Invitation to Provence (19 page)

Refusing to lean on her stick, she stood tall and proud, gorgeous in her red chiffon and her rubies, with the flowers in her hair.
“Bonsoir, mes chères amies,”
she said in her low, sweet voice. “Welcome to the Château des Roses Sauvages.”
They swung round to look at her and she smiled. “I must apologize for the terrible storm and the lack of electricity. Meanwhile, I trust Haigh has been looking after you.”

Scott hurried to help her with an arm under her elbow. He kissed her cheek and whispered, “You look drop-dead gorgeous,” making her laugh as she walked into the room.

Her eyes met Franny’s and it was as if a bond stretched between them, across decades, centuries, continents, a recognition of two souls, united by a past Franny had never known. Rafaella gave a soft sigh of relief—it was going to be all right after all. “I’m so happy to meet you, Franny,” she said.

“And I am happy to meet you, Aunt Rafaella,” she replied.

“Then kiss me, child,” she said, putting her arms around her and holding her tight.

She stepped back and took Franny’s chin in her hand, searching her face. “You have your grandfather’s smile,” she said. “He was a handsome man, you know, and you,
ma chérie,
are a lovely woman.”

Blushing, Franny introduced Clare. “Another beauty,” Rafaella said, smiling. “Welcome to my home, Clare. I hope you will enjoy your stay. When the storm is over you will see how fortunate I am to live in such a lovely place.”

Finally, she turned to her granddaughter. Shao Lan had dropped the lamb and was staring back at her, looking very puzzled. “Shao Lan,” she said gently, “I am your French grandmother, here to welcome you.” But the child’s eyes darted anxiously past her and somehow Rafaella knew she was looking for her “real” grandmother.

She took her hand and went to sit in the big leather wing chair by the fire. She knew Shao Lan spoke some English,
and she turned her to face her. Speaking slowly and clearly, she said, “Look at me, Shao Lan. I know your grandmother Bao Chu is in Shanghai and that you love her very much. But every little girl has two grandmothers. Bao Chu is your
Chinese
grandmother and I am your
French
grandmother. Your papa was my son. Do you understand,
ma petite?”
The child stood silently, apparently not understanding. Rafaella continued, “I am going to call you Little Blue and you shall sit next to me at dinner. You may eat whatever you choose and leave whatever you do not like. Do you agree to that?”

Little Blue stared silently down at her shoes again, and Haigh sighed. He thought this was hard going and he poured champagne for Rafaella and Scott and also for himself. He went to stand next to Rafaella, regarding the guests with his regal glare.

“Welcome, my new family,” Rafaella said, raising her glass to them. “I want to thank you for traveling all this way to make an old woman happy. I will do my best to make your stay at the Château des Roses Sauvages a memorable one.”

T
HERE WAS A SUDDEN
commotion out in the hall. Dogs barked, the front door banged, and the wind roared through the house, snuffing out all the candles again. “Mimi, Louis,” Rafaella called warningly, but they were already racing to the door.
Seconds later they heard a growl and also a shrill yapping and snarling.

“It’s those bloody Pomeranians,” Haigh said resignedly going out into the hall.

Louis and Mimi were lying on their backs, felled by a rage of tiny blond Pomeranians, who snapped triumphantly at them. A fourth dog stood by the door watching them with the bored expression of a street mutt who knew what a real fight was about.

“Oh, get
off
them, darlings.” Juliette’s voice came clearly from the darkened portico. “Don’t worry, Haigh.” she added, “It’s all show, they won’t kill them.”

“It would make them very unpopular around here if they did,” Haigh said. “Welcome, Madame. You have arrived in your usual style, I see.” And Juliette’s jolly laugh boomed across the hall as she swept inside, stopping to kiss Haigh on each cheek, adding a third kiss, a true sign of affection.

“And I’m glad to see
you
have not changed either, Haigh. You’re still the same crotchety old despot,” she said as he went out to deal with what he knew would be a mountain of luggage. “Now, where’s my Rafaella. Ohhhhh … there you are,
chérie.”

She paused at the door, assessing her friend in the firelight. “You have not changed one iota,” Juliette said loyally.

“And nor have you, my old friend,” Rafaella said, wrapping her arms as far around Juliette as they would go. “Except in circumference,” she added and Juliette grinned. “Too much good living and not enough good loving,” she whispered and they laughed, remembering the secrets they had shared.

