Invitation to Provence (16 page)

“You are a liar as well as a thief, Alain,” she’d said finally. “And you show no remorse for what you have done. You’ve humiliated me and the Marten family and everything we stood for and now you can get out.” Her heart
was breaking as she said it, but she knew it had to be done.

“I’ll get back at you for this,” he’d said, throwing a venomous glance back across the room at her. “I’ll get you,
maman,
one of these days, and perhaps in the way you least expect.”

Rafaella had not cried when Alain left. It was as though all her tears had dried up. She was alone at the château with just Haigh to help her and listen to her when she was exhausted and didn’t see how she could go on. But gradually she’d built up the winery until the Marten name meant something again.

The château became even more silent and empty. Haigh covered the furniture in the unused rooms in dust sheets and closed their doors. Because of her arthritis, Rafaella moved out of the bedroom that held so many memories for her, into the downstairs library where she read and wrote in her journal about the past glorious days at the château.

She’d worked hard for many years until Scott Harris came to take over, and at last she was free of the day-to-day stress. And she finally knew she was a lonely woman.

Solitude became a habit until that day, standing in the hall with the dust motes floating in the golden beams of sunlight, with silence all around her, when she realized that because of her, the château was dying. And that’s when she’d planned her invitations.

She would bring the Château des Roses Sauvages to life again.

I
N THE MARTEN-DE-PROVENCE
village square, men were up on ladders stringing tricolor buntings between the plane trees and Laurent Jarré was supervising the erection of a handpainted banner that said,
BIENVENUE A LA FAMILLE MARTEN.
Welcome to the Marten family.

The youth of the village congregated near the fountain, giggling and pushing each other, arguing about whose turn it was to man the helium pump that blew up the balloons, shrieking with laughter as they took gulps of gas, causing their voices to rise to a wild pitch. A firm stop was put to all that by Father Jérôme, in his dusty black robes, on his way to the church to check that all was in order for the celebration service that was to be held later that week.

At the local store and post office, Mademoiselle Doritée, with her gray hair spiraling wildly and her pebble glasses glinting in the sun, hung her cross-stitched sampler of a village scene, inscribed with the slogan
BIENVENUE AUX MARTENS
on the glass door, while across the square Philippe Allier hung up orange, green, and yellow buntings that matched the colors of his fruits and vegetables. The old boys on their benches in the shade leaned on their sticks, watching with rheumy eyes, wondering vaguely who was arriving that caused so much stir, and the dogs, galvanized from their
usual sloth by the excitement, chased their tails and each other before wading into the fountain to cool off.

The sun beat down and beads of sweat trickled over Jarré’s broad forehead as he hurried back to his café. After their hard work the men would be crowding in, demanding a cold Stella, and the youngsters would head over to Mademoiselle Doritée’s, sifting through the freezers for ice cream, grabbing cold sodas from the vending machine, and generally making a racket. Poor Mademoiselle Doritée could never keep track of them. Bewildered, she would push back her springy gray hair, adjust her glasses, and demand to know who had taken what and who had paid and who had not, and the kids would just laugh and tease her until she grew purple in the face with frustration. Then Allier would have to leave his store and hurry across the square to sort it all out.

At four o’clock the Dépôt de Pain would open its doors and the aroma of freshly baked breads and baguettes to be eaten with supper would waft across the square, sending housewives scurrying. The fish truck had already rumbled in, flinging open its sides to reveal an iced display of gleaming silver John Dory and coral red rascasse, mounds of green-bearded mussels, miniature eels, and small pink shrimp that smelled as sweet and briny as the sea itself. Jarré had chosen his fish for the all-important “dish of the day” and he’d placed his special order for the even more important lunch to be served next week to Madame Rafaella’s new family.

He already had tiny banon goat’s-milk cheeses marinating with herbs in the beautiful deep-green olive oil, pressed from olives from his own trees. He grew the herbs in his small back garden, along with his various lettuces: escarole, lambs, rocket, miniature romaine. Jarré was particular about his
produce. He liked his vegetables small and fresh, and his carrots and squash were miniatures of perfection, as were his tomatoes that came in green and yellow and even striped, as well as the usual robust red. These he served sliced thinly on a large white platter drizzled with a soupçon of his best olive oil and a hint of lemon juice, plus a grind of fresh black pepper. He’d scatter fresh basil over them, ripped between his fingers of course and not cut with a knife or scissors because that bruised the delicate leaves and turned them black. His
petite symphonie,
he called it proudly whenever he served it, which was throughout the summer months, in fact well into October if the sun kept up its good work.

But the tomatoes were just the start of the special lunch he was planning for the Marten family. He intended to make Madame Rafaella proud, see that her smart city guests were not insulted by his simple village cooking. Jarré had learned to cook from his grandmother, but in his youth he’d also done a stint in a grand restaurant in Marseille where he’d learned, among other things, how to present a beautiful plate, one that pleased the eye as well as the palate. Now, with the family reunion, he would have a chance to really show his caliber as a chef for the first time in many years.

Up at the Domaine Marten winery, Scott Harris was inspecting the new labels he had designed for the special Cuvée Famille Marten that was to be his surprise to Rafaella.

The winery had the look of an old monastery, and this was the image on the original Domaine Marten label. It was drawn in black ink by an earlier Marten and had hardly been changed since its inception, except for special events, like jubilees and the celebrations marking the end of conflict in
the two world wars, and of course for the wedding cuvée when Rafaella got married. But this new label was special.

