Lavender Blooming Season Memories: An elderly couple at a guesthouse reminisce about the past, while three young people shine like a beacon of light for each other.
In June in Provence, the lavender fields had just overflowed their banks, waves of purple-blue stretching from the guesthouse's backyard all the way to the distant hills. Zhong Hua squatted by the flower field, her fingertips tracing the dew-kissed flower spikes, the purple sap leaving faint traces on her fingertips. She heard the creaking of the wooden fence behind her, and turning around, she saw Ah Yu helping an elderly couple towards the terrace.
“Grandma Margaret has trouble walking, and Grandpa Pierre said he’d like to sunbathe on the terrace.” Ah Yu waved the wicker cushion in her hand at her. “I’ve made some mint tea; could you bring it up later?”
Zhong Hua smiled and nodded, watching them walk through the path lined with rosemary. The wooden table on the terrace had just been wiped clean, gleaming with a light brown light. On the corner of the table sat a rough ceramic vase containing three freshly cut lavender stems—which she had specially chosen that morning. The stems were tied with red strings, just like the pair on the prayer wheels.
As she brought up the tea tray, Margaret was smiling as she pointed to the brass sign above the guesthouse door. It was an old key, worn smooth and shiny, with three crooked letters engraved on the handle: A, Z, and L.
“This address is really unique.” Pierre pushed up his reading glasses. “It’s like a key that unlocks memories.”
Ah Yu was pouring tea for them when she heard this. She paused, a gentle smile appearing in her eyes: "It was changed many years ago, using an old key left by my father."
Margaret took a sip of tea, her gaze falling on the distant flower field, and suddenly let out a soft "Ah." "Speaking of which, thirty years ago when Pierre and I were on our honeymoon, we also stayed at a guesthouse with a lavender field." She turned to Zhong Hua, her wrinkles filled with warmth, "Back then, we met three young people, just like you, whose eyes seemed to shine."
Zhong Hua tightened her grip on the teacup. The coolness of mint mixed with the scent of lavender wafted up, and for a moment, it seemed to overlap with a distant summer night—the year she had just received her press pass and was hiding on the terrace for some fresh air at a party hosted by the Gu Group, her knuckles white from gripping a recording pen tightly.
“It was a charity cocktail party.” Marguerite’s voice brought her back to reality. The old woman was slowly recalling, “In a castle outside Paris, the crystal chandelier was dazzling, but those three young people standing in the corner of the terrace were more conspicuous than the chandelier.”
Pierre continued, "A young man in a black suit kept shoving champagne into another girl's hand, and, worried that she was cold standing there, he took off his own suit jacket and wrapped it around her—the girl was holding a camera in her arms, with the lens cap still on, and she was too busy watching him talk."
Ah Yu's ear tips turned slightly red as she reached for the teapot, but her fingertips knocked over Zhong Hua's cup. Tea splashed onto the tablecloth, spreading into a small dark patch, much like the red wine stains he had shielded her from at the party years ago.
“And there was a girl in a white dress,” Margaret said, oblivious to their subtle movements. “She was standing by the railing, looking at the moon, holding a half-eaten macaron in her hand. The young man in the suit turned to look at her three times, and each time she smiled and waved her hand, meaning, ‘You two chat, don’t mind me.’”
Zhong Hua's heart skipped a beat. She remembered Lin Wanqing's white dress that day, the hem embroidered with delicate silver threads that looked like stars scattered in the moonlight. Later, in the ICU, her last thought before she fell into a coma was the mouth gesture Lin Wanqing made to her through the viewing window: "Don't be afraid."
“At that time I said to Pierre,” Marguerite turned to her husband and smiled, “look at the three of them, don’t they look like three beams of light? When they’re close together they illuminate each other, and when they’re far apart they each shine brightly.”
The wind on the terrace suddenly picked up, causing the lavender branches to sway gently. Ah Yu got up to close the wooden door to the terrace, and the wind chimes hanging on the door frame tinkled—they were made of three old keys, a gift from Lin Wanqing when he visited her in Africa last year. She said that each key could open a door, a door leading to "getting by".
"What happened to those three young men?" Zhong Hua asked softly, his voice carrying a tension he himself was unaware of.
Pierre thought for a moment: "Later, there was a little commotion in the castle, it seemed like someone was arguing. The young man in the suit escorted the girl with the camera out, and the girl in the white dress followed behind, still holding the recording pen that the girl had left behind." He pointed to Zhong Hua's interview notebook on the table, "Just like you always put the cap on the end of your pen, that girl did the same, afraid of losing it."
Zhong Hua looked down at her pen, and sure enough, the cap was still on. Lin Wanqing had taught her that for a reporter, the pen is a weapon, and there can be no mistakes.
“Then…” Margaret’s voice slowed down, “we saw the girl with the camera in the newspaper, exposing the dark secrets of a big company, her eyes shining as if she could burn through the darkness. A few years later, we saw the girl in the white dress in a public service report in Africa, handing out candy to children in a refugee camp, smiling just as she did on the terrace back then.”
She paused, then looked at Ah Yu: "As for that young man in the suit, we did see him once at a market in Provence. He was helping out at a lavender essential oil stall, holding a photo album. When he flipped to the photos of those two girls, the corners of his mouth secretly turned up."
Ah Yu's fingers curled gently on his knees. He remembered that market; he had just turned his father's old key into a house number that day and was wondering whether to send a photo to Zhong Hua, who was far away in Paris, when he met this elderly couple buying essential oils.
“Back then, I thought,” Margaret’s gaze fell on the bronze plaque bearing the names of the three people, her eyes distant, “that’s probably what good relationships are like. It’s not about being together every day, but about having a bright feeling in your heart whenever you think of each other, no matter how far you go.”
This chapter is not finished, please click the next page to continue reading!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
