Invitation to Provence (32 page)

She got up and went into the garden. The only sounds were the chirpings of the sleepy birds in the pines and the soft crunch of the sandy path under her bare feet. It was still warm and the plants had begun to release their night scents, the jasmine and the roses and sea pinks and the fruits, and she was glad that Lucas had come back to this paradise to find Rafaella.

At last, she went back indoors, locking the big front door behind her. Criminal had found a cool spot on the tiled kitchen floor, where he lay on his back, four paws in the air, sleeping. And upstairs Little Blue was also asleep on her back, arms and legs akimbo, snoring gently.

Leaving the door to the veranda open to catch the breeze, Franny lay naked on the bed. She closed her eyes and, lulled by the night sounds and the warm breeze, she slept, happy in
the knowledge that tomorrow would be another wonderful day, and a day closer to seeing Jake again.

She slept so soundly she didn’t hear the light footsteps on the veranda, didn’t see the man standing at the open French doors, looking at her as she slept naked. Didn’t see the smile on his face. In fact, Franny didn’t know anything more until she was awakened by the sound of dishes rattling and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen as Janine prepared breakfast.

T
HEY HAD JUST COME
back from another sun-filled day at the beach and were looking forward to a siesta when the phone rang. Franny grabbed it on the third ring.

“I was missing you,” Jake said, and she melted at the mere sound of his voice.

“Me, too,” she said softly. She felt as if she was alone with Jake.

“I love it here,” she said, “but I’d love it a lot more with you,” and then she told him about their day at the beach and that she loved him and wanted him here so they could take a siesta together. And he said as soon as he’d finished in New York he would fly to Nice and they’d be taking all their siestas together. “But there’s another place I want to take you to,” he said, “a funky little auberge near Saint-Tropez called the Hotel
Riviera. The owners, Lola and Jack Farrar, are such a cute couple. I’m sure you’ll like them. In fact, why don’t you take Little Blue and try its magic for yourself, just for a night. Trust me, you’ll fall in love.”

“I am in love,” she said softly as he rang off.

The next day they drove to Saint-Tropez. She followed the Ramatuelle road until she came to a flowery sign saying
WELCOME TO THE HOTEL RIVIERA
.

Franny followed the narrow lane through the trees, across a tiny spit of land, until she came to an old pink villa whose terrace overlooked the Mediterranean. Lush gardens led to a sandy beach dotted with marine blue umbrellas and sunny yellow loungers, where a few golden people were peacefully enjoying the sun. A small dinghy was tied up at the wooden jetty and, fifty yards out in the bay, an old black sloop swung at anchor.

A pretty woman about Franny’s age with a mop of taffy-colored hair stood on the hotel steps smiling at them. “Hi, or should I say
bonjour?”
she called. “I’m Lola Farrar. Are you looking for a room?”

Franny said that she was, and then she introduced herself and told her that Jake had recommended them. “In fact he said we shouldn’t miss it,” she added.

“Ah, Jake Bronson, the handsome mystery man,” Lola said with a grin. “He beats my husband at backgammon every night—
and
they play for money, five euros a game. I swear Jake’s never yet had to pay his bill at the end of his stay.” She glanced shrewdly at Franny. “You know him well?” When Franny admitted she did, Lola said, “I thought so from the glow.” Then they went indoors, where she showed her around and checked which rooms were available.

“I have two,” Lola said, studying her book. “There’s the Colette and the Bardot. I named all the rooms for French artistes and writers, not that there are many of them—rooms, I mean. Just eight to be precise, but they are all different.”

Little Blue came bounding through the door with Criminal tugging at the lead, and Lola Farrar said of course they took dogs, especially if it was Jake’s. “He’ll probably get along with our own,” she said. “He’s called Bad Dog for obvious reasons, and I think they’ve both got the same street-bred look about them. Anyhow, I think Colette is the room for you. It’s slightly larger and there’s twin beds. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The apricot-colored room with its brass beds canopied in white muslin, its immaculate linens, tiled floors, and soft rugs was just perfect. Little Blue pushed back the iron shutters with a clang. “Look, oh look,” she said, “there’s figs growing right outside and I can see children on the beach… . Oh, let’s go, Franny, do let’s go.”

