The Hotel Riviera (20 page)

Jack

Jack was in Saint-Tropez, sitting in the shade of the chestnut trees at the Café des Arts, as usual, sipping his morning
café au lait
and eating croissants. The Place des Lices had a deserted air. A cool north wind, the tail end of a blustery mistral, rattled the leaves on the chestnut trees and sent the paper napkins fluttering across the cobbles. The season was definitely over and life was for the locals again, except for hangers-on like himself who just didn't know when to go home.

Of course, he should have stayed home in the U.S. when the
In a Minute
sank, and at no other time in his life would he even have thought twice about that. Except now, and all because of Lola March Laforêt. How had she gotten herself into this kind of trouble? And why did he feel compelled to help get her out of it?

He called for a double espresso, deciding it might clear his head, sharpen his thoughts in this matter, because all he was working on right now was emotion, pure gut reaction to a woman who had gotten under his skin the way no other woman had since the beautiful Mexican, Luisa. That relationship had lasted exactly three months, and he wondered if it would be the same with Lola. Three months and he would be back in his own world, back cranking the
In a Minute
into tip-top shape, assembling his crew, sailing halfway round the world in search of adventure. That was the kind of guy he was. Right? So why would he change? He heaved a big sigh as he downed the espresso. There was no answer.

He dialed his boatyard on his world phone and spoke to Carlos. The
In a Minute
had been raised the day after it sank from fifty feet of water, using heavy-duty cranes. Repairs were progressing slowly. “But you'll be back soon, right?” Carlos said. “Yeah, right,” Jack replied, one more time.

He ended the call and studied the yellow legal pad in front of him on the table. A long list of automobile and bike dealers scrawled the length of the page. All were crossed out with the exception of two that his detective friend in Marseilles had just provided him with. He thought the one in Paris was a long shot, but then you never knew, Patrick might be moving around, one place to the other, hiding out. The other was in Genoa, the port city up the coast on the Ligurian Sea. He'd give it one last chance.

He dialed the number, asked to speak to the manager or anyone who could speak English, waited endlessly with Italian rock blasting in his ear, then somebody came on and said, “
Pronto,
I can help you?” Jack asked about the Ducati. Yes, the Italian said, he sold Ducatis, the 748S was a lovely machine, the best in the world and not always available, one had to order, then wait.

“How long a wait?”

Jack could almost feel his shrug. “Three, six months.”

“Sold many lately?” Jack asked, feeling him out.

“Sold many? Hah, I wish, but my allocation was only two.”

“Sell any to foreigners?” Jack asked.

The Italian laughed and said, “Signore, there is no foreigner's discount, if that's what you are asking.”

“You know what,” Jack said, “I'll be there tomorrow and you can show me what you have.”

“But I have only one, signore, and it is already sold.”

“So, I'll order one like it,” Jack said, “and the name is Jack Farrar. Expect me tomorrow, in the afternoon.”

He finished his coffee, fed the rest of the croissant to Bad Dog, who was lounging under the table, walked back to the quai, and took the dinghy back to the sloop. Within half an hour, Bad Dog was in his life jacket and running excitedly back and forth on deck, barking, and Jack was chugging out of Lola's cove, rigging his sails and heading west to Genoa.

 

Genoa is a big city that has grown along the coast, encompassing many of the old fishing towns and villages into its urban sprawl. It was not exactly where Jack wanted to be on a breezy sunny afternoon, but he moored the sloop and took the dinghy into the old port. Bad Dog panted next to him as they walked up the unprepossessing street in search of a taxi. It took a while, and when they did, the driver wasn't too happy about having the dog in his cab, but consented for an extra few euros to let him ride along.

Muttering darkly in Italian, the driver wound through a series of narrow streets, into a busy area crowded with traffic. The fumes were killing and Jack thought longingly of the sea and the fresh wind behind him, sails billowing. He only hoped it wasn't a wild-goose chase, but he had a gut feeling about this one, and he always trusted that. Or at least he had, until the gut feeling he had about Lola March and exactly what he felt about her.

Hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, in a blue T-shirt bleached gray by the sun and the salt water, wearing his comfortable old Tod's, Jack tied Bad Dog to a convenient lamppost and strolled into the glossy premises of the automobile dealer. He got a couple of sharp looks from the young salesmen hanging about, who decided he didn't warrant their efforts and left him alone. He headed for the manager's office, pausing to admire a shiny black Fiat Barchetta en route, smiling at the young woman assistant, who looked at him twice and decided he was definitely worth the effort.

“Hi,” Jack said, “I'm looking for Signor Mosconi, he's expecting me.”

“He is?” She gave him a dazzled look, then remembered to ask his name.

Signor Mosconi came bustling from his office, a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit and polished wing tips, a thin mustache and rimless glasses.

“Signor Farrar,” he said, offering his hand. “
Buona sera.
But I'm afraid your visit is in vain. I warned you there are no Ducatis. The last one has gone. We must await our shipment, and those are already pre-ordered.”

He ushered Jack into his office, offered him a seat, an espresso, and a large brochure showing the Ducati motorcycles.