“Could that ugly hound possibly be yours, Juliette?”
Rafaella said, noticing the mutt still sitting calmly in the corner.

“Mine? Oh no, that’s Jake’s dog, Criminal.”

Standing in the background, Franny looked up, startled. Then she decided she must have misheard the name. She smiled looking at Juliette, who lit up the silent house with her flame red hair and her emerald caftan and her yapping Pomeranians.

“And now, my dear,” Juliette said in a whisper that the others heard clearly because even Juliette’s whispers were loud, “where are the granddaughter and the niece?”

Franny stepped from the shadows. “I’m Franny, the niece.”

“And I am Juliette, the old friend.” Juliette sized her up in one long glance. “Do you have any idea what a little blue shadow would do for those wonderful eyes of yours?” she said. “I have just the shade. Remind me to lend it to you tomorrow.” She touched Franny’s hair lingeringly. “And such wonderful hair, completely natural of course, whereas mine is in the high-maintenance category now. I suppose I should be like Rafaella and let it all go silver, but I’m far too young at heart to allow that. Besides, it wouldn’t suit me the way it does her. Rafaella was always elegant, you know. Dark hair or silver, it doesn’t matter, she’s still a beauty. As you could be too,
chérie,”
she added thoughtfully, and Franny blushed and quickly introduced Clare.

Juliette assessed Clare’s dark chic. Now here was a woman who had seen life, she thought, a woman who knew who she was, but perhaps not what she was looking for. An interesting woman, in fact.

And then it was Shao Lan’s turn. “And here is my granddaughter, Little Blue,” Rafaella said, taking her by the hand and beaming.

Juliette bent to inspect her. “She’s a little thing, but there’s no mistaking she’s a Marten,” she said, “and
another
beauty.” She sighed. “Do you know how lucky you are, Rafaella? My own grandchildren inherited their grandfather’s looks instead of mine. They’re Labourdes down to their little buckteeth that are going to cost me a fortune in orthodontist bills. They all have large heads and lanky limbs—I swear they look just like a bunch of little squid flopping around in the sea in Hawaii. While you, Little Blue,” she kissed the child’s cold cheek, “you promise one day to be a dazzler, despite those awful shoes that must be killing your poor little feet. Here, sweetheart, let
Tante
Juliette take them off.” And she got on her knees and unbuckled them.

“Thank you,” Shao Lan said politely.

Franny and Clare jumped.
“She spoke!”
Clare said just as Haigh came in, bent double under the weight of two enormous Vuitton suitcases.

“Does she not normally speak, then?” Juliette asked, surprised.

“I believe the only other thing the child has said so far was to tell me to f—off, or words to that effect.” Haigh dropped the bags with a thud.

“Whoever told you that was probably right,” Jake said, striding into the hall behind Haigh and dropping two more bags on the floor.

Franny’s eyed widened. The world stood still. She stared at Jake, feeling the heat crawl up her back, sting her face.
What was
he
doing here? Numb, she watched as Jake clasped Rafaella in his arms.

“I know I’m in my usual room,” Juliette boomed, heading for the stairs, as though she had been here just last weekend instead of twenty years ago.

“Of course,” Rafaella said, “and you’ll notice that the good champagne is being poured.”

“Glad to see nothing has changed,” she yelled, already prancing up the stairs on her small high-heeled feet, closely followed by the Pomeranians and Haigh, with Mimi and Louis, obviously in love, bringing up the rear. But Franny wasn’t looking at them.

Jake came over to her. He held out his hand. She ignored it. “Well, hello again,” he said.

She stared at him through narrowed eyes. There was steel in those eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she said coldly.

“Rafaella invited me. When she told me you were coming and that she didn’t know you, I decided I’d better meet you first.”

“Of course.” Franny said, “You needed to check me out, make sure I was good enough to meet the Martens, that I wasn’t a gold digger after the family money. Well, at least you didn’t lie about the dog,” she said, then she turned and walked away on legs that trembled.

She didn’t know whether to run away or scream or just punch him and have done with it. In fact, her fist was all balled and ready, and she knew how to punch all right from being a tomboy.