Lola told them to go ahead—she would feed Criminal and find him a cool place in the kitchen. So they threw on their bathing suits and ran downstairs, through the terraced garden brimming with blossoming plants and shaded by those wonderful South of France umbrella pines, down the little wooden stairs and over the rocks onto the soft, sandy beach.

Franny left Little Blue safely splashing in the tiny wavelets with a couple of other kids while she swam, enjoying the way the water slid, cool and silky, over her body. She sighed with pleasure, turning to float on her back, staring up at the bluest of skies, thinking of Jake and how they would come here together someday. After a while she swam out to the black sloop. She laughed when she saw its name:
Bad Dog.
Using her old yardstick, she knew Jack Farrar had to be a good guy.

That night she and Little Blue dined on the hotel terrace with the view of the sea and the lights of Saint-Tropez glimmering like a crystal necklace around the bay. Happy and feeling a long way from Your Local Veterinary Clinic, Franny sipped the icy cold Paul Signac rosé wine Lola had recommended, telling her that Signac was a famous artist who’d lived in Saint-Tropez in the early days. They ate grilled
crevettes,
the large ones Lola told them were called
bouquets,
and a rack of lamb from the foothills of the Alpilles and lavender
crème brûlée,
which they said was heaven. Immediately after dinner, Little Blue dived into the bed nearest the window and was asleep in minutes.

Franny joined Lola on the terrace, where she was introduced to her handsome husband, Jack Farrar, who said, “Tell Jake I’ll be sure to beat him at backgammon next time he’s here, and that’s a threat.” Since he was at that moment being definitively beaten by a tall, glamorous red-haired guest named “Red” Shoup, that didn’t seem like much of a threat to Franny.

She chatted with Miss Nightingale, an Englishwoman who was a dead ringer for Queen Elizabeth, about, of all surprising things, Scotland Yard detectives. It turned out Miss N, as she was known, had been married to one. Miss N also told her the story of how Lola had almost lost the Hotel Riviera to an unscrupulous billionaire a couple of years before.

Her head swimming with wine and stories, Franny slept like a log that night, and she felt sad when they left for Cap d’Antibes the next morning, with hugs and kisses and promises to return with Jake.

.   .   .

A
LAIN HAD WATCHED THEM
putting their bags in the car and he’d cursed out loud as they drove off to Saint-Tropez, afraid they were leaving before he could carry out his plan. Panicked, he’d climbed onto the upstairs veranda and into Franny’s room. He’d breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her things were still there. Then he’d gone down to the kitchen to inspect the stove. He checked its burners, saw that it was fueled by natural gas and not propane, then he’d let himself out of the kitchen door and locked it behind him. He went to pick up his Vespa from the bamboo thicket, drove into Antibes, got his car from the public parking building, and drove at top speed toward Cannes, headed for the casino and the clubs. While the mice were away, the cat might as well play he said to himself, smiling at the twist on the old saying. Might as well have fun while he bided his time.

C
LARE KNEW IT WAS
now or never. Her future would be decided today. She showered and changed into the simplest thing she owned, a white cotton dress, high at the neck and low in the back, with a soft, full skirt that rippled girlishly around her knees. She put on a pair of wedge espadrilles, brushed her dark hair into a ponytail, and tied it with an orange string left over from the pastry-shop package, where they would tie even a couple of cookies in elegant paper and ribbon. She took a
long look in the mirror. “This is it, girl,” she said to herself.

Un-made-up and in the virginal white dress, she looked a bit like a darker version of the innocent Franny. She clipped gold hoops into her ears, then decided against them. She dabbed on a little of the lavender scent she’d bought at Mademoiselle Doritée’s, stuff made locally and meant for tourists. It cost only a couple of euros, and never in a million years would she have worn it at home, but here, in the countryside, it was perfect. She tried on a straw hat, decided against it, and instead tied a blue kerchief over her head, Jackie O–style.

She picked up the English/French dictionary she’d been studying, plus the little notebook in which she’d written some useful and appropriate phrases, and put them in her pocket.

