Invitation to Provence (11 page)

“I don’t have to obey you,” Alain yelled.

But Haigh stood his ground. “Oh, and what are you going to do about it?” he’d demanded, hands on his hips.

With a sidelong glare at his mother, Alain had slunk through the door and along the hall, back up the stairs to the nursery.

Haigh had inspected Felix, still lying on his back covered in blood. After making sure the blood was Alain’s he said, “Get up, Felix, and clean yourself up.” Turning to Rafaella, he said, “Alain’s nose is probably broken. I’ll drive him to the hospital, Madame, while you take care of Felix.”

N
OW, SITTING IN FELIX’S
green leather chair under the window in the room that had been his, Rafaella thought how alike her two sons had looked, even though Alain was blond and Felix so dark. Both had her blue eyes and both had the slightly hooked nose that she swore came from their father’s family and not hers. Yet they were completely different in temperament, as was proven to her later, the day after the murder.

A
FTER HE’D FINISHED
his studies at the Sorbonne, Felix had come home ready to learn from his mother how to run the winery. Rafaella thought he’d changed, and it was definitely a change for the better. He was gentler, easier to talk to, sympathetic. It was all too good to last, she thought nervously, and of course she was right.

One evening a few weeks later, a rare summer storm spattered hail against the windows where they sat having dinner together, safe in the small dining room with its decorative celadon-green paneling. The bunch of yellow lilies Rafaella had picked that morning dropped amber pollen onto the polished table, and a couple of creamy candles flickered in the dusk.

They were eating Haigh’s special fresh tomato-basil soup, one of Rafaella’s favorites, and its warmth was comforting on the cool night. With it they were drinking a vintage Château Marten that she thought too heavy and too dry, but Felix said confidently it was still round on the palate and the dryness was perfect with the soup.

Though they disagreed on the bottle of wine, they saw eye to eye on the winery. Rafaella’s passion for it was matched by Felix’s. He was like her father that way.

“I have a surprise,” Felix said. “I have plans to expand our local winery.” Then he told her he wanted to buy a small vineyard that had come unexpectedly onto the market in the Saint-Emilion area, near Bordeaux.

“It’s not a first growth,” he said, “but there’s room for improvement. It’s been neglected and the name has downgraded, but with my expertise and energy we’ll have it back on its feet in no time.”

Rafaella knew only too well that investing in a vineyard cost a great deal of money—and that it took years to establish. “And exactly how long is ‘no time.’ ” she asked.

Felix considered. “There’ll be a lot of grafting to be done, new rootstock … four, five years maybe.”

“More like ten,” she said.

Just then Haigh arrived with a steaming platter of risotto. Rafaella handed him her glass of wine to taste. Haigh sniffed it, then took a sip, allowing the wine to roll around his palette, savoring it slowly.

“Too dry for my taste,” he declared, “a little harsh, and certainly all wrong with this meal.” He shrugged. “Of course there are those who prefer their wines this crisp. Personally, I prefer a little more fruit.”

“Right on the mark, Haigh,” Rafaella said, smiling sympathetically at Felix because she knew he still had a lot to learn. Felix scowled because he hated to be proven wrong about anything.

“Why do you have to make everything a challenge?” he said, back to his cold voice again.

“A challenge, Felix? We are talking business.
Your
business.”

“The
family
business,” he retorted, and the familiar frown creased his brow.

Rafaella sighed. “This is really about Alain, isn’t it?” she said, reaching across the table for his hand. “No, don’t move away from me, Felix. It’s right for a mother to hold her son’s hand when he’s troubled. You and Alain are so different—it’s not surprising you don’t get along. But no matter what,
you
will be the one in charge of the Marten winery. It will be yours to run, Felix.”

He raised bitter eyes to hers. “But not alone,
maman.
Never alone. Alain will always be there. He’ll be half owner after you’re gone and he’ll make my life hell. He’ll wreck everything you and great-grandfather and grandfather worked for, and he’ll do it just for the hell of it and to get even with me.”

Rafaella sighed. She hated the discord between the brothers, but she couldn’t simply give Felix the winery and leave Alain out—that was the law of the land.

