Invitation to Provence (24 page)

Clare slithered hurriedly into the strapless white taffeta that showed off her olive velvet skin; black satin mules; a black satin clutch; black hair pulled back in a chignon; a splash of red lipstick. She looked at the result in the mirror, hitched up the top and said with a grin. “The virgin sacrifice is ready.”

Then she turned and saw Franny in her yellow-and-blue flowered skirt and a yellow tank top and she groaned. “Oh no, no, no, no, and NO! You should have
listened
to me, Franny!” she said.

“Too late now,” Franny said, knowing she looked all wrong.

“You’re just not grand enough for Rafaella’s grand soirée,” Clare said, exasperated. “Wait here, I’ll see what I can do,” and she disappeared, mules clacking on the parquet floors, back to her room.

Little Blue and Franny sat on the window seat and waited. Franny glanced worriedly at her watch. The minutes were ticking by. Little Blue swung her legs. Franny frowned. She had no style, that had always been her trouble, and she worried about what Rafaella would think of her. And what about Jake? She looked awful. She groaned and Little Blue patted her hand anxiously.

Then Clare dashed through the door with an armload of clothes. “Take that off,” she commanded, and she hooked Franny into a black silk and lace bustier that pushed up her breasts prettily, though Franny complained they showed too much, and into a fuchsia silk skirt that flared around her knees. Clare’s red suede mules were a size too small but she said it was too late to care about such minor details. She took off Franny’s small pearl studs and put on Juliette’s gift of silver dangly ones, then she swept Franny’s hair hastily on top and anchored it with a dozen bobby pins, letting it half fall in a casually sexy tumble. A deeper lipstick, a flush of pink on her cheeks, and a tiny silver mesh bag on a long chain completed the outfit.

Clare stood back to check her handiwork. “And Cinderella
shall
go to the ball,” she said, grabbing Franny’s hand to stop her from looking at herself in the mirror and protesting she was showing too much skin and that anyway she didn’t look like herself. She shoved Little Blue out the door
in front of them, just as the old clock groaned the witching hour, and together they hurried down the stairs.

I
N HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS
behind the kitchen, Haigh shrugged his arms into Juliette’s extravagant Dunhill multicolored brocade vest. He buttoned it, then tugged it properly into place. He thought Juliette didn’t miss a trick—she’d always known how to please a man. He put on Great-Grandfather Marten’s dark blue velvet
smoking
with the pointed satin lapels and admired himself in the mirror. It looked good with the vest, and the crisp white shirt, black silk bow tie, and black pants made the whole outfit look suitably formal. Hmm, he thought, not bad, considering.

Considering what? Well, considering he was knocking-on in years, and considering this was his first party in more than a decade, and considering … well, considering that tonight he was a happy man. There was even a smile on his face as he emerged onto the terrace, ready to boss around the hired help and anybody else who might cross his path.

J
ULIETTE,
in a silver lamé sheath and a lot of diamonds, shimmered down the stairs, heading for Rafaella’s room. For once in her life she was on time because she needed to be sure her friend was all right. The Pomeranians were shut in her bedroom, their silver food dishes piled with fresh chicken. Later, when the party was in full swing and nobody
would notice, she’d let them out because she couldn’t bear them to miss the fun.

“Rafaella?” she called, tapping on the door, then going in without waiting.

Already dressed in the long midnight blue lace, Rafaella was sitting in front of the Venetian mirror the Lover had given her, staring blankly at her reflection. The delicate scallops disguised her sharp collarbones and the long chiffon sleeves made her look very graceful. She’d clasped a pair of enormous emerald bracelets around each wrist and wound her hair into a simple chignon that showed off her long neck and the heavy emerald and diamond earrings that swung almost to her shoulders.

Juliette caught her breath. There was something almost barbaric about the way Rafaella looked tonight, and for a moment she saw her as the Lover must have seen her all those years ago, a sensual, exciting woman who could stop any man’s heart with her beauty.

“My dear,” she said, rushing to embrace her, “you are truly the belle of the ball.
Chérie,
if we both live to be a hundred you will never lose that magic, while I”—she ran her hands over her plump figure—“well I shall just get fatter and louder and will have to rely on my charm.”

