Invitation to Provence (31 page)

Tears plopped down Clare’s cheeks. “I love you, Franny,” she gulped.

“I know.” Franny stroked back her hair. “And I love you, too.”

Clare sniffed. “Speaking of love… . It’s happened. I mean, I’m actually in love.”

“Clare, how wonderful.”

“The thing is … I mean, he might already suspect, but anyhow I’m going to have to tell him the real truth. You know, about my past… . It’s only fair.” She shuddered and Franny crossed her fingers and hoped Scott was man enough to take this in stride.

“He’s a good guy,” she said. “It’ll be okay.” She smiled encouragingly. “Salt of the earth, right?”

“Right!” They high-fived and Clare dried her tears and said she was okay now. She would do what she had to do and hope for the best.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Franny and Little Blue set off for Cap d’Antibes, but the child sitting in the back of the red Fiat was quite different from the one who’d sat silent and frozen on the train to Avignon. In cute blue shorts and a skimpy summer

T-shirt with a straw hat perched on her shining hair, a pair of scarlet sunglasses on her nose, and a smile on her face, she was a normal, eager kid going on holiday, looking forward to learning to swim in the Mediterranean and playing on the beach. “How much longer?” she asked every fifteen minutes or so, the way every child does on a car journey.

Criminal sat patiently on the front seat, tongue lolling, eyeing the traffic with his usual skeptical expression. Every now and then Franny pulled into an
autoroute
café to let the dog run and to buy Little Blue a Fanta orange and a sandwich, because she’d developed an appetite that seemed unstoppable.

Eventually, lulled by the monotony of the Autoroute du Soleil, Little Blue dozed and Franny was left alone with her thoughts, which were mostly about Clare.

Clare’s confession had taken her completely by surprise. She was always the perfect lady, perfectly groomed, perfectly self-possessed, perfectly beautiful. But Franny also understood the poor background and her desperation to escape. She didn’t blame Clare, she just wished her friend had not had to go that route. But now Clare’s life was changing track: her past was behind her and she could look forward to a future with the kind of man who would look after her, a man who would laugh with her and love her the way she was born to be loved. And there was certainly no man more salt-of-the-earth than Scott Harris. He even worked with that earth, made his living from it—and successfully at that.

Waiting behind a retinue of large Mercedes at yet another
autoroute
toll booth, Franny tried to imagine Jake in New York, but she couldn’t picture him in his urban loft or the smart offices he’d described to her. Strangely, although she

had never been there, she could picture exactly how his mountain cabin would look, and exactly how it would feel because Jake had told her about it so lovingly that first night when they’d dined together. He’d told her it was the only place where loneliness was not an issue and solitude was welcomed, and she’d understood that.

At last, she was off the
autoroute
and on a side road that led to the sea. With its shady pines and secret villas tucked out of sight in rambling scented gardens, the Côte d’Azur was completely different from California’s great sweep of rugged coastline and broad beaches with their pounding surf. Driving slowly along the edge of the tranquil blue-green bay, Franny saw the few puffs of clouds reflected in the water as perfectly as any mirror. She woke up Little Blue to look, and the girl and the dog stuck their heads out the windows, breathing in the exciting sea smells, watching the fishermen on flat, wooden boats, like people in a painting by Monet.

Following Rafaella’s directions, she drove down a narrow tree-lined lane until she came to a clearing and a pair of large wooden gates set between stone pillars carved with the name
VILLA MARTEN
.

Little Blue got out to ring the bell, hopping impatiently from foot to foot until the gates swung open. She jumped back in surprise when she saw a tiny old man with a creased brown face and a toothless ear-to-ear smile.

“Bienvenue, bienvenue, les nouveaux Martens. Je suis le gardien, Lucien. Eh bien, c’est un beau jour … Venez, mesdemoiselles, venez, welcome.”
The old man waved them into a sandy pine-fringed lane to a creamy stucco villa, two stories high. A green wooden veranda, overflowing with purple bougainvillea, ran around the entire upper floor, while underneath was a colonnaded patio complete with a carved-stone dolphin fountain. Green-shuttered windows were open to let in the sea air, and on the steps waited an equally old woman in a blue dress and a white apron.

