Invitation to Provence(32)



Jarré went off to get meat for the dogs. Hearing the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones, Rafaella turned to see Scott on his black mare, riding into the square. She watched admiringly as he dismounted with the practiced ease of a true horseman. Scott Harris was lean and fit, with sandy-red hair and hazel eyes, creased at the corners from too many years in the sun. In jeans and a soft blue chambray shirt he was, she thought appreciatively, very good to look at.

Scott tied the mare in the usual spot under the plane trees, within reach of the fountain and the water trough. He pulled a carrot from his pocket and gave it to the horse, who crunched it loudly, snorting her pleasure. Louis and Mimi dashed over to greet him, and he fished in his other pocket for the chew bones he knew they liked.

“G’day, how are ya, Monsieur Jarré,” Scott said, shaking the patron’s hand. Scott had only been in the village ten years and was not yet on the level where he could call Monsieur Jarré by his first name.

He bent to kiss Rafaella and said, “Mmm, you smell so good, like summer flowers.”

“Mimosa. I’ve been wearing it for years. Besides, you say that every time.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come, mon cher ami, sit here and have some wine.”

Jarré poured Scott a glass of rosé, watching him intently as he sniffed the fruity bouquet, then tasted. The wine came from Jarré’s own mini vineyard on the small hill down the road to the west of the village, and he was anxious for Scott’s professional opinion.

“Monsieur Jarré, you make the best rosé around here,” Scott said. And Jarré puffed out his cheeks in a pleased smile.

Rafaella had dressed for the lunch in a white linen skirt and a fitted jacket with wide lapels that dated from the 1970s. With it she wore strappy blue sandals that showed her red-painted toes, and a blue glass necklace she’d bought in Venice more years ago than she cared to remember. Her silver hair was pulled back from her face, and despite her years, she looked very beautiful.

“You’re looking pretty darn gorgeous today, boss,” Scott said with a grin.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Rafaella replied, smiling. The truth was, there was no real need for their weekly meetings, she trusted Scott implicitly, but both of them went through the ritual pretense of keeping her informed on the business. He asked her opinion on the planting of new rootstock, on whether to try Chardonnay next year on the east hill, on why the grapes were so late to ripen (was it because of too much spring rain?) and she gave her expert opinion.

The vine arbor over the café’s terrace filtered the sun’s glare into a soft, pleasant glow as Jarré brought out a plate of tiny young asparagus for them to try. Then Rafaella ordered her usual mushroom omelette, while Scott ordered his usual steak-frites. Being Rafaella, though, as well as talking business, she had to ask Scott about his love life.

“You mean lack of it,” Scott said with a grin.

“Now, a man like you,” Rafaella said thoughtfully, picking up a thin stalk of asparagus and nibbling on it, “good-looking, intelligent, knowledgeable, a powerful man in the wine trade, now I would say a man like you, Scott, is a catch.”

“Oh yeah, I’m just not catchable. I’m far too busy for any woman to tie down.”

“But aren’t you ever tempted by the thought of a pretty woman waiting for you in the evening? A companion? A lover? How about a proper home with a bunch of children swarming around your knees, calling ‘Papa’ when you walk through your front door at night? Dogs barking in greeting, music coming from the salon, wine being poured, the smell of something good cooking in the kitchen? Now, surely that must appeal?” She stared thoughtfully at him. “Unless you’re gay, of course, and even if you are, then there are some very charming men around here. Surely you must have met some of them?”

Scott put down his glass. He leaned across the table, in her face. “Rafaella, I am not gay,” he said sternly. “Nor am I in the market for a wife and certainly not kids. I’m a free man and that’s the way I like it and that’s the way I intend it to stay. Anyhow,” he added as he speared a piece of steak, “I already have the dogs and the horses. That’s enough for me.”

Rafaella glanced at the black mare tethered under the plane trees in the square. As she watched, the horse took a great slurp from the water trough and shook its head violently, scattering drops on the sleeping village dogs, who lifted complaining heads before subsiding again. She knew Scott never drove his Jeep when he could ride a horse. “You and that horse are joined at the hip,” she grumbled.

“More like the arse, I’d say,” Scott agreed amiably. “Anyhow, are you all ready for the grand family reunion? The whole village is abuzz with it, and with the news that Jake Bronson will be back.”

She sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing this village doesn’t know about me. And a lot of them knew Jake’s father.”

“The Lover.” Scott helped himself to more pommes frites and filled Rafaella’s glass.

Rafaella stole a frite from his plate. “I suppose I’ll never live down that scandal.”

“Why should you? Sounded like the perfect love affair to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it from such an expert. Why don’t you follow my example and have one of your own?” She smiled into his eyes.

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