Invitation to Provence(26)
He drove on and as the chateau came into view, he stopped to look. How could he have forgotten that the house was the ochre yellow of evening sunlight? That the many tall windows led out onto the terrace? That the roof slanted steeply over the gabled attics and that in summer the big doors always stood open to let in the breeze and to welcome visitors? It all came back to him in a rush and he sat for a moment, taking it in. It was, Jake thought with a smile, a perfect picture of life as he knew it when he was young and a little in love. And one to which despite the tragedy of Felix’s death, he felt sure he was now about to write a new chapter.
He strode up the low stone steps to those open doors and walked right inside, as though he were coming home. And there she was. Rafaella.
The dogs heard him first. They dashed at him, barking madly, leaping at his outstretched hands. Rafaella swung round to see what all the commotion was. She clutched a hand to her throat, shocked because looking at Jake was like looking into the face of the Lover. And like him, Jake Bronson filled the chateau with his strong, masculine presence, bringing life and vigor to the long-silent rooms.
Watching Rafaella, Jake noted the changes in the beautiful face that he remembered like a photograph kept in the breast pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. He saw the silver hair that was once a luxurious dark tumble, the passionate mouth now crisscrossed with fine lines, the slender fingers now crooked with arthritis. Only her eyes were unchanged, still that same brilliant Mediterranean blue. And then they were in each other’s arms, holding each other close, and for the moment, time disappeared. Tenderness overwhelmed Jake as he bent to kiss Rafaella’s soft cheek and smelled her familiar perfume—mimosa, wasn’t it?
“You came,” she said, smiling.
“I promised I would always be there for you.” He smiled. “You’re still as beautiful as my father would have remembered, Rafaella,” and she smiled back, acknowledging his gallant lie.
Haigh came fluttering toward them, a white apron was tied around his middle and he was wiping his hands on a cloth. “Sorry, Madame,” he said, flustered. “I was in the pantry cleaning the silver. I didn’t hear the bell.”
“That’s because I didn’t ring it,” Jake said, grinning and holding out his hand. “Remember me, Haigh?”
Haigh’s thin, sun-brown face lit up in a huge smile. “Indeed I do, Mr. Jake, though you were nothing but a young whippersnapper when I last saw you. If you’ll excuse me being so personal, sir, you are the spitting image of your father. Isn’t that so, Madame?” He threw Rafaella a sharp glance, assessing her reaction to the Lover’s son.
“I scarcely noticed the resemblance,” she said, biting her lower lip to stop from smiling. She had a long-running one-upmanship game with Haigh that had started when they were both young. He still had that know-it-all attitude and it still irritated her, but she adored him. In fact, she wouldn’t know what to do without him.
“Your old room is ready,” she said to Jake, “but first come sit with me on the terrace. We’ll have some champagne to celebrate our meeting again after all these years—twenty-eight, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Of course I know exactly how long it is. I’ve been counting.” She took his arm, and with the dogs running ahead, led him out, past the sparkling fountain to the shaddy loggia under the Chinese wisteria.
Haigh watched them walk arm in arm along the sun-freckled terrace, then he went to fetch a bottle of the ’91 Krug from the wine cellar. He noted there were only half a dozen left but thought the way things were now, this would probably see them out. He put the bottle on ice, polished a couple of fragile crystal champagne flutes, and placed them carefully on a silver tray. He toasted slices of brioche and slid them in the silver toast rack, alongside a dish of crème fra?che and an iced crystal bowl of the Beluga caviar he’d been hoarding for the special occasion that had finally come. Then he filled a silver basket with “rose” biscuits, those sweet, crisp, sugary pink ladyfingers that were a specialty with champagne.
Pleased to be back in the role of butler, even if only temporarily, he untied his apron, put on his white jacket, straightened his silver-gray tie, and adjusted his accent from pure Cockney to upper-crust English. Haigh also spoke perfect French, something he used to do with foreign guests just to enjoy the look of bewilderment on their faces as they struggled to understand. Haigh was a little bit wicked that way. Power, he thought smugly, was a wonderful thing.
He wheeled the tea cart onto the terrace. “Madame, the refreshments,” he said at his most formal.
19
RAFAELLA KNEW HAIGH was enjoying himself by the superior tone of his voice. She watched as he pulled the champagne cork with barely a sound and poured two glasses. He also set a tray with a silver teapot on the table in front of her.
“Just in case you or Mr. Jake fancy a little Earl Grey, Madame,” he said. Positioning the trolley with its exquisitely arranged delicacies next to them, he made a polite little bow and left them to their conversation.
Even though he was dying to hear what went on, Haigh did not lurk behind the wisteria to eavesdrop because he was certain to hear it all from Rafaella herself later. Instead, he went back to his kitchen and poured himself a glass of the Scotch whiskey that bore his name, although with a slightly different spelling, and to which clan he sometimes, in moments of grandeur, claimed to be related. Then he settled down with the daily newspaper to wait.