Invitation to Provence(66)
Jarré nodded solemn as ever. “Okay,” he said reluctantly.
“As you can see, I helped myself to some coffee.”
“I’ll make you some fresh.” He hurried in to the bar.
“Jarré,” she called after him, and he popped his head out again and looked questioningly at her.
“What do I have to do to make you smile?”
Jarré was smiling as he turned back to the coffee machine and prepared a grand crème for the beautiful woman sitting at his table. He also prepared one for himself then he took them and went and sat opposite her.
“You dance very well … Clare,” he said.
“And so do you … Jarré,” she said.
“You looked very beautiful last night.”
“And you looked extremely handsome.”
“How long will you stay here?”
“I thought a couple of weeks, but now … it depends …”
“It depends?”
“It depends.”
He nodded, looking at her in a way no man had ever looked at her before. Clare was used to admiration, to lust even, but Jarré’s eyes trusted her.
“I will do everything I can to make your stay happy,” he said.
The idea came to her in a flash. “Then I know what you can do. You can give me cooking lessons.” She flung her arms wide, shaking her head in astonishment at her brilliant idea. “Jarré I cannot even boil an egg, I failed mashed potatoes in home ec, I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Do you think you can change me?”
He shrugged, “Bien s?r,” he said, looking a little doubtful.
“Then it’s settled,” Clare said happily. “I’ll show up every morning and help in your kitchen and you will teach me how to cook.” She held out her hand, “Deal?”
He took it. “Deal,” he said, and this time he was smiling.
51
THE TOUR of the Domaine Marten winery was to begin at six, followed by dinner at the Moulin d’Argent in Saint-Sylvestre, the village perché.
As usual, Clare was first to be ready, sitting on the stone lion by the front steps, legs swinging. Little Blue and Franny came next, quickly followed by the exuberant Pomeranians and Juliette, elaborate in a flowery caftan, bead necklaces, and many clanking gold bracelets. Jake appeared, walking up the driveway from the village, hauling Criminal tied with a piece of rope in lieu of a lead, something he’d never previously needed.
“He spends more time in the village than at home,” Jake said, unconsciously reverting to calling the chateau “home,” which was the way he’d always thought of it.
“It’s the lure of the wild,” Juliette cried out cheerfully. “Criminal must be in love with one of those méchant dogs that linger by the fountain all day. Trust me, there’s some little French mademoiselle he can’t resist.”
Clare didn’t need to look at Franny, she could practically feel the sexual electricity sparking between her and Jake. She wondered worriedly about Jake Bronson; he had a special and sometimes dangerous job, and he was a man with secrets—and probably a past. She only hoped Franny would make the right move this time. “Salt-of-the-earth type, Franny. Remember?” she reminded her, looking pointedly at Jake.
“Oh … oh definitely.” Frannie beamed and Clare crossed her fingers. Meanwhile, she wondered what her own “right move” was to be.
Finally Rafaella and Haigh came out onto the portico. Little Blue, pretty in a yellow cotton sundress rushed to greet her. “Grandmère Rafaella,” she cried, “I was missing you.”
Rafaella stopped in her tracks—at that moment she knew true happiness. Beaming, she kissed her grandchild, “And I missed you too, and I want you to ride with me in the Bentley Juliette too, I think. And Franny and Clare, you’ll drive with Jake.”
Sitting next to Jake, driving up the road that wound its way through soldierly-straight rows of vines loaded with bunches of overstuffed grapes, Franny wondered how it was possible that a place could get even more beautiful. But then Jake told her she should see the different beauty of the vineyards in winter, leafless and cut back into small witch-like branches.
“Sometimes it rains so hard,” he told them, “and then the mistral comes and knocks down trees and tiles from the roofs and makes everybody bad-tempered. Around New Year’s Eve, the cold creeps in, though it’s still possible to eat lunch out on a sunny sheltered terrace. The night air feels sharp in your lungs and so clean you can almost drink it and you shiver as you pile on jackets and sweaters and go to Jarré’s to dine on his hot soup au pistou and his hearty venison stew, and maybe drink a bottle or two of the wine we’re going to taste now.” He sighed happily. “I’ll tell you, life does not get much better than that.”
“But how can you remember it so clearly from all those years ago?” Franny said, astonished.
“How could I ever forget?” he said simply.
At the winery, Scott was waiting for them. The stone arches behind him glowed honey-color in the evening sun and the old monastery bell in Saint-Sylvestre tolled the hour.
“Right on time,” he called, opening the door of the Bentley. “Welcome, ladies,” he said, though with his Aussie accent ladies sounded more like “liediss.” He got to Jake’s car just in time to open the door for Clare.