Invitation to Provence(30)

“Oh thank God,” Franny said, letting out a breath of relief, and they dissolved into gales of laughter.

Clare signaled the waiter for the check. “Trouble with men is, after a few weeks of putting up with them and their foibles I tend to say what I really feel—and bang! There goes another relationship.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Franny eyed her new friend doubtfully, then said, “Oh, Clare, I did it again!”

Clare didn’t have to ask what Franny had done again. She could tell by the guilty look on her face. She sighed, wondering when Franny would ever learn. But then God only knew it had taken her long enough. “He’s married,” she said.

“He was. He said she died.”

“Huh, that’s a new one!”

“Oh no, I believe him.”

“Why?” Clare was at her firmest.

“Well,” Franny hesitated, remembering Jake as he’d told her about it. Exactly how did she know? “It’s like with the dogs,” she said finally. “Somehow you can just tell when they’re basically good.”

“So if he’s good, why haven’t I heard about him before? And where did you meet him? And what happened to him anyhow?”

“He came into the clinic. He called later, asked me to dinner. I went. He came back home with me and I asked him in for tea. He tripped on the loose plank and sprained his ankle.”

Clare groaned. “You’ve got to get that fixed or someone’ll be suing you for something.” Alarmed, she said, “He isn’t, is he? Suing you?”

“Nope. Well, not so far anyway. The thing is, Clare, well …” Franny broke off, blushing.

“You slept with him on a first date?”

Franny nodded.

“And is that what happened with Marcus?”

She nodded again and Clare sighed.

“Bad habit, girl. You’ve got to stop.” She held up her hand as Franny started to speak. “No, don’t tell me… . He never called, you’ve never seen him again. Hey, honey, what d’you expect? A lifelong love affair after a dinner and a little nookie? Come on, Franny, you’re just asking for heartache.”

“He sent flowers,” Franny said defensively.

“Oh, big deal. ‘Hey, thanks for keeping me warm in bed… . See you around.’ ” Seeing Franny’s miserable face, Clare stopped her lecture. “Okay, so just promise me one thing. Next time you’ll stop and think before you jump into bed with a stranger. Trust me, you’ll be a happier woman. And if it makes you feel any better, I speak from personal experience. Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “nobody wants to be considered a slut, now do they?”

“I’m no slut,” Franny said indignantly.

“Then, honey, try not to give the wrong impression by behaving like one. I speak as a friend.”

“I know you’re right,” Franny said humbly. “And I’ve got my pride back now. No more men unless I pick ’em, and no sex until I say so.”

They looked at each other in silence. Franny’s thoughts drifted to the trip to France and how much she would miss Clare.

“I’ll miss you, y’know,” Clare said, leaning across to pat Franny’s hand. “I feel like we’re comrades in arms, in battle against the enemy—Man!”

“Man!” Franny agreed, and that lonely feeling swept over her again, a feeling she couldn’t bear. “Clare,” she said hesitantly, “Would you … I mean, why not? … Well, why don’t you come with me?”

“You mean to France? Well, for one thing, I’m not invited.”

“I’ll bet Aunt Rafaella would love to meet you,” Franny said. “I can send her a fax, ask if it’s okay.”

“You’d do that? For me?” Clare was so touched there was a lump in her throat.

“Just say yes,” Franny pleaded.

“I’m the fastest packer you ever saw,” Clare said, and they laughed so loud people turned to look.

Suddenly the chateau in Provence gleamed like a good-luck token for both of them, and they talked and talked about their new plan until Franny said she had to go.

Clare watched her walk to the exit, in a hurry as always to get back to her animals. Her long, loping stride put a sexy swing in her hips of which she was totally unaware. Clare thought Franny was like a well-kept secret: there was a lovely woman under that pigtail.

She had to admire Franny’s integrity, though. No Cinderella makeover for her. Franny believed in who she was, even though she still wasn’t exactly certain who that might be, except as far as her vocation with animals was concerned. She certainly was not sure when it came to men. This uncertainty hadn’t got her far with Marcus, but then, Clare had not gotten far either, and she had put years of effort into it.

The waiter refilled her glass with mango tea and Clare stared moodily into space, thinking about her past and her indefinite future. She hadn’t been exactly truthful with Franny, and it bothered her, but it was too late—or perhaps too soon—to do anything about it now.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E. The word spelled itself in her mind. Dolly Parton wrote that song. Now there was a woman who knew about men—Dolly knew what she was talking about all right. Clare thought you had to admire her spirit. Only a woman who knew exactly who she was could pull off that look.