Janine’s smile matched her husband’s, for she had been married to Lucien for almost sixty years and they had known Rafaella all her life. Now she was happy to greet Rafaella’s family, happy to see the old villa opened up again, happy to see a child and even a dog racing around the place.

The old couple no longer lived in the
gardien
house on the property but had a more convenient apartment in the town of Antibes itself. But Janine told Franny that of course they would come every morning, and if Franny wished, she would do the marketing and prepare an evening meal, which she would leave ready for them, though she supposed they would eat at the cafés most days.

Criminal was already checking things out, sniffing his way through the tiled hall and into the kitchen at the back. A few seconds later he emerged, tail wagging, with a leg of lamb clamped in his jaws. Janine shrieked and Lucien came running as fast as he could on his bent old limbs, but Criminal outmaneuvered them. Twisting past their outstretched arms, he ran into the oleander bushes where, safely hidden, he proceeded to demolish their dinner.

“I’m so sorry, Janine,” Franny said, trying not to laugh because, after all, Criminal was just living up to his reputation.
“Il est un chien méchant.”

Still a little put out, Janine showed them the house. It was unexpectedly simple; downstairs were large, cool rooms leading onto the terrace and the gardens, which ran down to the sea and a small jetty, from where Franny caught a glimpse of the narrow La Garoupe beach.

Janine proudly showed off her cavernous kitchen with its rough-beamed ceiling and its ancient stove. Just looking at its steel girth and wobbly burners, Franny sincerely hoped she would never have to tackle cooking dinner on it.

There were comfortable sofas covered in Provençal fabrics, soft rugs, and the smallest TV Franny had ever seen. The massive dining-room table could easily seat twenty, and another rustic wooden table on the shaded patio could seat twenty more. There was also a guest house in the garden, but it had been locked up for many years.

Wild with excitement, Little Blue ran upstairs to choose her room, finally deciding on the big corner one with the view of the bay, while Franny took the one next to it. They unpacked and put on their bathing suits, said good-bye to Lucien and Janine, and set off to walk to La Garoupe beach. Criminal pulled on his lead, wanting to stop every two minutes to sniff, but they were hungry and didn’t let him. They stopped at the beach called Plage Keller, where people were sitting under yellow umbrellas enjoying lunch at the Café Cézar. Bottles of wine chilled in frosty silver buckets next to them, and there was the good smell of lobster and pasta,
pommes frites,
and olive oil.

Franny ordered a
salade niçoise
for herself and
calamars frits
for Little Blue, and Criminal slept in the shade. While they waited to be served, Little Blue ran to watch the other children who were jumping off the wooden jetty that stuck out into the water, and Franny sank peacefully back into her chair, letting the sun warm her naked shoulders. A delicious lethargy crept over her. She thought of her soft white bed in the cool shuttered room at the villa and understood why the southern-French took siestas. Eyes half closed, she heard the soft plop of the waves in the distance and the cries of the gulls and the children. She was dreaming about taking a siesta with Jake.

From a table nearby, Alain watched her. He was alone, though several women eyed him with interest. He wore a white polo shirt and shorts and very dark wraparound sunglasses. His hair was blond again, he was tanned and fit-looking and almost unrecognizable from the smart-suited, dark-haired man who had disrupted the family reunion just a short while ago. He ordered another glass of Ricard, savoring it slowly, his eyes on Franny.

Little Blue came running back and Franny sat up, laughing at the child’s story. Having fun, Alain thought cynically as Little Blue’s laughter rang out. He ordered another Ricard and sat back to watch.

After lunch, the two got up and walked onto the beach, where Franny had rented loungers and an umbrella. The child raced off to the water’s edge and Franny, the perfect California girl in a brief turquoise bikini, followed slowly.

Alain eyed her up and down like the connoisseur of women he claimed to be. Not bad, he thought with a satisfied smile. Sometimes life just gave you the right breaks. This time it had given him the only two people who stood between him and his rightful inheritance.

