The Hotel Riviera (15 page)

I stood looking at it, my heart pounding, my mouth dry with anger. Scramble fluttered from my arms, heading back to the terrace and her hibiscus pot.

So he was back, was he. It had been almost a week. Where had he been? Why had he left without saying anything? And especially why had he left without saying anything
right after we had made love all night
? Maybe I hadn't behaved in a very ladylike manner, but I was no one-night stand. If he thought he was just going to sail right back into my life as though nothing had happened, then he was wrong. I'd had it with men.
All
men. And that included Jack Farrar.

I flung myself onto the porch sofa. Head thrown back against the cushions, eyes closed. I willed myself not to care. Life had dealt me one more blow and, coming on top of all the others, I just couldn't take it.

A while later, I heard Jack's footsteps on the path. I didn't open my eyes; I didn't even move. But the sound of his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

“Lola? Lola, are you all right?”

I could feel him, standing next to me, hear him breathing. I imagined his frown as he stared at me.

“Go away,” I said, finally.

“But I just got here.”

“Hah.” I snorted.

“Hey, what's up, honey?” he said.

I opened my eyes to narrow slits. He'd never called me honey before. He looked about the same: way too attractive.

He said, “I just got back from the States.”

“Hah. A likely story.” I'd bet he'd been hanging out with his cronies in the ports along the coast.

He lifted my feet off the sofa, sat down next to me, and rearranged my legs across his knees.

“There was an accident in Newport,” he said. “Carlos was out with the rest of the crew on the big sloop, the one we planned to sail to South Africa. For some unknown reason the rudder came loose, in fact it parted company with the boat, leaving a gigantic hole. They tried the pumps but the hole was too big, the water was coming in too fast. The boat sank in fifty feet of water. I had to get back. I took the first flight out from Nice to Paris, and then on to Boston.”

“Was he all right, Carlos? And the rest of the crew?” We had eye contact now, though still cautious on my part.

“They'd Maydayed, the rescue boats had them out of the water almost before they had time to get wet.”

“That's all right then.”

“Yeah, that's the good news. I had to get back quick to organize divers to check the damage, get the cranes to pull her up. It wasn't a small job. And my beautiful boat is a wreck.”

I heard the sadness in his voice and I said, “I'm sorry.”

He caught my chin in his hard warm hand. “Lola, I'm sorry you're angry and hurt. I tried to call you but you weren't there. I left a message with Jean-Paul, I told him there was an emergency and I'd be back in a week.”

I gave a wry smile. My ex-youth-of-all-work had run true to form. “It's in one ear, out the other with Jean-Paul,” I said.

“Apparently. But you were not in my life one day, and out of it the next,” Jack said. “I promise that wasn't the way it was. You were on my mind all the way across the Atlantic on that flight from Paris. And back again.”

“I was?” I could feel myself softening. “
Melting
” was actually a better word. His face hovered over mine, then his lips closed in the gentlest of kisses, like the first kiss ever, tender as butterfly wings.

“You were, and you are,” he murmured. He was stroking my legs, propped across his knees, not sexy, just gentle, nice. “What can I do to make you forgive me?” he said.

I swung my legs down and sat up quickly. “I know what you can do,” I said, with a desperate sparkle in my eye. “Everybody's left, even Miss Nightingale is away on a trip. I need to get away from here. Why don't you take this chef out to lunch?”

“You got it.” Jack grinned at me in that way that could melt a woman in Antarctica. I was picking up the pieces again, and not looking to the future the way I knew I should have been. But somehow, right now, I didn't care.

We drove into Saint-Tropez—that is, Jack drove my car, complaining about the gearshift all the way. First we went to Le Bar Stube, a sailors' hangout in a little hotel on the Quai Suffren. It's on the second floor and crammed with locals and clubby leather armchairs and dozens of model sailboats.

“Home away from home for you,” I said, settling at a table out on the balcony overlooking the yachts lined up in the marina.

“Not as snazzy as your terrace.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” I said. “But I'm beginning to have doubts about its snazziness.” He gave me a quizzical look so I told him of Giselle Castille's second visit, and how her cutting glance had made me look at my little hotel with new eyes.

“I never thought about it before,” I said. “I just put the hotel together as though it were my own home. There was so little money and most of that went on structural repairs. I wanted to put in a pool down by the cove, the kind that looks as though it's spilling over the edge into infinity. It was going to be a deep marine-blue.” I shrugged. “But there was no money left over for that. And now, of course, I know why.”

“Patrick,” he said. “Any news on that front?”

