Estefan guided Lladro with a gentle hand; the sturdy little black-and-white horse pulled the vardo along the Provencal roads toward the LeMaitre household. Estefan and his aunt, Ornella, visited Claire and Erik whenever they passed through. The couple that Ornella had once dismissed as gadje were family to them now.
Estefan particularly looked forward to seeing baby Veronique. It amazed him to see how much she grew between visits. Her eyes, once vague when they turned toward him, could now focus and recognize the man who called himself her Oncle Estefan. He also looked forward to seeing the man he called “mi plal,” my brother; Erik was as dear a friend as might be imagined. And Claire? Well, he hoped she was feeling more herself. She had been emotionally fragile during the last visit.
Ornella worried about their friends far more than she let on. Claire had been so miserable after the baby was born, and she had an ailing husband to care for to boot. It was nothing short of miraculous that the babe survived, Ornella thought. Claire had been so listless after the birth; not that this was unusual, of course. It was a woman’s lot to have babies, whether she wanted them or not, and many women failed to delight in their infants.
The child was the light of Erik’s life, though, that was certain. He roused himself from his sickbed more than was healthy so that he might play the violin for his daughter and thus soothe her to sleep. It didn’t matter whether it was a rondo, a czarda or a lullaby; the sound of the violin enchanted the child.
She’ll be a musician herself one day, Ornella thought, surely as I know my name.
Estefan turned Lladro up the path that led to the little terracotta-colored farmhouse with its blue shutters to protect against the mistral winds. Claire came to the open doorway, with Veronique clutching her skirts; the child was standing!
Claire’s smile was broad as she gave a welcoming wave. It would be good to spend time with her friends, and to have their help. Erik’s health was getting worse by the day.