“So, what is the one that interests you?” he asked, struggling with his English.

“As a matter of fact, it's this one here.” Jack pointed to the picture of the 748S. Then said, “Sell many of these lately?”

“Of course, signore, we sold two just a month ago. A magnificent machine, a
magnifico
design, and the
power
. Ahh, forget the Harley, there is nothing to match a Ducati.”

“Any chance one of the new owners might want to sell? At a substantial profit, of course?”

Signor Mosconi assessed him in a quick up-and-down glance. “You are talking a great deal of money, Signor Farrar.”

Jack nodded conspiratorially. “I guess so. But a man's gotta do what he's gotta do to get a Ducati these days. And with a little help from you, Signor Mosconi, I can guarantee I'm a very generous man.”

The Italian sat silently for a moment, thinking, then he got to his feet. “Why don't we discuss this over an
aperitivo,
Signor Farrar,” he suggested. “There is a very nice bar not too far from here.”

 

Two hours later, Jack and the mutt were back on board the sloop, munching on a slab of still-hot-from-the-oven focaccia sprinkled with salt and olive oil, a local specialty picked up in a pizza joint in the greasy-spoon quarter near the docks. The wind had dropped and Jack started up the engine and headed out to sea, then, hugging the coast, headed west to the dowager queen of the Ligurian resorts. San Remo.

In his pocket was the name of the Ducati owner, Cosmo March, and the address of the Hotel Rossi.

Lola

I've been here three weeks and I'm only just getting used to
(a)
the weather,
(b)
more weather, and
(c)
the Englishness of it all. I just love it, apart from the weather that is, and apart from the fact that I'm missing Jack Farrar more than any woman has a right to, especially since he is definitely not in my future.

He'd given me his phone number, but of course I haven't called him. To say what? I ask myself when I'm tempted. Hi, how are you? How're things?
I miss you.
No, if there were important news Jack would call me. Meanwhile, I guessed he was checking out the Ducatis, plus getting on with his own life, back and forth to the U.S Maybe there was even a new Sugar around by now.

When I thought about Patrick, alive and hiding out, I felt afraid of him. I was suspended in space and time, living in a dream world, here in the heart of the English countryside. I was hiding out too, like the scared little rabbit I was. But we were on Miss N's turf now, far from the south of France, and I was getting to know a side of her I'd only glimpsed at the Hotel Riviera. The woman I didn't know.

Days flickered past in the gray mist, a week, then two. I sent postcards to Jack of High Street, Burford, and Christchurch, Oxford, and Bourton-on-the-Water, with hasty messages saying only things like, “You wouldn't believe it, but the village looks exactly like this, it's like stepping back in time.” And, “Food good at this pub, you would have enjoyed it. Hope the Ducati search is progressing.” Only once did I say, “Miss you,” and then I wished I hadn't because, after all, he wasn't writing any postcards to me and I obviously was not on his mind.

When he finally called one afternoon, I was out, and Miss Nightingale took the message. He was back in the States on urgent business, his friend the Marseilles ex-detective was checking the Ducati dealers, he would be back soon, love to us both.

“Love to us both.” I dreamed about that phrase that night, in my soft-pillowed bed.

The weather turned cold and crisp and one morning I woke to find a shiny white frost covering the grass. Muffled up in scarves and heavy sweaters we walked the country lanes with Little Nell trotting at our heels, and Miss Nightingale pointed out the first scarlet berries in the hedgerows and said they were early, which the farmers always said meant a hard winter ahead.

We went shopping together in Cheltenham, a gracious little town with fine Regency buildings that somehow reminded me of New Orleans without the razzmatazz and the humidity, and I bought a pink cashmere sweater, on sale of course, that clashed with my ginger hair but was soft as a kitten's fur and twice as warm.

We walked everywhere, Miss N and I, talking about her past, and her interesting life, and about my past and my problems with Patrick. But we didn't talk about Jack.

We tramped the leafy lanes in the rain, with Miss N in a green Barbour oilskin jacket and green wellies and a flat tweed cap like the ones the old codgers wore in the pub, and me in Tom's old Burberry trench coat, wrapped around me twice and trailing over the tops of my clompy old wellies, with an olive-green oilskin bucket hat clamped on my head. We looked like nothing more than a couple of country spinsters, hiking around, picking up branches filled with berries, hair straggling in the rain, red-nosed and healthy.

“If only Jack could see me now,” I said, looking at the pair of us and laughing.

Miss N's glance from behind her rain-swiped specs was shrewd. “Do you want him to?”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. Then, “Oh yes, I'm rather afraid I do.” I sounded so English, we both shrieked with laughter and ran back through the rain, followed by Little Nell looking like a bedraggled wet mop. Back to the cozy kitchen and the Aga puffing warm air and the bubbling kettle on the hob, and the hot cup of tea. Darjeeling, of course, none of that fancy Earl Grey for Miss N, with a ginger biscuit hard enough to rock your teeth, as we pulled off our wellies and flung off our wet rain gear, and toasted our toes companionably in front of the fire.

