Chapter 28: Provence

They flew to Provence three days after engagement party because Henri said "lavender waits for no one, even if November," and Eleanor said "you need honeymoon before wedding, it's French tradition, we invented love."

Milo had never been on private plane before. He had never been on any plane before. The last time he traveled was bus from Ukari to Lagos when he was 18, with camera that his mom bought him, holding it tight so no one stole it.

Now he was on plane that had bed and fridge and photos on walls — his photos, because Lucien put his Tokyo photos in plane before flight, so Milo would feel home.

Milo sat by window, blue good luck shirt, black jeans, matching socks because Eleanor asked, ring shining, camera on lap, looking out at clouds like they were photos waiting to be developed.

Lucien sat next to him, no tie, white shirt sleeves rolled, holding Milo's black-nailed hand with ring, counting freckles on Milo's nose to calm him because Milo was scared of flying.

"47 on nose," Lucien whispered, kissing each freckle count. "12 on cheek. 3 on forehead that only show when you are nervous."

Milo laughed, nervous laugh, but freckle counting helped.

"Are we high?" he asked, looking at clouds.

"Very high," Lucien said. "Like your gallery prices will be one day."

Milo hit him with camera strap. "Don't jinx gallery, CEO, we are on plane, we will fall if you jinx."

"We will not fall," Lucien said. "My pilot is best. And even if we fall, we fall together, with ring and camera and freckles."

Milo held his hand tighter.

Provence house was not house. It was stone house with lavender fields around it that were supposed to be purple in summer but in November were grey-green and sleepy, but still smelled like lavender and warm and home.

Eleanor and Henri waited outside, with baguettes and cheese and pancakes because Eleanor said "Milo needs pancakes even in France."

Milo got out of car and stared. Fields. Big sky. No tall buildings. No traffic. Just wind and lavender smell and stone house that had family key that was now his key.

"I have key to this?" Milo whispered, holding old brass key Henri gave him, that was in his pocket with ring.

"You have key to this," Henri said, opening arms. "Welcome home, Milo."

Milo ran inside, camera clicking even before door opened, because light in Provence was different — golden, soft, like it loved freckles.

House inside was warm, fireplace burning, photos on walls — old photos, black and white, Lucien as baby with no hair, Lucien as 8-year-old falling in Seine, Eleanor young with pancakes, Henri young with less cold face.

And now, on mantel, new photo — Milo and Lucien on bench in Central Park, on leaves, proposal photo that stranger took.

Milo cried when he saw it. "You put our photo with family photos?"

"You are family photos now," Eleanor said, hugging him, smelling like pancakes and lavender.

They stayed for five days.

Days were slow, honeymoon slow, no Tokyo calls, no board meetings, Lucien's phone off because Henri said "if you check phone, I will throw it in lavender and you will never find it."

Milo woke up every morning at 6 AM because jet lag and because light in Provence at 6 AM was perfect for photos. He took photos of lavender fields grey-green but beautiful, of Lucien sleeping with messy hair that was more messy because Provence wind, of Eleanor making pancakes with flour on her face, of Henri reading newspaper with glasses that made him look less CEO and more grandpa.

Lucien woke up at 8 AM every morning to find Milo already outside in blue shirt, in lavender field, camera up, ring shining, freckles bright even in November cold.

"You will get cold," Lucien would say, bringing hoodie, his hoodie, the same one Milo stole first week and never gave back.

"I am warm," Milo would say, wearing hoodie that was too big, that smelled like Lucien, that was now Provence hoodie too. "I have ring and hoodie and lavender, I am warm."

One afternoon, it rained. Soft Provence rain, not New York hard rain, but soft like it was trying not to disturb lavender.

Milo and Lucien sat in barn that had been converted to darkroom years ago when Henri's father was photographer, because Beaumont family had photographer in blood but forgot until Milo.

Red safelight, chemical smell, photos hanging — Milo's Provence photos dripping, Lucien's hands in yellow gloves too big again, both of them developing together like in New York bathroom, but now in stone barn with rain on roof.

"This is our Provence fingerprint," Milo whispered, holding wet photo of lavender field that was grey-green but looked purple in black and white because Milo saw purple even when grey.

"Our Provence fingerprint," Lucien repeated, holding Milo's ring hand under red light, ring shining red.

Milo printed one photo extra — not of lavender, of Lucien in barn, in white shirt with Provence dirt on it, holding yellow gloves, looking at Milo like Milo was lavender field.

He wrote on back: My safe place in Provence.

Lucien printed one too — white ruined photo, because he opened tank early again, same mistake as New York.

He wrote on back: Our second white ruin, now in France. We ruin in two countries.

They hung both on stone barn wall, next to old Beaumont photos, so future Beaumonts would see white ruin and know love ruins together in any country.

Last night in Provence, Eleanor made big dinner, with wine that was not for throwing, with cheese that Milo bought with baby money and brought in suitcase because "baby money cheese needs to see Provence."

Henri stood and tapped glass, like Lucien did at engagement party, like gallery owner did.

"I have lived in this house 40 years," Henri said, French accent thick, but warm now. "I never saw this house smile until this week. This house smiled because boy with freckles and blue shirt and two socks took photos of its lavender and said it was beautiful even in November when it is not purple. This house likes you, Milo. I like you. Stay. Come back. Bring baby with mismatched socks next time."

Milo cried into his pancakes, ring shining, lavender smell everywhere.

Lucien held his hand under table, counting freckles on his hand now, because he ran out of nose freckles to count.

After dinner, Milo and Lucien walked in lavender fields at night, cold, dark, only moon light, holding hands, ring hands together.

"Do you want wedding here?" Lucien asked, quiet.

Milo looked at fields, at stone house with light on, at sky with stars that looked like freckles.

"Yes," Milo whispered. "Here. With lavender that is not purple but we say purple. With Mrs. A rice and beans and Sarah baby with mismatched socks and Eleanor pancakes and Henri who threw my cheap ring in trash. Here. Where house smiled."

Lucien kissed him in lavender field, November cold, grey-green lavender, but warm because ring and hoodie and freckles.

"Here," Lucien said. "We will marry here. With your blue shirt, not suit. With your black nails and my moldy suit that now has lavender dirt too."

Milo laughed, snotty laugh, in lavender field.

"Good," he said. "Good wedding. Our wedding."

They flew home next day, plane with bed and fridge and photos, Milo sleeping on Lucien's shoulder, ring shining, camera full of Provence photos, lavender in pocket that Eleanor gave him, that smelled like home.

At home, Milo developed Provence photos in bathroom darkroom, red light, yellow gloves too big, Lucien helping and ruining again, white ruins again.

He taped Provence photo of Lucien in barn on fridge, next to proposal photo and baby drool photo and gallery invitation and family key photo.

He wrote:

PROVENCE HOUSE SMILED FOR ME. HENRI SAID HOUSE LIKES ME. LAVENDER WAS NOT PURPLE BUT WE SAID PURPLE AND IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. WE WILL MARRY THERE. - M WITH LAVENDER IN POCKET

Lucien added:

He took 400 photos of grey-green fields and said they were purple. He was right. They were purple because he saw them. We will marry where he sees purple. - L

And that was Provence, five days, honeymoon before wedding, where Milo learned that home could be stone house with lavender that was not purple but purple because love sees purple.