“You are both my sons,” she said. “We are a
family,
and you will have equal shares. Besides, you are men now, not schoolboys. It’ll be up to you to work things out.”

Felix pushed back his plate and stood up. He took his wineglass and drained it, just to show her that the wine was good after all, Rafaella thought with a small sigh at how competitive he was, even with her.

“Of course, you always take Alain’s side,” he said as he strode angrily from the room. “You always have.”

The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. She heard the car start up, then in a swish of wet gravel, Felix was gone.

Rafaella heaved a bigger sigh this time. So much for their new relationship, she thought, getting up from the table and
leaving her food untouched. She went to stand by the window, looking out at the tossing trees and the rose petals drifting in the wind along the terrace. A lawn chair caught in a gust rolled across the grass, and gray clouds scudded in a lowering sky. She wondered where Felix had gone. To the winery, she supposed. He worked there most nights. And Alain was hardly ever home—he was either in Paris, where he was supposed to be studying, or at the villa in Cap d’Antibes with some girl or other. Or several. She never knew with Alain, but just thinking about him made her smile. Alain brought a kind of
joie de vivre
with him that always made her laugh. Poor Felix, she thought sadly, will you never learn that it’s yourself you are battling, not your brother?

She did not hear Felix come home that night, though she sat up late, reading in bed, waiting for him. And he was not at breakfast the next morning. She supposed he was in his room and didn’t want to disturb him, so it came as a shock when he arrived home an hour later, wet and disheveled and limping badly.

“What is it? What happened?” She ran to him, fearing a car accident, but he waved her away. “It’s nothing,” he muttered as he limped up the stairs to his room. Worried, Rafaella ran after him, but he shut the door in her face and she heard the key turn in the lock.

Haigh ran up the stairs and stood next to her. “Better leave him alone, Madame,” he said. “Whatever it is, he’ll get over it.”

But Felix did not get over it nor did Rafaella because later that day the
gendarmes
arrived to question him about a young woman they claimed he knew. She had been found dead at the bottom of the Saint-Sylvestre gorge, a place popular with
tourists, where the walking path circled the highest point and where they always took their pictures. The dead woman was pregnant, but Felix denied he’d been with her. There were no witnesses and no evidence against him. Alain knew the girl, too, but he was in Antibes so there was no need to question him.

Rafaella knew something was wrong, though, and when the police had finally gone, she questioned Felix about what had happened. He accused her of believing he’d got the girl pregnant then killed her. He said she should give his charming brother a closer look, ask him a few questions. When she attempted to put her arms around him, he flung her away. “Believe whatever you want,
maman,”
he snarled. “You always will.”

And then he’d packed his bag and left, never to return.

R
AFAELLA MOPPED HER TEARS
on the hem of her skirt, thinking she was like a child herself, never with a handkerchief when she needed it.
Ah, Felix,
she thought,
you were a hard, prickly little boy who grew into a difficult young man. You had a surface that was hard for love to penetrate. I only hope you eventually found some happiness in your life.

She walked across to the bed and ran her hand over the suit Haigh had laid out in readiness for Felix’s burial. “My poor, poor little Felix,” she said softly, then left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

J
AKE CAME “HOME”
for Felix’s funeral, but he also came to tell Rafaella the wonderful news that she had a granddaughter.

He stopped the rental car in the shade of the plane trees in the village square and got out to take a look. Nothing had changed, not even, he’d bet, the old boys and the dogs. Even the air had that same winey aroma. Life went on serenely in Marten-de-Provence, light-years away from his own busy and sometimes brutal existence.

He drove on, following the lichen-covered wall until he came to the great iron gates, and then his past life unfurled before his eyes in a sudden onslaught of memories. Jake thought of himself as a hard man who now gave his love to no place and no one, but
this
place was his soft underbelly. The year he’d spent here had been so perfect he had never been back, afraid to disturb those memories.

