Rags To Riches: His Wish, Her Command. Annie West
what gentle hand had worked the design with such care and detail.
One thing was for sure.
This furniture and this decor had certainly not been here eighteen years ago. Back then this house had been clean, comfortable, and a home. Now he felt as though he had just spent the night in some theatre set for a typical French country house.
All the pictures were perfectly parallel to the floor and every square centimetre of exposed wood had been sanded and waxed to create one uniform sheen. Imperfections were clearly not allowed.
But it was beautiful. Stylish and what you would expect to find in this part of France.
For a hotel room.
Pushing harder on the shutters, he leant forward onto the stone window sill and looked out across the garden at the back of the house. Some things had not changed.
And his senses reeled at the sensory overload.
The early morning sun shimmered hot above the terracotta roof tiles, distorting the cobalt blue of the sky with ripples and waves of colour. Any cloud had already been burnt away to leave a pristine expanse of unbroken clear sky.
He breathed in the air, fragrant and clean. Somewhere in the distance dogs were barking and he could just about detect the rumble of traffic on the nearby road he had driven down the previous evening, but apart from that there was only birdsong.
And the sound of a woman’s voice singing somewhere in the garden below.
It was such a sweet sound that at first he thought it must be a radio station or recording, but as he listened the song was broken up by snatches of humming and a gentle sniff followed by a strange sequence of made-up words and tunes.
The sound was so intriguing, bizarre and interesting that he could not help but smile just hearing it. It was somehow—joyous. As though the owner wanted to express out loud her love of life and living and music.
And that spirit and energy was so contagious there should be a health warning!
The vague headache that had been nagging him for days seemed to lift away as he listened and he could feel his shoulders unclench.
Suddenly he didn’t want to stand inside and look out at the warmth and the sunshine. He wanted to experience it for himself. He wanted to immerse himself in this place he used to know so well for a few more moments before he headed back to the city and the luxury of a five-star hotel conference room.
Getting dressed could wait. His normal urge to turn on his laptop and log onto his international Wi-Fi connection. Could wait. Well, for now anyway. He would be back on the road in an hour.
It took only a few minutes for Seb to skip down the stone stairs, draw open the wide front door and stroll out barefoot onto the golden sandstone paving that curved around the side wall of the house to the part of the patio that was bathed in sunlight.
Seb’s brain tried to assimilate the intensity of the colours he was looking at. And failed.
Lavender bushes lined the paths and exploded in long swathes in huge clipped hedges, mixed with what looked like pale blue bellflowers and pink peonies in full bloom. Rambling roses covered the stone wall above glossy dark green leaves.
Dominating the garden was the old pollarded plane tree that had been planted when the house was built. Large flat leaves provided perfect dappled shade over the patio area outside the kitchen door all summer.
Birdsong filled the air. Mixed with the lapping of water on stones from the nearby river. Otherwise there was only the hum of bees on the flowers.
It was so quiet it felt as though he were the only human being for miles.
Perhaps he had imagined that musical voice and was still half dreaming after all?
The warm breeze was fragrant with the scent of flowers and herbs. And something else—a scent that was unique to this special garden. Rich and sweet and spicy. Like cinnamon apples, only sweeter.
One sniff of that scent and he was taken back to his life in this house. Dozens of white rose blossoms cascaded out of the urns and trailed in profusion up into a white-painted trellis on the wall of the house where the rose branches were intertwined with sweet white jasmine to create a heady aroma.
Musk rose and jasmine. It was wonderful. Magical. His mother would have loved it.
A bristle of discomfort shivered across his back.
Helene Castellano was the only mother that he had ever known. The fact that she might not be his birth mother did not change the close bond that they had shared. He was so proud of her and everything she represented.
Except that, as he looked around this garden, the thoughts and concerns he had pushed to the back of his mind since he had found out that his dad was not his father started to slip through gaps in the barriers he had put in place. Each fresh memory of his life in this house rose like a bubble to the surface, bringing with it fresh concerns.
Seb sucked in a deep breath of the fragrant warm air.
Despite his best intentions, he was still infuriated with his dad for refusing to discuss the matter of his parentage with him. And he simply did not understand why he did not want to tell him the truth. It was illogical. They were adults and it had all happened thirty years ago.
He could at the very least have told him whether he had another father, or whether he had been adopted! He would not have judged his mother any differently if she had a previous relationship before marrying Luc Castellano six months before he was born. Everyone made mistakes in life. And she had been a wonderful mother to him.
What if he had been adopted? Perhaps there was a family out there looking for him? He did not need one, but it was something to consider.
Unless of course there was something about his real parents that his dad did not want him to know. Something that could be damaging to him, and possibly even his career? That was possible—but if anything it made his need to find out the truth even more pressing.
Perhaps their hasty emigration to Australia had been because of his real father?
He had so many questions and so few answers.
Seb closed his eyes and fought to calm his racing mind.
This was not what he was here for. That was in the past. He would persuade his dad to tell him when he got back to Sydney. Perhaps he could take some photos of the place before he left? Just to remind his dad of their happy family life in this house? It could be just the extra ammunition he needed to help change his mind.
This was probably why Seb stepped out from under the shade of the patio onto the hot stone and pressed his bare toes onto the warmth beneath his feet.
The heat seemed to radiate upwards like energy from the earth until it reached his head and he leant backwards to take in the maximum amount of the glorious warmth on his head and throat.
The balmy breeze caressed his face, shoulders and exposed lower arms.
With one breath he closed his eyes and wallowed in the moment.
Serene. Tranquil. Warm. Heaven. He could stay like this for ever. Arms outstretched.
He was instantly transported back to another time in this very garden and his life as a boy. Memories flooded into his head. Memories he had not even thought about for many years, memories buried deep down inside his private life, which the paparazzi would never know about or expose to the public world.
Memories of gentle hands and kind adult voices saying how sorry they were, and how much they would miss her. His grandmother in black. Friends and neighbours, school pals.
His mother had died in her favourite month of the year. And that was more than sad. She would have enjoyed this garden.
His reverie was broken by a snuffling noise coming from the direction of the kitchen to his right, followed by the unmistakeable sound of the same