Invitation to Provence(59)
“It shows more of you than usual.”
He sounded a bit put out and she smiled impishly. “Perhaps you remember, there is more.”
“Now, now, stop flirting you two and come and greet the guests.” Juliette detached them from each other as the first cars circled the parterre garden and the villagers, dressed to the nines, stepped out, astonished to find their vehicles whisked off to be parked by young men in red jackets.
Then Mademoiselle Doritée arrived on her moto, her skirt hitched up to thigh level, something Haigh considered an unfortunate sight. She wore a long dark green silk dress, cut low over her bosom, which thankfully was masked by a white lace collar. A yellow flower was tucked into her wild, springy hair, though the town stylist had flattened the curls as best she could, but as the night wore on, her hair would revert to its old corkscrew self. She beamed with delight, shaking hands and accepting a glass of champagne, as comfortable as if she went to these kind of elegant affairs every week, because after all, like the others, she had known Rafaella and the chateau all her life.
“It’s like old times,” the villagers said, beaming and greeting Rafaella with kisses. They said how honored they were to meet her new family, and how lucky she was to have such beautiful “children.” Of course nobody mentioned Alain, though via the village grapevine—meaning the ladies who’d served dinner the previous night—everyone knew what had happened. But they would allow nothing to spoil Rafaella’s soirée.
Jarré jolted up the drive in his old Citro?n with the wooden trailer attached. It was the same one his father had used to go to the daily markets, and he’d never seen the need to replace it and still did not. He was wearing his best black suit, dressed up with a dashing red bow tie. Buttoning his jacket, he strode up the steps, greeting people he knew, which was just about everybody except the young man who, to his surprise, parked his vehicle. Rafaella greeted him with affectionate kisses and introduced him to her new family. He bowed respectfully over their hands, but his eyes sought out Clare. Elegant in her white dress, she was as unattainable as a woman from another planet, and he quickly turned away. Then he heard her voice behind him. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Jarré, the famous chef,” she said as he turned, and she deposited quick kisses on both his cheeks.
Jarré felt himself turn a hot red. He said good evening and he was happy to be here, then edged away, accepting a glass of champagne from his old buddy, Haigh, who was right behind him.
“Pretty woman, isn’t she,” Haigh said, with that knowing little smile. As usual, he hadn’t missed a thing.
The Alliers arrived with their ten-year-old daughter, who immediately took Little Blue’s hand and led her out to the terrace to show her where the toad lived in the fountain. Even the old boys from the square were dressed up and had been ferried to the party in a minibus. They sat on a row of gilt chairs, dressed up in ancient suits that were now too big for them, their usually grizzly chins shaved pink and smelling of some citrusy lotion purchased from Mademoiselle Doritée’s store, looking like wallflowers at the ball. Franny went and shook their hands, telling them she was Rafaella’s niece. They smiled and nodded, and some even kissed her hand.
A great deal of champagne was quaffed, as well as lots of Stella beer, and out on the terrace the band, which consisted of keyboards, violin, an accordion, and a guitar played a medley of tunes that always made Franny think of Paris and Edith Piaf.
Haigh checked his watch, then strode to the kitchen to check the caterers, then back into the hall, where he struck a booming note on the brass gong and announced that dinner was being served. Everybody rushed at once to check the seating plan and find their seats.
The single big table ran the length of the terrace, spread with crisp white damask and many brimming pots of white roses, with swags of bay leaves intertwined with sage, rosemary, and lavender and smelling the way heaven surely must. Colored lanterns hung from the trees, and tiny lights were twirled around the Chinese wisteria and curled around the balustrade along the terrace. As night fell, the lights along the fa?ade of the chateau sprung to life, bathing the house in a soft golden glow, while in front the fountains played and sparkled.
Looking at all the beauty around her, Franny stored the memories. It was the most wonderful evening of her life, here with her own family at her true family home.
Rafaella took her seat at the center of the long table. In the place of honor on her right she had put the mayor of Marten-de-Provence, a farmer who tilled Rafaella’s own fields as well as his own. On her left was her old friend Jarré, and next to him sat Juliette. Franny was farther down, between Monsieur Allier and Jake, while Clare was at the other end, between Scott and the town notaire, the lawyer who took care of everybody’s small problems. The old boys were lined up in a row opposite Rafaella, and Little Blue sat next to her new friend, Mireille Allier, while down the table Mademoiselle Doritée had tucked her napkin into her lavish bosom and was already looking around to see what was going to be served.
Bottles of water, as well as Domaine Marten, were lined up in silver coasters. The chargers at each place setting were a pale pink glass dating from the 1920s. The service was vermeil, and the glasses the finest long-stemmed crystal, all unused for many years. Even Haigh was finally satisfied. He had not let Rafaella down, everything was perfect. The smart caterers from Avignon had done a good job, and he gave a nod of approval to the entrée, a luscious lobster ravioli in a buttery coral sauce embellished with a single spiky pink crayfish.