It couldn't go on like this, of course. Idylls are not meant to last.

Gloom settled over me as I sat with Miss N in Browns Café in Oxford, devouring scones with strawberry jam and thick dollops of Devonshire cream, because as you know it's my belief that there's nothing like food in a crisis. It's comfort of the most “comforting” sort, except perhaps being in the arms of a man who loves you. I don't mean to sound wistful, but I am, just a little.

Anyhow, Miss N has just shown me the treasures of Oxford, the beautiful college of Christchurch, where her own father and her grandfather were once students, and where she herself graduated, too many years ago to admit to, she'd said with a roguish smile. We had seen the Radcliffe and Blackwells bookstore and peeked into courtyards and admired the architecture. We had also shopped at Waitrose, the supermarket on our way into Oxford, and I was planning on cooking a fine supper for Miss Nightingale tonight, with a bottle of good Côtes du Rhône, a hearty red to warm our fingers and toes on these sharp nights.

We were indulging ourselves, sipping tea and eating our scones, when quite suddenly, Miss N put down the scone piled with jam and cream that she was just about to bite into. “Oh my dear,” she said. “Of course. That's it!”

“Are you all right?”

“Oh yes, I am very much all right. My dear, I think I've just solved the question of Patrick's whereabouts.”

I put down my scone too. Her eyes were dancing with delight behind the pale plastic spectacles. “You have?”

“Where else would a gambler go in Europe,” she said, “when he can no longer hit Monte Carlo?”

“Where?” I couldn't imagine.

“The next casino along the coast, and a jolly good one it is too. My grandparents used to go there in the good old days.”

“So?
Where?
” I could hardly wait.

“Why, San Remo, of course. Hence the Italian number plate on the Ducati. It all fits, you see.”

She was so excited I smiled, admitting that it made sense, so we finished our scones in record time and headed back to the flashy red Mini Cooper, and she drove as fast as she could along the Oxford Road without getting a ticket, back to Blakelys, to call Jack.

Miss N parked the Mini Cooper with a flourish next to Tom's turquoise Harley, which she personally kept polished to a showroom shine, treasuring her man's memories as she did so. I grabbed the plastic bags of groceries from the back and followed her inside.

Little Nell bounded up into Miss N's arms, the way she always did, like a little rubber ball, but this time Miss N was too excited to give her much time. “Wait there,” she said sternly, dropping her back onto her cushion next to the Aga, and Little Nell tucked her tail under and stared mournfully back at her. “We have to make a phone call,” Miss N explained, and I swear the dog understood.

Miss N did the dialing while I hovered nearby, trying to look casual, but when she said, “Jack, is that you?” my knees went weak at the thought that he was on the other end of the line. I sank into the leather armchair from the old manor, curling up like Little Nell, and gazing in exactly the same beseeching way at Miss N.

“Listen to me, Jack,” Miss N was saying, “where else would a gambler with Italian number plates be? Why, San Remo, of course.” She was grinning like a Cheshire cat, excited and looking most unqueenly, as she imparted this information, then she said, astonished, “What? You're already in San Remo?” She listened and said, “Ah, I see, the Ducati. Yes, of course.” She glanced at me, listening. “Yes, she's right here, I'll put her on,” she said, and handed me the phone.

“Hi, there,” Jack said.

The sound of his voice made me melt all over again. I was behaving like a teenager, I told myself sternly, as I said a hearty, “Hello, Jack, how are you?”

“Missing you,” he said, surprising me.

“Oh yes, well, good. I guess the food isn't so great when I'm away.”

Miss N glanced at me, brows raised and a look of exasperation on her face. “Sorry,” I said, “it was just a joke.”

“Are you okay, there in England?” Jack said.

“It's so beautiful, and Miss Nightingale is the perfect host,” I said. “You must come and visit, her cottage is like something from a fairy tale.”

“I will,” he promised. Then sounding serious he said, “Lola, I have some news, but first I want you to tell me if you know a Cosmo March.”

“Cosmo March…but that's my father.
Michael Cosmo March
.”

“Yeah, well, Patrick took his name as his alias. He's been staying here, at the Hotel Rossi in San Remo. He was Mr. Rich Guy with a fancy suite and playing the big shot at the casino. In fact, I missed him by a couple of days. He packed up and left, just like that. And no forwarding address.”

I took a deep breath. “You're sure it's him?”

“He fits the description, and besides, who else would know the name Cosmo March?”

“It's him,” I said, feeling sure now. A tremor of fear rippled down my spine. “We have to track him down, Jack. I have to come back right away. I'll be on a flight tomorrow. Where shall I meet you?”

“I'm sailing out of San Remo now. Call and let me know your flight, I'll pick you up.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice a grateful whisper.

“I told you I missed you, honey,” he said, and I could tell he was smiling.

I put down the phone and said, “I'm sorry, Miss N, but I must go back.”

“Well, of course I shall come with you,” she said. “We can't let Patrick get away from us now.” And with that, she picked up the phone and called Mary Wormesly to tell her Little Nell would be back, and that she was off on urgent business back to France.