Invitation to Provence (3 page)

Franny found him irresistible, like catnip—one sniff of him and she was crazy. Unfortunately, Marcus lived in Atlanta, where he was in property development, building new condos for singles. He came to L.A. twice a month, then he’d promised to make it over more often. And those first few months were heady. They made love all the time, or at least all the time he could spend with her. He sent her flowers and often called just to say goodnight. Lately, though, he’d been too busy to get out to L.A. so often and then he’d been distant, as though his mind were somewhere other than on her.

Franny still wouldn’t face up to it, but in her heart she knew the writing was on the wall and she wondered whether
it was better just to finish it right now and save her pride. She realized Marcus was behaving badly and that she was stupid to take it, but he was like a bad habit she couldn’t shake. She kept hoping that she was wrong and that he really loved her.

She was so caught up thinking about Marcus, she almost rear-ended the Honda Civic in front of her. This time her sigh came from her gut. The only thing certain in her life was that, as usual, she’d skipped lunch—no time—and she was starving. She only hoped Marcus wouldn’t be critical of her hearty appetite. And dammit, if he was, she would just tell him to get lost. Oops, she’d almost missed the turnoff. She quickly slid the Explorer across two lanes, eliciting a barrage of horn honking as she sped onto Channel Drive and made a jerky stop in front of Giorgio’s.

Grabbing her beat-up brown bag and remembering too late that she’d meant to change it for something smaller and more stylish, she smoothed back her windblown hair, left the car with the valet, and went inside to meet her destiny.

T
HE ITALIAN RESTAURANT
was intimate and crowded, with a buzz of conversation and the clink of wineglasses and the pleasant aroma of pasta and sauces and women’s perfume.

“Mr. Marks’s reservation,” Franny said to the smiling hostess.

The girl checked her list. “Mr. Marks hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to wait for him at the table?”

Franny said she would, squeezing past the close-packed tables to one in the corner. She ordered a glass of Chianti and sat looking around her. She didn’t come here often and she liked watching the smart people who treated this place as their neighborhood restaurant. She studied the young family at the next table. She thought enviously how perfect they were, so beautiful and happy with their two small sons and another baby obviously on the way. They were an example of everything young people were supposed to strive toward, while she … well,
she
was in limbo.

She sipped her wine, studying the menu and thanking god that at least this time she wasn’t the one who was late. The hostess came toward her, escorting a lovely woman, tall and elegant in a black dress, dark hair pulled back, sleek as a cat.

“Ms. Marten?” the woman said. Franny nodded, looking up at her with a puzzled smile. “I’m Clare Marks,” the woman said and a hot thrill of apprehension shot up Franny’s spine. “Marcus’s wife,” the woman added calmly. “He thought it was time we met.”

Franny could feel the blood drain from her face. “His ex-wife,” she managed finally, not wanting to believe the truth.

“His
wife,
Ms. Marten.” Their eyes met, Clare Marks’s brown and curious, Franny’s dark blue with shock.

Bewildered, Franny thought, This can’t be happening to me. Just a couple of hours ago at work
she
had been the woman in charge, the strong one, the one with the comforting arm and the encouraging words. Now she was reduced to zero, at a loss for words. In an instant her love affair with Marcus was rendered meaningless. She stared at her hand
clutching her wineglass so tightly it might break, unwilling to meet Clare Marks’s eyes.

Clare pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. She signaled the waiter, asked for a glass of the pinot grigio, then turned back to Franny.

“Of course Marcus didn’t tell you he was married,” she said calmly. “He never does. He leaves it to me to work it all out. He’s a shit that way but …” She shrugged. “Most men are, don’t you think?”

Franny lifted her eyes and looked at Clare, wondering if she was going to scream at her, accuse her loudly in front of the entire restaurant of being “the other woman.” She glanced wildly around looking for a quick escape but the tables were too close together to make it easy. Instead, for courage, she downed her wine in three big gulps.

The waiter reappeared to take their order. “I suppose we might as well eat,” Clare said, glancing quickly at the menu and ordering the langostinos with fettucini.

The waiter gave her an approving smile—it was the house specialty. He turned expectantly to Franny, who took a deep breath. She couldn’t just sit here and have dinner with Marcus’s
wife.
Of course she couldn’t. She was getting up and leaving
right this minute.
Suddenly anger simmered. Dammit, no! She refused to be outfaced by this bitch.

