Sunset in St. Tropez (21 page)

“Do you want me to come with you?” Diana volunteered, but John said they'd be fine. Or at least he hoped Pascale would be, once they gave her some medicine. And Eric and Diana were relieved to see that, no matter how rotten she felt, she didn't actually look that bad. It was obviously just a bug. Although John had an unspoken terror that it might be something worse, and once they got home, he wanted their doctor to go over her with a fine-toothed comb.

But they were all leaving in another week, and the medicine should hold her till then. He didn't have much faith in French doctors, or in anything in France.

And he regaled Pascale with his hatred of all things French on their way to the doctor. By the time they got there, she was ready to strangle him. And while they were waiting for the doctor, she threw up again and started to cry, which completely unnerved John.

“I feel so awful,” she said mournfully. “I"ve been sick for a week.” “I know, baby. We'll get some medicine for you, and you'll be fine.” And as they sat there, waiting, he even thought about taking her home to New York.

They ushered her in to an examining room finally, took her vital signs, looked into her eyes and at her tongue. They took her blood pressure, and weighed her, and a nurse in a ragged white dress and sandals wrote it all down. Nurses in France were not as pristine as in New York, but Pascale was used to it and didn't care as much as John.

And when the doctor saw her finally, he asked her a long list of questions, nodded a lot, jotted some things down, and drew some blood, and then told Pascale he'd call her at home. He told her he didn't want to give her any medication until he reviewed the test results. And she left, knowing as little as she had when she'd come.

“What did he say?” John asked worriedly when she emerged finally. She'd been gone for more than an hour, and he'd been worried sick about her.

“Not much,” she said honestly. “He said he'd call me when he got the results.”

“Results of what?” John looked panicked. “He took some blood.”

“That's it? That's all? What kind of moron is he? Eric said he should give you antibiotics. Let me talk to him.” He was ready to attack the nurse at the desk, but Pascale insisted that they go home.

“He's not going to give me anything till he gets the results. That makes sense. He thought it might be salmonella. I may have to come back and give them some samples, depending on what he finds in my blood.”

“Oh for chrissake, Pascale. This is a third world country.”

“No, it's not,” she said, looking insulted, “it's my home. You can insult my mother if you want, but not France, Ça, c"est trop!” That's too much! But he was still complaining loudly all the way back to the car. And when they got back to the villa, he told Eric what a fool he thought the doctor was.

“Why don't you just prescribe something for her?” John looked at him with pleading eyes, but Eric shook his head.

“I don't think they'd even honor my script here, and to be honest with you, John, he's right. He shouldn't give her anything till he knows what she's got. It won't take long.”

“The hell it won't. This is France.”

But as it turned out, the nurse called Pascale the next day. The doctor wanted to see her again, and they had time for her that afternoon. John wanted to go with her, but Pascale said she was fine. She actually felt better than she had the day before. And in the end, Gwen went with her, she wanted to do some errands in town, and the two women drove off in the Deux Chevaux. And it was nearly dinnertime when they got home. John was worried sick by then, but both Gwen and Pascale looked happy, and confessed that they'd gone shopping after Pascale saw the doctor, which hadn't taken long.

“You could have called at least!” John scolded Pascale, and then asked her what the doctor had done, and she said not much. He said she was fine.

“Did he give you antibiotics this time?” He looked more furious by the minute. He had really been worried about her all afternoon, and she herself realized now that she should have called, but she had had a good time with Gwen, and she thought John would be busy with their friends. As it turned out, he had sat in the house all afternoon waiting for her.

“He said I don't need antibiotics. It'll take care of itself,” she said simply, anxious to show Diana what she and Gwen had bought. They'd found a new dress shop and nearly bought them out.

“I think this doctor is a complete asshole,” John said in a total fury, and a minute later, he stomped upstairs. And Pascale followed. She knew how concerned he was about her.

They stayed in their room for a long time, talking, and came down to dinner late that night. Gwen had already said that she would cook for all of them, and she was actually a better cook than Pascale. She even managed to talk Agathe into helping, and produced a very creditable cheese souffle, and a gigot, a leg of lamb, which she cooked French style, while hopping over Agathe's herd of barking dogs. And when John and Pascale came down for dinner, he looked more relaxed than he had in days. He was surprisingly amorous with Pascale, who actually made him admit, after his fourth glass of wine, that he really did like France.

“Can I record this?” Robert teased him. “We'll have it typed up, and he can sign it as a statement. What about Pascale's mother? Do you like her too?”

“Of course not. I"m drunk, not crazy.” They all laughed at him, and he sat back, smoking his cigar, and holding Pascale's hand. She seemed better than she had in days. And everyone relaxed and had a pleasant evening. Eric and Diana were on good terms, and Robert and Gwen looked very much in love. It was a good group of good people, and fast friends. And despite the new face in their midst, everyone seemed to have adjusted. After nearly two weeks with them, they had finally accepted Gwen. More than that, they had come to like her, and by the end of the evening, they were all talking about renting Coup de Foudre again the following year.

“I"m bringing plumbing fixtures and parts from New York next time,” John said firmly. He had had a running battle with his toilet ever since they'd arrived. Pascale said it gave him something to do while he complained.

