A Wedding in Provence (6 page)

“Wes skydives?” Nell asked.

“He loves it. And he’s really good at it. There was a freak change in wind.”

“That’s awful.” Nell leaned toward her, those kohl-rimmed saucer eyes filled to the brim with concern. “Did you see it happen?”

“I thought he was dead. You can’t even imagine how terrifying it was.”

“How bad a break?”

“Really bad. He’s had a rough time of it.”

“I wish you had called me,” Nell said. “I would have come up to help out.”

Carly couldn’t imagine it—the world takes care of Nell, not the other way around—but she felt a gut-punch of pleasure at Nell’s offer.

She remembered her good-sister vow.

“Thanks,” she said, putting her arm around Nell. “It just happened. It’s been a crazy week.”

“Will he be okay?” Nell asked.

“I think so,” Carly said. “Tell me about the new beau.”

“Later,” Nell whispered.

“You’re happy,” Carly said.

“Yeah,” Nell said, and she looked surprised. “I haven’t been happy in a long time.”

“Good for you,” Carly said. She thought about Nell’s old boyfriend and the mess of her sister’s life after his suicide. Maybe this was something real, this fellow with the two-day beard and the slippery smile. Maybe Nell could find someone who wasn’t old or a loser or a drug addict. Give her a chance, the new Carly told the old Carly. She deserves a chance.

“How long have you known him?” she asked.

“Since Flight 97 from New York to Nice.”

“Come on.”

“Seatmate,” Nell said proudly. “And don’t say another word. Don’t judge me. Just be happy for me.”

Carly swallowed all of her words: You’re crazy. Who the hell is he? How could you do this to Mom on her wedding weekend? Of course you’re happy. You probably just joined the Mile High Club.

“You’re about to explode,” Nell said, laughing. “Drink up.”

Carly took a long gulp of wine. No words slipped from her lips. Perhaps a good sister is a drunk sister, she thought.

Across from her, Emily stood up and began clearing dishes. When Carly tried to help, Emily shook her head. “Sit down, you. You just got here. Eat your first course while the rest of us pause for a second.”

Suddenly exhausted, Carly dropped back into her seat. She was ravenous. She had skipped the airline meals and couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. At the other side of the table, Brody was telling some long story about his best man bedding two sisters at the same time and everyone laughed along with him. Beside her, Nell and Mystery Man cooed to each other. While Carly ate the mussel salad, she watched Emily and Sébastien pass each other by, moving from the table to the kitchen, clearing dishes. They never looked at each other. At one point Emily lowered her head and stepped aside, giving her husband a wide berth. Trouble in paradise.

New love and old love. Good love and lousy love. And somehow, I’m all alone, Carly thought.

Hours later they were still at dinner, still drinking wine, still telling stories. Carly needed to escape. She was tired of mingling. They had been playing a sort of musical chairs, so that every hour or so she found herself sitting next to different people.

Jake, the best man, was wiry and weathered, as if he’d just climbed off his horse and roped it up outside the inn. He told Carly about growing up with Brody in some small mountain town, both of them living on ranches, getting into trouble with girls. Brody betrayed him and got married but Jake had always been a wandering man. Carly felt as if she were listening to the twangy words of a country song. And she felt the heat of his dark-eyed gaze; this was a man who liked a conquest. My God, he was about twenty-five years older than she was. Sorry, cowboy: not interested.

Fanny, mother of Brody, was tall and thin, with white hair pulled back in a bun. “I’m glad to see my son getting married
again,” she told Carly. “One shouldn’t grow old alone. It’s hard to face the challenges of aging. Good to have a partner when that time comes.” And then she turned to her side as if expecting her husband to appear. But it was only Sébastien who sat there, turned away from her. Fanny’s face clouded and she seemed lost in thought for a moment. “My Sam left me. Out of the blue. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Fifty-five years with a man and then he’s gone.” She shook her head, as if ridding herself of him. “Do you have a beau, young lady?”

“Yes,” Carly said.

“Is he a man you can grow old with?”

