There's Something About St. Tropez (60 page)

Bertrand allowed his head to rest against Billy's hand. His dream had come true and he belonged. He wondered if Laureen had really waved her magic wand. He believed in it now. Really he did.

Joy seemed to spread around the table like jelly on a peanut butter sandwich. Smiles were on everyone's faces. The bouillabaisse came and even Little Laureen tasted it and pronounced it “almost good.” In fact it was wonderful, and so was the lobster that she and Bertrand devoured so fast they had to wait for the others to finish. As always, Laureen wondered impatiently why grown-ups took so long to eat, and why they talked so much, which meant she and Bertrand had to wait a long time for dessert. She surely hoped there was ice cream to go with that tarte.

“Bertrand?” she whispered.

He sighed exasperatedly and said, in English, “What?”

“I'll teach you to ride a horse, if you like.”

His face lit up. “Okay,” he agreed.

 

Sunny was smiling as she watched the Misfits, on their way to their new lives. “Now it's just us,” she whispered to Mac. “We have one week left in St. Tropez.”

Mac looked into her beautiful raccoon eyes. “One whole week,” he agreed.

“Alone at last,” she sighed happily.

“Apart from the dogs, of course,” Mac added.

 

 

 

 

Mac was on the deck of his cozy Malibu shack, feet up on the rail, contemplating the surging Pacific and life. Sunny had just arrived with pizza. A bottle of good Californian red, a Caymus, stood on the metal table between them. Pirate hung out in his usual spot, head stuck through the rails, looking out at the beach for something to chase, like a passing pelican or a seagull. Sunny was on the old Wal-Mart metal chaise she'd been trying to get Mac to replace for about three years, with Tesoro on her lap and a slice of pizza in her hand. Twilight deepened around them.

Mac gazed happily at his little family, at the glowering green ocean, at the string of lights threading along the edge of the long bay. He was used to the view but it always held magic for him. He was, at heart, a Malibu guy.

“Great vacation,” Sunny said, in between bites and sips of the good wine.

“Great,” Mac, said, looking at her.

She shivered as the cool evening breeze sprang up and he went inside and got his old denim shirt for her.

Sunny held it to her face, breathing in his body scent. “Why do boys' shirts always smell so
good
?” she asked, slipping it over her shoulders.

The phone rang.

Their eyes met. Silence hung like tension in the air. It rang again.

“Don't answer it,” Sunny said.

Mac hesitated, his hand hovered. He just hated leaving a ringing phone, even though he knew it would probably mean trouble.

Twirling her beautiful heart-shaped pink diamond engagement ring, Sunny knew if Mac answered the phone it would be more work, more mysteries.
She'd been convinced they would soon find time to get married, perhaps even go back to lovely St. Tropez and do it properly, the way they'd intended before the Misfits made a hash of their vacation. If only Mac wouldn't answer that phone.

But Mac was Mac. Smiling, he picked up the phone. He always did.

 

 

 

 

Chez La Violette has been sold to a young French couple with five small children. The old villa will be torn down and a new one, suitable for such a large and happy family, is to be built in its place. Only the arched cloister, all that remains of the priory that first stood on the beautiful green hill, will remain. As will the name, Chez La Violette, in permanent tribute to a fallen star.

 

Valenti's Picasso, given to him in payment by Krendler and which he'd pretended was a fake, turned out to be a real fake. Krendler had fooled him. Both men are in jail and looking at life sentences.

 

Mac and Sunny are still in love, still engaged, and are thinking of getting married next summer, in an old church in the English countryside. Sunny knows exactly the place. Anyway, that's her plan for now. If only Mac doesn't pick up that phone.