Chapter 9 – There’s No Reason

“Hello, Mr. Robert.”

It was a languid afternoon with the sun stretching long across the ground. Sasha, catching her breath, greeted Mr. Robert as he opened the door, pretending to be nonchalant. The man at the door cast a shadow at his feet. There was a strong coffee scent from inside, suggesting he had been drinking coffee. Sasha instinctively stepped closer, sniffing the air. The man flinched, holding the doorknob, and retreated exactly as much as Sasha had approached.

“If you’ve finished the cookies I brought last time, I need to take back the empty basket.”

Sasha, flustered, tapped the ground with the tip of one foot as she spoke. Mr. Robert seemed to consider it before speaking.

“If you wait here, I’ll bring it to you.”

Though he looked as if he might go inside immediately, he lingered a moment longer, as if he had more to say.

Were the cookies not tasty? Sasha grew anxious, wanting to ask, but held back, worried it would be rude to approach too suddenly. She was concerned he might find her unannounced visit unpleasant. Mr. Robert was different from the people of Manolie—cautious, careful… He seemed to value etiquette. If Sasha approached carelessly, she might be branded as an impolite child and fall out of his favor.

Sasha perked up her ears. The sound from the garden was that of a white-browed warbler.

“Then, while you get the basket from inside, may I look around the garden?”

Mr. Robert nodded. Sasha cheered inwardly, but outwardly kept up the act of a well-behaved girl, hands folded, standing still until he went inside.

A little later, when he returned with the empty basket, Sasha was sitting on an overturned apple crate. What was she looking at so intently? The man raised his eyebrows and glanced over her small shoulder. Pink geraniums were blooming in clusters. He felt deflated—just common wildflowers, after all.

“If you like them, pick some.”

He spoke casually, expecting the girl to smile brightly and fill her basket with flowers. But Sasha looked bewildered, as if she’d never considered such an offer.

Didn’t she want to take flowers? He was puzzled by the unexpected reaction. Just as Sasha Vinoche observed wildflowers and warblers in his garden, he carefully studied Sasha’s green eyes.

“If you want, you can come to see them again.”

“Whenever I want?”

Don’t be rude. 

Sasha’s self-reminder dissolved. Her green eyes sparkled like glass marbles reflecting light in all directions.

The Hawthorn Mansion stood atop the hill, offering a panoramic view of the village. Beyond the tallest fence in the village, it felt rural yet like stepping into another world—mysterious. The garden was clearly tended by someone with deep artistic knowledge.

“Are you saying I can visit the garden whenever I want? Are you really serious?”

It was such unbelievable luck! Sasha forgot her rule about not approaching him too quickly and lifted her face right up under Mr. Robert’s chin. He hesitated, then added a condition.

“As long as it’s not too late.”

At that moment, they were too close. Realizing this, the man quickly stepped back.

Mr. Robert was like a wary cat. She felt apologetic for imagining such a cute animal in connection with such a large man.

Sasha had a habit of associating everything with color. He was like Leto, one of Manolie’s cats that nimbly jumped over fences, with almost black, ashen fur and peacock-colored eyes—a blend of green and blue.

“Then, what can I do for you in return?”

“Do I need compensation for letting you see the garden?”

It was just a garden, nothing special. Why go so far? Sasha shook her head firmly. This wasn’t just any garden—it was one that had cost a fortune to renovate. Of course, it probably wasn’t Mr. Robert’s money.

“My grandmother says if you receive something from someone, you must repay it.”

“I see.”

Mr. Robert folded his arms and leaned against the gate. That made it easier to look at Sasha. What could he possibly want from this little girl? He raised his eyebrows, pondering. He didn’t really want anything from Sasha.

“Then, how about charging me an admission fee?”

“Admission fee?!”

He laughed cynically. Charging a country girl admission to his garden would be absurd.

“I don’t need money. If it truly troubles you, paint me a picture worthy of hanging on the wall.”

He spoke abruptly, then seemed to regret it. But there was no one else in the garden to pretend not to hear. Unable to resist her curiosity, Sasha asked,

“How did you know I paint?”

