Invitation to Provence(7)

Of course you do not know me, but each of you to whom I am extending this invitation is related to me. You are cousins, perhaps many times removed it is true, but generations do not take away the fact that you are Family.

I am asking you to arrive on September 20th for a stay of three weeks. You will be contacted by a travel agent and the necessary travel arrangements will be made for you.

I will enjoy getting to know you and showing you your ancestral chateau, and I think you might enjoy getting to know one another, coming as you do from the farflung corners of the world. Yet you have the same bloodline, and I’ve always believed that blood counts.

I am an old woman now and it is my wish to reunite what is left of this family. Please do not let me down.



It was signed “Rafaella Marten des Sauvages.” There was nothing shaky about her signature.

Franny read it again. And then again.

“Oh” she said finally “Oh no! I don’t believe it. This is ridiculous. Of course I can’t go.”

Clare wiggled her toes and yawned lazily. “Go where?”

“To a chateau in Provence for a ‘family reunion’ with a family I never knew existed. Just listen to this, Clare,” she said, and read her the invitation. “I’ve never even heard of this Rafaella Marten who says she’s my aunt. All I know about the Martens is that my grandfather hated them and my father said it was with good reason. Dad never went to Provence to meet his family, so why should I?”

“Why?” Clare sat up straight. “Well, for the adventure, of course. Christ, just give me the opportunity, I’d be there in a flash.”

“You would?” Franny looked doubtfully back at the invitation. Rafaella Marten was an old woman. All she wanted was to bring her family together again at her chateau, their “ancestral home,” as she called it.

Franny slumped onto the sofa as her empty life flashed before her eyes. I have no one, she thought, facing facts. Only the animals, and even they don’t belong to me. Now Marcus is gone and I’m a failure in the love department, too. I never had a familyit was always just me and dad. There’s never been time to think about being lonely. Am I lonely? Was that why I allowed Marcus to take a piece of me, to take my life and twist it out of shape to satisfy his own need to control?

She sank into the sofa next to Clare, still clutching the invitation in her hand, staring blankly in front of her. Who am I anyway, besides the nice young vet at your local clinic, the one everybody can rely on to take on the extra work and to come in on Sundays… . Don’t worry, Franny will deal with it, they say. And don’t I always?

To be part of a family was what she had always wanted, though she’d never expected it to come long-distance like this. All of a sudden she had an aunt, she even had cousins. They were all to meet in some romantic old chateau in Provence, land of sunshine and olive trees and wine. A family home, she thought longingly, a chateau where the Martens have lived for centuries.

She looked at the beautiful Clare sitting expectantly on the edge of her sofa. She felt as though she’d known her forever, far longer than the seven-timing son-of-a-bitch Marcus.

“Okay, then maybe I’ll go,” she said cautiously, making Clare laugh.

“What have you got to lose?” she asked. “After all, your job will still be here when you get back.”

“And Marcus won’t,” Franny said flatly.

“Damn right he won’t, baby, and you can thank your lucky stars for that!” Clare looked at her, head tilted to one side, considering. “Just do it, Franny Marten,” she said. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

And Franny beamed at her, relieved not to have to make the decision. Clare had already made it for her.

“Okay, so I’ll go,” she said, and for some reason immediately felt very lonely.

“Hey,” she said impulsively to Clare, “why not just stay here tonight, the sofa’s quite comfortable and I’ll put on more coffee.” She looked hopefully at Clare, who wrinkled her nose.

“Decaf?” she said.

Franny laughed. “Tomorrow I’ll go to Starbucks first thing,” she promised.

“You’ve got a deal,” Clare said, “on one condition. No more talk about Marcus.”

Franny laughed again. “Deal,” she said, and went to put on more coffee and find a blanket and a pillow.





4





JAKE BRONSON STRODE into the bar at the Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan and stood for a moment, taking in the scene. Quite a few female heads turned to look back at him, speculating on who he might be. Tall and hard-bodied, dressed in jeans, an old cashmere jacket, and a blue shirt, he wore life’s experience on his handsome face. He also wore cowboy boots—his one concession to his boyhood dream of owning a ranch—and his thick, dark hair was rather too long because he considered getting it cut a waste of time, and he had a habit of raking his hair back with a large hand that knew how to punch out a man as well as how to gentle a nervous horse.

His light eyes narrowed in a smile, acknowledging an acquaintance across the room as he took a seat at the bar and ordered a Bud. He wasn’t a man for fancy drinks in martini glasses. “Make that glass well iced, will you?” he added. It was a quirk of his—he liked his beer at freezer temperature.