The Hotel Riviera(18)

All I knew was that Patrick would never have dumped his Porsche in some parking garage in Marseilles. That car was his image, his alter ego. In his silver Porsche, Patrick became the rich south of France playboy. It was not an image he would have forfeited lightly.

I was out of my hot rumpled sheets at five, pacing the terrace beneath my windows, arms folded, head bent, hardly noticing the lovely dawn transition from opal to pearl to aquamarine to sunlit gold. All I saw was the pale terra-cotta floor tiles and my long brown feet with the chipped red toenail polish. I told myself sternly I really must get a pedicure, then shook my head, astonished I could even be thinking of such trivia.

I scanned my little bay, loving its gilded early-morning stillness. The black sloop still rode at anchor, drifting gently on the breeze-rippled sea. I remembered the Naked Man and the hedonistic pleasure he took in the elements. I thought of his hard body as he stretched, his head tilted to the sun and the wind. And then I remembered his sleek blond girlfriend, young and gorgeous.

I sighed as I went back indoors, envying their carefree lives, while I had a hotel full of guests to look after and a restaurant to run; menus to be planned; marketing to be done; coffee to be fixed; croissants to be baked. I could not afford to indulge myself in my problems.

In the shower I let the cold water slide over my skin, shocking me awake. I dressed in a minute in pink linen shorts and a cool white camisole, shoved my in-need-of-a-pedicure feet into the beribboned wedgie Saint-Tropez espadrilles that laced around the ankles, wondering why I’d ever bought them. Like everything else in my wardrobe they were purchased on the run, either on my way to, or on my way back from, Saint-Tropez market, or else in the fall sales, which was the reason nothing in my closet went with anything else. I shook my orange hair to dry it a bit, remembered too late that I should have lathered on the UV lotion, did a hasty touch-up on the parts of me that showed, then grabbed my car keys.

Car! Hah, that was a laugh! It’s only resemblance to Patrick’s Porsche was that it was silver. It was also old and small. Tiny, in fact. An ancient Deux Chevaux, of the kind that used to be called a sardine can because it looks as though you could stick a key in and peel back the top. It wasn’t even a real car, it was a flatbed and just right for my early-morning marketing activities, though not for much else. Still, it had seemed the perfect vehicle when Patrick and I were just starting out, the two of us getting into this “dream” hotel on the cheap.

Look how much money we’ll save, I remember saying oh so na?vely, when I’d discovered the car parked on a cobbled street in Ramatuelle with an à Vendre sign stuck on its windshield. And if you disregarded the monthly bills from the mechanic I was almost right. What I hadn’t factored into the keeping-the-costs-down equation was Patrick. Sure, I could have the sardine can if I wanted. Meanwhile, he’d bought himself the first of a series of supercars. I’m only now beginning to suspect how dumb I was. And still am. Probably.

Anyhow, the one place I’m not a dummy is in my kitchen. There, I know I’m in control. Marit, who was in before me, raised a floury hand in a greeting, told me that coffee was already brewed, and went back to arranging her croissant dough in neatly folded semicircles.

The smell of baking rolls and freshly ground coffee raised my spirits a notch and I sat at the long table under the windows with my notebook. With an effort, I shoved all the bad news about Patrick to the back of my mind, reserving him for quiet moments at the end of the day when I would be alone and free to pace the floors, free to agonize over his fate, free to be myself. Right now I had a business to run, guests to take care of. Today, they would be my salvation.

It was Saturday and market day in Saint-Tropez. There was sure to be good fish, fresh as it came. I’d also look for tiny golden beets and buy roulades of cheese made from the milk of Madame Auric’s special herd of white goats, and which seemed to me to have a creamier flavor than any other. I’d slice the beets and the cheese and some sweet tomatoes, stack them in a line like a little train in a pool of creamy basil dressing on a bed of arugula with perhaps, if I were lucky, slices of bright orange persimmon, and if not then kumquats or golden plums.

I’d be sure to get crevettes too, the large ones called bouquet, and hopefully, I’d find Saint-Pierre, the delicate flat white fish that was heaven simply grilled or sautéed, served with a green sauce made from fresh herbs and lemon.

Anyhow, my specials were in my head if not yet in hand, plus whatever else I could find that was interesting. Not a difficult task in Saint-Tropez market on a September morning, I can assure you.

Glancing up I saw Jean-Paul’s head float past the open window. His eyes were closed and he looked half-asleep. I heard the crash as his bike hit the rosemary hedge, sending a waft of Provence into the kitchen. With a muttered “merde,” he kicked the bike into place against the wall, then sauntered back past my window. The bead curtain rustled behind him and he stood, dusting himself off, looking sleepily at Marit and me. “Bonjour, Madame Laforêt, bonjour, Marit.”

“Bonjour, Jean-Paul,” we replied, eyeing each other and wondering where he’d been all night because he surely looked the worse for wear. I sighed; he was young and carefree and living in Saint-Tropez. I was grateful that at least he’d shown up.

I said, “Okay, Jean-Paul. First get into the shower, then some clean clothes, then set up the breakfast tables, there’ll be guests wanting coffee before you know it.” He stared blankly back at me. “Well, go on,” I said irritably in very bad French. “Et dépêche-toi, if you know what’s good for you,” I added.