“I’ll have the potato gnocci with the tomato sauce, please,” she said in a tight little voice she barely recognized as her own. “And another glass of the Chianti,” she added recklessly.

Clare Marks leaned her elbows on the table, hands folded under her chin, staring silently at her. The happy hum of conversation floated around Franny’s head like confetti at a wedding. Her chest hurt. Well, of course it did, that was
where her heart was. Her eyes hurt, too, from staring at this vision that was her lover’s wife. The perfect features, the sleek dark hair pulled back to show her perfect profile, the perfect expensive little black dress, the perfect pearl earrings. And the platinum band embossed with diamonds on the third finger of her left hand.

Suddenly chilled, Franny hitched her blue crochet shawl over her shoulders. She felt unstylish and out of her league. She took another gulp of wine and the dangling earrings she’d thought so pretty clanked loudly against the glass.

“Cute earrings,” Clare Marks said, and Franny glared at her. She knew Clare knew they were cheap and of course she hadn’t really meant it as a compliment. She wondered bleakly why Marcus had even bothered with her when his wife was so beautiful.

“You’re looking at me and wondering why he does it, aren’t you?” Clare said. “I mean, I’m Miss America personified, right? And that’s who I was. Well, Miss Georgia, anyhow. Huh, actually I was more like Miss Hick from Hicksville, an innocent just like you when I met him. Anyhow, Marcus and I have been married for seven years. And
you,
Franny, are the seventh woman I’ve had to say good-bye to. How’s that for a record?”

Franny just sat there silently, stiff as a corpse in the throes of rigor mortis, aware that Clare was looking pityingly at her. Then Clare drained her glass and said, “The hell with it. Why don’t we just get a bottle? After all, this is a kind of celebration. Freedom for you, and—since I’ve left Marcus—freedom for me, too. And this time I really mean it. I won’t stay with that seven-timing, adulterous son of a bitch any longer. Not only that, Franny Marten, I’m gonna take him for
every cent I can get, and trust me, honey, it will be
a lot.”
A grin lit her lovely face. Her brown eyes sparkled and she suddenly looked like a mischievous little girl.

“Did Marcus really send you to tell me this?” Franny asked.

“He sure did. The prick never could do his own dirty work, but from now on he’ll have to.
You,
Franny Marten, are my last assignment. I’ve quit.”

Franny took a big gulp of the wine. “Well, fuck Marcus Marks,” she said too loudly, and the young marrieds with kids at the next table turned to glare at her.

Clare was forking up her fettucini like a starving pro-footballer straight off the field after a hard game. “Tuck in,” she said. “Love—or the lack of it—can make a woman hungry.”

Franny took a bite of the gnocci. It tasted great. “Maybe you’re right, Mrs. Marks,” she said, choking on the name.

“Have a drink of water,” Clare said helpfully, “and of course I’m right.”

Clare had not been exactly truthful with Franny about her past. In fact, it was a past she didn’t care to remember. But Franny was no dummy the way she had been. Franny was a veterinarian, educated, successful, dedicated, while
she
had had to learn on the job, so to speak.

She leaned forward, looking into Franny’s eyes. “You and I hardly know each other,” she said, “but somehow I feel as though I’ve known you for years.”

“Oh my god.” Franny gasped, shocked. “That’s exactly what Marcus said when we first met.”

“I’ll bet he also said, ‘We must have met in some other life,’ ” Clare said, and Franny stared at her. “Oh yes,” Clare
added. “He said that to me too. It’s his usual come-on line. Marcus is nothing if not predictable.”

She delicately pulled a crayfish apart, devoured it in a single bite, then licked her fingers. “So, what are you going to do now? You want to confront him? Marcus hates that you know. That’s why he sends
me
to do the dirty work. He’ll hide from you at every turn.”

Tears clung to Franny’s lashes. “Why did you stay with him when you knew what was going on?”

“For the same reason millions of other women do, honey. Sometimes we call it love, sometimes infatuation. Either way, a man can be like a disease—one you never recover from.” Clare’s smile was rueful as she met Franny’s eyes. “All I can say is, I’m sorry.”

