The lavender fields stretched before them like a painter’s dream, an endless canvas of vibrant purple under the Provençal sun. Isabelle inhaled deeply, the fragrant air filling her lungs and chasing away the last lingering shadows of her past life. With Jean-Luc, a trip like this would have been about showing off, about expensive hotels and carefully curated photo opportunities for social media. With Henri, it was about the experience itself, about immersing themselves in the beauty and tranquility that Provence so readily offered.

Their honeymoon wasn't about lavish resorts. They’d rented a small, rustic cottage nestled amongst olive groves just outside Gordes, a picturesque village perched atop a rocky outcrop. The stone walls were thick with ivy, the windows framed with cheerful geraniums. Inside, the furniture was simple and comfortable, the air filled with the scent of beeswax and dried herbs. It was perfect.

Each day was a new adventure. They explored the narrow, winding streets of ancient villages, losing themselves in the labyrinthine alleyways and discovering hidden squares with bubbling fountains and overflowing flower boxes. They visited local markets, sampling fragrant cheeses, crusty breads, and sun-ripened fruits. Henri, with his quiet charm and surprisingly fluent knowledge of the local dialect, effortlessly navigated the bustling crowds, securing the freshest ingredients for their evening meals.

Isabelle rediscovered the joy of cooking, transforming the simple ingredients into delicious meals that they enjoyed on their small patio under the twinkling stars. Henri would bring out his guitar, and they'd sing along to old French songs, their voices blending with the chirping of crickets and the distant hooting of owls.

They drove along the winding roads, the top down on their vintage Citroën, the wind whipping through their hair. They stopped at breathtaking overlooks, gazing at the rolling hills, the patchwork of vineyards, and the distant, snow-capped Alps. They visited Roman ruins, imagining the lives of the people who had walked these same paths centuries ago. They spent hours exploring the Musée de la Lavande, learning about the history and cultivation of this iconic Provençal flower.

One afternoon, they hiked to the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénanque, a Cistercian monastery nestled in a secluded valley, surrounded by fields of lavender. The air was thick with the scent of the fragrant flowers, and the only sound was the gentle hum of bees. Isabelle felt a profound sense of peace as she stood in the shadow of the ancient stone walls, holding Henri's hand.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Magnifique," he replied, his eyes filled with warmth as he looked at her.

They swam in the cool, clear waters of the Verdon Gorge, marveling at the towering limestone cliffs that rose above them. They explored the colorful pottery workshops of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, admiring the intricate designs and the skill of the artisans. They picnicked by the turquoise waters of Lake Sainte-Croix, watching the sailboats glide across the surface.

Henri was a constant source of quiet joy and gentle reassurance. He seemed to anticipate her every need, always there with a comforting hand or a knowing smile. He listened patiently as she talked about her dreams for the future, her anxieties about the past. He made her laugh, he made her feel loved, he made her feel truly seen.

Yet, despite their growing intimacy, there was still a part of Henri that remained hidden, a locked room in his heart that she couldn't quite access. Whenever she tried to steer the conversation towards his past, his family, his life before he became a gardener in Avignon, he would become evasive, changing the subject with a charming smile or a playful tease.

One evening, as they were enjoying a glass of wine on their patio, Isabelle decided to broach the subject again. The setting sun cast long shadows across the olive groves, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of jasmine.

"Henri," she began, her voice hesitant, "you never really talk about your family. Are you close to them?"

He took a long sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on the distant hills. "Not particularly," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "My family…they’re not really my type of people."

"What does that mean?" she pressed gently.

He shrugged. "They have…different priorities. Let's just say they wouldn't understand my choice to live a simple life in Avignon."

"But what did you do before you were a gardener?" Isabelle persisted. "Did you go to university? Did you have a different career?"

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes clouding with a hint of sadness. "Let's just say I've lived a few different lives," he said finally, his voice low. "But none of them were as fulfilling as this one."

He reached out and took her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "Isabelle," he said softly, "I don't want to dwell on the past. I want to focus on the present, on our future together. Does that make sense?"

Isabelle looked into his eyes, searching for answers. She saw a deep well of emotion, a hint of pain, and a genuine desire to protect her. She knew that pushing him further would only create a wall between them, and she didn't want to risk that.

"Yes," she said finally, squeezing his hand. "It makes sense."

She knew she shouldn't let it go, that there was something important he was hiding from her. But she loved him, and she trusted him, and she believed that he would tell her the truth when he was ready.

So, she let it go, for now. They spent the rest of their honeymoon exploring the beauty of Provence, deepening their bond, and creating memories that would last a lifetime. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and Isabelle knew that one day, she would have to confront the mystery of Henri's past.

As their honeymoon drew to a close, Isabelle felt a pang of sadness. She loved their simple life in Avignon, the quiet days spent tending her flowers, the warm evenings spent in Henri's arms. She knew that their lives would change when they returned, that the demands of everyday life would inevitably intrude on their idyllic bubble. But she also knew that their love was strong enough to withstand any challenge.

On their last night in Provence, they sat on their patio, watching the stars twinkle in the clear night sky. Henri brought out his guitar and began to play a slow, melancholic melody. Isabelle leaned her head against his shoulder, listening to the music and feeling grateful for the love she had found.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "Thank you for showing me what real love is."

He stopped playing and turned to face her, his eyes filled with tenderness. "You deserve all the happiness in the world, Isabelle," he said softly. "And I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you."

He leaned in and kissed her, his lips gentle and sweet. As they held each other close, under the starlit sky, Isabelle couldn't help but wonder what the future held. She knew that life with Henri wouldn't always be easy, that there would be challenges and obstacles to overcome. But she also knew that they were strong enough to face anything, as long as they had each other.

Little did she know that the biggest challenge of their lives was just around the corner, waiting to shatter their idyllic world and reveal a secret that would change everything she thought she knew about the man she loved.