The Hotel Riviera(14)

With a pang of genuine grief, I decided there was no such thing as “true love.” It was a myth invented for novels and movies, perpetrated by poets who wrote sonnets about it, and by writers of popular songs. True love did not exist. It was gone from my life forever. And then I met Patrick Laforêt and plunged in, Eyes Wide Open, Head Over Heels. All the clichés. All Over Again.





Chapter 14




It was stardust all the way, that first year we were married, and Patrick made me feel like a bride every day of it.

I wish I could explain why a man falls out of love with a woman. With Patrick it was as quick as this. One day we were laughing and holding hands as we walked through the steep streets of Eze, a village perched on a mountainside above Cap-Ferrat, where we had gone for a precious day off from the demands of renovating our hotel. The next, he was heading off alone for Saint-Tropez with a casual “be back later, chérie.”

For a year we had made love, morning, noon, and night, and as often as we could in-between times, when the workers weren’t around and we could sneak some privacy in our still-unfinished cottage. And then suddenly we didn’t make love so much anymore. It was as though Patrick had turned out the lights and left me in a puzzling twilight zone, not knowing why or what or how.

Of course, my first thought was there was another woman. After all, Patrick couldn’t pass any woman without giving her the eye, and it would be a rare woman who could resist his looks and gentle charm.

Plus, let’s not forget I was a simple, amber-haired, round-eyed chef from the suburbs when Patrick met me, and he was French, and handsome, and rich (at least I thought he was then), as well as a man of the world. I don’t think a day went by that I didn’t question why he’d picked me to marry.

It wasn’t all bad. I mean, there were times when it would be perfect again, just for a day or so, and Patrick would be his old self, flirting and laughing and enjoying life and enjoying me. We would drive to a country auction, up in the hills of Provence to Orange, or even farther to Burgundy, where we once stayed the night in a grand converted chateau, living temporarily in the lap of luxury. It was so far removed from the daily chaos of our in-transition Hotel Riviera, it was like another world, and one where, to my surprise, I became another woman, throwing my cares and problems away and living just for the moment. We held hands, we kissed in shady bowers, and made love in a sumptuous feather bed.

I went to the local auctions and bid crazily on old stuff no one else seemed to want: the threadbare Oriental rugs, the out-of-fashion twenties marble-topped washstand; the crazy lampshades with the dangling bead fringes; and the gold lamé curtains from the thirties, swagged and tassled in purple, which to this day drape our—my—bed, looking like leftovers from a Fred and Ginger movie.

Sometimes, on those rare days we were together just before the opening of our hotel, we’d drive around and find an odd little sheep farm in the Sisteron hills where we’d spend the night tucked into a tiny room beneath the eaves, listening to the bleating of sheep outside our window and the splatter of rain on the tiled roof. Or we’d stop at a tiny hostellerie, just a couple of rooms over a little restaurant where we ate like kings and made love like bunny rabbits, as though this giddy world might never stop.

Did Patrick ever really love me, even then, when he was making love to me? It’s a question destined to haunt me forever. I so want to believe he did, in his own way, which sadly in the end was not enough. And in the end my love was not enough either. I still care about where Patrick is, though, about what’s happening to him, and who he’s with. In my heart I believe he’s with another woman, a younger, prettier, richer woman who can give him everything his material heart desires. Which, as I said before, doesn’t make him a bad guy—just a bad husband.

So, there we are; I’ve bared my untidy heart to you—what’s left of it anyway. For the past six months I’ve lived an independent life, running my little hotel, looking after my guests, cooking good food every night, and keeping myself busy so I don’t have time to think about Patrick.

What I’m really dreading is the winter, when my guests have gone back to their own worlds and I’m here alone on my little peninsula, listening to the mistral blowing from the Siberian steppes, crashing through the Rh?ne valley, gathering speed until it finds my cottage, rattling the doors and windows, shrieking through the pines and toppling the heavy planters with a sound like cannon shots, making the silence inside even more lonely.

It will no longer be the season for cold rosé wine and instead I’ll light the apple wood in the grate, praying that the wind won’t blow the smoke back down the chimney. I’ll brew up the chamomile tea that’s supposed to soothe my shattered nerves and maybe I’ll make some of those comforting toast soldiers and soft-boiled eggs that always remind me of my father and my childhood, because he would make them for me when I felt bad. Later, in bed, Scramble will snuggle into my neck, nibbling occasionally on my ear, and together we’ll get through another long night.

Did I mention I wasn’t looking forward to this? Did I mention how angry I am with Patrick? Did I mention I don’t know what to do about his disappearance, where to look for him, or even who to ask to help? Well, here’s the truth: the only good things to come out of this whole scenario are three facts. The first is that I still want to believe Patrick loved me, once upon a time. The second is I’m no longer in love with him. And the third is that I still have my true “true love”: the Hotel Riviera.