Invitation to Provence(38)
He already had tiny banon goat’s-milk cheeses marinating with herbs in the beautiful deep-green olive oil, pressed from olives from his own trees. He grew the herbs in his small back garden, along with his various lettuces: escarole, lambs, rocket, miniature romaine. Jarré was particular about his produce. He liked his vegetables small and fresh, and his carrots and squash were miniatures of perfection, as were his tomatoes that came in green and yellow and even striped, as well as the usual robust red. These he served sliced thinly on a large white platter drizzled with a soup?on of his best olive oil and a hint of lemon juice, plus a grind of fresh black pepper. He’d scatter fresh basil over them, ripped between his fingers of course and not cut with a knife or scissors because that bruised the delicate leaves and turned them black. His petite symphonie, he called it proudly whenever he served it, which was throughout the summer months, in fact well into October if the sun kept up its good work.
But the tomatoes were just the start of the special lunch he was planning for the Marten family. He intended to make Madame Rafaella proud, see that her smart city guests were not insulted by his simple village cooking. Jarré had learned to cook from his grandmother, but in his youth he’d also done a stint in a grand restaurant in Marseille where he’d learned, among other things, how to present a beautiful plate, one that pleased the eye as well as the palate. Now, with the family reunion, he would have a chance to really show his caliber as a chef for the first time in many years.
Up at the Domaine Marten winery, Scott Harris was inspecting the new labels he had designed for the special Cuvée Famille Marten that was to be his surprise to Rafaella.
The winery had the look of an old monastery, and this was the image on the original Domaine Marten label. It was drawn in black ink by an earlier Marten and had hardly been changed since its inception, except for special events, like jubilees and the celebrations marking the end of conflict in the two world wars, and of course for the wedding cuvée when Rafaella got married. But this new label was special.
Scott had changed the old black ink drawing to a flamboyant red, Rafaella’s favorite color, and the lettering, now intertwined with vine leaves in the shape of a garland, proclaimed this to be the Cuvée Réunion de la Famille Marten. Not only had Scott designed the label, he had also personally blended the wine, using the grapes from the stoniest of the hills to give a hint of the garrigue, a flinty undertone overlaid with softest satin and fruit. Scott thought his description of the wine matched Rafaella, flinty undertones with a smoothly satin exterior and the soft heart.
Pleased with his work, he sent the labels down to the bottling plant near the town with word that they must be completed right away. Meanwhile, up at the chateau, a team of village ladies in flowery wraparound aprons ripped off dust-covers and brandished mops and feather dusters in a major spring clean. Haigh had told them that every window and shutter was to be washed, every brass doorknob polished till it glittered, every gilt picture frame whisked over with a chamois cloth. Teetering on stepladders, the women chattered as they worked to bring the reopened rooms back up to Haigh’s high standards.
“The family is not coming here to find a run-down old house, Madame,” Haigh told Rafaella, who grinned and said, “And what do you plan to do about its run-down old mistress, then?” Haigh replied, “There’s not much to be done there, but how about we go up to the attics and look through your wardrobe, pick out something for the first meeting. After all, you need to make a good impression. There’s the gala dinner the whole village will attend, and of course, Jarré’s luncheon at the Colombes. Plus, the grand finale.”
“The grand finale,” Rafaella said, surprised. She had only anticipated their arrival, hadn’t thought about the fact that, at the end of the three weeks, they would return to their own lives.
In the attic closets, Rafaella gazed at the rows of garments on satin hangers, all neatly encased in transparent bags. “Just look at this, Haigh.” She pulled a fluffy gray fox jacket from the cupboard and held it to her cheek. “I wore this the day Juliette met Rufus at La Coupole, the same day I bought the red Dior. Oh, Haigh, I absolutely must wear the Dior. It’s my all-time favorite. Do you think it will still fit?” And she found it and held it against her, frowning doubtfully into the mirror. Then, at the back of the closet, she spotted a fall of creamy satin. “Oh, here’s my wedding dress. Remember, Haigh, maman wanted me to have it dyed black so I could wear it as an evening dress, but the satin was too heavy—it weighed me down. And so did my husband,” she added with a grin, recalling her husband’s face as she walked down the aisle toward him, with an extra big bunch of lilies to hide her pregnant bump and her heavy satin train going plop-plop-plop behind her down the stairs. Proud, unsmiling, her husband, Henri, was a man who was getting exactly what he’d set out to get—a meal ticket for life.
The fact that his bride was young and charming and in love—or at least infatuation—meant nothing to him. Rafaella had read it in his face and knew she had made a terrible mistake. In church, holding the lillies over her bump, she’d prayed that her baby would not be like him, but of course Felix had turned out to be exactly like his papa. That’s the reason she’d loved Alain more, she supposed, because he had her gaiety, her zest for living.
She rummaged through the men’s suits hanging on broad wooden hangers in yet another closet and took out a jacket, a dark blue velvet smoking with satin lapels cut narrow in the Edwardian style. “Look, Haigh. This used to be grandpères” she said, “I’m sure it would fit you. Oh Haigh, you would look wonderful in it. Do try it on.”