The Hotel Riviera(42)

“And to you, Marit,” I said. Then she kissed Nadine and was gone.

Two gone, eight to go, I thought, just as Jean-Paul cycled past the window. As usual, he flung his bike into the rosemary bush, then sauntered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, a dreamy look on his face.

“What happened?” Nadine demanded, hands on her ample hips again.

Jean-Paul stopped to look at her. “L’amour,” he said succinctly, then he added, “Bonjour, Madame Laforêt. I will attend to the tables right away.”

He drifted into his room in back of the kitchen and we heard the shower go on. “Love,” I said to Nadine, “has a lot to answer for.”

The shrill ring of the phone blended with the sound of Nadine shunting plates around. I answered it. It was Freddy Oldroyd, Mr. Honeymoon’s lawyer father. I went over the situation in detail, promised to FedEx him copies of the documents today. He told me not to worry, he would sort it out. He’d get back to me as soon as he’d read the legal documents. I thanked him, but I didn’t believe him. In my heart I knew there was no way I was going to be able to keep my little auberge.

It was not a great beginning to the week.





Chapter 38




The days slid past in the usual blur of marketing, preparing, cooking, looking after my guests. Jean-Paul left early too. He’d found himself a winter job in Cannes.

“I’ll be back next summer, Madame Laforêt,” he promised. I advised him instead to go back to school, or apprentice himself to a good kitchen where he could learn, and progress up the ladder. But ambition was not in his makeup. Oddly, I missed him.

Before I knew it, my guests were leaving. They gathered in the front hall, suitcases piled around them, settling their bills with Nadine at the old rosewood table, exchanging addresses and promising to keep in touch. I helped them pile luggage into their cars, then stood back. The moment I had dreaded was here.

“Keep your chin up,” Budgie Lampson said, and the two boys gave me bear hugs and said they would miss me and miss my brownies. I laughed and gave them a goody bag filled with those brownies. They climbed gleefully into the car, already devouring them. “Hey, those were meant for the plane,” Budgie protested, but it was too late, and she drove away, laughing.

“We’ll keep tabs on what’s happening via my dad,” Mr. Honeymoon said, giving me a kiss, and Mrs. Honeymoon hugged me tight and said, “We’re on your side, remember, and of course we’ll be back next year.”

I waved them goodbye, then turned to Red Shoup who was standing quietly, looking at me.

“So, now what?” she said, brushing back her red curls and looking me in the eye. She was a straight shooter; I could expect no false sympathy or promises it would be all right from her.

I shrugged. “I’ll just have to see how the cards play out,” I said, unthinkingly using a gambling metaphor.

“That’s the way it is, little honey,” she said. “But let me give you some advice. Take time out, put yourself first for a while, stop looking after people. Especially men.” She gave me a shrewd glance. “So what happened to Jack Farrar?”

“He left.”

She nodded. “Not for good, though, I can promise you that.” She kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me tight, said, “Bonne chance, little honey,” then climbed into the car.

Handsome, kind Jerry Shoup, who’d been piling in the luggage and grumbling about the quantity of stuff his wife had managed to acquire in a month, came over and took me in his arms.

“We all love you, Lola,” he said. “You’re the best, remember that.” He climbed in the car and started it up.

“See you next year,” Red called, waving out the window.

I hope so, I thought. Oh, I hope so.

And then they were gone.

Only Miss Nightingale was staying on for another week. Meanwhile, she had gone off on a little trip up the coast by herself.

“You need space, my dear,” she had said. She knew what was going on between me and Jack. “It’ll all work out in the end,” she promised, driving off in the little Fiat she’d rented.

Oh, but will it? I thought, standing in the empty lane, looking at my suddenly empty inn, and feeling completely alone.





Chapter 39




I wasn’t alone for long. A silver-blue jaguar convertible came barreling down the lane with Giselle Castille at the wheel. The top was down and she was wearing a chiffon scarf over her hair and huge, very dark sunglasses, à la Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.

I stood on the front steps, watching as she climbed gracefully out of the convertible, swinging her long elegant legs out first, adjusting her short skirt, then sliding out without showing anything she shouldn’t, as professional as a star exiting a limo at a Hollywood premiere.

A man was in the passenger seat; young, dark glasses, baseball cap. He looked at me, but didn’t get out.

“Lola,” Giselle said, walking toward me, cool and elegant in simple white linen.

“Giselle,” I said. We stood awkwardly on the step, looking at each other.

“We need to talk,” she said.

I nodded. “Please come in.”

Inside, she stared around the comfortable hall, taking it in. She walked through the arch into the salon, then I heard her heels clattering on the tiles as she went out onto the terrace.