Invitation to Provence(72)

“Lucas lifted his head from the pillow and for a second our eyes met, then I turned and ran, dropping the bags with his presents on the floor, slamming the door of Room 23 behind me.

“I didn’t want to know who the woman was, didn’t want to hear his explanations or his professions about how he still loved me. In my heart I knew this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

“On the long drive back to Provence, I thought about what Juliette had said about destiny, that it was all about your own personal choices. Now it was my turn to make a

choice—and I knew I had to finish it.” Rafaella sat, eyes downcast, thinking for a long while. Then she said to Franny. “The only trouble is, I never stopped loving him.”

“And you never saw him again?” Franny said.

Rafaella hesitated before she answered. “Oh, yes,” she said. She looked at Franny. “I’ve never told anyone else that I saw him again, not even Juliette, and certainly not Haigh. It was my secret, but now, because I know you believe in true love, I will tell you that secret.”

And then she told Franny a story she would never forget.





56





LUCAS HAD COME BACK to her in the end. No one knew, not even Haigh, just Lucien and Janine, the guardiens at the villa because of course, that’s where they were, right back where they’d started, at Cap d’Antibes.

Haigh had returned to England to take care of some business, and Rafaella wasn’t used to being without him at the chateau, so she’d decided to go to the villa. It was just her and the dogs.

She was sitting on the veranda at twilight, looking at the sea glimmering like a blue-tinted opal and listening to the sound of the birds twittering in the pine trees and getting ready for the night, when she heard another sound. Footsteps on the lane leading from the gate to the house. Even though she was alone, she wasn’t afraid. She was never afraid at the villa, but she was curious. Perhaps it was Lucien coming back with a basket of peaches picked from the garden, or Janine returning for some other reason. She watched and waited and then he came into sight, a tall man in a white shirt. The sleeves were rolled and his arms and face were so tan they blended into the night. She couldn’t make out his features, but she knew that body, knew it as well as her own.

“Lucas,” she said in a whisper, but even so he heard her. He stood there, looking up at her, still sitting on the upstairs veranda, unable to stand because her knees had turned to jelly, while in her head she heard that old song being played on the white grand piano on the night they’d met.

“I’ve come home, Rafaella,” he said. His voice was hoarse, rougher than she remembered, and she knew instantly something was very wrong. She gathered her wits and ran down those stairs and through the hall and stood on the front steps staring at what was left of the Lucas she remembered.

He was so thin it was painful just to watch him walk. His step was hesitant, as if he was in great pain. She watched, frozen. When he got close, just a foot away, she looked into his gaunt, drawn face and knew he was dying. His eyes were the same though, sparking with a life force he was unwilling to surrender.

“I found where you were and I came back for you, Rafaella,” he said, as though it were that simple. She opened her arms and took him into them, just the way she had in the beginning.

It was obvious he didn’t have much time, and they spent those last few days together, as close as they had ever been—maybe even closer. They never left the villa. He slept in her bed and she lay awake listening to him struggle for breath, remembering when he was young and strong and bristling with life and virility. There was never a man like Lucas Bronson. Never.

She fed him the little bits of food he could manage, though she thought he only swallowed them to please her. He didn’t really want them, didn’t want to prolong his agony. They would sit on the veranda, watching the Mediterranean change from turquoise to sapphire until it melted into the sky, and they sipped wine and held hands and found a contentment they had never managed before.

And he said this to her: “I love you, Rafaella. I always loved you. I never knew anyone who could compare. The fault was mine—I was arrogant and a games player and I had a fatal flaw. Women were mine to take and so I took them. It’s no use saying I wish I didn’t because now it’s all over. But I came back to see you one more time, because you are my enduring memory.”

They had five days together, then she woke one morning and he was gone. She searched everywhere for him and finally she found him in a private clinic in Cannes. He died there the next day.

He was a famous man once and his obituary was in all the papers. He’d made a new will in which he ignored his son, as he had all those years, and left everything to a charity for horses. But he had requested that his ashes be scattered among the wild roses at the gazebo out at the chateau, “The place that always reminded me of you, Rafaella,” he’d said.

She had taken care of his last wish.

.



AS SHE LISTENED to Rafaella’s story, tears trickled down Franny’s cheeks. “You are so brave, so good,” she whispered. “I only hope my love is as strong as yours.”

“Trust me, child, it is.” Rafaella patted her hand. “And now I have a suggestion to make. You need a change while Jake is away. Why not go to the villa at the Cap? Take Little Blue with you. I want both of you to see how lovely the C?te d’Azur is. I would come with you but it’s too far for me now—my arthritis won’t permit it.”