The Hotel Riviera(60)

She’d been alone, sipping a small gin and tonic, when he’d bumped into her. The drink had spilled; he’d insisted on buying her another; they’d chatted about this and that. At least she had—Tom had mostly listened. But he’d been waiting outside for her after the show. He’d asked if she fancied a coffee and it had taken off—rather slowly—from there. It was four years before he’d asked her to marry him and six weeks later she’d said “I do” in the small church at Blakelys, where she’d been brought up.

The village had turned out in full force for the “daughter of the manor.” They manned the old pine pews in their Sunday suits, best frocks, and “wedding” hats, their faces happy with memories of the way life used to be when the Blakely Nightingales still lived at the manor, instead of the car-sales mogul who owned it now, pleased that Mollie had finally caught herself a husband.

The tiny gray-stone Norman church was piled with bouquets of iris and daffodil. It was spring and of course still chilly, and the flowers looked frozen in their perfection, too cold to be able to drop so much as a leaf. Miss N wore a silvery-gray silk dress with her inherited pearls (thank heavens the tax man hadn’t taken them away; they were all she had of real jewelry) and carried a bouquet of horribly expensive out-of-season lilies that smelled divine and whose scent she would remember to her dying day.

“So that’s that, darling Tom,” she said after, and Tom beamed back at her, smart in his dark suit and gray silk tie (the one she’d bought for him). He said, “That’s that, my love, now you are Mrs. Tom Knight.” Of course she’d put him straight about that little matter later, and she remained Miss Nightingale, as she would for the rest of her days.

And they had lived happily ever after, the two of them from their different worlds, enjoying each other, caring for each other, loving each other with a love so true Miss Nightingale knew it would last forever.

Then Tom, so full of life, had died. She’d buried him here, in Blakelys’ churchyard and planted the primroses and daffodils he liked so much on his grave. Eventually, because life had to go on, she’d come to terms with it, and that’s when she’d taken to traveling.

But it was her remembered loving childhood in Shanghai’s sun and heat and her hatred of those bleak, lonely English winters when she’d shivered in her frosty room that had first brought her to the Mediterranean. Now, of course, she went because she’d found the Hotel Riviera. And because she loved Lola like a daughter.

And that was it. Mollie Nightingale’s life story. From China to the Cotswolds, to the south of France. And to the unsolved mystery of Patrick Laforêt’s disappearance. And his equally mysterious reappearance.

How she could have used her Tom now, used his experience, his shrewd knowledge of people, to find out the truth.

Ah well. It was up to her to solve this one.





Chapter 57




Jack

Jack was in Saint-Tropez, sitting in the shade of the chestnut trees at the Café des Arts, as usual, sipping his morning café au lait and eating croissants. The Place des Lices had a deserted air. A cool north wind, the tail end of a blustery mistral, rattled the leaves on the chestnut trees and sent the paper napkins fluttering across the cobbles. The season was definitely over and life was for the locals again, except for hangers-on like himself who just didn’t know when to go home.

Of course, he should have stayed home in the U.S. when the In a Minute sank, and at no other time in his life would he even have thought twice about that. Except now, and all because of Lola March Laforêt. How had she gotten herself into this kind of trouble? And why did he feel compelled to help get her out of it?

He called for a double espresso, deciding it might clear his head, sharpen his thoughts in this matter, because all he was working on right now was emotion, pure gut reaction to a woman who had gotten under his skin the way no other woman had since the beautiful Mexican, Luisa. That relationship had lasted exactly three months, and he wondered if it would be the same with Lola. Three months and he would be back in his own world, back cranking the In a Minute into tip-top shape, assembling his crew, sailing halfway round the world in search of adventure. That was the kind of guy he was. Right? So why would he change? He heaved a big sigh as he downed the espresso. There was no answer.

He dialed his boatyard on his world phone and spoke to Carlos. The In a Minute had been raised the day after it sank from fifty feet of water, using heavy-duty cranes. Repairs were progressing slowly. “But you’ll be back soon, right?” Carlos said. “Yeah, right,” Jack replied, one more time.

He ended the call and studied the yellow legal pad in front of him on the table. A long list of automobile and bike dealers scrawled the length of the page. All were crossed out with the exception of two that his detective friend in Marseilles had just provided him with. He thought the one in Paris was a long shot, but then you never knew, Patrick might be moving around, one place to the other, hiding out. The other was in Genoa, the port city up the coast on the Ligurian Sea. He’d give it one last chance.

He dialed the number, asked to speak to the manager or anyone who could speak English, waited endlessly with Italian rock blasting in his ear, then somebody came on and said, “Pronto, I can help you?” Jack asked about the Ducati. Yes, the Italian said, he sold Ducatis, the 748S was a lovely machine, the best in the world and not always available, one had to order, then wait.