All I can see is an unfolding drama.

The sky grows larger with each passing minute, and the last hills of Provence fade. The over-saturated colours wash out, tinted by burnished chrome. I pass the last village before the coast, and the expanse of the sea fills the horizon. I find the turn, and the narrow road diminishes into a track of hard-packed dirt. As I thread the van between two expansive lagoons, the precarious situation forces me to reconsider. Still, I press on. The pale grass of the marshes thickens into shrubland and plains. The air is tinged with salt, rich with the scent of ozone and tamarisk.

I gasp when I see them. A manade of white horses canter, stark under the cool lit sky. They rise to a gallop, and their manes begin to flap. They live here across a vast national park, semi-wild, and in their thousands. I did not expect to encounter them so easily, and find the place I am allowed to park. There is no phone signal. I recheck my provisions and camping gas tins. I switch on the battery cut-out of my refrigerator box. I learned my lesson from Niozelles.

This is the Camargue made of flat plains, lagoons and endless marshes, curated by man and nature. The silence is harsh. It feels older than the track, the van, and the woman sitting between its open doors. The wind tries to lift my page, but it will not halt my pencil. Ordinarily, I would complain, but I am engrossed. The horses move amongst the green Salicorne and pink Saladelle with broken reflections of muddy white and aquamarine.

This kind of solitude used to scare me. Now, I prefer it, and I commit to another sketch. The light softens, and its shadows lengthen. When I feel that familiar ache in my shoulders, I stop.

I eat, elated that I have two sketches and some photographs. I celebrate with local cheese, bread, and Saucisse Sèche. I celebrate with the last of a rich, fruity Costières de Nîmes. These sketches are precious, and I carefully put them into a folio.

As twilight tips into night, I indulge my tiny feeling of optimism. I am grateful it is cooler here as I feel myself drifting away. Warm and cossetted, the wind rocks the van a little. Embracing it, I think of Julien, and I do not understand why.

Until I smile as he did.

-=- 8 -=-

Waking at first light, I pull back the curtain, and I am grateful I did not startle them. The horses are closer, and a few are on the track itself. I was going to make coffee, but I have the best vantage point from here. Using a finer paper, I capture him looking out to the coastline. He broods as if the Camargue is his alone. There is something about early sun under this acid-blue sky. There is nowhere the eye cannot explore, and nowhere for the pencil to pretend.

After some coffee and a late breakfast, I purse my lips at my nemesis. It rests on the roof of my van. Seven litres is heavy, and I carry it down the track. I thought it was a kilometre, but it feels like much more. The dunes are my first clue, and nature’s rage shapes the short crooked trees.

I find somewhere secluded with a twisted tree to hang my shower. I slip off my dress, and there is powdery sand between my toes. I am naked again on a beach. It’s been years since I did that.

The water is neither too cold nor too warm, and I am not Goldilocks. I soak myself enough to lather soap all over my body. This change in my life is kind to me in some ways, crueller in others. I have lost the over-indulgence of city life. I am sleek, perhaps close to my younger twenties.

I muse on that distant memory of the naturist beach, and a holiday with an ex-boyfriend. We stayed in Sainte-Maxime, and he told me he loved me. I did the same. Of course, everything had its price, and not all nostalgia is good for the soul.

I rinse myself clean until the bag is empty, and dry off in the warm breeze.

-=- 9 -=-

Sitting on my easel chair, I am busy with another sketch, my fourth. I dine on nibbles and snacks, such is my compulsion. The sound of hooves approaches, methodical and deliberate.

I turn, and a woman rides on an imposing male bay. I am dumbstruck. There is something bold about the way she carries herself. She is tall. Her shirt is open at the neck and plunges. Its fabric pulls across her full bust and follows her curves to her hips. Those tight jodhpurs reveal strong flanks leading to her matt-black boots.

She dismounts with unthinking ease and walks the horse closer. I think she is my age… it is difficult to tell, close to forty, or slightly older. Her long black mane flows in the breeze. A streak of silver from root to tip adds to her striking visage. There is no warmth in her expression, except for how the sunlight glimmers in her eyes.

