One of Those Malibu Nights (24 page)

She put up a nervous hand to touch it. She said, “Jacqui in the village cut it properly for me.”

A smile lit his lean face. “Sorry I was so rude about it at
the Bistro,” he said. “I didn’t mean it quite the way it came out.”

She nodded again. “That’s okay. I probably deserved it.”

“Nobody deserves to be laughed at.” He stood looking at her as she shuffled the roses from one hand to the other.

“My grandparents were farmers,” she said, surprising herself since she had never met them and only vaguely remembered the story passed down in a more sober moment by her mother. “Sharecroppers really. Tobacco. They were from the South.”

“Well, I’m a sort of farmer,” he said. “Tell me, Mary Raycheck, have you ever seen a winery?” She shook her head, no. “Then would you like to see one now? I’ll personally give you the ‘Grand Tour.’ Come on,” he said, walking back down the lane to where a battered old Jeep was parked.

The dog followed them. “His name is Dearie,” Allie said, hurrying to keep up with Montfort’s long-legged stride. “I found him abandoned at an autoroute café.”

“You’re a dog lover then?”

Allie thought about Fussy. “Not all dogs,” she said. And then she remembered Pirate. “Though there is one other special one I’m in love with.”

They took off at a fast clip down the narrow lane. “I’ve never heard of anyone being ‘in love’ with a dog,” Robert
said, swinging onto a smaller road. In the distance a group of pale gold stone buildings rose to meet the sky.

Nor had Allie, and now she wondered if what she had really been thinking of was Mac Reilly. Was she in love with him? Did she still love Ron? And who exactly was this attractive stranger she was drawn to right this moment? She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Or was it that she was simply a lonely woman on the lookout for love?

Behind them, balanced on the narrow backseat, Dearie gave a complaining growl as Robert swung the Jeep under a sign that said in elaborate black script,
Château de Montfort
. Underneath were the words
Appellation Contrôlée
.

“Not many wines in this area are designated
appellation contrôlée,”
Robert told her. “I’m lucky enough to have one of the best
terroirs
, the best pieces of land in the area. This hillside is perfect for the grapes.”

They walked into the winery where he showed her the enormous new stainless steel vats that, he said, compared very well with his older wooden ones. Then he took her into the
cave
where he punctured a cask and drew off a sample of wine for her to taste.

“This is still too young,” he said when she tried it, though Allie thought it good. But then he said, “Now, taste this. It will be bottled next month and out on the market.”

She tasted again, nodding her enthusiastic approval.
Since she had been in France she was beginning to get the hang of this wine thing.

“I’m proud of it. It’s one of my best,” Robert said, taking her elbow as they walked outside. They stood under a striped canvas awning, looking at each other. Then he said, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a beautiful woman?”

Allie shoved the big square-framed glasses further up her nose. Remembering her other life, when she had been famous for her looks, she smiled. “Not for a long time,” she admitted.

“Hmmmm, then whenever I see you, I must remember to tell you.” His eyes linked with hers. “And I’ll also tell you that behind those glasses your eyes are the bluest I have ever seen. The exact color of the Mediterranean at the very beginning of summer.”

Allie felt the blush rise through the back of her neck to the tip of her head. “Thank you, monsieur,” she said politely.

His laughter echoed around the paved courtyard, causing Dearie to cock his head wonderingly to one side. “After that,” he said, “I must ask if you would do me the honor of having lunch with me. There’s a café just down the road. It’s simple: omelets, salads, that sort of thing.”

Soon, they were sitting on the terrace, sipping glasses of the local wine—not Robert’s, too expensive for this little café, he told her—and he was asking her to tell him all about herself. Who was she? Where was she from? What did she do before she became a waitress at Petra’s bistro?

She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. “I hate talking about myself,” she said quickly. “I’ll tell you only that I’m married, that my husband is in love with another woman, and that I’m getting a divorce.”

“Foolish man,” he said calmly. “To let a woman of your caliber go.”

“And how do you know what my ‘caliber’ is?” She put down the glass. He was, she thought, almost too handsome. He probably had a dozen gorgeous Paris blondes running after him.

He lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “I’m not sure. It’s just something about you. It’s reflected in your eyes … a kind of simplicity, I think. And of course, there’s your beauty.” He studied her blushing face a little longer. “An honest kind of beauty I would call it,” he said finally. And to her astonishment he leaned across the table and took her hand. Then he bent his head and kissed it.

“Now,” he said, releasing her hand, all practicality again. “What shall we order? I recommend the
omelette aux cèpes
—the wild mushroom omelet. They’re good at this time of year. And a little salad?”

“Sounds great to me,” she agreed. “And then it’s your turn to tell me all about yourself.”

Over their leisurely lunch, sitting on the terrace of the Café Jeannette, Robert told her that he had inherited the Château Montfort from his grandfather when he was only twenty years old. “It’s been my home ever since,” he said.

“Lucky you,” Allie said, thinking of her own soulless house in Bel Air. “I wish I could find a place here I could call home.”

“A cottage with wisteria climbing the walls and roses of your own, in a garden with a little brook running through it,” he said, and she laughingly agreed.

And then he surprised her and said, “I know just the place. Come on, let’s go look at it.”

The cottage was hidden down a rutted white lane where brambles and blackberries glistened in the hedgerows. It listed drunkenly to one side and part of the roof had caved in. The gardens had grown wild in a riot of roses and weeds and a rain bucket stood under a crumbling drainpipe leading from the blue-tiled roof. But it fronted onto a small pond fed by the bubbling little stream Allie had dreamed of, and over which glittering, many-colored dragonflies danced.

The cottage was known as Les Glycines, named, Robert Montfort told her, for the wonderful old purple-flowering wisteria that twisted over the stone walls and an arbor in the back, and Allie suddenly wanted it more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life before, except for wanting to be an actress.

She peered through the windows at the dusty old-fashioned rooms, in dire need of restoration, thinking of what she could do to it.

Of course she could not even think about buying it. She was living a lie, and one day soon she would have to move on. No, this cottage was meant for some happy young couple who could breathe new life into it.

She thanked Robert Montfort for showing it to her, but said it was not for her.

Still she found herself returning there on her morning walks, peering again into the dusty windows and sitting by the dragonfly pond watching Dearie chase the fast-jumping frogs that he never caught, though he somehow always managed to end up chest deep in the mud. Later, Allie would have to turn the hose on him, laughing as he shook himself, sending her running and almost as wet as he was.

Finally, she called Sheila and told her about it.

“I’ve been so worried,” Sheila said. “Where on earth are you?”

“In a French village, staying in a B & B manor house, working as a waitress and kitchen help in a simple country bistro, with my new dog, and looking longingly at a broken-down cottage by a pond …”

“Oh my God, you’ve gone native,” Sheila said, but there was a relieved laugh in her voice.

“I think I have,” Allie agreed, with that new lift to her voice that made her sound the way she had when Sheila had first met her, when she was young and optimistic and un-scarred by life.

“I feel so good here,” Allie said. “It’s so peaceful and uncomplicated, and nobody cares who I am.”

“So where are you exactly?”

“Oh, in the French countryside I’m not going to tell you exactly where, Sheila, because then if someone like Ron or Mac Reilly or the tabloids asks, you won’t have to lie.”

Sheila sighed. “Okay, I understand. So, are you buying the cottage?”

“I wish …” Allie’s voice trailed off. Then, “Have you heard anything about Ron?”

Sheila thought quickly; she didn’t want to be the one to tell Allie that her missing husband was wanted for questioning in a murder.

“No one knows where he is,” she said, evading the issue. “I know Reilly was in France though, looking for you.”

“Really?” Allie said, pleased. Then in a burst of confidence she said, “There’s a man here, the local squire they call him. He owns a vineyard …”

“Do I interpret that to mean you’re interested?” Sheila asked shrewdly.

“Well, not exactly… . At least, I don’t think so.” Allie was not sure herself about her attraction to Robert Montfort. “I have to go now,” she said. “Time to put on my apron, I’m expected at the Bistro.”

“Oh my God,” Sheila said. “I don’t believe it, Allie Ray, back where she started, as a waitress.”