I shrugged again. “None.” I looked at him across the table as the waiter poured flutes of champagne. “I missed you,” I said honestly, even though it was probably not the right thing to say to a man who a short while ago you thought had left you in the lurch after your one and only night of passion.

“I missed you too.” He gripped my hand tightly, sending rivers of delight through me. When he finally let go, he lifted his glass in salute. “To you, Lola March,” he said, “‘a woman with a big heart.'”

“That heart is beating at twice the speed of sound,” I said. “It must be the champagne.”

“I hope not,” he said, and we smiled, delighted with each other.

I told him more about Giselle's visit and that Scramble had attacked her, and that I was worried she'd be back, and he said obviously Scramble knew the woman was up to no good, and he might have done it himself had he been there.

Hand in hand, we ambled back to the car, on to Tahiti Beach and Millesim, a zen-peaceful beach club, wonderfully free of Saint-Tropez glitz, especially now, at the tail end of the season. Soon all the beach clubs would close, as would most of the hotels and restaurants. Soon, the mistral would be blowing and the Alpes-Maritimes would be capped with snow, and the sky would be misty-gray, or that hard winter blue. Soon, Jack would have the
In a Minute
back in the water, then he'd be on his way to South Africa with his friend Carlos. Soon, I would be alone again. And too soon, I might no longer have my home.

But life was to be lived now, for the day, for this very moment, so I ordered Charentais melon with Parma ham, and Jack had the moules marinière.

The place was almost empty, just another couple sipping rosé wine and watching people strolling along the beach. A sweet-faced little white dog came by to say hello, balancing on his hind legs, waving his front paws in a dance for food. So of course I fed him all my Parma ham while I ate the melon, and when there was no more he left me for another. He also left me with a row of flea bites up my left leg—a fine way to say thank you, I said, laughing.

I sat back, savoring the moment. There was the sound of the sea, the beautiful blue and green view of the peninsula where my hotel was tucked away, the warmth of filtered sunlight under the canvas awning, an old Aznavour record playing softly in the background. This moment was pure happiness, I decided.

Then I devoured an entire bowl of wild strawberries while Jack told me stories about Cabo San Lucas in Mexico, about how different it was from our south of France sophistication.

“It's just a funky little town with some high-decibel discos, a few strip joints, some good hotels, some cheap,” he said. “There's a couple of places I like to eat, the Mocambo for the best deep-fried whole red snapper you'll ever eat, and a salsa hot enough to toast your innards. The best bar is known as the Office, out on Medrano Beach: feet in the sand, margaritas the size of beach balls, good food, fishermen getting drunk after a long day on the Sea of Cortez, good-looking women eyeing the fishermen…kinda like that.”

“I'll have to go there someday.”

“Don't expect too much, it's just a little Mexican seaside town, the
real
Mexico. Except now they're building grand hotels and big money is coming in.” He sighed regretfully. “It's a pity that places you discover and really like never stay the same.”

“Yes, it's a pity,” I agreed, enjoying just looking at him.

Our eyes met; the message between us was clear. Jack took my arm as we walked out and back to the car. It was later than I'd thought, we'd been gone for hours, but it didn't matter, there were no guests. I was not den mother today. My time was my own.

We drove slowly back along the beach road, jammed so tight into my little car, I could feel the warmth from his body. I had a sudden longing to run my fingers over the hair on his arms, blond from the sun. A kind of breathless silence hung between us, that flickering tension that is the lead-in to love.

We turned down the shady lane leading to the hotel. Jack parked under the tumble of blue morning glory, and I thought that this would be the first time we would really be alone together, here. The place was completely ours. We could dine alone on my terrace watching the little jeweled lizards and the blue of the sky melt into the blue of the Mediterranean. We could hold hands and breathe the sweet fresh air, flavored with jasmine, and sip rosé wine. If we wished, we could cavort naked in the midnight sea. Tonight, the world was ours.

I unfurled my legs, hauling myself out of the car, remembering how gracefully Giselle had done it, but then she was in a Jag and I was in the Deux Chevaux. Anyhow, she hadn't had Jack Farrar sitting beside her with sex on his mind, just the way it was on mine.

We strolled toward the terrace, then Jack said he'd left the dog alone on the boat and he'd better go get him. He smiled at me, holding my shoulders the way he did before, tilting my chin until I was looking into his eyes. “And then, we'll take it from there,” he murmured, brushing my lips with his.