“Hello,” I offer.

“So, you’re the one with the van.” Her tone is practical with a clipped local accent.

“Yes.”

Looking at my sketch, she studies it as if she is choosing a new saddle. She scans the line of his neck and the weight of his body. She pores over the shade and light from his wet hide.

“This is good. You see these animals properly.” She straightens herself and fixes me with her eyes. “You are an artist?”

“Yes.” I do not want to appear affronted by her tone. “I feel so lucky to see them.”

“Oh, they know to stay close.”

I am confused.

She smiles, finally breaking the ice. “I am a gardienne. I keep an eye on them, and I own a riding school half a kilometre that way.”

She gestures with her chin towards a low white shape in the distance. “Would you consider a commission? The house needs something on the wall, but the light there is difficult.”

I am surprised; she is nothing but direct.

“A commission?” I pause to think. “Well, my studio is this van, really. I can do something about the light but it depends on the medium.”

She sizes up my words. “Good. Come to the house and see for yourself over dinner. We can talk about it then. Seven-thirty?”

I am taken aback, but recover quickly. “Okay.”

“I’m Marthe.”

“Elodie.”

“Good.” She nods, thinking into the distance. She looks into me again. “See you then.”

-=- 10 -=-

Struck by her forthright persona, I make an effort with my best summer dress and sandals. I have not worn make-up in weeks. Gazing into my compact, I add some colour to my lips, and look at the golden pallor of my face. I wear the only perfume I brought – my favourite.

The farmhouse is whitewashed, laid out on a single floor, and solid against the rising wind. There are outbuildings, stables and a yard, complete with the strong scent of hay and horses.

I press the doorbell, and it rattles vigorously. The door is large, and swings on its hinges with ease.

“Elodie.”

“Hello.”

I think I have the measure of her now. I don’t. She greets me with la bise - two air kisses.

“Come on in, let me show you around.”

Marthe is not dressed for riding. I am tall, above average, and she has the edge on me, svelte in a flowing ivory dress. Her hair is combed and shines in soft-curled tresses. I admire this more feminine side.

The main room is cool and dim. The walls are rendered in white. The antique furniture carries its age well, smelling of beeswax. Standing under the varnished dark ceiling joists, I can see the issue with the light. It falls unevenly from two small windows, strong in one corner, muted in another. I walk the room once, noting where the sun falls during the day. I pull out a light meter from my handbag and take a reading.

“Well?”

I like her look of concern as her first display of emotion.

“It’s not that bad, I can adjust my palette to suit.”

Only then do I see a wider smile.

“Come, let’s eat.” She turns, and I follow. “You like wine?”

“Of course.”

We eat grilled fish and roasted vegetables. The Gris de Gris is pale, cold, and honest. She is direct with the commission and knows what she wants. I answer in kind. It is oil on canvas, and the sketch she saw today. It is a size I can manage from the van.

Now, we sit in silence, eating. I have enjoyed my own company for several weeks, but I sense an emptiness inside this house.

“Do you live alone, Marthe?”

She tops up my glass. “I am a widow. It was sudden, a heart attack.”

“Oh.” I shrink back. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be, it was two years ago.”

Marthe looks at me, sipping her wine. I am uncertain how to proceed.

She places her glass down slowly. “I have a chaotic business to run, and the evenings are my sanctuary. The alternative is to stop, and drown in sorrow. I do not like to sit and think for too long, I never have.”

“I can empathise with that.”

She points with her fork. “What about you? Do you live in that van?”

“For now.” I match her muted smile. “I am like you, I do not want to sit and think for too long.”

She frowns. That is too vague for her.

“I am recently divorced, but the marriage was dead a long time ago. So I…"

“Took off.”

I nod, and I do not want my smile to falter. “I’m from Paris, trying to be an artist. I just want to see where the road takes me.”

“No children?”

I sip my drink so I do not wince. “A daughter. She goes to school in Nice where my ex-husband lives now. It’s a better education than I could afford. It was the right thing to do for her future.”

