Invitation to Provence(46)
Franny’s eyed widened. The world stood still. She stared at Jake, feeling the heat crawl up her back, sting her face. What was he doing here? Numb, she watched as Jake clasped Rafaella in his arms.
“I know I’m in my usual room,” Juliette boomed, heading for the stairs, as though she had been here just last weekend instead of twenty years ago.
“Of course,” Rafaella said, “and you’ll notice that the good champagne is being poured.”
“Glad to see nothing has changed,” she yelled, already prancing up the stairs on her small high-heeled feet, closely followed by the Pomeranians and Haigh, with Mimi and Louis, obviously in love, bringing up the rear. But Franny wasn’t looking at them.
Jake came over to her. He held out his hand. She ignored it. “Well, hello again,” he said.
She stared at him through narrowed eyes. There was steel in those eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she said coldly.
“Rafaella invited me. When she told me you were coming and that she didn’t know you, I decided I’d better meet you first.”
“Of course.” Franny said, “You needed to check me out, make sure I was good enough to meet the Martens, that I wasn’t a gold digger after the family money. Well, at least you didn’t lie about the dog,” she said, then she turned and walked away on legs that trembled.
She didn’t know whether to run away or scream or just punch him and have done with it. In fact, her fist was all balled and ready, and she knew how to punch all right from being a tomboy.
How could he, how dare he make love to her, when all the time he was just checking her out, the way he did employees for giant companies. Bastard, she thought, fighting back angry tears, but dammit she wasn’t going to cry for him. Dammit, she just would not cry. Totally humiliated, she walked back into the salon and stood by the fire, trying to warm her suddenly icy hands.
Still standing in the hall, Clare stared after her. Astonished, she turned to Jake. “What was all that about?”
He held out his hand. “You must be Clare. I’m Jake Bronon. I hope at least you will shake my hand.”
“Clare Marks.” She clasped his hand lingeringly. Looking into his eyes she thought, What a good-looking guy, a bit battered maybe, but she liked them that way.
“Ah,” Jake said, remembering Marcus, “then, you’re … you must be …”
“The other woman.” She finished the sentence for him and they both laughed.
Clare tilted her chin, smiling, flirting with him. Uh-huh, this one’s trouble, she told herself. What happened to the salt-of-the-earth guy you promised yourself? Here you go again, Clare. But she was beaming as she said, “I’m happy to meet you, Jake.”
“Shall we join the others?” he said, offering his arm. She slid her hand through it, feeling like a bride as they walked into the salon.
Back in the salon, Haigh was pouring fresh champagne while the smiling village women, in their best black and frilly white organdy aprons, offered platters of Haigh’s splendid hors d’oeuvres. But dinner would be even more splendid.
36
THE LONG MAHOGANY DINING table was set with the best ancestral china, a Limoges pattern bordered in coral and green, and with glittering Baccarat stemware. The starched linen napkins were monogrammed with an elaborate M, and the silverware was so old the pattern had almost worn off. Down the center of the table wild white roses, the roses sauvages, that Rafaella had picked from the garden were arranged in low silver bowls entwined with long garlands of greenery. A five-tier silver epergne overflowed with bunches of luscious purple and green grapes from the Marten vineyard.
The room was filled with the scent of roses and the waxy smell of the candles guttering in the drafts that still rattled the windows. They were locked now and the heavy silk curtains drawn tight, and inside all was firelit warmth.
Haigh went around the table pouring the Famille Marten Special Reunion Cuvée, showing each person the beautiful label that almost brought Rafaella to tears because there hadn’t been a celebration cuvée since her own wedding. She said, delighted, that it tasted the way wildflowers smelled, silken on the tongue with a faint, flinty afterbite, and she complimented Scott on his blend.
Rafaella sat at the head of her table, smiling in a way Haigh had not seen for many years, as though for once she was thinking of the here and now and not of the past. Little Blue sat on her left, staring blankly at the plates of food, her inscrutable face giving no clue to the turmoil going on in her head.
Rafaella caught her doomed expression, guessed what she was thinking, and immediately sent Haigh to the kitchen to find the chopsticks he used whenever he got Chinese takeout from town. The child’s eyes lit up when she saw them, and she even smiled when Haigh cut up her meat.
Jake was on Rafaella’s right, with Clare next to him, while Franny sat opposite next to Scott, and Juliette dominated the other end of the table. The Pomeranians were milling around her, and Mimi and Louis parked themselves behind Rafaella’s chair. Criminal, however, lingered edgily by the door, looking like a dog ready to make a fast escape.
Across the table tension crackled like lightning between Franny and Jake. He tried to catch her eye but she avoided him and he knew he was in deep trouble. Suddenly he wished he’d never met her, that their night together had never happened—at least then he could have started out even. Dammit, he’d been avoiding relationships all these years, and as soon as he succumbed, look what happened.