“There are a lot of paints at home. I was going to take them to the general store instead of throwing them away, and the shop owner told me. You’re the only one in this village who paints.”

He let the information drop like bait. Sasha’s eyes widened, taking the bait.

“You’re throwing away paint?”

* * *

Mr. Robert told her to come by tomorrow morning to pick up the unused art supplies. Sasha doubted her luck—was this really happening? She stayed up all night, afraid she’d wake from a dream if she slept. After breakfast, she dashed out of the house like a bullet.

Parking her bicycle under the hawthorn tree in front of the mansion, Sasha took out the basket she’d hung from the handlebars. Grandma Rollo had filled it with apples for Sasha to give to Mr. Robert as thanks for the art supplies. The ripe red apples smelled sweet and fragrant.

‘What a nice day.’

Humming, Sasha set down the apple basket and rang the mansion’s doorbell. After a short wait, Mr. Robert opened the door as he had yesterday. He wore a butter-colored shirt and brown vest, and, unlike yesterday, glasses, giving him a more intellectual air.

“Did you sleep well?”

Sasha greeted him cheerfully, as she did with her grandmothers. The man awkwardly brushed his face with his large hand, his cheek twitching. Lowering his hand, Mr. Robert pointed at the large basket Sasha was holding.

“Is that for me?”

“Grandma told me to give it to you. She wanted to thank you for the art supplies.”

Sasha, her cheeks as red as apples, chattered away. He took the basket of apples in one hand and set it on the table by the entrance, used for leaving business cards.

“Do you like apples? You can make juice or jam. If you make jam, you can use it for pie or bake a cake.”

Sasha stuck close to him, listing ways to use apples. She remembered the rumor that Mr. Robert once bought a whole box of fruit and couldn’t eat it all.

“Alright, come in.”

Mr. Robert opened the door and led the way. Sasha followed him inside. The mansion’s exterior was almost unchanged from her childhood, but the interior, renovated along with the garden, was much more refined and elegant.

Sasha got distracted by unusual glass lamps and framed pictures on the corridor walls. Meanwhile, Mr. Robert walked ahead. If Sasha lagged too far behind, he would lightly tap the wall with the back of his hand to make a sound.

Passing through the corridor with lights, Sasha saw a room with its door open. The desk was messy, as if Mr. Robert had been working there before answering the door. She wanted to look around more, but he passed the room without hesitation.

It was too large and nice to be called an unused atelier. It couldn’t even be compared to Grandpa Bertland’s general store, where art supplies were gathered in one corner.

“Which of these can I take?”

Sasha asked cautiously. Secretly, she hoped the basket of paints on the vine-patterned carpet was hers. It looked too new, so maybe not…

“All of it.”

His answer, a beat late, overturned her expectations. Sasha stared blankly at Mr. Robert. With patience, he repeated himself.

“They’re all unused items. Sasha, take anything in this room you want.”

He handed her an empty basket, prepared for her, and told her to fill it as she liked. Sasha quickly took it, afraid he’d change his mind. As she excitedly chose paints and brushes, Mr. Robert asked,

“Why don’t you go to Laurent? With your skill, you could find a good patron.”

He didn’t bother asking where he’d seen her paintings. After all, Sasha’s works hung all over Manolie.

Sasha always gifted her completed landscapes of Manolie to the villagers, receiving bread or fresh fruit baskets in return. She’d never thought about selling her paintings for money.

“I don’t paint to earn money.”

“Then why do you paint?”

Mr. Robert frowned, as if he couldn’t understand. His glasses perched on the furrow between his brows. Sasha burst out laughing. Her lark-like laughter brightened the early afternoon sunlight.

“Just because. I paint because I want to. Do I really need a reason?”

Mr. Robert shook his head, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Light passing through the clear lenses danced on the wooden floor. Sasha tucked the last paint she’d chosen deep into her skirt pocket—a mysterious peacock-colored paint, just like Mr. Robert’s eyes.