Invitation to Provence(76)
Waiting behind a retinue of large Mercedes at yet another autoroute toll booth, Franny tried to imagine Jake in New York, but she couldn’t picture him in his urban loft or the smart offices he’d described to her. Strangely, although she
had never been there, she could picture exactly how his mountain cabin would look, and exactly how it would feel because Jake had told her about it so lovingly that first night when they’d dined together. He’d told her it was the only place where loneliness was not an issue and solitude was welcomed, and she’d understood that.
At last, she was off the autoroute and on a side road that led to the sea. With its shady pines and secret villas tucked out of sight in rambling scented gardens, the C?te d’Azur was completely different from California’s great sweep of rugged coastline and broad beaches with their pounding surf. Driving slowly along the edge of the tranquil blue-green bay, Franny saw the few puffs of clouds reflected in the water as perfectly as any mirror. She woke up Little Blue to look, and the girl and the dog stuck their heads out the windows, breathing in the exciting sea smells, watching the fishermen on flat, wooden boats, like people in a painting by Monet.
Following Rafaella’s directions, she drove down a narrow tree-lined lane until she came to a clearing and a pair of large wooden gates set between stone pillars carved with the name VILLA MARTEN .
Little Blue got out to ring the bell, hopping impatiently from foot to foot until the gates swung open. She jumped back in surprise when she saw a tiny old man with a creased brown face and a toothless ear-to-ear smile.
“Bienvenue, bienvenue, les nouveaux Martens. Je suis le gardien, Lucien. Eh bien, c’est un beau jour … Venez, mesdemoiselles, venez, welcome.” The old man waved them into a sandy pine-fringed lane to a creamy stucco villa, two stories high. A green wooden veranda, overflowing with purple bougainvillea, ran around the entire upper floor, while underneath was a colonnaded patio complete with a carved-stone dolphin fountain. Green-shuttered windows were open to let in the sea air, and on the steps waited an equally old woman in a blue dress and a white apron.
Janine’s smile matched her husband’s, for she had been married to Lucien for almost sixty years and they had known Rafaella all her life. Now she was happy to greet Rafaella’s family, happy to see the old villa opened up again, happy to see a child and even a dog racing around the place.
The old couple no longer lived in the gardien house on the property but had a more convenient apartment in the town of Antibes itself. But Janine told Franny that of course they would come every morning, and if Franny wished, she would do the marketing and prepare an evening meal, which she would leave ready for them, though she supposed they would eat at the cafés most days.
Criminal was already checking things out, sniffing his way through the tiled hall and into the kitchen at the back. A few seconds later he emerged, tail wagging, with a leg of lamb clamped in his jaws. Janine shrieked and Lucien came running as fast as he could on his bent old limbs, but Criminal outmaneuvered them. Twisting past their outstretched arms, he ran into the oleander bushes where, safely hidden, he proceeded to demolish their dinner.
“I’m so sorry, Janine,” Franny said, trying not to laugh because, after all, Criminal was just living up to his reputation. “Il est un chien méchant.”
Still a little put out, Janine showed them the house. It was unexpectedly simple; downstairs were large, cool rooms leading onto the terrace and the gardens, which ran down to the sea and a small jetty, from where Franny caught a glimpse of the narrow La Garoupe beach.
Janine proudly showed off her cavernous kitchen with its rough-beamed ceiling and its ancient stove. Just looking at its steel girth and wobbly burners, Franny sincerely hoped she would never have to tackle cooking dinner on it.
There were comfortable sofas covered in Proven?al fabrics, soft rugs, and the smallest TV Franny had ever seen. The massive dining-room table could easily seat twenty, and another rustic wooden table on the shaded patio could seat twenty more. There was also a guest house in the garden, but it had been locked up for many years.
Wild with excitement, Little Blue ran upstairs to choose her room, finally deciding on the big corner one with the view of the bay, while Franny took the one next to it. They unpacked and put on their bathing suits, said good-bye to Lucien and Janine, and set off to walk to La Garoupe beach. Criminal pulled on his lead, wanting to stop every two minutes to sniff, but they were hungry and didn’t let him. They stopped at the beach called Plage Keller, where people were sitting under yellow umbrellas enjoying lunch at the Café Cézar. Bottles of wine chilled in frosty silver buckets next to them, and there was the good smell of lobster and pasta, pommes frites, and olive oil.
Franny ordered a salade ni?oise for herself and calamars frits for Little Blue, and Criminal slept in the shade. While they waited to be served, Little Blue ran to watch the other children who were jumping off the wooden jetty that stuck out into the water, and Franny sank peacefully back into her chair, letting the sun warm her naked shoulders. A delicious lethargy crept over her. She thought of her soft white bed in the cool shuttered room at the villa and understood why the southern-French took siestas. Eyes half closed, she heard the soft plop of the waves in the distance and the cries of the gulls and the children. She was dreaming about taking a siesta with Jake.
From a table nearby, Alain watched her. He was alone, though several women eyed him with interest. He wore a white polo shirt and shorts and very dark wraparound sunglasses. His hair was blond again, he was tanned and fit-looking and almost unrecognizable from the smart-suited, dark-haired man who had disrupted the family reunion just a short while ago. He ordered another glass of Ricard, savoring it slowly, his eyes on Franny.