“I’m not sure,” Carly told her. She never thought of growing old. Even her mother seemed young to her, despite new wrinkles around her eyes, smile lines indented on her face.

“Find out,” Fanny said. “You want a man made of tough stuff.”

Wes was made of intellect and inspiration. When Carly tried to conjure him up in her mind she heard words, long strings of sentences that he might say, but she could barely even imagine his face, his body. Tough stuff? Ideas swarm, ignite, dissipate, fly away.

Soon the seats shifted. The candles on the long wooden table flickered. The food appeared and disappeared, the wineglasses emptied and filled.

Carly never ended up next to Mystery Man. She wondered if he made sure it happened that way. Was he scared of her? He didn’t look like he’d be scared of anyone. But she had the feeling that he was playing some kind of role and if she had five minutes with him, she’d be able to pull off the mask. Maybe
she’d get the opportunity later. Right now, she didn’t care. She was exhausted.

She slipped out of her chair, wineglass in hand, walked halfway around the table and pushed through a door that she thought would lead into the hallway. Instead she walked into the kitchen and almost collided with the chef. He juggled a tray of dessert bowls—filled with some kind of fruit and cream—and when they settled, unspilled, he gave her a wary look.

“Sorry,” she said.

But he just watched her. He was young—her age, she guessed. He had a long nose and high cheekbones—too many angles on a thin face. His eyes were the color of a mountain lake.

“You must be the chef,” Carly said, inanely. Of course he was the chef.

Still, he didn’t answer.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. He hadn’t stopped staring at her.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing at the door.

She held the door open for him and he passed through, tray held high.

The kitchen was all white and wood—a big, airy space that smelled wonderful. Basil, garlic, oregano. Something sweet, too. Vanilla. Carly perched on a stool at the center island.

The chef swung back through the door. He stopped and stared again.

“Is it okay if I sit here? Just for a little while?”

He nodded. Finally, she saw a hint of a smile.

“I am Paolo,” he said, the English words strange in his mouth.

“I’m Carly,” she told him, offering her hand.

His hand was warm and when he took it away she smelled blackberries.

“Why?” he asked.

She looked at him, confused. He pointed to her stool.

“Too many people in there,” she explained.

He nodded.

“Do you understand English?” she asked.

“A little. I understand you.”

His mouth seemed to work its way around the English words. And then he smiled, a broad smile that changed his face. She had thought he was unattractive at first—but the smile softened all his edges.

She brought her wineglass to her lips, but it was empty. He lifted an open bottle from the counter and filled her glass.

“Merci,”
she said, taking a sip.

“Say
grazie
,” he said. “I am Italian.”

“Grazie.”
She didn’t speak Italian beyond a few words. At least
grazie
was one of them.

She pointed to an empty wineglass on the counter. “For you?”

He filled it and took a sip. “You are bride?” he asked.

She laughed. “No. My mother is the bride.”

“Your mother?”

“Second marriage. She’s the beautiful redhead out there. She’s marrying a cowboy.”

“You are not married,” he said.

“That is correct.”

“You are American?”

“Yes. I’m from California.”

“I like San Francisco,” Paolo said eagerly.

“I live near there,” she told him. “Where do you live?”

“Cassis. But I am from a town near Napoli. Now I live here and work in restaurant.”

“You’re good,” Carly said. “Really good.” She had eaten every course—curried mussel salad, tomato and burrata, a pasta dish with chanterelles, sole meunière. So this was the man who had created each perfect dish.

“Grazie.”

“Grazie,”
she repeated.

“You will eat your dessert here?” he asked.

“Good idea. Will you join me?”

“
Sì
. I join you.”

He took two bowls of blackberries, peaches, and cream and placed them on the center island. Then he grabbed a couple of spoons and napkins and sat on the stool next to Carly. He was still wearing his apron, over jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair, wavy and long, was pulled back into a ponytail.

“My sister brought a guy she just met to our mother’s wedding,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows.

“That is bad?”

“I’m not sure,” Carly said. “She’s pretty happy.”

“She is girl with very short hair?”

“Yes.” Nell had cut her hair pixie-style six months ago. Everyone loved it except for Carly who thought it made her look punk rather than gamine.