“Ah.”

I acknowledge her unspoken point, “Yes, Ah."

Now, I wince. "I miss her terribly. We talk a lot on the phone. How about you?”

“Two boys, both at University, and now enjoying the summer, having adventures.”

We finish the bottle, and Marthe goes to get another. I am enjoying the company and conversation. The wine has loosened my thoughts and tongue. Her matter-of-fact, unshockable demeanour encourages me. I want to ask this question, yet I am reluctant to do so.

She returns, and the cork yields easily. She sits and refills our glasses.

“Marthe? Can I ask you something?”

She tips her glass at me. “You have all night, ask another one.”

I fumble a smile. “It would sound silly if it wasn’t so important. It’s the reason why I am travelling like this.”

Her eyebrow rises. “Oh.”

“What is a good life?”

Marthe looks at me over the rim of her glass. She does not laugh.

She sips her wine, and then smiles. “Being true to yourself.”

For simple words, they have a deep meaning. I weigh them up.

“Have you been?” she asks.

“Now, yes.”

“Not back then?”

I shake my head.

“Men?” she asks.

“Isn’t it always?”

Marthe agrees with an amused smile. “How? Give me an example.”

“There is one, the biggest reason." I hesitate. "The first man I loved, I told him I was bisexual, and he understood completely. With my husband I hid it. For years.”

The words come out cleaner than I expected. Marthe does not offer sympathy. She waits.

“I decided that a good life was a virtuous one. That need… it was the key to Pandora’s box.” I sigh. “I had to ignore it.”

I am grateful for the cool, crisp wine.

Marthe looks at me, nodding. “It does not matter if the lie is seen or unseen. Neither is virtuous. So… be true to yourself.”

“Easy to say.” I stop, resigned to my dilemma.

Her eyes do not waver. “My husband knew that I loved women before we married. He embraced it with me. I was lucky like that.”

“You were true to yourself,” I mutter, agreeably.

“Yes. You are right, too. It’s easy to say… but, not so easy to do.”

I smile, admiring her candour to match my own. Our words hang there between us, and I enjoy the cathartic moment. No comfort is offered, and none is required. Like all good answers, it raises more questions.

Outside, the wind has begun to rise.

-=- 11 -=-

By the time we move to the lounge, the mistral is here. The shutters knock against their latches. The last of the wine sits between us on a low table. We sit on a comfortable sofa, side to side, facing each other. I enjoy the simple luxury of it.

Our conversation has slowed into these comfortable silences. Neither of us feels the need to fill it, and I nurture an unfamiliar peace.

“Marthe. Honestly, I never expected this. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“No, thank you. You are a good listener.”

I snort, “I think I did most of the talking.”

“You did a lot of listening, too.”

I look to the door. “I should…”

“You are going outside in that? And sleeping in that van? It’s not going anywhere.”

“The wind is not that strong. At least, I hope not.”

Marthe stands, sets her glass down, and holds out her hand.

“Come to bed.”

I take her hand, and she lifts me to my feet. I stand close to her, enjoying her perfume. I tilt my head and find an answer to my question on her lips.

Marthe strokes the side of my face with her fingers, looking into me.

She leads me down a short corridor without saying a word.

-=- 12 -=-

Her bedroom is functional and tastefully embellished. White walls, white sheets, and the long gusts of the Mistral are the only sound in the room.

Marthe undresses. She does not look away. There is a taut musculature to her body, the full weight of her breasts, and the powerful curves of her waist, hips and thighs. I see her faint smile after I glance at the bare hill of her mons. There is no invitation in her gaze, only a silent willingness to be seen.

I take off my clothes, and reciprocate the moment. I shiver with its intensity.

She comes to me first.

Her hand rises and rests at the side of my neck, and its thumb finds my racing pulse. I tilt my head. She leans in, the gap between us narrows, and they graze. Closed for now, soft, making me a little dizzy. She tastes of wine. It does not deepen it at once. She stays until I decide, and my mouth opens. Then, it is slower, fuller, and my arousal flourishes. It is potent, building rapidly, and I let my first whimpers free.