How
could
he, how
dare
he make love to her, when all the
time he was just checking her out, the way he did employees for giant companies.
Bastard,
she thought, fighting back angry tears, but dammit she wasn’t going to cry for him.
Dammit, she just would not cry.
Totally humiliated, she walked back into the salon and stood by the fire, trying to warm her suddenly icy hands.

Still standing in the hall, Clare stared after her. Astonished, she turned to Jake. “What was all that about?”

He held out his hand. “You must be Clare. I’m Jake Bronon. I hope at least
you
will shake my hand.”

“Clare Marks.” She clasped his hand lingeringly. Looking into his eyes she thought, What a good-looking guy, a bit battered maybe, but she liked them that way.

“Ah,” Jake said, remembering Marcus, “then, you’re … you must be …”

“The other woman.” She finished the sentence for him and they both laughed.

Clare tilted her chin, smiling, flirting with him.
Uh-huh, this one’s trouble,
she told herself.
What happened to the salt-of-the-earth guy you promised yourself? Here you go again, Clare.
But she was beaming as she said, “I’m happy to meet you, Jake.”

“Shall we join the others?” he said, offering his arm. She slid her hand through it, feeling like a bride as they walked into the salon.

Back in the salon, Haigh was pouring fresh champagne while the smiling village women, in their best black and frilly white organdy aprons, offered platters of Haigh’s splendid hors d’oeuvres. But dinner would be even more splendid.

T
HE LONG MAHOGANY DINING
table was set with the best ancestral china, a Limoges pattern bordered in coral and green, and with glittering Baccarat stemware. The starched linen napkins were monogrammed with an elaborate M, and the silverware was so old the pattern had almost worn off. Down the center of the table wild white roses, the
roses sauvages,
that Rafaella had picked from the garden were arranged in low silver bowls entwined with long garlands of greenery. A five-tier silver epergne overflowed with bunches of luscious purple and green grapes from the Marten vineyard.

The room was filled with the scent of roses and the waxy smell of the candles guttering in the drafts that still rattled the windows. They were locked now and the heavy silk curtains drawn tight, and inside all was firelit warmth.

Haigh went around the table pouring the Famille Marten Special Reunion Cuvée, showing each person the beautiful label that almost brought Rafaella to tears because there hadn’t been a celebration cuvée since her own wedding. She said, delighted, that it tasted the way wildflowers smelled, silken on the tongue with a faint, flinty afterbite, and she complimented Scott on his blend.

Rafaella sat at the head of her table, smiling in a way Haigh had not seen for many years, as though for once she
was thinking of the here and now and not of the past. Little Blue sat on her left, staring blankly at the plates of food, her inscrutable face giving no clue to the turmoil going on in her head.

Rafaella caught her doomed expression, guessed what she was thinking, and immediately sent Haigh to the kitchen to find the chopsticks he used whenever he got Chinese takeout from town. The child’s eyes lit up when she saw them, and she even smiled when Haigh cut up her meat.

Jake was on Rafaella’s right, with Clare next to him, while Franny sat opposite next to Scott, and Juliette dominated the other end of the table. The Pomeranians were milling around her, and Mimi and Louis parked themselves behind Rafaella’s chair. Criminal, however, lingered edgily by the door, looking like a dog ready to make a fast escape.

Across the table tension crackled like lightning between Franny and Jake. He tried to catch her eye but she avoided him and he knew he was in deep trouble. Suddenly he wished he’d never met her, that their night together had never happened—at least then he could have started out even. Dammit, he’d been avoiding relationships all these years, and as soon as he succumbed, look what happened.

Suddenly Scott said to Clare, “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” and the formerly radiant and relaxed Clare froze.

“I’ve never been to Australia,” she said in an ice-tipped voice.

Scott looked at her, surprised. “Perhaps we met in San Francisco,” he persisted. “I worked in Napa for a couple of years.”

“Sorry, I’m a Georgia girl,” Clare said curtly, cutting him
off so coldly he turned away, embarrassed, and concentrated on his food.

Watching them all, Haigh thought with satisfaction that this party was beginning to feel like old times. Intrigue was in the air.

Juliette was talking with Franny about dogs and about Franny’s work. “Of course I couldn’t live without my own little darlings,” she said, allowing a Pomernian to jump on her lap and sniff her plate while the other two clamored in back of her, clawing at the brocade chair.