It was the only house on the Place de Republique that had plants, lots of plants.

The shutters and doors were the blue so typical of a French Mediterranean village.

Most of the houses on the Place had been painted, an improvement from the grays of the past.

The woman, who had bought the place, had a cat, a fluff ball of white with a little ginger, reminding her of the creamsickles of her youth.

In the early morning, the Place was quiet, the few hotel guests across from the house ate their petit dej. 

Later in the day, there would be foot traffic. Tourists might comment on her garden.

Sometimes the Place was full of people dancing or listening to a concert. Music from the music school could be heard if she left the windows open.

Only last week, she'd read the plaque on the music school paying tribute to the women who demonstrated there against the Nazis in WWII,,

Twice a week, her house was hidden by veggie stands the merchants set up for the marché.

She was happy she had bought the house so different from her Paris flat, despite the disapproval of parents, friends and her ex.

They were wrong.

The house was right for her, especially the blue shutters.

The Cane

 

 

Marie-Joseph's cane clip-clopped on the stone plaza. She pulled her shopping cart.

She was on the way to the fish monger's and hoped he had a good selection of crevettes, her daughter's favorite. Even better if they were already cooked. She could buy some aoili, some salad and present a good workless lunch.

She didn't want Anna to think she was slipping. She'd seen the assisted-living brochure Anna had left on her last visit.

Marie-Joseph didn't want to leave her home, her parents's home and her grandparents's home. The family history was written in the walls, the fire place used to cook before a stove had been bought in the early 20th century.

She had watched the news on France2 so she would have something modern to say.

She was careful which stones to put her cane down where she wouldn't slip -- the blue and pink flowered cane proving she still cared about her appearance.

No! No assisted living for her or her cane.

Under the Mulberry Tree

 

Eva held Paul's hand as they walked across the tree-lined square.  

September holidays were the best. Parents were back at work after seeing their little darlings off to the new school year.

What if it was only a weekend away. 

This was the first time in months she and Paul had any time together. They had been too busy with work. She'd normally come home by seven or eight. Often she went to bed alone and woke up alone, his side of the bed rumpled. 

Even weekends he locked himself in his man cave. 

This holiday she hoped for beach time, good food in a French restaurant, cuddling, even making love.

Two cafés were on the south side of the square across from the old marie and now a music school.

"Let's have an espresso," she said. She chose the one under the mulberry tree.

"What a smiley waitress," she said taking her first sip.

"I've taken apartment in town." He didn't look at her.