Her lips explore the corner of my mouth, the line of my jaw, the soft place behind my ear. My mind relents to this unleashed need. Her hands move while her mouth does. It cups my breast, and the other settles in the small of my back.

I am beyond melting. My breathing tightens and fractures. My hands roam the width of her shoulders, the deep curves of her breasts, and her taut waist. We kiss, back and forth, rising with the intensity of the mistral wind.

I am pressed against her until the bed meets the backs of my knees. She guides me down. We lie facing each other on the cool sheets, and her eyes covet me, following her hand. I want her to take everything. She watches my reaction, and I gasp. Her thigh settles between mine, warm and firm.

The wind presses against the shutters in long, rhythmic gusts. I follow it with my body, pressing against her. My body speaks an old language. It does not need a translation, but I yearn for its fluency. She kisses me again while her hand travels the length of my side, over the rise of my hip, and down to the soft skin of my flank. She does not rush. She lets her fingers rest on my thigh, stroking lightly, until she clasps it, strengthening my motions.

The sensations tighten and compact into a burning knot of tension. Marthe pushes on my hip, and I stall. She halts my body, and her fingers slide down to find me.

They circle my clit, and I reveal everything. My eyes widen and then narrow. I am watched, I am seen, and I pout. I want her to learn all about me by the smallest changes in my breathing. I reach for her, too, and find the same heat. For a long time there is only this gentle exchange. Losing ourselves, lips against lips to the sound of the wind. We listen and act to the calling of our bodies. The scent of her skin, her rising gasps, the gradual heightening of sensations that neither of us hurries.

She kisses my neck, the valley between my breasts, and slides down to the soft flare of my stomach. Her eyes glance upward, and her mouth finds my sex. Her first kiss dissolves me into a febrile moan. She opens me with her tongue, and I am undone easily. One hand holds my thigh open; the other rests just above my sex, and her thumb exposes my clit. She learns what makes my hips lift and my breathing fracture. I put my fingers in her hair, to feel her movement as she explores me.

The draught is a phantom caress, and my pleasure builds as the Mistral did all day. It threatens to crest, and Marthe eases back. Her firm gaze keeps me in line, and my eyes convey how I teeter at the brink. For years, my countless denials conditioned me, and now they crumble whimper by breathless whimper.

The forgotten exhilaration rises when her lips envelop the source of my ecstasy. I give in to it. The peak is tall, and I climb. My climax pulls me under, until I shudder in a long, stretched arc. I cry out with a powerful truth, and she stays with me through it. Her gentle tongue beguiles the aftershocks from me, until I heave, breathing deeply.

She rises and lies beside me again. I turn to her, still breathless, and kiss her, tasting myself on her lips. We entwine with caressing hands, enjoying the places that inspire and enthuse. I move down her with less certainty. I kiss at the scent of bergamot on her neck, over the teardrop mounds of her breasts. I tease her soft, taut skin until I am at the hill of her mons, and the slick folds that glisten in the honeyed light.

Marthe is patient. She does not instruct. She opens her thighs. Resting a hand on the back of my head, she lets me find my way. I discover what makes her breathing soar and stay there. I slide my fingers into her silky heat, and curl them. I grin at her wide-eyed surprise, as my old memories make new ones. They work in a sublime conspiracy with my lips and tongue. She peaks, I let her drift, I raise almost to the summit, and hold her there. As I let her go, her climax arrives more quietly than mine. As a deep internal pulsing, a long plosive groan carries her body into spasms, and her grip tightens in my hair.

We kiss, and I stroke her hair. I can feel a light sparkle in my eyes. I want her to see me.

We do not rest. We slow. The air between us is warm and close, scented with jasmine as my heat rises. Her breasts press to mine as we exchange kisses, tilting one way and then the other. Our limbs slide as the wind outside bangs the shutters, accompanying our hot blood.

