Invitation to Provence(51)
CLARE ROLLED OVER IN her big satin bed, checking the time on the pretty little mother-of-pearl clock. Its filigree gold hands pointed to ten. She’d slept late, but what the hell, she had good excuses—jet lag, the family feud that took place at dinner, that creepy son, Alain … and Scott Harris, emerging like an unwelcome glimpse from the hard, rough past she would prefer to forget.
She pushed back the covers, swung her long legs over the edge of the high bed and walked to the window. Like Franny, she flung it open, then pushed out the shutters and took deep breaths of air. It was as though she were drinking wine, clean, clear, delicious. Who knew oxygen could be so intoxicating? She smiled as she took in the gardens and the grapes growing on the chalky hills and the rocky landscape leading to the massive cliff on which perched a fairy-tale village. She thought Provence was going to be okay after all.
Ten minutes later, showered, dressed in white shorts and a cute blue T-shirt that said WE LIED, SIZE MATTERS in sparkling letters on the chest, she followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen.
“Oh, hi, Haigh,” she said as he turned to look at her. “How’re things?”
“Things are progressing, Miss Clare, thank you.” He wondered testily what was wrong with these American women, invading his kitchen like they belonged. Didn’t they know this was his territory?
Clare gave him a big smile, helped herself to coffee, then drifted back into the hall and out the open front doors onto the terrace. She perched on a stone lion, swinging her long legs and sipping coffee, which was all she ever needed in the morning to get her going. And this was good coffee. She wondered if Franny was up yet. Of course she was. Franny was an early riser, she’d always had to be, working those zillion jobs she’d held as a student, and now of course, because she performed surgery on the animals at 7 A.M. Clare was a night person, which was the way it had always been, holding down the zillion jobs she’d had, though most were a little different from Franny’s.
The long stretch of driveway with its guardian cypress trees tempted her. She hopped off the lion, left her cup on the front steps, and wandered down the drive to see what was at the end of it. She’d reached the gates when she saw Jake coming toward her with his scruffy gray dog, as well as all the Pomeranians and Mimi and Louis.
“Hi.” She waved. “You look like the Pied Piper, only with dogs instead of rats.”
Jake laughed. “I hope that message on your T-shirt isn’t true,” he said, stopping to kiss her on both cheeks, French style.
“That shouldn’t worry you,” she said, and they grinned at each other. “Hey, I didn’t know you were a friend of Franny’s,” she added, inquisitive as always.
“I wish I knew her better,” he said, “but it’s kind of a problem.”
“So, what’s up?” Clare leaned against the flaking stone pillar by the gate, arms folded across her chest, while Jake explained what had happened, though he skipped the sex bit. But remembering Franny’s confession over lunch at Shutters Hotel, Clare guessed what had really happened.
“I can’t say I blame her for being angry—and for not trusting you,” she said when he’d finished. “You don’t exactly come off as Mr. Honorable, though I understand your asking her out and all. I mean, there’s something about Franny that’s irresistible to men, even though she doesn’t know it.”
“That’s what I like about her,” Jake said, and she nodded.
“Yup, that’s our Franny. So. Where do you stand now on this issue?”
He gave her a puzzled glance. He hadn’t asked himself that question. “Beats me.” He shrugged.
“Beats you, huh?” Clare unfolded her arms and drew herself to her full five-ten. “Then let me warn you, Mr. Bronson, if you are not serious about Franny, you stay away from her. She’s too good to be messed around again and I won’t stand for it.” She poked a hard finger into his chest. “Get it?”
Jake got it.
“See you later. Take care now,” Clare said, and she strode off down the leafy lane bordered with cow parsley and tall grasses and chalky white rocks that led to the village of Marten-de-Provence.
LAURENT JARRé WAS SETTING up his terrace tables when he saw the long-legged woman in the white shorts heading his way. He arranged the last of the place settings on the rosecolored cloths, positioned the glass salt and pepper shakers, straightened up and adjusted his low-slung apron as she came closer.
“Hi,” Clare called, leaping up the couple of stone steps, and he was forced to notice how prettily her breasts bounced under her T-shirt.
“Bonjour, madame,” he said politely.
“Bonjour to you,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and smiling into his eyes. “You got any croissants? They didn’t feed me at the chateau and I’m starving.”
It took a few seconds for Jarré’s brain to filter that into French. “Pardon, madame, mais nous n’avons pas de croissants.”
Clare sank into a chair, chin in her hand, pouting prettily. “Quel dommage,” she said in such a terrible accent that Jarré laughed. “So laugh at me, at least I tried.” She shrugged.
Jarré understood and he laughed with her. “All I can offer is a fresh baguette,” he said, looking apologetic.
She slammed an enthusiastic fist on the pink table. “I’ll take it. And the biggest cup of coffee you’ve got.”