Invitation to Provence(78)
Twilight filtered through the kitchen windows, and the bead curtain at the door trembled in the evening breeze. Franny tried to imagine what it was like at the villa in its heyday, full of happy young people and children and pets. Like the chateau, the Villa Marten needed to be brought to life again, but she knew Rafaella would never return here.
She got up and went into the garden. The only sounds were the chirpings of the sleepy birds in the pines and the soft crunch of the sandy path under her bare feet. It was still warm and the plants had begun to release their night scents, the jasmine and the roses and sea pinks and the fruits, and she was glad that Lucas had come back to this paradise to find Rafaella.
At last, she went back indoors, locking the big front door behind her. Criminal had found a cool spot on the tiled kitchen floor, where he lay on his back, four paws in the air, sleeping. And upstairs Little Blue was also asleep on her back, arms and legs akimbo, snoring gently.
Leaving the door to the veranda open to catch the breeze, Franny lay naked on the bed. She closed her eyes and, lulled by the night sounds and the warm breeze, she slept, happy in the knowledge that tomorrow would be another wonderful day, and a day closer to seeing Jake again.
She slept so soundly she didn’t hear the light footsteps on the veranda, didn’t see the man standing at the open French doors, looking at her as she slept naked. Didn’t see the smile on his face. In fact, Franny didn’t know anything more until she was awakened by the sound of dishes rattling and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen as Janine prepared breakfast.
62
THEY HAD JUST COME back from another sun-filled day at the beach and were looking forward to a siesta when the phone rang. Franny grabbed it on the third ring.
“I was missing you,” Jake said, and she melted at the mere sound of his voice.
“Me, too,” she said softly. She felt as if she was alone with Jake.
“I love it here,” she said, “but I’d love it a lot more with you,” and then she told him about their day at the beach and that she loved him and wanted him here so they could take a siesta together. And he said as soon as he’d finished in New York he would fly to Nice and they’d be taking all their siestas together. “But there’s another place I want to take you to,” he said, “a funky little auberge near Saint-Tropez called the Hotel Riviera. The owners, Lola and Jack Farrar, are such a cute couple. I’m sure you’ll like them. In fact, why don’t you take Little Blue and try its magic for yourself, just for a night. Trust me, you’ll fall in love.”
“I am in love,” she said softly as he rang off.
The next day they drove to Saint-Tropez. She followed the Ramatuelle road until she came to a flowery sign saying WELCOME TO THE HOTEL RIVIERA .
Franny followed the narrow lane through the trees, across a tiny spit of land, until she came to an old pink villa whose terrace overlooked the Mediterranean. Lush gardens led to a sandy beach dotted with marine blue umbrellas and sunny yellow loungers, where a few golden people were peacefully enjoying the sun. A small dinghy was tied up at the wooden jetty and, fifty yards out in the bay, an old black sloop swung at anchor.
A pretty woman about Franny’s age with a mop of taffy-colored hair stood on the hotel steps smiling at them. “Hi, or should I say bonjour?” she called. “I’m Lola Farrar. Are you looking for a room?”
Franny said that she was, and then she introduced herself and told her that Jake had recommended them. “In fact he said we shouldn’t miss it,” she added.
“Ah, Jake Bronson, the handsome mystery man,” Lola said with a grin. “He beats my husband at backgammon every night—and they play for money, five euros a game. I swear Jake’s never yet had to pay his bill at the end of his stay.” She glanced shrewdly at Franny. “You know him well?” When Franny admitted she did, Lola said, “I thought so from the glow.” Then they went indoors, where she showed her around and checked which rooms were available.
“I have two,” Lola said, studying her book. “There’s the Colette and the Bardot. I named all the rooms for French artistes and writers, not that there are many of them—rooms, I mean. Just eight to be precise, but they are all different.”
Little Blue came bounding through the door with Criminal tugging at the lead, and Lola Farrar said of course they took dogs, especially if it was Jake’s. “He’ll probably get along with our own,” she said. “He’s called Bad Dog for obvious reasons, and I think they’ve both got the same street-bred look about them. Anyhow, I think Colette is the room for you. It’s slightly larger and there’s twin beds. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The apricot-colored room with its brass beds canopied in white muslin, its immaculate linens, tiled floors, and soft rugs was just perfect. Little Blue pushed back the iron shutters with a clang. “Look, oh look,” she said, “there’s figs growing right outside and I can see children on the beach… . Oh, let’s go, Franny, do let’s go.”
Lola told them to go ahead—she would feed Criminal and find him a cool place in the kitchen. So they threw on their bathing suits and ran downstairs, through the terraced garden brimming with blossoming plants and shaded by those wonderful South of France umbrella pines, down the little wooden stairs and over the rocks onto the soft, sandy beach.