Still she hesitated. So. Okay. Now she was ready. If she hung about any longer she might change her mind. She grabbed the car keys and ran downstairs, stopping in the hall to see who was there, and breathing a sigh of relief that no one was around to ask where she was going.

She didn’t see Haigh peeking from the dining room just in time to see her start up the car and take off too fast down the drive. He wondered where she was going but figured he already knew. Haigh always knew what was going on at the château.

It was just after two o’clock and, as usual in France, everything was closed. The village square was deserted, as was the Café des Colombes. Even the old codgers were gone from the benches, and the dogs had retreated into the cool of the alleys.

Clare parked under the trees, got out, smoothed her white cotton skirt, took a deep breath, then marched determinedly across the cobblestones to the café.

Jarré was mopping his
zinc
when the doorbell jangled. His mustache bristled and his eyes opened wide as he took in the
vision in white. He put down his cloth and came out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on the apron slung around his hips.

“Clare,” he said, allowing his dark gypsy eyes to express his admiration. “Lunch is already finished, but perhaps I can find something if you are hungry.”

By now, Clare’s ear was tuned perfectly to Jarré’s Provençal twang. “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“Eh bien,
a drink perhaps? A glass of wine? Ricard? Champagne even?” He’d open his best for her, give her anything she wanted.

Clare thought opening the champagne would probably be premature and she shook her head,
“Non, merci.
Jarré, I need to talk to you.”

He gave her a look with those big, sympathetic brown eyes that made her curl up inside.
“Bien sûr,
Madame Clare.”

“Clare,” she said firmly.

He nodded.
“Clare.”

She perched on a green vinyl barstool, leaning an elbow on the bar, wondering how to begin. He came and sat next to her, a big man, a warm man, a man with heart
… a salt-of-the-earth-type man.

Realizing that, at this moment, gestures mattered more than words, she reached for his hand. She held it in both hers and leaned closer. “Kiss me, Jarré,” she said, smiling at the look of surprise in his beautiful eyes. For such a big man, his lips were gentle on hers, sweet and searching, as though he were tasting a great wine.

“Clare,” he murmured, and then he put his arms around her and kissed her again. She slid off the barstool and he caught her and held her close. “Ah, Clare,” he murmured
again, kissing her some more. Her blue kerchief slipped over one ear and she pulled it off and shook her hair free. Jarré put his hand to her hair, letting the smooth strands slide through his fingers, still looking deep into her eyes. Clare wanted to die of happiness, but she couldn’t allow herself, not yet, because after all, that happiness might not belong to her.

“I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you,” Jarré said in French, but Clare understood it in her heart.

“And I love you,” she said.

To her surprise, he frowned. “Clare, you are a rich woman who lives in big cities in America,” he said somberly. “I am only a village café owner. I’ve never even been to Paris. How can I ask a woman like you to marry me? Besides,” he added sadly, “I know you are already married.”

“Not for much longer,” Clare said firmly. “And I’m certainly not a rich woman. And of course you can ask me, but before you do, I want to tell you something.”

She stood back from him, arms stiffly at her side, chin in the air, keeping her dignity. “Look at me, Jarré,” she said. “Because I want you to understand that what you see is not exactly what you get.” She paused, took the notebook from her pocket, and looked up the French phrases she needed.

“Jarré,” she said, a little breathlessly because she was very nervous, “when I was very young I was very poor, as poor as the migrant workers here, and I worked in the fields just like them. I couldn’t stand it, I needed to escape badly, I just knew there was another world out there, a beautiful, laughing world meant for me. But to escape I needed money.” She stopped and looked at him. “And there was only one way for an uneducated, pretty girl like me to make money.” She looked him in the eye and said, “So I took it.”

Jarré said nothing, just looked solemnly back at her.

Clare went on, half in English, half in stumbling French, telling the story exactly as she’d told it to Franny. She left nothing out. When she’d finished, she took a deep breath and stood, eyes closed, waiting for him to say something—even though she was sure it would be just one word: goodbye. But still Jarré said nothing, and then she knew it was over. Lips pressed tight to stop from crying, she turned and headed for the door.