There's Something About St. Tropez (36 page)

Laureen looked at him over the top of the crust of pizza, nibbling on the cheesy bit. She didn't like crusts. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mommy would have liked sitting here in France eating pizza with us?”

Billy stopped chewing. Laureen almost never mentioned her mother.

“I think Mom would have enjoyed it. You know she always liked being by the sea.”

“The Mediterranean. And she specially liked the color blue.”

“It is pretty special,” Billy agreed.

Laureen nibbled right to where the cheese stopped, then she put the crust carefully on her plate. Looking at Billy, she sipped Orangina through a yellow straw. “Daddy?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Do you think Mommy can see us right now? Sitting here eating pizza and looking at the blue Mediterranean.”

Billy's heart wrenched with an almost physical pain. He had come to terms with his wife's death, memorializing her in the endowment fund for Texan schoolchildren, but he missed her, especially at moments like this, when his small daughter wanted answers and there were none.

Laureen's restless fingers pleated the tulle of her pink tutu, leaving cheesy smudges. “You don't know, do you, Daddy?”

Billy sighed. He reached across the table and took her hand, smoothing out those fingers. “It's like this, darlin',” he said gently. “No one really knows. There is no way, you see. It's like a giant secret, and all we can do is believe.”

Laureen gripped his hand tightly. “I believe,” she said in a small voice.

“And it's good that you do.” Billy pushed back his hat, smiling at her. “And just remember, Laureen, Mommy loved you.”

“I will,” Laureen said solemnly. Then with a complete change, she glanced anxiously at her Mickey watch. It was nine o'clock. They had eaten early for France, most people were only just showing up for dinner. Her rendezvous with Bertrand was at eleven and they still had to drive all the way back to St. Tropez.

“We're going to be late,” she said.

Billy's brows rose. “For what?”

“Oooh, y'know, just . . . late.”

“Anxious to get back to the Hotel of Dreams, huh? And that kid Bertrand, I'll bet.”

Laureen batted her eyelashes but said nothing. She wasn't telling anything about Bertrand.

Billy paid the bill and soon they were on their way.

 

It was late when they got back to the hotel. Billy took Laureen to her room, kissed her good night, and told her he was going back down to the courtyard to see if any of the Misfits were dining there.

Bursting with anxiety because she was late again, Laureen forced herself to wait five minutes, timing it on her watch. Then she peeked along the corridor. All clear. The heels of her cowboy boots clattered as she ran and she wished she had thought to change them. Too late now, and she couldn't just stop and take them off. In seconds she was downstairs and hovering in the hall. People were still at dinner and it was empty. Even the night concierge was not at his desk. Nor was the barman.

She flitted through on tiptoe. Something on the bar caught her eye and she stopped to look: it was a glass cocktail shaker filled with a pink liquid. She had heard the grown-ups talking about Cosmos. They were this exact pink.

She darted across, snatched up the shaker, realized she had nowhere to hide it, so held it against her side, arm stiff to grip it, edged away and ran full tilt for the open doors. The shaker was slipping and she grabbed it with both hands. Clomping along, short tutu bobbing, she hurried down the path to the beach.

Bertrand heard her coming and turned to look as she slid down the small sandy dune.

“Look what I brought.” She held up the cocktail shaker.

“What is it?”

“It's pink,” she said helpfully. “Grown-ups drink it.”

“Booze, you mean?”

Laureen shrugged. “Why don't you taste it?”

Bertrand took the shaker and removed the cap. He sniffed suspiciously. “Smells fruity.”

“It's like juice, only with vodka and some other booze.”

Bertrand then lifted the shaker to his mouth and took a long slug. He handed it back and leaned against the rock, eyes suddenly slitted behind his glasses.

Laureen inspected him for any ill effects, then she too took a long drink. Sputtering, she pulled a face. “Is this supposed to taste
good?
”

Bertrand took the shaker and held it up to see how much was left. “Another mouthful,” he said, having first go.

Laureen copied him. “Uh-uh,” she said. “Now it's all gone. What do we do with the cocktail shaker? I can't take it back to the bar, someone might see me.”

“Leave it at the Beach Bar,” Bertrand said, surprising himself with his quick thinking.

Laureen unraveled herself and got to her feet. She was surprised too, but this was because her knees were buckling. “Uh-uh,” she said, sitting abruptly back down. “Do you feel okay?”

Bertrand starred dreamily at his own feet, which suddenly looked the size of dinner plates. “I never feel okay.”

He slid along the rock face until he lay faceup on the sand. Laureen slid down to join him. Spread-eagled they stared up at the inky sky scattered with about a billion points of light. A shooting star flickered fast and bright across the heavens, as though putting on a show specially for them.

After a while, Laureen had no idea how long, she said, “Do you think we're drunk?”

“Yes.” Bertrand's voice was slower than usual, then it trailed off altogether.

After another while, Laureen asked, “Do you feel sick?”

“No.”

“I do,” she volunteered. “I don't know why grown-ups drink this stuff, it must be poison to make you feel like this. Oooh.” She held her breath for a minute. “I really don't feel good.”

“Serves you right for stealing,” Bertrand said.

“I
didn't
steal.” She was indignant. “It was just sitting there so I took it.”

“Like the sunhat.”

“Oh, that . . .” She was defensive.

“What do you think your mother would say about that?”

Laureen drew in a sharp breath. Her head was spinning and her stomach churned but what Bertrand had said was so shocking she forgot about it. She moved sideways so she could see him. “And what do you think your mother would say if she knew you'd drunk liquor?”

