must unpack,” she thought. “I hope the caretaker has the rest of my things and filled my grocery list.”
Mel turned around to see the cottage she’d bought. “Oh, no! I bought this?” The cottage that had looked so romantic and quaint online was not the same in real life … not quite so charming. Her shoulders slumped a bit.
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| “Oh,no!” by Elaine |
“You can do this, Mel,” she told herself as she approached the threshold. The heavy wooden door, the cracked walls. But someone had taken time to put terracotta pots overflowing with flowers beside the entrance. “Hmm, the caretaker?” she wondered.
Suddenly the door swung open, startling her. “Ahh, the wealthy American has arrived,” the man said, somewhat derisively it seemed to her. He sauntered down the hill without offering to get her bags.
“I’m not wealthy nor am I the ugly American,” she muttered.
“Didn’t say you were,” he retorted.
“What a rude guy,” she thought, as she dragged her luggage into the house.
She turned to close the door but stood frozen to the spot. Spreading before her it seemed as though the red of the rooftops and the purple of the lavender fields below her were rising to the heavens to create the most magnificent sunset she’d ever seen!
The rude young caretaker had tidied the place, made her bed, left a vase of lavender, put away the groceries, and left something bubbling away on the stove. She lifted the lid and was nearly overcome by the aroma.
And so, she dined on a sumptuous dinner of Le Daube Provencale, a fresh baguette, and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, already uncorked and breathing. “Perhaps I misjudged the guy afterall,” she thought as she helped herself to seconds.
With bedroom windows wide open and the sound of running water, Mel was lulled to sleep. She awoke to the aroma of bacon and freshly brewed coffee. “Dad?” she yelled. No sooner than the word escaped her lips, she realized she wasn’t at home in New York.
Smiling broadly now, she affirmed, “I am in my own home, here in the Provencecal region of southern France.
“Then who … ?”
She padded barefoot to the kitchen. No one was there “Hmmm …” she mused. A friendly neighbor perhaps. Bacon, extraordinary coffee, and a warm croissant. She sat, savoring the petit dejeuner, at an exceptionally long wooden plank table. It had been worn to a smooth patina, serving both as an island and dining table in the large open kitchen.
At the far end of the airy room was a tapestry sofa and matching chair, along with boxes stacked neatly in the corner. The caretaker had done his job.
At this end where she sat was an old-fashioned kitchen. On one wall, there was a large soapstone sink flanked by drainboards. Next to that was a wood burning stove and an incredibly old, noisy refrigerator.
Pots and pans were hanging from the open rafters of the low ceiling.
Over the sink was a large double window where fresh herbs grew in small brightly painted pots. Flanking both sides of the window, there were open shelves laden with crockery dinnerware.
Next to the front door was a large desk. Turning around, taking in the full space carefully, she realized she liked its quaintness and its simplicity. The bright white walls begged for her to hang her paintings.
The bedroom where she had slept was small but also quite pleasant. Everything in the place looked to be handmade.
But, for certain the bathroom was totally bereft of modern amenities and would need some serious remodeling immediately.
As further proof of this, she gathered some towels, toiletries and clothing, exited the front door and went around to the side of the house where the shower was. Stepping inside, she prayed for hot water and was not disappointed. The little shower reminded her of the enclosed showers she’d used as a child when they vacationed at the Jersey shore.
Refreshed and ready for a second cup of coffee, she stopped for a quick tour of the back of the house. There was a flower garden that had the feel of a Monet painting.
It was small but lovely, like the cottage. There was no patio, but in the garden was a small ornate wrought iron bench.
The view of the Luberon Valley below … there were no words. Then she found the source of the running water.
There four feet up the wall was a spigot with a small marble wash bowl beneath. “Nice,” she thought, “I can wash my hands when I’m done working in the garden.”
Odd, that it was turned on. She turned the spigot, first in one direction, then in the other. Nothing happened. No matter how hard she tried, she could not stem the flow of water.
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| The Spigot by Elaine |
“Well, this is one for the caretaker,” she mused. “I hope he returns today,” certain he could fix the strange spigot.
“Mysteries to solve,” she thought, as she poured her second cup … who set up the house, where will I set up my art studio in this tiny house, and what’s up with that crazy spigot?
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For Part 2 THE SPIGOT, you will have to return in two weeks!
In the meantime, I’d like to hear your views on this story!
Remember, I’m listening!
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That s all for now! 😊