He drove on and as the château came into view, he stopped to look. How could he have forgotten that the house was the ochre yellow of evening sunlight? That the many tall windows led out onto the terrace? That the roof slanted steeply over the gabled attics and that in summer the big doors always stood open to let in the breeze and to welcome visitors? It all came back to him in a rush and he sat for a moment, taking it in. It was, Jake thought with a smile, a
perfect picture of life as he knew it when he was young and a little in love. And one to which despite the tragedy of Felix’s death, he felt sure he was now about to write a new chapter.

He strode up the low stone steps to those open doors and walked right inside, as though he were coming home. And there she was. Rafaella.

The dogs heard him first. They dashed at him, barking madly, leaping at his outstretched hands. Rafaella swung round to see what all the commotion was. She clutched a hand to her throat, shocked because looking at Jake was like looking into the face of the Lover. And like him, Jake Bronson filled the château with his strong, masculine presence, bringing life and vigor to the long-silent rooms.

Watching Rafaella, Jake noted the changes in the beautiful face that he remembered like a photograph kept in the breast pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. He saw the silver hair that was once a luxurious dark tumble, the passionate mouth now crisscrossed with fine lines, the slender fingers now crooked with arthritis. Only her eyes were unchanged, still that same brilliant Mediterranean blue. And then they were in each other’s arms, holding each other close, and for the moment, time disappeared. Tenderness overwhelmed Jake as he bent to kiss Rafaella’s soft cheek and smelled her familiar perfume—mimosa, wasn’t it?

“You came,” she said, smiling.

“I promised I would always be there for you.” He smiled. “You’re still as beautiful as my father would have remembered, Rafaella,” and she smiled back, acknowledging his gallant lie.

Haigh came fluttering toward them, a white apron was
tied around his middle and he was wiping his hands on a cloth. “Sorry, Madame,” he said, flustered. “I was in the pantry cleaning the silver. I didn’t hear the bell.”

“That’s because I didn’t ring it,” Jake said, grinning and holding out his hand. “Remember me, Haigh?”

Haigh’s thin, sun-brown face lit up in a huge smile. “Indeed I do, Mr. Jake, though you were nothing but a young whippersnapper when I last saw you. If you’ll excuse me being so personal, sir, you are the spitting image of your father. Isn’t that so, Madame?” He threw Rafaella a sharp glance, assessing her reaction to the Lover’s son.

“I scarcely noticed the resemblance,” she said, biting her lower lip to stop from smiling. She had a long-running one-upmanship game with Haigh that had started when they were both young. He still had that know-it-all attitude and it still irritated her, but she adored him. In fact, she wouldn’t know what to do without him.

“Your old room is ready,” she said to Jake, “but first come sit with me on the terrace. We’ll have some champagne to celebrate our meeting again after all these years—twenty-eight, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Of course I know exactly how long it is. I’ve been counting.” She took his arm, and with the dogs running ahead, led him out, past the sparkling fountain to the shaddy loggia under the Chinese wisteria.

Haigh watched them walk arm in arm along the sun-freckled terrace, then he went to fetch a bottle of the ’91 Krug from the wine cellar. He noted there were only half a dozen left but thought the way things were now, this would probably see them out. He put the bottle on ice, polished a couple of fragile crystal champagne flutes, and placed them carefully on a silver tray. He toasted slices of brioche and slid
them in the silver toast rack, alongside a dish of
crème fraîche
and an iced crystal bowl of the Beluga caviar he’d been hoarding for the special occasion that had finally come. Then he filled a silver basket with “rose” biscuits, those sweet, crisp, sugary pink ladyfingers that were a specialty with champagne.

Pleased to be back in the role of butler, even if only temporarily, he untied his apron, put on his white jacket, straightened his silver-gray tie, and adjusted his accent from pure Cockney to upper-crust English. Haigh also spoke perfect French, something he used to do with foreign guests just to enjoy the look of bewilderment on their faces as they struggled to understand. Haigh was a little bit wicked that way. Power, he thought smugly, was a wonderful thing.

He wheeled the tea cart onto the terrace. “Madame, the refreshments,” he said at his most formal.

R
AFAELLA KNEW HAIGH
was enjoying himself by the superior tone of his voice. She watched as he pulled the champagne cork with barely a sound and poured two glasses. He also set a tray with a silver teapot on the table in front of her.