Invitation to Provence(35)
“And then of course there’s little Shao Lan, the unknown granddaughter who will make Rafaella a happy woman again. And of course, hanging over us all,” he added thoughtfully, “will be the shadow of my dear father, ‘the Lover.’ ”
Sensing Jake was finished, the dog turned and hung his head out the window again, watching the woods for jackrab-bits, though if he saw one, all he would do was bark. Criminal was a well-behaved dog, which was quite different from being a well-trained dog in that Criminal did exactly as he liked, which was almost always exactly what pleased Jake. The arrangement worked out very well for both of them.
Jake wondered if Rafaella would put him in his old room, the one on the third floor that used to be her father’s, well away from the one used by her icy mother, whom nobody had liked. And well away, too, from the room overlooking the lake that Rafaella had later shared with his father, a room made dark in spring by a giant magnolia tree that flung its flashy, waxen blooms to the moon and that, according to Rafaella, smelled like the Garden of Eden. But of course that was because she was in love then.
Jake thought his old room was the most beautiful room in the entire chateau. It had a giant sleigh bed covered in dark gold velvet, narrow Tiffany lamps shaded in amber, and odd pieces of Biedermeier and Louis XVI furniture, all found by Rafaella’s father, who was a keen antiquaire. The two windows overlooked the terrace where the Chinese wisteria drooped, heavy with purple blossoms that changed color with the evening light to a showy pink. Jake could recall clearly the sounds and smells of the nights when he was sixteen and would lay awake wondering what life was about.
Nights at the chateau were almost tangible, heavy with the scents of nicotina and maquis. Hit by the sprinklers, the grass flung its scent in the air, the reeds rustled in the lake, the fountains smelled green and mossy, the crickets hummed, and often nightingales sang.
Happiness struck Jake like a jolt in his stomach. He was beginning to get used to this new feeling. “Damn it, Criminal, I’m going home,” he said, smiling. “And I’m going to see Franny again.” Remembering that hard kernel he’d discerned at the heart of his peach, he added, “Better keep your paws crossed for me, boy. I’m going to need all the luck I can get.”
Remembering Juliette’s three Pomeranians that were to accompany them on the jet, he looked at Criminal. “Why don’t I take you with me, boy?” he said. “You can make friends with Louis and Mimi. Besides,” he added, patting the dog’s big head, “I know Franny will love you.” And the dog looked back at him with those sharp, intelligent brown eyes and gave him a woof.
“I knew you’d say yes.” Jake said.
26
ALAIN WAS THE ONLY one who would not be coming home for the reunion, and Rafaella stood outside his old room. Mimi and Louis sat next to her, waiting. Downstairs, the ancient longcase clock in the hall ground its gears creakily before striking six times. Evening sunlight beamed through the tall southwest-facing windows, showing up the cracks on the black double doors, which had been painted with skull and crossbones by Alain himself in an act of rebellion at the age of fifteen.
The fact that the doors dated from the eighteenth century had not deterred him. He’d said he was sick and tired of “old.” Alain had always wanted the here and now, he’d wanted fast cars and slick women and city life. He didn’t want to be stuck in the country at the chateau. He needed to be in Paris or on the beach at the C?te d’Azur, sniffing out bikini-clad girls who might think he was at least eighteen and rich and smart as well as handsome.
Rafaella had always thought of Alain as her “wounded bird.” He was quieter than Felix, always thinking, always plotting revenge against his brother, demanding Rafaella’s attention and crying at the drop of a hat.
Alain had cried when he brought her the baby birds he said he’d found dashed from their nests. When he discovered Rafaella’s favorite pug drowned in the lake, he’d carried the poor little body all the way home himself. He’d been soaking wet and shivering from diving in, trying to rescue it, he’d said, because he knew how much his mother loved her pet.
Felix was always locked away in his room, but Alain was always hanging around. Sometimes he’d be sunk into the corner of the big gold brocade sofa in Rafaella’s room, hiding beneath the cushions. Spying on her, Haigh said.
“But I didn’t mean to hide, maman,” Alain explained when she questioned him. “I just wanted to be near you.” Later he’d made up a poem for her, apologizing for being bad. Now Felix would never have written her a poem, but then Felix would never have hidden in her room, either. Yet Alain endeared himself to her as Felix never had, and much later, when they both abandoned her and each other, it was the loss of Alain that hurt her the most.
Trouble was, Rafaella thought, running a finger over the chipped skull and crossbones, Alain got away with everything because he had the kind of charm that could get him into trouble anywhere in the world—and also get him out of it unscathed.
Alain was the handsome son, tall and too skinny in his early days but whip-thin and muscular as he grew, with sun-streaked blond hair falling shaggily over his blue eyes and sun-brown skin stretched tautly over his high cheekbones. With his full mouth and sexy stare, he set her friends gossiping. Watch out, they said, he’s trouble, and they’d kept their daughters carefully away because they knew Alain was exactly the kind of “bad boy” a girl would fall head over heels for. And they also knew that with Alain it was no holds barred. God help Rafaella, they said to one another, he’ll be the death of her one day.