“She is very pretty, too,” Paolo said.

“Say your name for me?” Carly asked.

“Paolo.”

“Paolo,” she repeated.

He shook his head. “Paolo,” correcting her pronunciation.

“I’ll get it right the next time,” she said, and he smiled.

“Good,” he told her.

O
livia slipped out of her bathrobe and stepped into the pool.

“It’s still warm,” she said quietly, and then she dove underwater. She swam the length of the pool to loosen up, stretching her arms for a strong crawl. When she touched the wall she turned and swam back.

“Come in,” she said, placing her hands on Brody’s feet.

He dropped his robe beside hers and dove into the pool. They were both naked in the dark night—even the moon didn’t penetrate the clouds. It was two in the morning. Neither of them could sleep.

“That feels great,” Brody said, emerging at the other end of the pool.

“Shhh,” Olivia said, swimming toward him. “We don’t want company.”

They both looked toward the inn. All the windows were dark. Even Ulysse, who eyed them wearily at the back door, had been too tired to follow them out to the pool. The night air was filled with the scent of lavender.

“That’s the good thing about being in our fifties,” Brody said. “No one’s really dying to see us naked anymore.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing.” Olivia wrapped her arms around Brody’s waist. “Are you happy to be here?” she asked, pulling him to her.

“Yes,” he said. “Very.”

“Your mother seems to be doing all right.”

“She puts on a good front. Wyoming stoicism and all that.”

“Poor thing.”

Brody leaned over and kissed the side of Olivia’s head.

“I can’t imagine losing you after a year,” she said. “Imagine fifty-five years.”

“Of a good marriage,” Brody added.

Olivia looked at him, his face lit by the moon now spreading light through the thinning clouds. She reached up and touched his face.

“I want to grow old with you.”

“Let’s stay young instead,” he said, taking her hand in his.

She thought of his mother, alone in her room at the inn. Sam should be here, sleeping at her side. Wes should be here, sleeping at Carly’s side. Sébastien should be sleeping at Emily’s side, instead of in the pool house, where she saw him slink off after the dishes were done. Love gone awry.

“There’s one thing I want to be sure of,” Olivia said.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s not lose this. Us. In the middle of all the commotion, let’s stay just this close.”

“And naked?”

“Very naked.”

“I like this,” Brody said. “It does feel as if we’re the only ones here.”

“What did you do for your first wedding?” Olivia asked. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she wanted to retract them. Verboten territory. Do Not Enter.

“This isn’t the time,” Brody said, releasing her hand. Already his voice was different, as if he were talking to a woman he didn’t like very much.

“I’m curious,” Olivia said. “That’s all. You never told me about your wedding.”

She couldn’t stop herself. It would be so much smarter to change the subject. But there was something so unreasonable about Brody’s refusal to talk about his first marriage. After all, she talked about her disaster of a marriage all the time.

But that’s just it. His marriage wasn’t a disaster. It was wonderful. It was perfect. And then his wife died.

No way Olivia could ever compete with a dead woman.

But who said anything about competing? Grace was dead. Brody was in love with Olivia now. So why couldn’t she let dead wives turn to dust in their graves?

“Do we have to do this?” Brody said, interrupting the jagged twists and turns of her mind.

“Just tell me. Now that I have it in my mind I won’t be able to let go of it.”

“Why?” Brody asked, truly baffled. “Why do you do this?”

He pushed off against the wall and swam to the shallow end, his strokes hard and fast. Then he sat on the steps and looked at her across the pool. He seemed defeated.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him.

He didn’t answer.

She swam toward him. She was scared he’d leave before she got there—she kept her head above water and her eyes on him as if fixing him to the spot. When she reached the shallow end, she sat by his side.

“We got married at my parents’ ranch,” he said quietly.

Of course they did. She felt a pang of jealousy—she imagined a tent in the pasture, line dancing, a bride in a white gown and cowboy boots.

“Was the weather perfect?” she asked, torturing herself.

“It was a hundred degrees,” he told her.

“Good.”