Invitation to Provence(37)
It was a blow to her heart, but Rafaella knew she had to take charge—it was her duty, her responsibility to her family name and to her workers. She took a deep breath, gathered her strength.
“My friends, please sit down,” she’d said gently. “I understand how difficult this was for you, and I appreciate your honor in coming to me.” She turned to Haigh, standing arms folded by the door, his eyes black with anger. “Bring a bottle of champagne for us, Haigh,” she said, managing a smile. “We are about to drink to the rebirth of the Marten winery. No one here will be unemployed, and no one will go without because of my son. I will make sure of that. And I will make sure that the winery gets back on its feet, even if it means selling off all my assets and working twenty hours a day.”
And that is exactly what she did. It cost her another son as well as most of her money, but she’d honored the Marten family’s commitments to her employees and to the business.
Of course Alain had denied it. He’d yelled and screamed at her, his eyes full of fury. He’d blamed Felix, he’d blamed Alphonse, he’d blamed the accountants, he’d even blamed her for not taking care of the winery herself, the way she always had.
“You are a liar as well as a thief, Alain,” she’d said finally. “And you show no remorse for what you have done. You’ve humiliated me and the Marten family and everything we stood for and now you can get out.” Her heart was breaking as she said it, but she knew it had to be done.
“I’ll get back at you for this,” he’d said, throwing a venomous glance back across the room at her. “I’ll get you, maman, one of these days, and perhaps in the way you least expect.”
Rafaella had not cried when Alain left. It was as though all her tears had dried up. She was alone at the chateau with just Haigh to help her and listen to her when she was exhausted and didn’t see how she could go on. But gradually she’d built up the winery until the Marten name meant something again.
The chateau became even more silent and empty. Haigh covered the furniture in the unused rooms in dust sheets and closed their doors. Because of her arthritis, Rafaella moved out of the bedroom that held so many memories for her, into the downstairs library where she read and wrote in her journal about the past glorious days at the chateau.
She’d worked hard for many years until Scott Harris came to take over, and at last she was free of the day-to-day stress. And she finally knew she was a lonely woman.
Solitude became a habit until that day, standing in the hall with the dust motes floating in the golden beams of sunlight, with silence all around her, when she realized that because of her, the chateau was dying. And that’s when she’d planned her invitations.
She would bring the Chateau des Roses Sauvages to life again.
28
IN THE MARTEN-DE-PROVENCE village square, men were up on ladders stringing tricolor buntings between the plane trees and Laurent Jarré was supervising the erection of a handpainted banner that said, BIENVENUE A LA FAMILLE MARTEN. Welcome to the Marten family.
The youth of the village congregated near the fountain, giggling and pushing each other, arguing about whose turn it was to man the helium pump that blew up the balloons, shrieking with laughter as they took gulps of gas, causing their voices to rise to a wild pitch. A firm stop was put to all that by Father Jér?me, in his dusty black robes, on his way to the church to check that all was in order for the celebration service that was to be held later that week.
At the local store and post office, Mademoiselle Doritée, with her gray hair spiraling wildly and her pebble glasses glinting in the sun, hung her cross-stitched sampler of a village scene, inscribed with the slogan BIENVENUE AUX MARTENS on the glass door, while across the square Philippe Allier hung up orange, green, and yellow buntings that matched the colors of his fruits and vegetables. The old boys on their benches in the shade leaned on their sticks, watching with rheumy eyes, wondering vaguely who was arriving that caused so much stir, and the dogs, galvanized from their usual sloth by the excitement, chased their tails and each other before wading into the fountain to cool off.
The sun beat down and beads of sweat trickled over Jarré’s broad forehead as he hurried back to his café. After their hard work the men would be crowding in, demanding a cold Stella, and the youngsters would head over to Mademoiselle Doritée’s, sifting through the freezers for ice cream, grabbing cold sodas from the vending machine, and generally making a racket. Poor Mademoiselle Doritée could never keep track of them. Bewildered, she would push back her springy gray hair, adjust her glasses, and demand to know who had taken what and who had paid and who had not, and the kids would just laugh and tease her until she grew purple in the face with frustration. Then Allier would have to leave his store and hurry across the square to sort it all out.
At four o’clock the Dép?t de Pain would open its doors and the aroma of freshly baked breads and baguettes to be eaten with supper would waft across the square, sending housewives scurrying. The fish truck had already rumbled in, flinging open its sides to reveal an iced display of gleaming silver John Dory and coral red rascasse, mounds of green-bearded mussels, miniature eels, and small pink shrimp that smelled as sweet and briny as the sea itself. Jarré had chosen his fish for the all-important “dish of the day” and he’d placed his special order for the even more important lunch to be served next week to Madame Rafaella’s new family.