Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice MaynardЧитать онлайн книгу.
exact balance in her much-depleted bank account.
She could cover it. Barely. Squaring her shoulders, she took the plunge. “Do you take Visa?”
* * *
The velvet bag containing the ring remained tucked in her purse when she returned to the villa. A local official had delivered documents couriered in from some government source, and Blake had invited her to join them for lunch. The woman was lively company and was delighted to learn Blake intended to show his bride Saint-Rémy’s ancient Roman ruins. She also warned they must go that very afternoon, as the archeological site could be affected if the transportation unions went on strike the following day as they’d threatened.
Grace couldn’t see the connection but didn’t argue when Blake said he was satisfied with his review of the contingency plans and was free to roam for a few hours. Before they left the villa, though, he made sure his mobile phone was fully charged, then tucked it close at hand in the breast pocket of his shirt.
The monuments she’d spotted through the trees yesterday were even more impressive up close and personal. Blake parked in a dusty, unpaved lot filled with cars and what turned out to be school buses. Grace had to smile at the noisy, exuberant teens piling out of the buses.
“I’ve taken my classes on a few field trips like this one,” she commented. “It’s always tough to judge how much of what they’ll see actually sinks in.”
Not much, Blake guessed. At least for the young, would-be studs in the crowd. As both he and his brother could verify, the attention of boys that age centered a whole lot more on girls in tight jeans than ancient ruins.
Boys of any age, actually. Grace wasn’t in jeans, but she snagged more than one admiring look from the male students and their teachers as she and Blake joined the line straggling along the dirt path to Les Antiques.
The two monuments gleamed white in the afternoon sun. Blake couldn’t remember which triumph the massive arch was supposed to commemorate—the conquest of Marseille, he thought—but he knew the perfectly preserved marble tower beside the arch had served as a mausoleum for a prominent Roman family. Luckily, descriptive plaques alongside each monument provided the details in both French and English.
Blake wasn’t surprised that the teacher in Grace had to read every word, much as she had on the Van Gogh trail yesterday. Peering over the heads of the kids, she glanced from the plaque to the intricate pattern decorating the underside of the arch.
“This is interesting. Those flowers and vines represent the fertility of ‘the Roman Province,’ aka Provence. I didn’t know that’s where the region’s name came from.”
Two of the teens obviously thought she’d addressed the comment to them. One turned and pulled an earbud from his ear. The other tucked what looked like a sketchbook under his arm and asked politely, “Pardon, madame?”
“The name, Provence.” She gestured to the sign. “It’s from the Latin.”
“Ah, oui.”
Blake hid a smile as the boys looked her over with the instinctive appreciation of the male of the species. They obviously liked what they saw. And who wouldn’t? Her hair was a wind-tossed tangle of pale silk, and the skin displayed all too enticingly by the white lace camisole had been warmed to a golden tan by the hot Provencal sun. Not surprisingly, the boys lagged behind while the rest of their group posed and snapped pictures of each other under the watchful eyes of their teachers.
“You are from the U.S.?” the taller of the two asked.
“I am,” she confirmed. “From Texas.”
“Ahhh, Texas. Cowboys, yes? And cows with the horns like this.”
When he extended his arms, Grace grinned and spread hers as far as they would go. “More like this.”
“Oui?”
“Oui. And you? Where are you from?”
“Lyon, madame.”
The shorter kid was as eager as his pal to show off his English. “We study the Romans,” he informed Grace, his earbud dangling. “They were in Lyon, as in many other parts of Provence. You have seen the coliseum in Arles and the Pont du Gard?”
“Not yet.”
“But you must!” The taller kid whipped his sketchbook from under his arm, flipped up the lid and riffled through the pages. “Here is the Pont du Gard.”
Grace was impressed. So was Blake. He’d visited the famous aqueduct a number of times. The kid’s drawings captured both the incredible engineering and soaring beauty of its three tiers of arches.
One of the teachers came over at that point to see what his students were up to. When he discovered Grace was a teacher, he joined the kids in describing the Roman sites she should be sure to visit while in the south of France. He also provided her a list of the architectural and historical items of interest he’d tasked his students to search out at Les Antiques and the adjoining town of Glanum.
“What a good idea,” Grace exclaimed as she skimmed the Xeroxed four pages. “It’s like a treasure hunt.”
“The class searches in teams,” the teacher explained. “You should join us. You will gain a far better appreciation of this site.”
“I’d love to but…” She threw Blake a questioning glance. “Do we have time?”
“Sure.”
“We can team up.”
Blake gauged the boys’ reaction to that with a single glance. “You and these fellows do the hunting,” he said easily. “I’ll follow along.”
List in hand, she joined the search. Her unfeigned interest and ready smile made willing slaves of her two teammates. Preening like young gamecocks, they translated the background history of the first item on the list, and crowed with delight when they collectively spotted the chained captives at the base of the arch representing Rome’s might.
Blake found a shady spot and rested his hips against a fallen marble block, watching as Grace and her team searched out two additional items on the arch and three on the tall, pillared tower of the mausoleum. He wondered if the boys had any idea that she let them do the discovering. Or that her seemingly innocent questions about the translations forced them to delve much deeper into the history of the site than they otherwise would have. Those two, at least, were going home experts on Les Antiques.
The hunt took them across the street and down another hundred yards to the entrance to Glanum. Unlike the arch and mausoleum, access to the town itself was controlled and active excavations were under way at several spots along its broad main street. Despite the roped-off areas, there was still plenty to explore. The students poked into the thermal furnaces that heated the baths, clambered over the uneven stones of a Hellenistic temple and followed the narrow, twisty track through the ravine at the far end of town to the spring that had convinced Gauls to settle this site long before the Romans arrived.
Grace was right there with her team, carefully picking her way down a flight of broken marble steps to the pool fed by the sacred spring. The fact that she could translate the Latin inscription dedicating the pool to Valetudo, the Roman goddess of health, scored her considerable brownie points with the kids. The delight they took in her company scored even more with Blake.
He could guess the kind of dreams those boys would have tonight. He’d had the same kind at their age. Still had ’em, he admitted wryly, his gaze locked on his wife.
* * *
The hunt finished, Grace exchanged email addresses with her teammates and their teacher before walking back to the car with Blake.
“You were really good with those kids,” he commented.
“Thanks. I enjoy interacting with teens. Most of them have such lively minds, although the mood swings and raging hormones can be a pain at times.”
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