“My, aren’t we the lucky ones?” Rafaella said. “Beauty
and
charm. Not bad for two old
femmes du monde.”

Juliette paused and looked searchingly at her. “You know,” she said, “you never told me what really happened between you and the Lover in the end.”

A flicker of sadness misted Rafaella’s eyes, but she just shook her head. “One day, I will,” she said. Then, trailed by Mimi and Louis, the two old friends walked arm in arm to the grand salon where the guests waited.

J
UST AS THEY ARRIVED,
Jake came running down the stairs, handsome in his tuxedo, then Scott dashed in the front door wearing an old dinner jacket and blue jeans which he said were the most he’d been able to rustle up from his meager wardrobe. Jake took Rafaella’s arm and Scott took Juliette’s and they walked to the salon, where the “family” waited, and where Haigh, a peacock in his colorful silk and velvet plumage, was already serving the last of the Krug.

Rafaella paused at the door to look at her new “family.” “How beautiful they are,” she whispered to Jake. “And just look at my grandchild. She’s transformed.”

But Jake’s stunned eyes were on Franny, a stranger with tumbled hair and a sexy décolletage, all long legs and high heels. Was this the same woman he’d kissed only hours ago? Franny looked up and saw him. Their eyes linked across the room and, seeing this, Rafaella and Juliette exchanged knowing glances. The château was working its old magic, just the way it had done for them.

Little Blue ran to her grandmother and Rafaella took her hands and held them wide, admiring her new pink dress and her sparkly tiara. “Your grandmother Bao Chu would be proud of you tonight,” she said. “And so am I.”

Then everybody was kissing each other in greeting and
there was a smile under Haigh’s aloof expression as he poured more champagne and summoned a white-jacketed waiter to bring the special hors d’oeuvres that, despite the many interruptions in his kitchen, he had made himself. And then Juliette presented Jake with his gift of a red cashmere sweater and Scott with his striped silk tie, delighting them, and Franny gave Rafaella her gift, a photograph of her father and her grandfather, framed in silver, that once again brought Rafaella close to tears, but she pulled herself together and called for a toast.

“Nothing will spoil tonight,” she said, lifting her glass and smiling. “Tonight is for the young. And for the château that you’ve brought back to life.” And they all drank to that, laughing and chattering together, all tensions gone, as though that first terrible night had never happened.

Scott went over to Clare and invited her for a private tour of the winery and, flirting with him under her lashes, Clare said she would like that. Jake stood next to Franny, not touching, though they might as well have been from the heat generated between them.

“You look wonderful,” he said. “I like your dress.”

“Then you must thank Clare. It’s hers.”

“It shows more of you than usual.”

He sounded a bit put out and she smiled impishly. “Perhaps you remember, there is more.”

“Now, now, stop flirting you two and come and greet the guests.” Juliette detached them from each other as the first cars circled the parterre garden and the villagers, dressed to the nines, stepped out, astonished to find their vehicles whisked off to be parked by young men in red jackets.

Then Mademoiselle Doritée arrived on her
moto,
her skirt
hitched up to thigh level, something Haigh considered an unfortunate sight. She wore a long dark green silk dress, cut low over her bosom, which thankfully was masked by a white lace collar. A yellow flower was tucked into her wild, springy hair, though the town stylist had flattened the curls as best she could, but as the night wore on, her hair would revert to its old corkscrew self. She beamed with delight, shaking hands and accepting a glass of champagne, as comfortable as if she went to these kind of elegant affairs every week, because after all, like the others, she had known Rafaella and the château all her life.

“It’s like old times,” the villagers said, beaming and greeting Rafaella with kisses. They said how honored they were to meet her new family, and how lucky she was to have such beautiful “children.” Of course nobody mentioned Alain, though via the village grapevine—meaning the ladies who’d served dinner the previous night—everyone knew what had happened. But they would allow nothing to spoil Rafaella’s soirée.

