Invitation to Provence(60)
Music drifted over the terrace, more wine was poured, conversation flowed fast, and laughter rang out. Little Blue and Mireille Allier giggled and held hands—the language barrier held no problems for them. The ravioli plates were mopped with chunks of baguette, then replaced with a new dish, containing exquisite little fillets of sea bass wrapped in lettuce leaves and simmered in white wine. After that came a fricassee of chicken in a green sauce made from fresh sorrel, parsley, and tarragon, served with a delicate squash flower stuffed with a mushroom mousse. The guests murmured their pleasure and dug in heartily while Haigh prowled the terrace like a drill sergeant, inspecting plates, making sure everything tasted as good as it looked. As the evening wore on, the guests helped themselves to even more wine, and the music got a notch louder.
Clare glanced at Scott, sitting next to her. There was no doubt he was an attractive man, plus he had that old salt-of-the-earth allure she was looking for. She sighed as a waiter put a salad in front of her, a delicate mix of tiny leaves with an ethereally light lemony dressing. “Can I really eat more?” she asked Scott. He grinned and said, “You’d better. Haigh is heading our way on an inspection tour.”
Clare looked up at him under her lashes. “Do people in Provence eat like this every night of the week?”
“Certainly not me. A ham and cheese sandwich is all I get in the evening. Sometimes I have lunch at the Café des Colombes, though. Jarré’s a good cook. He knows what he’s doing. Straightforward and yet not so simple.”
“Hmm,” Clare said thoughtfully. “Like the man himself.”
Scott gave her a surprised glance. “You know Jarré?”
“We met this morning. He told me his life story and I told
him part of mine.” Scott’s brows raised and she added, “Mine
was a little more complicated. Besides my French wasn’t up
to it, nor was his English.”
Scott refilled her wineglass. “I didn’t meet you in San Francisco,” he said quietly, “but I saw your photograph.”
Clare swirled the deep red wine in her glass. “And?”
“I think you are even more beautiful in person.”
She met his eyes. “And I think you are a very nice man.”
“A man who’s just met a very nice woman.”
“Always an interesting situation,” she agreed demurely. They heard Juliette’s roar of laughter and glanced down the table to see the guitarist was serenading her. Then Juliette was on her feet and immediately Jarré was up and she was in his arms as they swung away in a perfect waltz.
Haigh frowned. Dinner was not yet over. Dancing should come later, but it was a lost cause, because by now most of the guests were on their feet and the band had revved things up another decibel.
Allier waltzed by clutching Mademoiselle Doritée, whose beatific look Haigh suspected had as much to do with the amount of wine she’d consumed as the fact that she was dancing with her neighbor. Then Scott bowed to Clare and she slipped into his arms as easily as a melting snowflake in her white dress. Jake was dancing with Franny, holding her lightly, not crushing her as close as he wanted because this was not the moment. “I need to see you alone,” he murmured in her ear, and she nodded.
Rafaella held out her hand. “Shall we,” she said to Haigh, and they danced together, smiling into each other’s eyes.
“This is wonderful,” she said.
“Of course it’s wonderful. I’ve been working at it for weeks.” Haigh laughed. “And it is all going to be wonderful for you from now on, Rafaella.”
He only called her Rafaella when he was deeply emotional, and she squeezed his hand gratefully. “I know.”
The waiters had replaced the salads with platters of cheeses and the dancers flocked back to the table. Chairs were pushed back and new groups formed, the women on one side of the table, the men on the other. The women clustered around Rafaella, complimenting her on the fine meal and on the beauty of the illuminated chateau. “It’s just like in the old days,” they said, their eyes gleaming with pleasure. And they praised her beautiful grandchild, and the charming and clever veterinarian. And of course many of them remembered Juliette and said it was so good to see her here again, and they asked after her children.
After that came dessert, a sweet pastry tart crammed with wild strawberries and raspberries with two sauces, one a melting swirl of vanilla crème, the other bitter chocolate. With this Haigh poured a very special pink champagne, a Piper-Heidsieck Rosé Sauvage, in honor of the Chateau des Roses Sauvages. Then the toasts began, with everyone complimenting Rafaella and her new family and the chateau, and Rafaella complimenting her “family” and her guests.
By now, Little Blue was drooping in her chair and Franny was so full she could hardly move, but Clare still sat upright, the perfect lady, not a hair out of place. Juliette was merry, but her blue mascara had smudged. Rafaella was beautiful and still smiling, her long emerald earrings swinging as she bowed her head to the tributes and the applause.
Then the music started up for real and people got up to dance again. Haigh broke out the Marc, the good stuff scouted from the very back of Great-Grandfather Marten’s cellar. “When else would we get a chance to share it with so many friends?” he said, pouring liberally.
Jarré did not drink the Marc. Instead, he straightened his bow tie, buttoned his jacket, and smoothed back his hair. Fortified by the wine, mustache bristling, he strode over to Clare.