Bertrand grabbed the cocktail shaker and struggled to his feet. He took her hand and pulled her up. They clutched each other, swaying slightly, then together they stumbled to the Beach Bar and left the shaker on the shelf for the staff to find the next morning.

They stood, holding hands, staring at the sea shushing softly toward them in a never-ending game of catch-up. Laureen wished she had never stolen the Cosmos, but then if she hadn't Bertrand would not have been able to talk about his mother. And hers.

Bertrand turned and looked back at their rock. He had forgotten all about his cape and the binoculars. Letting go of Laureen and tripping over his own feet, he went back and retrieved them. When he returned he wrapped the cape carefully around her.

“Why?” she asked, smiling giddily because her tutu made the cape stick out and she looked twice her normal size.

Bertrand strung the binoculars around his neck then took her hand again. “We need to cover up that pink ballet dress,” he told her solemnly. “So no one will see you.”

“Why?” Laureen asked again. Her stomach had stopped heaving and she could feel a silly grin on her face.

“Because we're off to Chez La Violette,” Bertrand said importantly. “The new headquarters of the Scientific Experiment of the International Duo, Seekers of Stolen Art and Winners of a Fortune in Euros.”

“What's a ‘duo'?” Little Laureen asked.

 

50.

 

 

Still holding hands, they walked down the beach. Laureen just knew she was going to throw up.

“Bertrand?” she said.

“
Oui?
” He was speaking French tonight.

“Are you sure you don't feel sick?”

Bertrand did but he wasn't about to admit it to a girl. Instead he gave a little Gallic shrug that indicated he was cool. His stomach heaved and he wondered what to do.

“Bertrand.”

Laureen's voice had become smaller. Bertrand knew the situation had become urgent and he dragged her quickly to a garbage can at the side of the beach, turning his back discreetly as she heaved up the booze. Hearing her set him off too though. He made it just in time.

Trembling, they looked at each other. “So, okay,” Laureen said. “I'll never drink again.”

“Me either.” Bertrand looked at her, messy and distraught, still wrapped in his camouflage cape. “Come on,” he said and marched off toward the sea.

Laureen watched him for a minute, wondering what he was going to do. She saw him put his binoculars carefully on the dry part of the sand then walk into the water.

“Bertrand,” she cried, panicked. He turned and looked at her.

“Come on,” he called. “It'll make you feel better.”

She cast off the cape and ran toward him. The waves were already lapping at her feet when she remembered her precious pink tutu. She unzipped
it quickly and stepped out of it. Looking at it, lying there on the sand, she thought it looked like a fluffy pink bird. Then, in her underpants and T-shirt, she followed Bertrand into the water.

He was floating on his back, arms spread, exactly the way he had lain on the beach. Laureen hurled herself in, tasting salt, flinging herself toward him in a wild crawl, kicking like mad so she wouldn't sink. She had learned to swim at an early age because her parents were afraid she might fall in their pool and drown, but she had never been really good at it. Now, for the first time, swimming in the dark whispering Mediterranean, she felt the sheer exhilaration of being one with the elements, just her and the sea and the starry sky.

“Look at me, Mommy,” she yelled, spitting out a mouthful of water. “Just look at me now.”

After a few minutes though the water began to feel chilly and they swam silently back, wading the last few feet until they were once more on dry land.

“Better get out of those wet things,” Bertrand said wisely. “Put your tutu back on then I'll lend you my cape again.”

Laureen quickly did as she was told, though her teeth chattered quite a bit and the tutu felt scratchy without underwear. “What about you? You're wet too.”

He plucked at his wet shorts. He had been as wet as this on the night of the big storm. “I'll soon dry off.” He arranged the cape around her plump shoulders. “Do you feel better now?”

Laureen did. In fact she felt great. “I'm okay. When are we going to Chez La Violette though?”

“Right now.”

“Bertrand?”

“
Oui?
”

“I saw all the big villas have their own docks. It would be easy to steal stuff and get it away on a boat.”

“I'll bet you're right,” he said, amazed at how clever she was.

A half-moon glimmered low in the sky, giving just enough light for them to make out the path leading up from the beach to the lane. It was darker there, where the trees crowded close, and also because Bertrand with his nighttime experience, insisted they keep to the side of the road where no one could see them.

“But no one will see us, there's no one here,” Laureen objected. She'd stuffed her wet things into her boots and she plodded barefoot behind Bertrand, a boot in each hand, cape trailing behind her.

“You never know,” Bertrand replied, with memories of the headlights flashing in back of him on the night of the storm.

Laureen's legs were prickled by bushes and she was afraid maybe a snake might jump out and bite her, but she didn't tell Bertrand that. After all he'd included her on his nighttime Scientific Experiment and she didn't want him to think she was just some silly girl.

“Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know how to get there?”

“I've been there many times, even though it's haunted. I know Chez La Violette inside and out.” He was bragging now, though in fact the only time he'd been there at night was when the Riders on the Storm had arrived.

“Haunted?” Laureen's voice was a frightened squeak. “You mean you saw a
ghost
?”

Bertrand gave that shrug again that implied maybe he did maybe he didn't, but then he caught sight of her frightened face. He took one of the boots from her and clasped her hand again. “There are no ghosts,” he said. “I've been there many times. I found the binoculars there, remember?”

“
Stole
not
found
,” she corrected him.

“Anyhow, it's a good place for our new Secret Society,” he said, pulling her on down the lane. “In fact, if I were a robber I'd use it as my secret hide-away. No one ever goes there.”

“Except us,” Laureen muttered. The lane was rutted with hard mud and she wished she'd put on the boots. Besides, the tulle tutu was very scratchy.