“I
hate
him.” Franny took another gulp of wine. “I
hate
him for deceiving me, for stringing me along, for being a liar and a cheat.” That steely inner core surfaced now and she was facing the truth head-on. “Anyhow, I knew,” she admitted. “In my heart I knew it was over.”

Clare stared at her, surprised. “Well, bravo for you, Franny Marten. I took you for the doormat type. Obviously I was wrong.”

Franny shoved the tears away with her finger, feeling suddenly better. “I think I need some tiramisu,” she said firmly.

“Of course, something sweet, just the thing for a cracked heart,” Clare agreed. “Trust me, it’s not broken,” she added. “Marcus does not have the capacity to break a woman’s heart, only to cause a little damage. You need what’s known as ‘a soul’ to break someone’s heart, and Marcus definitely does not have ‘a soul.’ ” She sighed. “And nor, I suppose, do I since I’ve yet to break
anybody’s
heart.”

Franny dug her spoon viciously into the creamy tiramisu, wishing it were Marcus’s eyes. “Well,
I
certainly do have a soul, and I intend to keep it.”

“Hmm. You do that,” Clare said. “Keep your soul intact. In the end, it’s all you’ve got.”

They finished the tiramisu in silence as the waiter poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Clinging to the shreds of her dignity, Franny said, “I want to thank you for what you just did. I certainly never expected to be sitting here with Marcus’s wife.” She stared thoughtfully into the depths of her wineglass. “The odd thing is that … Well, you’re honest and straightforward, and you were
kind
to me. To tell you the truth, Clare, I like you. In different circumstances, I think we might have liked each other.”

Clare knew exactly what she meant. “Honey, it’s just the contrast with the hard time Marcus has been giving you lately, always putting you on your mettle, always getting at you for being late or not looking right.” She held up a hand as Franny gasped in recognition. “It’s what he does with all his women. It’s part of his control-freak sickness, his let’s-play-get-the-girl. Let’s tell her she’s great, beautiful, sexy, fun … then let’s bring her down to size. All the way down until she’s somewhere way beneath him, leaving Marcus on top and in a very superior position. Which is exactly where he likes to be.” She shrugged. “Of course then the game is over and it’s time to find a new prey.”

Clare’s eyes softened as they met Franny’s hurt look. She gripped her hand across the table, “Don’t blame yourself, honey. I’ve been there too. He’s just a bad guy and what you need, lovely Franny Marten, is a salt-of-the-earth kind of man, a man who will look after you, a man who cares about
your happiness, a man you need never worry about cheating on you. Actually, I need a man like that, too.” She sighed. “But where do you suppose women find them?”

“God knows.” Franny glanced at the happy couple at the next table, collecting their kids and their belongings, ready to leave. “But they’re obviously out there somewhere,” she added wistfully.

Clare eyed her, relieved. “I thought this might turn out to be a massacre, but you took it really well. You know what, Franny? We’re just a couple of innocent small-town girls at heart, right?” Under the table, Clare crossed her fingers. What she had said wasn’t strictly true either, though it was where she had started out.

A sense of relief made Franny smile. She threw back her head and drained her glass. Watching her, Clare said, “Better let me give you a lift home.” She knew how much Franny had drunk and how upset she still was. “I’ve got a limo waiting.”

Franny couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden in a limo. It must have been at her high school prom. Still, she had her pride. She couldn’t allow Marcus’s wife to drive her home. “That’s okay. I’ve got my car outside,” she said.

“Yeah, I know, but we’ve both drunk a lot of wine and
my
car has a driver. Why not get your keys from the valet and tell him you’ll pick up yours tomorrow?”

Franny was suddenly too tired to argue. She fished in her satchel for her credit card to pay the check but Clare got there first.

“This one’s on Marcus,” she said, and they both sniggered as Clare signed his name with a flourish. Then, arm in arm, with
ciaos
and
thank-yous,
they headed out the door.

A
SHORT WHILE LATER,
they were sitting in the long black limo outside Franny’s house. As usual, she had forgotten to leave a light on and she thought the house suddenly looked very small and dark and kind of lonely.

“Well it’s ‘home,’ ” she said defensively. “My friends tell me it’s more Oregon than L.A., which is probably because that’s exactly who I am, still more Oregon than L.A.”