Invitation to Provence(6)
Clare eyed her, relieved. “I thought this might turn out to be a massacre, but you took it really well. You know what, Franny? We’re just a couple of innocent small-town girls at heart, right?” Under the table, Clare crossed her fingers. What she had said wasn’t strictly true either, though it was where she had started out.
A sense of relief made Franny smile. She threw back her head and drained her glass. Watching her, Clare said, “Better let me give you a lift home.” She knew how much Franny had drunk and how upset she still was. “I’ve got a limo waiting.”
Franny couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden in a limo. It must have been at her high school prom. Still, she had her pride. She couldn’t allow Marcus’s wife to drive her home. “That’s okay. I’ve got my car outside,” she said.
“Yeah, I know, but we’ve both drunk a lot of wine and my car has a driver. Why not get your keys from the valet and tell him you’ll pick up yours tomorrow?”
Franny was suddenly too tired to argue. She fished in her satchel for her credit card to pay the check but Clare got there first.
“This one’s on Marcus,” she said, and they both sniggered as Clare signed his name with a flourish. Then, arm in arm, with ciaos and thank-yous, they headed out the door.
3
A SHORT WHILE LATER, they were sitting in the long black limo outside Franny’s house. As usual, she had forgotten to leave a light on and she thought the house suddenly looked very small and dark and kind of lonely.
“Well it’s ‘home,’ ” she said defensively. “My friends tell me it’s more Oregon than L.A., which is probably because that’s exactly who I am, still more Oregon than L.A.”
“Cute,” Clare said, reapplying her lipstick without the benefit of a mirror.
“So where do you live anyway?” Franny asked.
“Out of a suitcase right now, honey.” Clare pointed to the collection of expensive luggage piled into the limo. She hadn’t allowed the driver to put it in the trunk because she needed to know exactly where it was at all times. After all, it was practically all she’d got now. “I guess I’ll just check into Shutters Hotel for the night. I’ll think about what to do tomorrow.”
Franny suddenly realized that because Clare had left Marcus, she was temporarily homeless. She had been so nice and understanding and it didn’t seem fair to send her off alone into the night. After all, they were sisters in this experience, facing their futures together.
“Why not come in and have some chamomile tea,” she suggested.
“Why not? ‘The night is young and we are all alone,’ ” Clare misquoted, sliding gracefully from the limo, all long legs and high heels. “Though I’d prefer coffee,” she added. She stood for a minute, eyeing the empty front porch, then she said a touch wistfully, “It’s funny, but I’ve always longed for a little house with a front porch and a rocker.”
“And I always longed for a little house with a husband,” Franny said, and their eyes met and they collapsed into giggles as Franny struggled to get her key into the lock. At last she got the door open and they stepped cautiously over the creaking loose plank into the house.
Clare made herself instantly at home, exclaiming over the multicolored rag rugs, the fifties coffee table, the antique French armoire. She inspected the framed photos, sniffed the ginger-flower candles, put on a CD and turned up the volume, ignoring the general state of disarray.
Franny put coffee on to brew, decaf of course. She fished a bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies from the pantry and put them, still in the bag, along with a couple of hastily rinsed blue pottery mugs onto a flowered plastic tray.
“Coffee’s coming,” she said, setting the tray on the buttoned red-velvet ottoman next to Clare’s bare feet. She was sprawled across the sofa looking as though she belonged, stiletto mules off, eyes closed, toes wiggling in time to Rod Stewart singing “You Go to My Head.”
“Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne,” Clare sang along with him in a low sexy voice, smiling to herself and making Franny smile, too. Clare was different from the women she knew. Not only was she enviably gorgeous and chic, she was also down-to-earth, a small-town straight shooter at heart.
Clare sat up and took notice when Franny poured the coffee. “Just what a girl needs.” She smiled. “A good cup of coffee and Rod Stewart to curl up with.” She glanced at the small pile of mail Franny had brought in with her, noticing one envelope with French stamps. “So who’s writing to you from France?” She held up a hand, grinning. “If it’s from another married lover I don’t want to know about it.”
Puzzled, Franny inspected the large, square cream-colored envelope. She didn’t know anyone in France. She ripped it open and read the address out loud. “ ‘Chateau des Roses Sauvages, Marten-de-Provence.’ My great-grandfather Marten came from France,” she said, surprised. “But I never knew exactly where he was from. There was a big family fight or something and he left and came to live here. I don’t think he ever talked to his family again.”
“So read it. Maybe you’ll find out why,” Clare said, but Franny was already reading it.
Dear Franny,
I am writing to invite you to a reunion of the Marten family here at my home.