The Hotel Riviera(9)

Chapter 9




Lola

Why hadn’t I recognized him immediately? Dammit, I’d seen more of him than most people, but somehow he looked different with clothes on. Was I destined always to behave like a blushing teen, when here I was, a mature grown woman? And a married woman, at that, I reminded myself sternly, shaking the cast-iron pan over the heat, browning the rack of lamb before putting it in a hot oven for the prescribed amount of time it would take to cook to perfection.

That task accomplished, I sent the honeymooners a basket of brownies and fresh almond cookies to accompany their coffee, made sure Marit had the vegetable tians under control, checked that Red Shoup had her John Dory with red wine sauce, and that her husband had his bourride, the good fish soup that was almost a stew and which was always served with baguette croutons and rouille, a spicy mix of garlic, chili peppers, and mayonnaise. Heaven from the sea, I called it. Not like my sailor, whose attitude I thought had not been exactly heavenly.

I lurked in the kitchen, attending to my duties, reluctant to go back out there and face Jack Farrar again. Then I heard a squawk as Scramble pushed her way through the bead curtain over the kitchen door.

“Out!” I waved my arms at her. She was never allowed in the kitchen, or anywhere else in the hotel, only on the terrace and in the garden, and of course, in my cottage. She gave me the runaround for a few minutes, darting under the table, pecking at the floor, gleaning anything that might taste good to a chicken, which was pretty much everything, until I finally caught her and carried her outside.

I stood at the corner, looking at my contented guests, something that always made me feel good, as though through their satisfaction and happiness I could achieve my own. Miss Nightingale had finished dinner and was reading a book. The honeymooners were nibbling on my brownies and each other’s lips. Budgie and the boys had already left, as had Mr. Falcon, whose Harley I’d heard roaring off a while ago. The Shoups were holding hands across the table, which meant they could eat with only one hand, but they seemed to like it that way. That’s the effect my magical little terrace has on people. And Jack Farrar had finished his lobster salad and was sipping a glass of wine, gazing out over the water where his sloop rode the miniwaves, red and green mooring lights gleaming through the darkness.

He turned and caught me looking at him. I blushed again; he must have thought I was some crazy kind of voyeur. Pretending I had meant to catch his eye anyhow, I walked over and with my most polished hostess smile said, “Everything all right, Mr. Farrar?”

He folded his arms as he looked up at me. “Everything is wonderful. And I think we know each other well enough that you could call me Jack.”

“So…Jack,” I said. “Your lamb will be here in just a couple of minutes.”

“No problem, I’m enjoying myself. There’s something very special about this place, Madame Laforêt.”

“Lola.”

“Lola. Of course.”

“Well, thank you for the compliment. This is a special place and I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“The lobster salad was delicious.”

I nodded, smiling.

“And the artist’s wine you recommended…just perfect.”

“I’m glad. Well, I’ll check on your dinner. Excuse me, Jack.”

“Just one more thing.” I turned and met his eyes, denim-blue and narrowed into a smile. “Do you always carry a chicken around?”

I’d forgotten all about Scramble, who was giving Jack Farrar her beady-eyed sideways glare and who now began fluttering in my arms. “Not always,” I said, as haughtily as I could with a struggling chicken in my arms.

I hurried back to the kitchen, depositing Scramble in the hibiscus pot en route, grabbed Jack Farrar’s rack of lamb from the oven; managed to burn my fingers, and uttered a word I felt sure Miss Nightingale would not have been pleased to hear coming from my mouth. I plated the lamb, adding tiny fingerling potatoes, freshly chopped parsley, and a pool of a creamy herby green sauce that made my own mouth water. I wiped the edge of the plate with a cloth, added an orange nasturtium flower, put the plate on a tray with the sizzling vegetable tian, straight from the oven, and sent Jean-Paul out with it.

“Bon appétit, Jack Farrar,” I murmured.





Chapter 10




It was late when I emerged from the kitchen again, and I confess I had deliberately lingered, unwilling to engage Mr. Farrar—Jack—in conversation again. By the time I came back to the terrace he had gone. He’d left a note though, scrawled on the back of the bill—which he had paid in cash.

Chère Madame le chef,

Your lobster was lovely,

Your lamb luscious,

Your clafoutis delectable,

And your “artist’s” wine delicious.

But your brownies made me

Homesick and I took the liberty Of doggie-bagging a few.

My compliments to the chef.

JF



I laughed out loud. Maybe Jack Farrar was okay after all.

By now, everyone except Miss Nightingale had gone up to bed, so I took off my apron, poured a couple of glasses of cognac and carried them out onto the terrace. I put one in front of Miss N and slumped wearily into the chair opposite.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, putting down her book, as pleased to have the company as she was with the cognac. “How very nice. Thank you, and santé.”