I watched him stride down the path to the wooden jetty, turning at the oleander hedge to gave me a wave. I slipped off my sandals, enjoying the heat of the terra-cotta tiles on my bare feet. I was still smiling as I walked along the terrace toward the kitchen, where somehow I always ended up, guests or no guests, staff or no staff. The glass beads on the door curtain tinkled musically in a sudden gust of wind. Autumn was definitely on its way.

I felt something wet and sticky under my toes and looked down. I knelt and touched it. Blood! I stared around, not knowing where it could be coming from. And then I saw Scramble lying next to the hibiscus pot.

Her throat had been cut. I knelt over her, trying to push the edges of the wound together, but it was too late.

Tears rolled down my face. Scramble was my little love, my odd little pet, the tiny yellow chicken peering fearlessly at me from the palm of my hand. I stroked her feathers, crying softly.

Jack

Whistling cheerfully, Jack tied the dinghy up at the jetty and strode back up the path. Bad Dog cavorted beside him, prancing on his hind legs like a circus dog, making Jack laugh.

“Better behave yourself tonight, old buddy,” he said, giving him a friendly whack. “No wrecking dinner this time. Or anything else,” he added, remembering the way Lola had looked as she got out of the car, the fall of taffy-colored hair, the way she swept the bangs impatiently out of her eyes; her bare brown knees and the sweet curve of her mouth as she turned her head and smiled at him. A secret little smile that held a promise.

He'd missed Lola more than he'd thought possible on the week's trip back to the States. His head had been full of worries about his sunken boat, but on that long transatlantic flight, lying back in his seat, eyes closed, she had crept into his mind. He remembered the way she looked and the texture of her soft skin under his hands. He remembered the way her brown eyes had rounded with shock when Solis told her he was giving the hotel to Evgenia, and her pride as she had gotten to her feet and told him her lawyers would see about that.

Lola March Laforêt was holding her own in the face of adversity and he admired that. He admired that she worked hard, keeping her little hotel together; and that she imbued it with charm and with love, and the way she gave herself to her guests in so many different ways.

Of course, he should have stayed in Newport and taken care of business. He had an expensive wreck on his hands and he shouldn't be in the south of France helping Lola Laforêt get her life back together. He had his own life to worry about. But business had taken a back seat this time. He'd left the rescued boat and the problems in Carlos's hands, promising himself he'd stay just a few days, a week max, just to make sure Lola was all right. Then he'd be back, getting the
In a Minute
back into shape for the South African trip.

He rounded the pink oleander at the corner of Lola's house, heading for the terrace, then turned to look back. The dark sky had blended into the sea; there was no horizon, just a limitless blue, the wind in the trees, and Bad Dog snuffling through the bushes. Endless peace.

He was smiling as he headed up the steps to the terrace; he was alone with Lola, and his boatyard and the urgent repairs were the last thing on his mind.

“Lola,” he called, striding along the terrace, still smiling. “Lola, don't tell me you're in the kitchen again?”

Then he saw her kneeling next to Scramble, her hands covering her face. “Jesus,” he whispered. And knew Giselle had returned for her revenge.

He knelt, touched Lola's shoulder, felt her tremble.

He turned her to him, pulled her hands from her eyes, held them tight. “It was Giselle,” she said. “I know it. She hated me because of Patrick, and she hated being made to look like a fool.”

Jack helped her into the salon. He laid her on the high-backed damask-covered sofa. He arranged cushions under her head, brought her tissues and ice water and a cloth from the kitchen.

“Blow your nose,” he said, dipping the cloth in the ice water, wiping Scramble's blood off her.

She lifted her head and stared at him. Her long Bambi lashes had stuck together in starry points, the way a crying child's did. She looked so
vulnerable.

“I have to bury her,” Lola said. “I want to put her by the oleander and plumbago next to my house.”

“We'll do that,” Jack said.

Jack cleaned Scramble and wrapped her in Lola's old blue cashmere sweater, then he cleaned up the terrace and threw the bloody cloth in the trash can. He found a spade and dug a hole where Lola showed him, while she sat on the rattan sofa, holding Scramble, wrapped in the sweater.

“That's about it, I think,” he said finally. It should be deep enough.

Lola knelt by the miniature grave. She lowered Scramble into it. “Goodbye, little friend,” she whispered. Then she got up and walked away.

Jack finished filling in the grave. He uprooted some of the blue flowering plumbago and planted it on top.

Lola was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, staring into space.

He crouched in front of her and took her hands in his, gazing anxiously at her. “Come on, Lola, honey,” he said gently. “You're coming home with me.”