Scott had changed the old black ink drawing to a flamboyant red, Rafaella’s favorite color, and the lettering, now intertwined with vine leaves in the shape of a garland, proclaimed this to be the Cuvée Réunion de la Famille Marten. Not only had Scott designed the label, he had also personally blended the wine, using the grapes from the stoniest of the hills to give a hint of the
garrigue,
a flinty undertone overlaid with softest satin and fruit. Scott thought his description of the wine matched Rafaella, flinty undertones with a smoothly satin exterior and the soft heart.

Pleased with his work, he sent the labels down to the bottling plant near the town with word that they must be completed right away. Meanwhile, up at the château, a team of village ladies in flowery wraparound aprons ripped off dust-covers and brandished mops and feather dusters in a major spring clean. Haigh had told them that every window and shutter was to be washed, every brass doorknob polished till it glittered, every gilt picture frame whisked over with a chamois cloth. Teetering on stepladders, the women chattered as they worked to bring the reopened rooms back up to Haigh’s high standards.

“The family is not coming here to find a run-down old house, Madame,” Haigh told Rafaella, who grinned and said, “And what do you plan to do about its run-down old mistress, then?” Haigh replied, “There’s not much to be done there, but how about we go up to the attics and look through your wardrobe, pick out something for the first meeting. After all, you need to make a good impression. There’s the gala
dinner the whole village will attend, and of course, Jarré’s luncheon at the Colombes. Plus, the grand finale.”

“The grand finale,” Rafaella said, surprised. She had only anticipated their arrival, hadn’t thought about the fact that, at the end of the three weeks, they would return to their own lives.

In the attic closets, Rafaella gazed at the rows of garments on satin hangers, all neatly encased in transparent bags. “Just look at this, Haigh.” She pulled a fluffy gray fox jacket from the cupboard and held it to her cheek. “I wore this the day Juliette met Rufus at La Coupole, the same day I bought the red Dior. Oh, Haigh, I absolutely must wear the Dior. It’s my all-time favorite. Do you think it will still fit?” And she found it and held it against her, frowning doubtfully into the mirror. Then, at the back of the closet, she spotted a fall of creamy satin. “Oh, here’s my wedding dress. Remember, Haigh,
maman
wanted me to have it dyed black so I could wear it as an evening dress, but the satin was too heavy—it weighed me down. And so did my husband,” she added with a grin, recalling her husband’s face as she walked down the aisle toward him, with an extra big bunch of lilies to hide her pregnant bump and her heavy satin train going
plop-plop-plop
behind her down the stairs. Proud, unsmiling, her husband, Henri, was a man who was getting exactly what he’d set out to get—a meal ticket for life.

The fact that his bride was young and charming and in love—or at least infatuation—meant nothing to him. Rafaella had read it in his face and knew she had made a terrible mistake. In church, holding the lillies over her bump, she’d prayed that her baby would not be like him, but of course Felix had turned out to be exactly like his papa. That’s
the reason she’d loved Alain more, she supposed, because he had her gaiety, her zest for living.

She rummaged through the men’s suits hanging on broad wooden hangers in yet another closet and took out a jacket, a dark blue velvet
smoking
with satin lapels cut narrow in the Edwardian style. “Look, Haigh. This used to be
grandpères”
she said, “I’m sure it would fit you. Oh Haigh, you would look wonderful in it. Do try it on.”

“Madame, I don’t need
grandpères smoking,”
Haigh objected. “I have no occasion to wear it.”

“You do now. Come on, Haigh, you can wear it to the celebration gala.” And she held the jacket against him approvingly. “Very
comme il faut.
”

A
FTER A COUPLE
of hours sorting clothes with Rafaella, Haigh went back to his kitchen to inspect his new jacket. He rather liked the pointed cut of the lapels. He would give it a good brush, hang it outdoors to get rid of the smell of mothballs. He thought it would look quite smart for the gala party.

Meanwhile, he had to keep track of the women cleaning the house and check on the young kitchen helpers. The larder was stocked, caterers hired, the menus prepared, the parties arranged. Haigh and Rafaella had chosen the wines, the dining room table already had its leaves pulled out, ready to be set with the finest china and silver. Later, the gardeners would cull the grounds for every perfect flower, which Rafaella would arrange in tall vases, and the château would be filled again with their sweet fresh scent.

Haigh inspected his kitchen one more time. The
black-and-white tile floors gleamed, as did the big steel range and the dishes and crystal in the old-fashioned glass-fronted cupboards. Still nervous, he hurried back upstairs to check the guest rooms again, even though he’d already checked earlier that day.

And Rafaella, content at last, sat under the wisteria bower on the terrace with Mimi on her knee and Louis sprawled panting beside her. Their beloved château breathed again, and tomorrow life would once more flow through its veins.

The Family Reunion

Falling in love is the greatest

imaginative experience of which most

human beings are capable.

—A.N. WILSON

F
RANNY AND CLARE EMERGED
from the neutral cocoon of the plane into the vast mysteries of Charles de Gaulle airport, where they stood in line to show their passports, then waited a long time for their baggage. Of course Clare’s five suitcases came out last, just when they were thinking they’d been lost. Next, they stood wearily in line for a taxi, breathing in real French air—well, petrol fumes and cigarette smoke anyway, then hurtled down the
Périphérique,
the motorway that encircles Paris, shooting off at a charming neighborhood with open-air cafés and dozens of little restaurants, boutiques, perfumeries, and pastry shops. This, the cab driver told them, was Montparnasse.

“Montparnasse,” Franny repeated, thrilled. “Clare, we’re in the real Paris, the city where Picasso lived and girls dance naked at the Folies Bergères, and artists and writers drank absinthe at Le Sélect and too much wine at the Closerie des Lilas.” Thrilled, the two stared out of the windows, absorbing the Parisian atmosphere along with the petrol fumes and the cigarette smoke.