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.