The Hotel Riviera(26)

“Get your nerves together, Lola,” she said, “this is no time to fall to pieces. We have a dinner to produce. Besides,” she added curtly, “Patrick’s not worth the tears.”

So I pulled myself together one more time and worked out my tensions preparing dinner.

I was in a frenzy of cooking, pounding my opinion of Detective Mercier in the mortar and pestle along with the tapenade, that earthy blend of olives, anchovies, tuna, capers, and oil that I would later serve with drinks. After that I put a batch of Roma tomatoes, halved and topped with a touch of garlic and a hint of thyme, salt and pepper, into a slow oven to melt down to a sugary sweetness, to be served on slices of oven-crisped foccacia, with a sprig of rosemary.

Marit was painstakingly cleaning the Saint-Pierre which I would cook quickly in a little butter, and serve with a sauce flavored with wine and fresh herbs. And before you ask, yes, like most French chefs, I do use cream and butter. Anyone visiting the Hotel Riviera must put away their city fears for a while and just indulge; after all, it’s not going to put pounds on you in just a couple of weeks. Besides, that’s what a vacation is all about.

Jean-Paul, moving fast for once, was cleaning the fruits and vegetables brought to our door, as they were every morning, by a local mara?cher, a market gardener. There were tiny carrots with the little tufts of green left on top; white radishes that crunched when you bit them; creamy baby cauliflower; zucchini the size of my pinky; and tiny beans, crisp as twigs. A pile of salad greens awaited his attention, plus the ingredients for the vinaigrette: olive oil from Monsieur Alziari in Nice—in my opinion quite simply the best; champagne vinegar from Reims; mustard from Dijon; salt from the sea; and peppercorns from Morocco—how I love their aroma when they are crushed. Add a clove of our local purple garlic and a little fine sugar to taste. Whisk it until it emulsifies—and you’ve got yourself a great salad.

I had to keep moving, keep working; I couldn’t allow myself to think about Patrick. I slid Barry White onto the CD player and turned up the volume. Grabbing a knife I butchered the hell out of a leg of lamb, then I threw myself into preparations for dessert.

A clafoutis would be my special tonight, the easiest and tastiest of “puddings.” A simple batter made from flour, eggs, sugar, cream, and cherries or other fruits layered in the bottom of a gratin dish, a lathering of kirsch, a good sprinkling of sugar, then the batter poured on top. More shavings of butter layered on that and another sprinkle of sugar, then bake the whole thing in a 400-degree oven for about twenty-five minutes. This is best served just warm when the batter is custardy and the cherries pop in your mouth like little taste bombs.

I went outside and picked figs from my own trees. They were ripe and sweet, and I’d serve them simply with a little raspberry sorbet and a splash of raspberry eau de vie.

I whirled around that kitchen, throwing brownies together, wiping off tiled surfaces, inspecting work in progress. Finally, I walked out onto the terrace for a breather.

I paced, arms folded tightly across my chest, head down, not even glancing at the view, at least not at first, then my eyes slid sideways. The sloop swung gently at anchor with no sign of life on board. I thought of the Naked Man, aka Jack Farrar, and his sculptured Blonde taking a siesta together and felt a surprising pang of something I suspected was jealousy. Then I told myself, of course I couldn’t be jealous, I hardly knew the man, I just envied his carefree lifestyle is all.

There was a familiar squawk as Scramble lumbered around the corner. I caught her in my arms, kissing her silken feathers, and she crooned a soft little hen-tune in my ear. “I love you, you funny little creature,” I said, smoothing her kissed feathers back into place. She gave me that sideways chicken look again and I asked myself one more time, was it really too much to believe that look meant “I love you too?”

Barry White’s deep voice rumbled over the terrace. Was that man sexy or what? I wondered whether Jack Farrar could hear Barry singing about “lurve” and how he was “never gonna let you down, baby.” Oh, for a man like Barry, I sighed, just as my sweet honeymoon couple, the golden-headed pair of lovebirds themselves, appeared on the terrace.

“Are you all right, Lola?” Mr. Honeymoon asked.

“Of course we know what’s going on,” Mrs. Honeymoon added sympathetically. “Everybody does. It’s just we didn’t like to mention it. But I can see you’re upset. Has there been, I mean, you know…bad news?”

“Not that kind of bad news,” I said. “Just general bad news.”

Mr. Honeymoon’s arm tightened around my shoulders. “Lola, my dad’s a solicitor, an attorney you’d call him. He has associates in Paris and in Avignon. A lot of Brits have bought property in France and they’re always in trouble, so he knows a lot about how things work here. If you need legal help, he’s your man.”

They were so sweet, so concerned, and so staunch in their support. I thanked them, thinking for the second time that day how lucky I was to find I had friends and that I was not alone. Then I remembered. “Weren’t you supposed to be going home today?”

“Of course we were, but we’re enjoying ourselves so much we decided to stay another week,” Mr. Honeymoon said. “Nadine told us it was okay and that we could keep our room. I hope it’s all right with you,” he added anxiously.

“All right? Why, that’s wonderful,” I said. “This calls for more champagne. I’ll send Jean-Paul out with it.”