Invitation to Provence(24)
“My desk will go under the window,” he’d decided, marching around the room, lifting the beautiful curtain fabrics, testing the bed with his hand, stamping his feet on the Beauvais carpet, hating its softness. “And my green leather chair.”
“And which green leather chair is that?”
“The one in Papa’s study,” he said sharply. “After all, he never uses it. He’s never here.”
“Right,” Rafaella agreed meekly, because it was the truth.
And, just the way he was to be for the rest of his life, Felix took charge, changing the room from a beautiful boudoir to the spartan masculine space where he allowed no one entry except the housekeeper and then only because he wanted his place to be spotless.
Of course Felix never allowed his brother into his room. He kept his door locked, with the key on a chain attached to his belt. But anything “forbidden” was fair game to Alain. He’d found the housekeeper’s key and one afternoon when Felix was safely on the tennis court, he’d sneaked in.
The inevitable happened and Felix had found him “going through my stuff,” he shouted, outraged and Alain, the little blond angel, had stared him down, daring him to do anything about it. So Felix hit him, sending blood spurting from his nose and down his shirt-front. But no tears had spurted from Alain’s eyes. Instead he punched back. In no time they were rolling on the floor, yelling at each other, and then the grownups came running, screaming at the sight of all that blood.
Haigh had separated them by means of a good kick on the rump for each one. They’d rolled off each other, glaring up at the new enemy. “Je vous emmerde, Haigh,” Alain had cursed, and Haigh had given him a whack and set him on his feet, thrusting a towel into his face. “Go to your room,” he said, while Rafaella ran to Felix’s side, not knowing how injured he was.
“I don’t have to obey you,” Alain yelled.
But Haigh stood his ground. “Oh, and what are you going to do about it?” he’d demanded, hands on his hips.
With a sidelong glare at his mother, Alain had slunk through the door and along the hall, back up the stairs to the nursery.
Haigh had inspected Felix, still lying on his back covered in blood. After making sure the blood was Alain’s he said, “Get up, Felix, and clean yourself up.” Turning to Rafaella, he said, “Alain’s nose is probably broken. I’ll drive him to the hospital, Madame, while you take care of Felix.”
NOW, SITTING IN FELIX’S green leather chair under the window in the room that had been his, Rafaella thought how alike her two sons had looked, even though Alain was blond and Felix so dark. Both had her blue eyes and both had the slightly hooked nose that she swore came from their father’s family and not hers. Yet they were completely different in temperament, as was proven to her later, the day after the murder.
17
AFTER HE’D FINISHED his studies at the Sorbonne, Felix had come home ready to learn from his mother how to run the winery. Rafaella thought he’d changed, and it was definitely a change for the better. He was gentler, easier to talk to, sympathetic. It was all too good to last, she thought nervously, and of course she was right.
One evening a few weeks later, a rare summer storm spattered hail against the windows where they sat having dinner together, safe in the small dining room with its decorative celadon-green paneling. The bunch of yellow lilies Rafaella had picked that morning dropped amber pollen onto the polished table, and a couple of creamy candles flickered in the dusk.
They were eating Haigh’s special fresh tomato-basil soup, one of Rafaella’s favorites, and its warmth was comforting on the cool night. With it they were drinking a vintage Chateau Marten that she thought too heavy and too dry, but Felix said confidently it was still round on the palate and the dryness was perfect with the soup.
Though they disagreed on the bottle of wine, they saw eye to eye on the winery. Rafaella’s passion for it was matched by Felix’s. He was like her father that way.
“I have a surprise,” Felix said. “I have plans to expand our local winery.” Then he told her he wanted to buy a small vineyard that had come unexpectedly onto the market in the Saint-Emilion area, near Bordeaux.
“It’s not a first growth,” he said, “but there’s room for improvement. It’s been neglected and the name has downgraded, but with my expertise and energy we’ll have it back on its feet in no time.”
Rafaella knew only too well that investing in a vineyard cost a great deal of money—and that it took years to establish. “And exactly how long is ‘no time.’ ” she asked.
Felix considered. “There’ll be a lot of grafting to be done, new rootstock … four, five years maybe.”
“More like ten,” she said.
Just then Haigh arrived with a steaming platter of risotto. Rafaella handed him her glass of wine to taste. Haigh sniffed it, then took a sip, allowing the wine to roll around his palette, savoring it slowly.
“Too dry for my taste,” he declared, “a little harsh, and certainly all wrong with this meal.” He shrugged. “Of course there are those who prefer their wines this crisp. Personally, I prefer a little more fruit.”
“Right on the mark, Haigh,” Rafaella said, smiling sympathetically at Felix because she knew he still had a lot to learn. Felix scowled because he hated to be proven wrong about anything.