The Hotel Riviera(2)

I knew I shouldn’t but okay, I admit it, I took a peek—actually a long look. What woman wouldn’t? After all, he was just standing there, poised for a dive, almost flaunting his nakedness. And I want to tell you the view was good. I’m talking about his face of course, which was attractive in an odd sort of way. Actually, I thought he looked like his boat: tough, workmanlike, rather battered.

I watched the Naked Man make his dive, then cut cleanly out to sea in a powerful crawl until all I could make out was a faint froth in his wake. From the corner of my eye, I caught a movement on the sloop; a young woman, all long legs and long blond hair and wearing only a bright red thong, was stretched out on a towel in the stern, catching the final rays. Not that she needed them; like him she was perfectly toasted. Spread her with butter and jam, I thought enviously, and she’d be perfect for his breakfast.

The Naked Man was swimming back to the sloop and I got him in my sights again. And that, you might say, was my big mistake.

He climbed back onto the boat, shook himself like a wet dog in a cloud of rainbow-colored droplets, then flung out his arms and lifted his head to the sun. He stood for a moment, beautiful, hard-bodied, golden from the sun and the sea winds, a man at one with the elements. There was something so free about the gesture, it took my breath away.

I followed as he padded aft, saw him reach for something. A pair of binoculars. And then he had me in his sights, caught in the act of peeking at him.

For a long moment our eyes met, linked by powerful lenses. His were blue, darker than the sea, and I could swear there was laughter in them.

I jumped back, hot all over with embarrassment. His mocking laughter drifted across the water, then he gave me a jaunty wave and, still laughing, stepped into a pair of shorts and began unhurriedly to clean his deck.

So. That was my first meeting with Jack Farrar. The next one would prove even more interesting.





Chapter 2




I retreated into the dining room in back of the terrace, and began hurriedly to check the tables, polishing a knife here, adjusting a glass there. I checked that the wines were cooling, checked that the linen napkins were properly folded, checked my long ginger hair in the mirror behind the bar, wishing I could call it copper or even red, but ginger it was. I wished one more time that I had exotic almond-shaped eyes instead of my too-round ones, wished I knew a recipe to get rid of freckles, that I was taller and leaner and maybe ten years younger. I was thirty-nine years old and after the events of the past six months, I decided gloomily, I looked every year of it.

I wasn’t exactly into a glamorous mode either, in my baggy houndstooth chef’s pants and shrunken white tee, with no lipstick and, even worse, no mascara on my ginger-cat lashes.

Horrified, I realized I was looking at exactly what the Naked Man had seen through the binoculars. I thought worriedly I really must make more effort but that anyhow he certainly wasn’t interested in me; then I forgot about him and headed for my true domain.

The jewel-colored bead door curtain jangled behind me and I was in my favorite place in the whole world, my big tile-floored kitchen with ancient beams and a row of open windows overhung with blossoming vines.

I’d known the first day I saw it, this had to be my kitchen. It had stolen my chef’s heart even more than the magical view from the terrace and the sandy winding paths, the shady pines and the wild overgrown gardens. More than the cool upstairs rooms with their tall windows and lopsided shutters, and the downstairs “salon” with its imposing limestone fireplace that was far too grand for such a humble seaside villa. More than any of that, this kitchen was home.

It was the place where I could put all thoughts of sophisticated city restaurants behind me and get back to my true foodie roots, back to the simple pleasures of local produce and seasonally grown fruits and vegetables. Here, I would grill fish that swam almost at the bottom of my garden and pick the herbs that grew almost wild to flavor my dishes. I knew I could relax and be myself in this place.

It all seemed so perfect. But first “true love” disappeared; then Patrick had disappeared, and now my only love left was my little hotel. Oh, and Scramble, whom I’ll tell you about later.

My private life might be a mess, but all was well in my culinary world. Sauces simmered on the stove; fishes shone silver and bright-eyed in the glass-fronted refrigerated drawer; perfect little racks of Sisteron lamb awaited a hot oven, and individual tians of eggplant and tomatoes were drizzled with succulent olive oil from Nice, ready to be popped into the oven.

A fifteen-foot pine table stood under the windows. On it a couple of tartes Tatin cooled alongside a big blue bowl of sliced ripe peaches marinating in vermouth. Next to them were the spun-sugar cage confections, a remnant of my old “grand” restaurant days and with which I liked to top my desserts, because I enjoy the delighted oohs and aahs they evoke from my guests. Oh, and as always, a tray of my signature nut-topped brownies, my American specialty that I like to serve with the coffee.

You’ll find no huge white plates centered with tiny “culinary arrangements” here. Our food is simple but lavish, our plates are locally made stoneware, the color of good honey, and we garnish them with only fresh flowers and a sprig of herbs.

I dropped a kiss on my assistant Nadine’s cheek in passing. She’s been with me since the beginning, all traumatic six years, and I love her to pieces. She’s a local woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, with a raucous laugh and a sense of humor that’s gotten us through many a kitchen disaster. Along with her sister, she takes care of the housekeeping as well as helping in the kitchen, while I deal with the food, the marketing, the menus, and the cooking; and Patrick supposedly took care of the business end, though from our meager bank account, I’m not sure how good a job he had been doing.