Jarré jolted up the drive in his old Citroën with the wooden trailer attached. It was the same one his father had used to go to the daily markets, and he’d never seen the need to replace it and still did not. He was wearing his best black suit, dressed up with a dashing red bow tie. Buttoning his jacket, he strode up the steps, greeting people he knew, which was just about everybody except the young man who, to his surprise, parked his vehicle. Rafaella greeted him with affectionate kisses and introduced him to her new family. He bowed respectfully over their hands, but his eyes sought out Clare. Elegant in her white dress, she was as unattainable as a woman from another planet, and he quickly turned away.
Then he heard her voice behind him.
“Bonsoir,
Monsieur Jarré, the famous chef,” she said as he turned, and she deposited quick kisses on both his cheeks.

Jarré felt himself turn a hot red. He said good evening and he was happy to be here, then edged away, accepting a glass of champagne from his old buddy, Haigh, who was right behind him.

“Pretty woman, isn’t she,” Haigh said, with that knowing little smile. As usual, he hadn’t missed a thing.

The Alliers arrived with their ten-year-old daughter, who immediately took Little Blue’s hand and led her out to the terrace to show her where the toad lived in the fountain. Even the old boys from the square were dressed up and had been ferried to the party in a minibus. They sat on a row of gilt chairs, dressed up in ancient suits that were now too big for them, their usually grizzly chins shaved pink and smelling of some citrusy lotion purchased from Mademoiselle Doritée’s store, looking like wallflowers at the ball. Franny went and shook their hands, telling them she was Rafaella’s niece. They smiled and nodded, and some even kissed her hand.

A great deal of champagne was quaffed, as well as lots of Stella beer, and out on the terrace the band, which consisted of keyboards, violin, an accordion, and a guitar played a medley of tunes that always made Franny think of Paris and Edith Piaf.

Haigh checked his watch, then strode to the kitchen to check the caterers, then back into the hall, where he struck a booming note on the brass gong and announced that dinner was being served. Everybody rushed at once to check the seating plan and find their seats.

The single big table ran the length of the terrace, spread with crisp white damask and many brimming pots of white roses, with swags of bay leaves intertwined with sage, rosemary, and lavender and smelling the way heaven surely must. Colored lanterns hung from the trees, and tiny lights were twirled around the Chinese wisteria and curled around the balustrade along the terrace. As night fell, the lights along the façade of the château sprung to life, bathing the house in a soft golden glow, while in front the fountains played and sparkled.

Looking at all the beauty around her, Franny stored the memories. It was the most wonderful evening of her life, here with her own family at her true family home.

Rafaella took her seat at the center of the long table. In the place of honor on her right she had put the mayor of Marten-de-Provence, a farmer who tilled Rafaella’s own fields as well as his own. On her left was her old friend Jarré, and next to him sat Juliette. Franny was farther down, between Monsieur Allier and Jake, while Clare was at the other end, between Scott and the town
notaire,
the lawyer who took care of everybody’s small problems. The old boys were lined up in a row opposite Rafaella, and Little Blue sat next to her new friend, Mireille Allier, while down the table Mademoiselle Doritée had tucked her napkin into her lavish bosom and was already looking around to see what was going to be served.

Bottles of water, as well as Domaine Marten, were lined up in silver coasters. The chargers at each place setting were a pale pink glass dating from the 1920s. The service was vermeil, and the glasses the finest long-stemmed crystal, all unused for many years. Even Haigh was finally satisfied. He
had not let Rafaella down, everything was perfect. The smart caterers from Avignon had done a good job, and he gave a nod of approval to the entrée, a luscious lobster ravioli in a buttery coral sauce embellished with a single spiky pink crayfish.

Music drifted over the terrace, more wine was poured, conversation flowed fast, and laughter rang out. Little Blue and Mireille Allier giggled and held hands—the language barrier held no problems for them. The ravioli plates were mopped with chunks of baguette, then replaced with a new dish, containing exquisite little fillets of sea bass wrapped in lettuce leaves and simmered in white wine. After that came a fricassee of chicken in a green sauce made from fresh sorrel, parsley, and tarragon, served with a delicate squash flower stuffed with a mushroom mousse. The guests murmured their pleasure and dug in heartily while Haigh prowled the terrace like a drill sergeant, inspecting plates, making sure everything tasted as good as it looked. As the evening wore on, the guests helped themselves to even more wine, and the music got a notch louder.