The Hotel Riviera(46)

Lola March Laforêt was holding her own in the face of adversity and he admired that. He admired that she worked hard, keeping her little hotel together; and that she imbued it with charm and with love, and the way she gave herself to her guests in so many different ways.

Of course, he should have stayed in Newport and taken care of business. He had an expensive wreck on his hands and he shouldn’t be in the south of France helping Lola Laforêt get her life back together. He had his own life to worry about. But business had taken a back seat this time. He’d left the rescued boat and the problems in Carlos’s hands, promising himself he’d stay just a few days, a week max, just to make sure Lola was all right. Then he’d be back, getting the In a Minute back into shape for the South African trip.

He rounded the pink oleander at the corner of Lola’s house, heading for the terrace, then turned to look back. The dark sky had blended into the sea; there was no horizon, just a limitless blue, the wind in the trees, and Bad Dog snuffling through the bushes. Endless peace.

He was smiling as he headed up the steps to the terrace; he was alone with Lola, and his boatyard and the urgent repairs were the last thing on his mind.

“Lola,” he called, striding along the terrace, still smiling. “Lola, don’t tell me you’re in the kitchen again?”

Then he saw her kneeling next to Scramble, her hands covering her face. “Jesus,” he whispered. And knew Giselle had returned for her revenge.

He knelt, touched Lola’s shoulder, felt her tremble.

He turned her to him, pulled her hands from her eyes, held them tight. “It was Giselle,” she said. “I know it. She hated me because of Patrick, and she hated being made to look like a fool.”

Jack helped her into the salon. He laid her on the high-backed damask-covered sofa. He arranged cushions under her head, brought her tissues and ice water and a cloth from the kitchen.

“Blow your nose,” he said, dipping the cloth in the ice water, wiping Scramble’s blood off her.

She lifted her head and stared at him. Her long Bambi lashes had stuck together in starry points, the way a crying child’s did. She looked so vulnerable.

“I have to bury her,” Lola said. “I want to put her by the oleander and plumbago next to my house.”

“We’ll do that,” Jack said.

Jack cleaned Scramble and wrapped her in Lola’s old blue cashmere sweater, then he cleaned up the terrace and threw the bloody cloth in the trash can. He found a spade and dug a hole where Lola showed him, while she sat on the rattan sofa, holding Scramble, wrapped in the sweater.

“That’s about it, I think,” he said finally. It should be deep enough.

Lola knelt by the miniature grave. She lowered Scramble into it. “Goodbye, little friend,” she whispered. Then she got up and walked away.

Jack finished filling in the grave. He uprooted some of the blue flowering plumbago and planted it on top.

Lola was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, staring into space.

He crouched in front of her and took her hands in his, gazing anxiously at her. “Come on, Lola, honey,” he said gently. “You’re coming home with me.”





Chapter 44




They were sitting together on the deck, the dog stretched out beside them, snoring gently. The inky sky was bright with stars and a half-moon that looked as though someone had pinned it up there. The sea rippled silkily, rocking the small boat, and a soft wind rattled in the halyards.

“Have you ever slept on the deck of a boat?” Jack asked.

She turned to look at him. He was lying on his back, his hands under his head, gazing at the stars. “No.”

“It’s the best. It’s just you and the sky and the breeze. When the sun comes up it touches your eyelids, warm as a kiss.”

She rolled over onto her stomach, chin propped in her hand, looking down at him. “It really does that?”

“Yup.”

She rolled back again. “I want the sun to kiss my eyelids,” she sighed. “I want to feel that kiss.”

“And so you shall, Cinderella,” he said, and went off to fetch blankets and pillows. He arranged the pillows under her head, and put the blanket over her, then knelt beside her.

“It was Giselle,” she said. “I’m certain of it. She was jealous of me because of Patrick.”

“More likely she got her friend to do it,” Jack said.

“Don’t go away.” She clutched his hand.

“I’m staying right here.”

“Good,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

When he was sure she was sleeping, Jack walked to the bow. He stared out over the dark sea, worrying about what might happen next.

After a while, he poured himself a brandy, then went back and sat beside Lola. He thought, with that little stab of tenderness again, she looked the way she must have as a child.

He lay down beside her, liking the feel of the breeze on his skin and the familiar slap of the sea on the sloop’s hull. He thought of Sugar and all the girls before her, and of how he’d enjoyed their company a board the Bad Dog. But he had never felt like this before.

He was awake before the sun kissed Lola’s eyelids. He sat up and looked at her in the soft gray light. She was still sleeping. He got up quietly, went down the steps to the cabin, took a quick shower, and put on the coffee. She was just stirring when he came back. The sun was peeking over the horizon and her eyes were still closed, but she was smiling. “I felt it,” she said. “I felt the sun kiss me.”