The Hotel Riviera(71)

Chapter 76




I drove Miss Nightingale to the nice airport and put her on the flight to London. I would miss her more than anyone could know; there was so much more to her than discussions about the weather and how the drought was affecting her roses this year. Miss N was as deep and mysterious as Pandora’s box, and the truth was I loved her and I hated to see her go.

“Stay, please, why don’t you?” I’d begged. I wanted to say “I love you” but understood that Miss Nightingale would disapprove of such a show of emotion: in Miss Nightingale’s view it went without saying that we cared about each other.

“Well, dear,” she replied, as we sipped a final after-dinner brandy together. “I have my garden to look after, you know. The wisteria needs cutting back, and the roses, and Little Nell is still boarding with the Wormeslys at the Blakelys Arms and no doubt missing me, though I sometimes wonder, because the Wormeslys spoil her so—all those pork sausages and the spilled beer.”

“Then come for Christmas?” I eyed her hopefully, already planning our Christmas feast and wondering in the back of my mind if I could persuade Jack to stay too. Oh, Jack, I thought with a sudden drop of my heart…The sailor, the wanderer, a nomad just like Patrick…

“That’s sweet of you”—Miss Nightingale was genuinely pleased with her invitation—“but you see, I’m always so busy with my church activities at Christmas. There’s the carol singing Christmas Eve, though it does seem a little odd to go and stand on the doorstep of what was once my home and sing ‘God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen’ to the total stranger who now owns it. And then there’s the annual pantomime at the village hall. It’s Cinderella this year, the children always like that, and my Little Nell has a walk-on as Cinder’s faithful little doggie, dressed in a tutu, which always brings a round of applause. Then, of course, the vicar and his wife are sure to invite me for Christmas lunch and I couldn’t disappoint them. So you see, my dear, how busy I am?”

“Of course, I understand,” I said, thinking of my own lonesome Christmas.

“But perhaps in the New Year?” Miss Nightingale suggested.

And I said I hoped so, oh I hoped so.



After I’d put Miss N on the plane, on an impulse I turned east out of Nice, heading for Cap-Ferrat, and the old villa she had told me about. The one that had belonged to a woman called Leonie, and where Miss Nightingale had said I would find a true peace. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

I remembered the directions only hazily, but somehow I found my way there. As though it were destined, I thought, looking at the name La Vieille Auberge inscribed in faded script across the two huge white stones that marked the entrance to the overgrown driveway.

I pushed open the creaking iron gate, and walked under the tall, shadowy trees, along the rutted gravel path to the house. And there it was, a dilapidated white house set amid green-black cypresses and silvery olives. A series of paths and little terraces led to a spit of white sand, and a flight of rather rickety-looking steps led down to the sea.

It was, I thought, wandering slowly along the overgrown paths, not a million miles from my own place, though this had more grandeur than the Hotel Riviera. And yet it had about it the feel of a family home. There were memories in this place, you could feel them in the air around you, breathe them in with the scent of wild thyme and rosemary and the salty sea.

I came to a stone bench beneath a jacaranda, the perfect place to sit and dream away a warm afternoon, watching the sea change color from turquoise to ink-blue as evening approached. The perfect place to dream about life, and about love. The perfect place to come to terms with my true self, and with my own life, just as I somehow knew the woman known as Leonie must have done, many years before.

I sank onto the bench, gazing out at the magical view, and I remembered Patrick, and the good times and that, in the end, he had loved me. I thought about the Hotel Riviera, and how now I would work even harder to make it a success, and how much I enjoyed pampering my guests, and sharing their days. I even planned a couple of new menus, just sitting there, staring into that blue space.

I thought about my friend Mollie Nightingale, and how I would never be able to call her Mollie, even though I loved her.

And of course, I thought about Jack. Just a jumble of thoughts…how I loved his body and the touch of his hands and how blue his eyes were, narrowed in that smile that knocked me for a loop. I remembered his voice with that faint New England twang, telling me how much he loved his boat. Soon, he too would be gone, sailing halfway around the world in search of adventure, because that’s the kind of man he was.

And I would be alone again, at the Hotel Riviera, waiting for the summer when I would bloom again like the bougainvillea.

Loneliness wrapped itself around me like a damp blanket and I shivered, though the day was warm. “Lonely” was not a good place to be. I heard a faint rustling noise and turned to look.

A little chocolate-brown cat with golden eyes looked back at me. It was small and dainty, with a sweet pink-tipped nose, a little triangular face and pointed ears.

“Well, hello,” I said, “and who are you?”

The cat arched its back in a long stretch, then it slinked over to me, and rubbed against my legs, purring throatily. I held out my hand. The cat sniffed it, then sat on its elegant haunches, looking at me. I picked it up and held it on my lap, stroking its fur, the softest fur I had ever touched. It licked my hand with its rough pink tongue.