Invitation to Provence(79)
Franny left Little Blue safely splashing in the tiny wavelets with a couple of other kids while she swam, enjoying the way the water slid, cool and silky, over her body. She sighed with pleasure, turning to float on her back, staring up at the bluest of skies, thinking of Jake and how they would come here together someday. After a while she swam out to the black sloop. She laughed when she saw its name: Bad Dog. Using her old yardstick, she knew Jack Farrar had to be a good guy.
That night she and Little Blue dined on the hotel terrace with the view of the sea and the lights of Saint-Tropez glimmering like a crystal necklace around the bay. Happy and feeling a long way from Your Local Veterinary Clinic, Franny sipped the icy cold Paul Signac rosé wine Lola had recommended, telling her that Signac was a famous artist who’d lived in Saint-Tropez in the early days. They ate grilled crevettes, the large ones Lola told them were called bouquets, and a rack of lamb from the foothills of the Alpilles and lavender crème br?lée, which they said was heaven. Immediately after dinner, Little Blue dived into the bed nearest the window and was asleep in minutes.
Franny joined Lola on the terrace, where she was introduced to her handsome husband, Jack Farrar, who said, “Tell Jake I’ll be sure to beat him at backgammon next time he’s here, and that’s a threat.” Since he was at that moment being definitively beaten by a tall, glamorous red-haired guest named “Red” Shoup, that didn’t seem like much of a threat to Franny.
She chatted with Miss Nightingale, an Englishwoman who was a dead ringer for Queen Elizabeth, about, of all surprising things, Scotland Yard detectives. It turned out Miss N, as she was known, had been married to one. Miss N also told her the story of how Lola had almost lost the Hotel Riviera to an unscrupulous billionaire a couple of years before.
Her head swimming with wine and stories, Franny slept like a log that night, and she felt sad when they left for Cap d’Antibes the next morning, with hugs and kisses and promises to return with Jake.
. . .
ALAIN HAD WATCHED THEM putting their bags in the car and he’d cursed out loud as they drove off to Saint-Tropez, afraid they were leaving before he could carry out his plan. Panicked, he’d climbed onto the upstairs veranda and into Franny’s room. He’d breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her things were still there. Then he’d gone down to the kitchen to inspect the stove. He checked its burners, saw that it was fueled by natural gas and not propane, then he’d let himself out of the kitchen door and locked it behind him. He went to pick up his Vespa from the bamboo thicket, drove into Antibes, got his car from the public parking building, and drove at top speed toward Cannes, headed for the casino and the clubs. While the mice were away, the cat might as well play he said to himself, smiling at the twist on the old saying. Might as well have fun while he bided his time.
63
CLARE KNEW IT WAS now or never. Her future would be decided today. She showered and changed into the simplest thing she owned, a white cotton dress, high at the neck and low in the back, with a soft, full skirt that rippled girlishly around her knees. She put on a pair of wedge espadrilles, brushed her dark hair into a ponytail, and tied it with an orange string left over from the pastry-shop package, where they would tie even a couple of cookies in elegant paper and ribbon. She took a long look in the mirror. “This is it, girl,” she said to herself.
Un-made-up and in the virginal white dress, she looked a bit like a darker version of the innocent Franny. She clipped gold hoops into her ears, then decided against them. She dabbed on a little of the lavender scent she’d bought at Mademoiselle Doritée’s, stuff made locally and meant for tourists. It cost only a couple of euros, and never in a million years would she have worn it at home, but here, in the countryside, it was perfect. She tried on a straw hat, decided against it, and instead tied a blue kerchief over her head, Jackie O–style.
She picked up the English/French dictionary she’d been studying, plus the little notebook in which she’d written some useful and appropriate phrases, and put them in her pocket.
Still she hesitated. So. Okay. Now she was ready. If she hung about any longer she might change her mind. She grabbed the car keys and ran downstairs, stopping in the hall to see who was there, and breathing a sigh of relief that no one was around to ask where she was going.
She didn’t see Haigh peeking from the dining room just in time to see her start up the car and take off too fast down the drive. He wondered where she was going but figured he already knew. Haigh always knew what was going on at the chateau.
It was just after two o’clock and, as usual in France, everything was closed. The village square was deserted, as was the Café des Colombes. Even the old codgers were gone from the benches, and the dogs had retreated into the cool of the alleys.
Clare parked under the trees, got out, smoothed her white cotton skirt, took a deep breath, then marched determinedly across the cobblestones to the café.
Jarré was mopping his zinc when the doorbell jangled. His mustache bristled and his eyes opened wide as he took in the vision in white. He put down his cloth and came out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on the apron slung around his hips.
“Clare,” he said, allowing his dark gypsy eyes to express his admiration. “Lunch is already finished, but perhaps I can find something if you are hungry.”