The Hotel Riviera(27)

I hurried back to my kitchen. Everything was immaculate, everything in its place, everything gleaming, in complete contrast to my perennially cluttered little house where I headed next, with its bunches of mixed flowers jammed into pots, and the branches and leaves I picked up on my walks tossed onto the hearth. The aroma of spilled scent permeated my bedroom and yesterday’s clothing lay where I’d stepped out of it. A pair of sandals were kicked under the bed, the gold lamé curtains drooped, and the gardenia candles were burned down into stubs. I sighed, regretfully. It was the perfect metaphor for my life: the hotel, my kitchen. Perfect. My cottage, and my private life. A mess.

I told myself sternly I must get myself together. I must get my hair cut, get that pedicure, buy some new clothes. But then I gave myself the same old excuse: I was too busy, there was just no time.

I stood under the shower, lifting my face to the cool water, rinsing away the fears. I thought this had been one of the strangest days of my life. But it was about to become even stranger.





Chapter 25




It was early afternoon and I was in my black leotard, attempting a few desultory exercises, trying vainly to get everything back into the place it used to be, including my mind. I swear I heard my spine creak. Probably from lack of use, I thought, disconsolately, since I was turning out to be spineless anyway. But then what I definitely did hear was someone walking down the path. Light footsteps. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a towel and went to greet whoever it was.

I had never set eyes on the woman standing on my front porch, but she knew who I was, all right.

“Lola,” she said, smiling. “We meet at last.”

“We do?” I said, astonished.

She was somewhere in her mid-forties, beautiful, petite, curved yet slender, with a long fling of dark hair and narrow turquoise eyes. I was just thinking they were so brilliant they had to be contacts, when she said, “I may call you Lola, may I not? After all, I feel as though I already know you.”

“You do?” I said, astonished again.

“Because of Patrick,” she said. “My old friend.”

Trying to decide why the emphasis had been on friend, I invited her in. There seemed no option; she was obviously here to see me.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said, quickly plumping up the cushions and waving her into the best chair.

“Thank you.” Her accent was too charmingly French to stand; even just a thank you sounded soft, throaty, sexy. Oh Patrick, not another one, I thought with that familiar sinking of the heart. I asked, would she like iced tea, a diet Coke, water? It was so hot out this afternoon.

“Iced tea would be wonderful,” she said, giving me a long assessing glance from beneath her lashes. “But first, I must introduce myself. I am Giselle Castille, an old friend of Patrick’s. He was best man at my wedding, though of course I’m a widow now. Patrick and I have known each other since we were children.” Her turquoise eyes nailed me. “But surely Patrick mentioned me? Ours has been such a long friendship.”

Suddenly aware that I was hot and sweaty and half-naked, I tugged the leotard out of my butt and quickly wrapped the towel around my waist, wishing this glamorous woman out of my life and wishing that if Patrick’s females were going to come and call, at least I could have warning and be looking my best. Madame Giselle Castille was tough competition; sexy, worldly, charming.

“Patrick didn’t mention you,” I replied, “but then he knew so many people.” I didn’t say he knew “so many women” but Giselle smiled. She knew what I meant.

“Ah,” she said, “but you see, that’s the way men like Patrick are, ma chère. Freedom is their raison d’être, they are like migrating birds, flitting from country to country following the weather, and the beautiful women. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

I took a deep breath, excused myself, and went to get the iced tea. My hands were shaking as I took the glass pitcher from the refrigerator and put it on a tray. I sliced a lemon, managing to cut my finger, added a bowl of sugar, tall glasses, and long silver spoons, then carried the tray into my tiny sitting room.

Giselle Castille was examining the photos arranged on the console table behind the sofa: family photos of myself when young; with my father; with our dogs; and with my horse when Dad had a ranch for a while, in one of his many financial ups—as opposed to his financial downs, when we moved back to a condo in the suburbs of L.A.

Giselle was holding a picture of Patrick, a close-up shot I’d taken on a misty day in the gardens of the grand chateau in Burgundy where we had spent the night. His eyes are narrowed in a smile and his hair is ruffled by the wind, and he looks so handsome you could just die.

“Tell me, Madame Castille,” I said, setting down the tray and pouring iced tea. “Why should I know about you? And why you are here?”

“You must call me Giselle.” She put back Patrick’s photograph and settled into the chair again. I offered lemon, which she accepted, and sugar which she did not. “I finally came to see you because I’ve heard rumors that the police suspect you of being involved in Patrick’s disappearance. I know how upset you must be and, as Patrick’s friend, I am here to offer my help. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, Lola, I want you to let me know. A friend is always a friend, you see, and for me that extends to Patrick’s wife.”