8 December, 1939 - Grasse, France
Danielle stepped off the train at the small Grasse station, her nose twitching, thirstily drinking in the rustic aromas of the countryside. The sun warmed her shoulders, melting some of the tenseness she’d felt in Paris.
She spied her uncle, a wiry, bespectacled white-haired man standing on the platform. “Philippe,” she called, waving.
“Bonjour, Danielle, how good to see you.” A large, broad-chested man, Philippe had the weathered face of a Gallic farmer, and it creased into a welcoming, genuine smile. He kissed her on both cheeks, and she warmed to the remembrance of his familiar aroma, a subtle veil of jasmine, lavender, and rose, the natural perfume oils he worked with every day.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. She had a special bond with Philippe. Bes
