Invitation to Provence(41)

Clare bit angrily down on the other Snickers bar. “God, Franny you sound like a forties movie,” she said, “the victorious American troops winning over the foreign kids with chocolate bars and the women with nylons!”

“First child I ever knew to turn down chocolate,” Franny said. “Do you suppose she’s not feeling well?”

“I hope she’s not going to throw up.” Clare licked the chocolate off her fingers, feeling better.

Lights flickered through the rain and they almost fell out of the car in their hurry, jumping up and down in the middle of the road and waving their hands over their heads. “Stop. Stop! Oh please stop!” they yelled. Lightning flashed again and thunder crashed right after it and they clutched each other screaming.

The pickup truck slowed to a cautious crawl and a man with thick gray hair and a round, lined face stuck his head out the window. A sweet aroma drifted toward them from the back of the truck. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he yelled over the wind.

“La voiturearrêtée.” Franny said, finding a couple of words of schoolgirl French.

“Merde.” The driver got out and stood in the pouring rain, arms folded, regarding their car with a frown. Vous avez de la chance. Vous auriez pu finir dans un fossé. You’re lucky not to end up in the ditch. Où allez-vous? Where you go?” he added in English.

Franny shoved the sopping hair out of her eyes. “We go to Marten-de-Provence,” she said, and all of a sudden he beamed at them.

“Ah, eh bien, vouz êtes les Martens, n’est-ce pas?” He held out his hand and Franny shook it, praying he would just say, Please get in my truck. But instead, while they stood with the rain streaming down their faces, he introduced himself.

“Je suis Philippe Allier, marchand de fruits et légumes dans le village de Marten. C’est un plaisir, mesdames, de vous rencontrer. Et pour Madame Rafaella, j’ai l’honneur de diriger la famille au chateau. Eh bien, mesdemoiselles, venez vite.”

He darted across the road, plucked Shao Lan out of the car, carried her back and installed her in the truck’s passenger seat. He fastened the seatbelt, wiped the rain tenderly from her face, and closed the door. Then he ran back to their car again and began pulling out the luggage.

Clare winced when she saw her expensive suitcases sitting in the puddles in the middle of the road, but she said nothing. They helped Monsieur Allier load everything into the rear of the pickup next to the Cavaillon melons.

“Okay, mesdames.” Allier dusted his hands and held up the tarpaulin. “Montez avec vos valises, puis nous irons vite au chateau.”

Franny and Clare didn’t need to understand French to know that they were to ride under the tarp with the melons in the back of the truck. They climbed in, hunkering down behind the cab out of the wind, then Monsieur Allier covered them with the tarp and they were off.





31





CLARE SHOVED THE TARP away, gasping for breath, almost asphyxiated by the sweet smell of the melons that rolled and bumped against their legs.

“Classy way to arrive at the ancestral chateau,” she yelled over the sound of thunder as Monsieur Allier drove up a hill into a dark little village. Franny’s heart sank. Plastic chairs and tables were stacked under the café terrace, the festive buntings dripped sadly, and the welcome sign dangled forlornly.

Then they left the village behind and were driving under an avenue of trees. Wet leaves shaken by the wind splattered down and stuck to their faces and their hair. “Like Babes in the Wood,” Clare muttered through chattering teeth.

Then Monsieur Allier made a sudden left along a lane studded with pointy trees so tall their tips disappeared into the mist. A brilliant blue flash of lightning zigzagged to earth near a steel gray lake and in front of them sprawled a large, dark house.

Monsieur Allier opened the window to the back of the truck. “Alors, le Chateau des Roses Sauvages,” he said, circling the parterre garden and coming to a stop in front of the stone steps leading to the massive front door.

Franny stared doubtfully at the house. It was in complete darkness. Her eyes met Clare’s, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. Could this really be the right place? She glanced at Allier, busy unloading their luggage. Maybe he was a madman. He could have brought them here to kill them.

“Les lumières ne fonctionnent pas à cause de l’orage,” Allier explained. They looked dumbly at him. “L’électricité… Phut …” He flung his hands in the air. “Demain tout va marcher.” He piled the luggage on the steps and opened the passenger door, bowing courteously as he offered Shao Lan his hand. To Franny’s surprise, she took it and descended daintily onto the gravel driveway.

“Bien, ma petite,” Alliers said, patting her head fondly. “Je ne veux pas déranger Madame Rafaella et ses invitées.” He shook their hands politely. “Bonnes vacances, mesdemoiselles, et bonne chance. Je vous verrai à la soirée.” Then, rain dripping off his long nose, he climbed into the pickup and, with a quick wave, swerved around the turning circle and jolted, melons bouncing, back down the drive.

Franny took Shao Lan’s hand. It felt cold. “What if no one’s here?” she whispered to Clare. “What if we’ve come to the wrong place?”