There is no turn to give or take. We flow as one stirred by the past and the present. One moment I am above her, sweeping her hair from her face. The next, we are antiposed, and her presence rests over me. Her fingers slide in. I crane my neck and push my tongue into her. I forget the careful woman who arrived in the Camargue with her sketches.

She embraces my leg as her tongue pushes inside. Her mouth is on me. Mine is on her. The caress of a hip or a thigh, and our bodies slide, devouring the heat between our legs. We lie side-by-side with lips and tongues that suck, kiss, lick and press. We shake and shudder, we cry out, and neither one of us will stop. We answer the Mistral with climaxes of our own. Sweat slicks our bodies, the sheets cling and then release. Time loosens, and those arduous, unhappy years fall away.

When Marthe rises over me, her powerful thigh slides between mine. We join, sex to sex, and she presses with grinding hips. I take her hand, hold it, and push back. Our moans rise and weave together. The majesty of her body incites mine to follow. We find our rhythm, watching her narrowed eyes and tight jaw. We need no words, and enflame the relentless pressure within us.

We are the storm. We grip tighter for leverage as we glow, and slide our sweat-sheened bodies together. Now, I am certain, and I move with a rising confidence. These feelings were always mine, older than the lies. Her eyes meet me, and I hope she sees the truth.

I must be seen.

When she says I can let go, I stutter first, and then quake. It surges slowly with force until a great, convulsive release empties me. When my eyes return, I cling to her, still shaking with its mighty power. I find what little I have left, pushing with my hips against her. I witness how it unfolds in a woman who looks so invincible. Her body goes rigid. She trembles with a loud cry that dares the Mistral to unleash all its fury. She quakes first as her body tightens. It challenges how I hold onto her, and I flex back with all I have, until she howls hard with all her strength.

We collapse onto the bed, desperate for air.

“Fuck.” I hiss.

Marthe tries to laugh. “And... you’ve carried that frustration for how long?”

“I… I was not lying… fifteen years.”

“Fuck. I felt it.”

I laugh.

She beckons me into her arms, and we lie together, breathless, our hearts thumping. The mistral wind pushes at the shutters, indomitable.

We are merely human.

-=- 13 -=-

We cooled ourselves in the shower, but desires like this are not easily quenched.

Now, we are spent.

Weary, I lie awake. I rest in her arms and listen to her calm, sonorous breathing. I have not shared a bed with a woman for a very long time, and I enjoy that feeling of togetherness.

In a Paris libertine club, I was happy and carefree. None of my problems ever kept me awake at night. I loved my fiancé with all my heart. I did not know this was the last time I would have sex with another woman until now.

I buried it after our engagement ended badly. I took what happened as a divine chastisement and rebuilt myself as a good Catholic daughter from devout parents. I embraced the idea of virtue.

Then, when I was pregnant with our daughter, my husband had an affair.

Good Catholic men do not do that.

There are an infinite number of lies you can tell yourself if you have enough time. Yet, my daughter grew up with two parents. That was a fair exchange, but its cost was ruinous.

Eventually the haunting wind and her soft breathing pull me under.

-=- 14 -=-

In the morning, a pale light leaks through the shutters. In the kitchen, we drink coffee and eat croissants without ceremony. Our tryst is not mentioned, but I see that light in her eyes burns a little brighter.

I check the measurement for the painting, and Marthe gives me a cash deposit. There is no awkwardness and no lingering. I leave my business card. If she calls me, I would return.

She walks me to the door, ready to ride again as she does every day. She touches my arm once. I know she will part on those terms if I let her.

“Come here.” I offer a closer embrace, and she accepts.

We stay like this for longer than is needed. One day, she might stop moving and start thinking. I want her to remember this moment of tenderness.

She breaks our embrace. “Be true to yourself, Elodie.”

I nod and smile as her eyes do.

I walk the short distance to the van. The white horses are still there, moving slowly through the shallow water under the hard morning light. I sit for a few minutes, watching them. I take some more pictures, and then I start the engine.

I am heading west. My plans have changed, and I have everything I need from here. I have an answer to my question, but the questions that followed need answers too.

Ahead of me, the road is empty, and the sky is enormous.