Allie laughed. “Hey, maybe I’ll be promoted to hostess soon,” she said. “I love you, Sheila, just keep on being my friend.”

“Of course I will, you know that,” Sheila said as they rang off.

Petra was reclining in her massive brass bed, the one with the huge flying sphinx finials that she’d told Allie came from Egypt and had once been owned by King Farouk. Since Petra had found it cheap in Bergerac’s Sunday flea market, this was unlikely, but still Allie was inclined to believe her. After all, who else but Petra would own such a fantastical thing?

Pale green satin pillows were heaped behind Petra’s head, while the matching coverlet kept sliding annoyingly onto the floor. Petra told Allie satin was always a slippery problem but she just loved the way it looked. A red bandanna was wrapped around her swollen jaw and tied in a perky bow on top of her head. That morning she’d had an
aching wisdom tooth removed. It had hurt like hell and now her face looked like a football.

“Just look at my eyes,” she wailed to Allie, as best she could through tight-shut lips.

“They’ve disappeared,” Allie said, offering her a glass of iced orange juice with a straw, which was all Petra had said she could manage.

Petra pushed aside the covers and wobbled to her feet. She sat down again quickly on the edge of the bed. Had she been able to frown, she would have. “I have to get to the Bistro, start prepping the food for tonight.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” Allie swung Petra’s legs back onto the bed. She took off the annoying slippery satin coverlet, straightened the sheet and pulled a blanket over her. Walking to the window, she closed the shutters, turned a lamp on low, then went back and inspected Petra again.

“We’ll have to close the Bistro then,” Petra mumbled, and despite her slitty eyes Allie could tell she was looking hard at her. “Unless
you
could take over for me, of course.”

“What?
You mean
me? Run the restaurant?”
Allie was stunned. All she had done so far was follow orders, chopping, slicing, sautéing and serving.

“Why not? You’ve been there long enough to know how it all works. If you keep the menu simple: chicken, chops, grilled fish, that sort of thing, you’ll be fine. And you know
how to make sauces now. You can get Caterine to make the salads and the veg. Gazpacho’s a breeze, you do it in the blender. That or a goat cheese salad, or quails’ eggs, for starters. A fruit pie for dessert—there’s a couple in the freezer. With ice cream. Or simply berries and cream. The suppliers will have delivered the fresh produce.”

Allie said nothing and despite the swelling Petra managed a frown. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid,” she said. “A woman like you.”

“A woman like me?” Allie repeated, sounding definitely scared.

“A woman like
you
, who can leave her cheating husband and come to France alone in search of a new life. I would have thought a woman like that could do almost anything. Including running a kitchen in a small local restaurant, where she’s worked for the past few weeks.”

Sitting up, Petra inserted the straw into her swollen pout of a mouth and took a sip of the cold juice.

Allie said nothing. If she took over the Bistro, everything would depend on her. But Petra needed to make money to keep going. Closing for a few nights would make a severe dent in her budget. And besides, Petra was her friend. Now it was Allie’s turn to help her.

“Do it, love,” Petra said, sinking back into her pale green pillows and attempting to look fragile, even though she knew she resembled a small hippo. Facially that is.

“So okay,” Allie said in a small voice. She hoped she was doing the right thing.

Of course the assistant chef, the young Brit, chose that night not to show up. He’d left a phone message saying he’d gone back to England. “Urgent family business,” he’d said.

“Isn’t it always?” Petra said resignedly, when Allie phoned from the Bistro to tell her. “Never mind, love, you’ve got jolly little Caterine to help you.”

“Jolly little Caterine” was slow and methodical. Watching her languidly washing lettuces and snipping the tips off
haricots verts
, Allie despaired. There was nothing for it but to plunge in the deep end and prep the food herself.

She took the fruit pies out of the freezer and set them to defrost. She hulled a pile of tiny
fraises des bois
, absently popping a few into her mouth as she went. It was like eating fruity perfume, and she knew they would be wonderful with a touch of Cointreau and maybe some thick rich cream. She found tubs of Carte Noir ice cream in the freezer, the
chocolat gâteau
flavor she already knew was to die for, and
café
as well as vanilla. So much for dessert.