The Hotel Riviera(65)

I heard voices and jolted upright, clutching the blanket to my T-shirted chest. A glance at my watch told me it was ten o’clock. I’d overslept.

I ran to the window. Jack was talking to a small man in a brown suit, carrying a briefcase and looking very official. At least he didn’t look like a cop, I thought, pulling on my sweat pants.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to look as though I’d been up for hours. I caught Jack’s grin and bit my lip to stop from smiling. “Can I help you?”

The man was sizing me up, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. I guess I looked as though I’d just stepped out of bed. “Madame Laforêt?”

“That’s me.” I smiled at him. He seemed harmless enough, but he might be another of Solis’s minions here to slap me with another claim.

“I represent the insurance company, madame. I’m here to tell you that we are pleased to finally settle your claim in full. I have here the necessary papers for you to sign.”

My jaw dropped, then my eyes lit up. Grabbing his hand I led him inside. Embarrassed, he removed his hand and sat stiffly opposite me at the table.

“Please read through the papers, Madame Laforêt. I will need your signature, here and also here.”

I read them through, signed here and there, and he handed me a check. A big fat Hotel Riviera check. A check that meant a new roof and rose-pink walls and shutters that would hang evenly. It meant more auctions and old rugs and silver jugs and gilded beds, and Proven?al fabrics fresh from the market. It meant apple logs in baskets again, it meant flowers blooming and windows flung open to the sunshine, the sound of happy voices on the terrace and small children running in and out of lacy wavelets. It meant a new kitchen with a rosemary hedge outside the door. It meant the smell of good things cooking and cold rosé wine on a warm summer night. It meant everything. It meant freedom. It meant “home.”



To celebrate, we dined that night at the Moulin de Mougins, a favorite of mine for many years, and where, though he was no longer the chef, Roger Vergé’s touch was still to be felt in every dish.

Dressed to kill and looking good, we sailed into the restaurant. I ordered champagne and told my guests they must have whatever they wanted.

Miss N looked delightful and very queenly in navy silk with her beautiful pearls, which I now knew were the real thing. She said she was sure the food wasn’t going to be as good as mine, but she did fancy the wild mushroom soup, and the dorade sounded awfully good.

And Jack, my Jack, I thought fondly, squeezing his hand under the table, because he was mine. For tonight at least. My Jack was wearing cream linen pants, wrinkled it’s true, but at least they weren’t shorts; a nice blue shirt he’d bought specially that morning in Saint-Tropez; and a dark linen jacket that, though it had seen better days, somehow on him looked elegant.

As for me, I’d splurged on a raspberry-colored dress, simple as only good money can buy. It clashed wonderfully with my ginger hair, which I wore flowing round my shoulders in a long shiny fall. I’d tucked back my bangs and put on dangly amber earrings, adding to the color mix, plus I wore three-inch heels with pointy toes that would kill me but what did I care. I wore mascara and blusher and lip gloss and a big smile, and the insurance check was already doing wonders for my morale.

“You look different,” Jack said, checking me out.

“Hope so,” I said smugly. “It cost enough.”

He laughed. “Money talks, honey, you can always tell.”

“Yeah, well, let it talk some more. Tonight we’ll wine and dine like kings,” I said, enjoying myself more than I had in months. Except for the times when I was making love to Jack, that is.

The night was memorable, three friends, two lovers. We forgot Patrick and all the fears and problems, and just had a good time. Tomorrow would be soon enough for reality, and the rebuilding of the Hotel Riviera and my life.



Patrick seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, or at least the parts of it that Jack searched. Meanwhile, I got on with the work. It was back to long discussions with the contractor, back to cranes and containers full of debris; back to the sound of walls being demolished and the screech of drills and the thump of a jackhammer. Rebuilding must be almost as painful as giving birth, but like childbirth, it was worth it.

The part of the hotel that fronted onto the parking lot was intact, so Miss Nightingale was able to move back into the Marie-Antoinette, while Jack pretty much moved into my own house. He’d hired a security guard who patrolled the property from dusk to dawn, and Bad Dog was around to growl and snap at any stranger. I felt safe again.

Days slid by in a frenzy of activity; constant decisions to be made, always something going wrong, workmen not showing up, materials not delivered. When finally the roof went on, we celebrated with the traditional French party, setting up a table in the garden laden with goodies for the workmen and their wives and families. Many beers were drunk and many toasts were made to the success of the new Hotel Riviera. Then it began to rain. The cheering stopped and we stared dismayed at the lowering gray sky, and at each other. Then I remembered. “I have a roof,” I said, and we began to laugh. Oh, what a difference a roof can make.

I was so happy that night. Everything was going right. Who knew, I might even get to keep my hotel after all. I was up, optimistic, happy.

But this was just the lull before the storm.