By Bridget Asher
“Every stable love tale has one other love hiding inside of it.”
Brokenhearted and nonetheless mourning the lack of her husband, Heidi travels with Abbott, her obsessive-compulsive seven-year-old son, and Charlotte, her jaded sixteen-year-old niece, to the small village of Puyloubier within the south of France, the place a crumbling stone condo could be accountable for mending hearts on account that sooner than global warfare II.
There, Charlotte confesses a surprising mystery, and Heidi learns the reality approximately her mother’s “lost summer season” whilst Heidi was once a toddler. As 3 generations collide with each other, with the neighbor who turns out to understand all in their relations skeletons, and with an enigmatic Frenchman, Heidi, Charlotte, and Abbot trip via love, loss, and therapeutic amid the vineyards, hot winds and scrumptious foodstuff of Provence. Can the magic of the home heal Heidi’s center, too?
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Additional info for The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted
Sample text
The house—fifteen minutes from Aix-en-Provence, nestled in the shadow of the long ridged back of Mont Sainte-Victoire—had belonged to my mother since her parents died, when she was in her mid-twenties. There, my mother fed us stories about the house itself—love stories, mostly, improbable ones that I’d always wanted to believe but was suspicious of even as a child. But still I clung to them. After she told us the stories at night, I would retell them to myself. I whispered them into my cupped hands, feeling the warmth of my breath, as if I could hold the stories there and keep them.
I was surprised he put it so bluntly, but relieved, too. I was tired of sympathy. “I haven’t started up again, not yet,” I said. He nodded, solemnly. ” Disappointed, Abbot walked back to me. ” “A great definition of abstract art,” Daniel said. Abbot smiled and rubbed his hands together; then, as if noticing it himself, he shoved them in his pockets. Daniel took no notice, but I did. Abbot was learning to mask his problem. Was this a step backward or forward? “I’m late for mimosas,” I said. Daniel was looking at an unfinished canvas.
In general, I saw love as entering into an agreement that depended on your willingness to compromise. This was rooted in my parents’ complicated marriage, of course. S. Patent Office, saved my mother from the typing pool. Problematic, on a feminist level, for many reasons, it was made worse because of one of our family secrets: my mother was brilliant. Her father came back from the war and opened a five and dime, which supported the family for years but was struggling by the time she reached college age and, to compound matters, her father’s health started to fail, and so college was completely out of the question.