Invitation to Provence (35 page)

And, holding Jake’s hand tightly, Franny knew that wherever she was in the world, this old château in Provence would always be “home.”

Epilogue

Ô saisons, ô châteaux,

Quelle âme est sans défauts?

Ô saisons, ô châteaux,

J’ai fait la magique étude

Du Bonheur, que nul n’élude.

—RIMBAUD, 1874

Oh seasons, oh châteaux,

What soul is without faults?

Oh seasons, oh châteaux,

I have studied the magic of happiness,

Which no one should miss.

A
YEAR HAD PASSED.
Rafaella stood in the hall looking out at the magical view that had entranced her all her life. A patch of afternoon sunlight warmed the faded parquet under her bare feet, and her red skirt swished around her narrow ankles as she walked to the door, followed by Mimi and Louis and a shaggy brindle pup who bore more than a passing resemblance to Criminal.

She noticed Little Blue’s woolly lamb, wrapped in a blanket and propped on a chair, and also her skateboard left on the steps, ready no doubt for someone to trip over, plus her sweater tossed carelessly next to it. Little Blue had learned how to be a little girl, but not without some heartbreak.

Franny and Jake had accompanied her back to Shanghai. For two days they had sat by Bao Chu’s bedside while Shao Lan told her sick grandmother happy stories about her new life in Provence.

Shao Lan desperately did not want her grandmother to die. It hurt in her heart to look at her, so small and frail, so tired of life. She had given Bao Chu the woolly lamb to hold for comfort. Remembering what Rafaella had told her about dying, she had looked for the final smile in Bao Chu’s eyes.
When she saw it she knew her grandmother was happy, and even though she cried for her, she was glad for her, too.

Rafaella comforted her granddaughter when she came home, spending many hours with her, but it had taken a while for Shao Lan to become “Little Blue” again.

From the kitchen Rafaella could hear Haigh’s haughty tones and the child’s silvery ones, then a delighted shriek of laughter as a second brindle pup raced from the kitchen with a hunk of steak clutched in its jaws. It ran straight past Rafaella, down the steps, and into the tall shrubbery. It was a true chip off the old Criminal block.

Haigh appeared, a meat cleaver in his hand, his face beet red with frustration. “That damned dog,” he roared, “he gets me every time.”

“I hope you’re not planning on using that cleaver on him,” Rafaella said mildly, and Haigh huffed and said he wanted to, but he wouldn’t. This time.

“It’s about time Mr. Jake taught that dog some manners,” he said bitterly. “Or it’ll be omelettes every night for supper.”

“Don’t worry,” Rafaella called to his grumpy back as he returned to the kitchen. “We’ll go to the café for dinner. I wanted to see Clare anyway.”

Clare’s wedding had taken place a few months back at the village church. She’d asked Haigh to walk her down the aisle, and he was a proud man that day, resplendent in top hat, striped gray trousers, and morning coat, with Juliette’s rich silk vest underneath. And Clare was gorgeous in a simple satin slip dress with wildflowers wound into her glossy dark hair.

Franny was her maid of honor, delicate as a bluebell in that particular shade of lavender-blue chiffon that brought
out her eyes. Little Blue was the flower girl in sprigged primrose cotton.

Rafaella had seen how Jarré’s dark gypsy eyes adored Clare as she walked down the short aisle toward him, and she was glad for their unlikely happiness as they’d said their vows in trembling voices that left no doubt about how much they loved each other.

Rafaella had offered to host their reception at the château, but Clare had said no, the café was their home and they would start as they meant to go on, by doing all the work themselves.

Guests in their wedding finery had spilled from the small café terrace into the square, where trestle tables were set up, loaded with baskets of flowers and bottles of wine. The celebration buntings were back up and fairy lights sparkled in the dusty plane trees. The fountain dogs, including Criminal’s paramour, who had given birth to the two miniature Criminal look-alikes, had been banished for the night as a potential danger to the racks of lamb grilling on the immense barbecue. Everyone helped themselves from the lavish, never-ending buffet and there was dancing to the local band that went on till the early hours of the morning.

Scott Harris was one of the first to congratulate Clare. “The best man won,” he’d said ruefully, and she’d kissed him gently and told him there was no best man, it was just the way the heart went.

Juliette was there, of course, resplendent in a shimmering gold caftan with a bank vault’s worth of gold necklaces and bracelets. The Pomeranians wore gold ribbons to match, and even Mimi wore a pink bow on her woolly black head, while Louis sulked, knowing he looked ridiculous in a matching
bow tie. For once all the dogs behaved perfectly, though it was observed they enjoyed the buffet more than the ceremony.

Rafaella looked glamorous—in scarlet, naturally—a vintage silk Valentino with a nipped-in waist that she was proud to see still fitted perfectly. The portrait neckline set off her long, slender neck, as well as her ropes of rubies and the ruby earrings sparkled like her happy smile.

Clare and Jarré stayed until the very last guest left, and when Rafaella finally kissed her goodnight and said, “I hope at least you’re not going to do the dishes,” Clare had laughed and replied, “Jarre’s giving me the night off.” Then, with a final kiss to Franny and Little Blue, Madame Jarré had walked into her new home on the arm of her new husband.

After the wedding, Juliette returned to New York, but she said she would be back—with the Pomeranians—for Franny’s imminent wedding, and this time she was planning on an extended stay. Rafaella would be glad of her company, because soon Franny and Jake were taking Little Blue away. Jake had sold his company and they were happily living the simple life on their new ranch, breeding the horses he loved.

She would miss her granddaughter, but they had promised to return to the château every summer, and in her heart she knew it was wiser for the child to be brought up by young people who could properly be “her parents.”

Franny’s wedding was to take place next month, in the gazebo at the lake. She’d wanted a small affair. “Just family,” and Rafaella smiled, thinking that nothing in the world sounded as good to her as those words.

Was it really only a year ago that she’d stood here in the empty house with the locked dust-sheeted rooms and only the sound of silence thudding in her ears?

The longcase clock behind her ground its gears manfully and struck its flat notes. Six o’clock. All the windows were open, and she could hear birds singing and the sound of pots rattling in the kitchen. Water gurgled in the pipes and happy cries rang from the swimming pool. And surely somebody was playing an old record of “As Time Goes By.” Or was it only in her head?

Ah, Lucas, she thought, someday I’ll find you again. But this story is not yours and mine anymore, it belongs to the young people. It’s about Franny and Jake, about Clare and Jarré, and about my granddaughter’s future. Love, as well as family, has taken over the Château des Roses Sauvages. And I am a happy woman again.