The Hotel Riviera(12)

He was a dream-weaver, Patrick, and that night he wove my perfect dream of the C?te d’Azur, of a small hotel; of sunshine and flowers; of cool wine and a warm, passionate man.

I was head over heels, no question about it. And although it was not my usual cautious style, we ended up in bed that night, crazy for each other. And on an even crazier impulse one month later we were married and I became Lola Laforêt. I still remember how embarrassed I was when I heard my new name for the first time, and how I had wished I’d been named plain Jane, because Jane Laforêt would have sounded somehow less like a stripper.

It was hot the day we became husband and wife in the chambers of a silver-haired Las Vegas judge. Patrick was almost too handsome in a cream linen suit that looked far more bridal than the inexpensive beige silk shift I’d grabbed from my closet—because this was a spur-of-the-moment marriage and there’d been no time for bridal shopping. As usual my shoes were killing me, and my bridal bouquet was a bunch of drooping hot-pink roses, a color I hated, picked up hurriedly from a gas station and already half-dead in the heat.

Despite everything, like any bride, I still have my inexpensive “wedding dress,” sentimentally preserved between sheets of special acid-free tissue. And I still have that sad bouquet, pressed between the pages of an album that contains a single wedding photograph, taken by our only witness, the judge’s secretary. In it Patrick looks solemn, while I look vaguely alarmed, brows raised, eyes wide, as if aware of what was to come.

Of course, now I realize it was more than just Patrick I had wanted. I’d wanted the romance of southern France, the wines, the food, the lovemaking under summer stars, and I realized, too late, that the stars were in my eyes and not in those summer skies.

So you see, the truth is I’m as fragile as every other woman when it comes to love and relationships and men.





Chapter 12




The night was too hot to go indoors yet, and I decided to take a stroll through the gardens before bed. The scent of jasmine hung on the air, reminding me of those early days when the hotel had just opened; when we had no guests, and were still gluing it all together with spit and hope and no money.

Up the lane at the entrance to the hotel, a small blue sign tacked to a pine tree said, in bright yellow letters, “The Hotel Riviera.” Next to it another, bigger sign said, BIENVENUE/WELCOME in what I thought were justifiably extra-large letters, and under that yet another sign said in French: “Our Welcome Is Bigger Than Our Hotel,” which was, of course, the truth.

Twin rows of parasol pines yearned toward each other over the lane, providing a welcome avenue of shade in the heat of the day. Wander down that lane, turn a corner, and there it is; square and solid and the color of faded-pink roses, with a row of French windows above and a matching row beneath, flanked by old shutters that have always been somehow askew, no matter how I’ve tried to fix them. Their green paint has weathered to a silvery patina, and each morning they’re thrown open to greet the sun, then closed again in the afternoon to keep out the heat.

Although it’s the end of summer, vivid pink and purple bougainvillea still tumbles over the trellises flanking the doors, and the white-pointed petals of jasmine gleam in the darkness. The door stands open, as it always does until midnight, after which guests need to use their own keys, and on a chunk of pink granite set above those doors is carved the name Villa Riviera, and the year it was built, 1920.

Walk up the low stone steps and into the hall and you’ll be met by the faint familiar scent of beeswax and lavender. Each piece of furniture, each lamp and rug, each object in this house has a history; a memory of where I had bought it; of how much I’d had to borrow; of who I had been with. All my good memories are here.

I ran my hand over the round rosewood hall table that serves as the reception desk, its dents and chips camouflaged under layers of beeswax, rubbed to a hard sheen by Nadine. On the table is an old brass schoolbell, used to summon the patronne from the kitchen. A green and white chintz sofa stands alongside a red leather wing chair, studded with brass nailheads, and the bombé cabinet has the dull sheen of silver leaf, personally applied by me. Currently, it’s topped with a mixed bunch of lilies and marguerites, plonked hastily into a blue pottery jug by someone who obviously had little time to bother with fancy flower arrangements. A fake Louis-the-something love seat on spindly gilt legs is covered in traditional blue and yellow Proven?al fabric found in the local market, and next to it a reed basket holds a pile of sweet apple logs.

Now, walk through the arch from the hall and you’re in the salon, a big room fringed with those tall French windows leading onto the terrace and the gardens. This is the room with the oversized limestone fireplace that looks like one of my mismatched auction finds, but is in fact original to the house. This room is furnished with a pair of rather grand high-backed, tassled silk sofas, “rescued” from a decrepit chateau, as were the rugs, admittedly a bit threadbare and faded but still beautiful.

Beyond the salon is the small dining room, used only in bad weather, when the mistral blows the sand from the beach and the leaves from the trees, wrecking my jasmine and wrenching the vines from the arbor, and rattling everyone’s nerves. It’s kind of cozy in there, though, with the lamps lit and the wind howling, a bit like a storm at sea.

Anyhow, by the time you finally leave the terrace and the delights of a long, winey dinner, and climb the central staircase, you’ll be almost asleep. You’ll find six identically sized bedrooms, with an extra-large corner room anchoring each end of the hallway. Instead of numbers, I’ve named the rooms for famous French artistes and writers: there’s Piaf and Colette, who, by the way, once owned a house in Saint-Tropez and sold her makeup line in a little store there. There’s Proust, Dumas, Zola, and Mistral. I also named one for Brigitte Bardot, who famously lived just down the road from here. Plus Miss Nightingale’s room is named for Marie-Antoinette, because I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion the woman had been misquoted and then blamed for all the French royal family’s problems. Somewhat similar, Miss Nightingale had reminded me, to a recent princess’s own problems.