“It's been a great three weeks,” they all agreed. Everyone had finally relaxed, and they all seemed to be on the right track. Robert and Gwen with their budding romance, and Eric and Diana with their marital repairs, and John had managed to survive nearly choking on a piece of sausage. There had been no casualties, no losses, no one missing in action. It was a definite success.

And the last week sped by them all too quickly. They swam, they sailed, they talked, they slept. Pascale was still dragging her stomach bug around, but she seemed better, and John was less frantic about it. All they could think of in the last few days was how much they hated to go home.

They cooked lobsters on their last night, and two of them got loose and attacked Agathe's dogs. She ran screaming from the kitchen with all of them under her arms, and Gwen was left to fend for herself. She had volunteered to do the cooking, as usual, as long as the others helped her clean up. They had dinner in the garden that night, at the only decent table they'd salvaged when they got there, Diana set it with a tablecloth she'd bought to take home, and Pascale did the flowers. And when they sat down, Eric poured the champagne. The dinner Gwen had prepared was exquisite, and had been delicious. They were savoring every moment of it afterward, as the sun set slowly, and John lit a cigar, and Robert poured Chateau d"Yquem. John nearly fainted as he drank it, knowing what it had cost.

“It's a sin to drink anything this expensive,” he said, loving every minute of it. It was like melted gold.

“I thought we'd split the price of the bottle three ways,” Robert teased. He had bought it for all of them. He knew Gwen loved Chateau d"Yquem, and he didn't mind the expense, to spoil her. She had been such a good sport, and done the lion's share of the cooking, once Pascale got sick, and she had been a good friend to all of them.

“I really hate to go back,” Diana admitted, and Gwen talked about the movie she was about to make in L.A. She was going to be there for four months. Probably till Christmas, but Robert had already said he'd come out on weekends, and she was going to try to get to New York as often as she could. She was going into rehearsal the following week, and they had already adjusted the rehearsal schedule for her, so she could spend the last week in St Tropez with him.

“I guess it'll be kind of nice to see the kids,” Diana admitted. But she hadn't really missed them all month, she'd been too busy trying to put things back together with Eric, and to the others at least, it looked as though they had.

“I can hardly wait to see mine,” Pascale said casually, and everyone looked blank, and wondered if she was drunk.

“You don't have any,” Eric said with an amused expression. “But you can have ours anytime.”

“I have my own, thank you very much,” Pascale said, looking amused.

“I think her stomach bug has gone to her brain,” Eric laughed as he poured her a little more Yquem.

And then she looked at John with a very Gallic smile. “We"re having a baby,” she said softly, “that's my „stomach bug." The doctor told me the day I went back with Gwen. But John and I wanted to wait and surprise you on the last night.” The others looked at them, stunned, as Pascale beamed. “I will be forty-eight when it is born, and I don't care if I look like its grandmother. This is our little miracle. It finally happened. I"ve never been so happy in my life.” The others knew how hard they had tried to have children, and what it meant to her, and it brought tears to Dianas eyes.

“Oh Pascale …” Diana rushed around the table to hug and kiss her, and Robert and Eric did the same, and then Gwen hugged her and told her how happy she was for her. She said it had crossed her mind once, but she didn't want to be rude and ask.

They toasted her with the Chateau d"Yquem and then brought out more champagne, but Pascale stuck with the Yquem, while John proudly handed out cigars to everyone, but this time Pascale didn't indulge. She knew that smoking a cigar just then would have pushed her over the edge.

“Well, not to steal Pascale's thunder,” Diana said, glancing at Eric. “You"re pregnant too?” John looked stunned, and everyone laughed.

“No, we"re staying married. I think Coup de Foudre did it for us.” Love at First Sight. The perfect name for their run-down villa, and the things that had happened there that month. “That's pretty good news as far as we"re concerned.” Eric squeezed her hand, and the others cheered.

“That's the best news!” Robert said heartily, and Gwen looked pleased. Diana had already told her that she had had a hand in that.

“Which leaves us,” Robert said. “Since everyone is making announcements … we have some news to share with you … We"re going to get married next spring, if Gwen hasn't gotten bored with me by then, or decided she can't stand the rest of you. You"ve been a hell of a lot of work for her, she had to save Eric and Diana's marriage, John's life … and me. I think she ought to get another Oscar for all the work she's done.” He was teasing, but there was some truth in it as well. “Just so she doesn't have to deliver Pascale's baby. When is it due by the way?”

“March, I think. I"m still a little confused about that.”

“I think we"re going to get married in May or June, after Gwen finishes a picture she's doing next spring with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt. If she doesn't run off with one of them, she'll marry me.”

“There's no danger of that,” she said, smiling shyly, and looking around the table at her new friends. “You"ve all been so good to me … it was so wonderful to be here … and I love Robert so much …” she said, with tears in her eyes. It had been an emotional evening, an important month. It was a new beginning for all three couples, new lives for each of them, and something they had shared once again. Gwen felt like one of them now, and as Robert pulled her close to him and kissed her, the others smiled, watching them, as the sun set in a fiery golden ball over St Tropez.