W
HEN ALAIN HAD LEFT
the château he’d known he had no choice. One word from Jake to the police and he was, if not a dead man, then a man looking at a life in jail. Drugs, arms, he’d had a hand in all of them, but he was a petty criminal rather than a grand master, and that fact made him angry. After all these years, he should have been richer than Felix, richer than his mother, and richer than Jake. Fate had conspired against him and that’s why, when he’d finally gone to Felix for money and Felix had turned him down, he’d slammed the silver paper knife into Felix’s temple almost without thinking. He’d laughed at the shocked expression in Felix’s eyes as he died.

He’d covered Felix’s bloody body with a plastic cleaner’s bag that he found in the closet, so there’d be no telltale blood, then he’d slung him over his shoulder and carried him to the freight shaft. He knew that people falling from high places usually landed on their heads, and lucky for him, so did Felix, obliterating any signs of the knife attack.

He’d known instinctively what to do next. As brothers, he and Felix were alike enough in built and height to make the deception possible. He’d changed into one of Felix’s smart suits and a pair of his custom English shoes; they were a little big, but good enough. He’d picked up his brother’s briefcase and stuffed his own clothes into it. Then he took Felix’s
keys, went to the safe, and removed the fifty or so thousand dollars he found there. Knowing Felix, he’d bet no one would know about the money stashed away and therefore it would not be missed, but he decided to leave the watches and jewelry so it wouldn’t look like robbery. Then he took the elevator down to the lobby, and with his head down, hurried past the concierge. In seconds he was on the street, a free man.

After the showdown at the château, when he’d been escorted onto Jake’s plane by a burly guard, he’d burned with anger that his enemy enjoyed such luxury while, despite his many money-making schemes and ventures, he still had to scramble. They had flown him to Ho Chi Min City, not even offering him a drink or a snack on the long flight. The big bruiser of a bodyguard had kept his eyes fixed on him all the way while Alain seethed with fury. He would get Jake for this, he’d told himself. He’d get back at them all.

They’d decanted him from the plane without so much as a good-bye, and he’d immediately taken the first commercial flight back to Europe. He ended up in Geneva, where he rented a car and drove to the South of France.

The villa had always been one of his favorite places. He used to bring girls here when he was young—guys too. Alain rather favored an orgy. It gave him a feeling of power over women, and he liked that.

He knew that no one ever came to the villa now and that he’d be able to hide there, but first he’d found out the exact times Lucien came to check the property—only a cursory visit on Saturday mornings now.

Alain had gone to the guest house, removed the screen on a rear window, forced the old-fashioned latch, and he was
home free. He’d hidden his Vespa in a nearby bamboo thicket and kept the small rented Renault in a parking garage in Antibes. He’d bleached his hair blond again, bought himself some new clothes with his murdered brother’s money, and felt like his old self, immune to reality and ready for revenge. His only problem had been how, and now, thanks to fate, that had been solved for him.

T
HE SUN WAS SETTING
by the time Franny and Little Blue returned. Standing under the shower, Franny wondered why, after a day at the beach, it always felt like the best ever, so cool and soft and clean against your sun-hot skin. She toweled her wet hair, wrapped herself in a pareo, and went to check on Little Blue, who was sprawled lazily on the bed.

“How about omelettes for supper?” Franny suggested, hoping she could manage that big brute of a gas stove without blowing them both up, but Little Blue said she was too tired to eat, so Franny left her dozing and went down to the kitchen.

She found milk, juice, wine, and a slab of golden butter in the refrigerator. On the counter was a loaf of crusty bread, a wicker basket of speckled eggs, and a deep blue bowl filled with summer fruits. She picked up an apricot, sniffed it appreciatively, then ate it with the juices dripping down her
chin. On a cool slate slab in the pantry she discovered a plate of pungent cheeses. She took them back to the counter, hacked off a slab of the crusty bread, slathered it with some of the golden butter, and added a couple of slices of cheese. A glass of cold wine and she was happy.

She sat peacefully at the counter enjoying her meal. Criminal slumped next to her, watching hopefully. Unable to resist those pleading eyes, she tossed him a piece of cheese. He wolfed it down, without even tasting it she was sure, which she felt was a pity because it was so darn good.

Twilight filtered through the kitchen windows, and the bead curtain at the door trembled in the evening breeze. Franny tried to imagine what it was like at the villa in its heyday, full of happy young people and children and pets. Like the château, the Villa Marten needed to be brought to life again, but she knew Rafaella would never return here.