The Hotel Riviera (23 page)

We were home, drinking brandy and not saying much. We'd showered, cleaned ourselves up, tried to clean the horror out of our heads and the memory from our souls. It wasn't over yet but somehow it was more bearable now we were “home.”

The sun was down and there was a nip in the air. Jack went to fetch Miss N's cardigan and a shawl for me—I was still shivering—and then Nadine bustled in with mugs of hot soup.

I stared at it. “How can I eat when Patrick just died?”

“Patrick died saving you, Lola, but he was the one who put you in danger in the first place.” Jack was blunt.

“But he redeemed himself…”

“Yes, he did redeem himself, though it doesn't absolve what he did to you,” Miss N said.

I took a tentative sip of the soup. Its warmth seemed to untangle part of the knot in my stomach and I sipped again, then held the mug to my face, breathing its fragrant warmth, still guilty that I was alive and drinking soup and Patrick was dead.
Really
dead this time. “Didn't I always tell you,” I said, “Patrick was a bad husband, but he wasn't a bad man.” I shrugged wearily. “Now you know I was right.”

“It's time to get on with your own life,” Miss Nightingale said briskly. “Because you do have a life, you know. An independent life, to do with as you will.”

“Thanks to Patrick.” I pressed my lips against the mug to stop them trembling.

“Not only thanks to Patrick. You're your own woman, Lola. You've created your own life, here, your own place in the world.” Miss N had never sounded so firm, so assertive.

“Now I want to tell you about the woman driving the Hummer,” she said. “And her companion. The police haven't identified the remains yet, but I am certain of their identities.”

Jack nodded. “I think I know too, but I'm not sure why.”

Miss Nightingale gave me a searching look. “This may be painful, my dear,” she said, “but it's better you know exactly what happened.”

And then she told us about Evgenia and Patrick, and about the spell she must have had, not only over my husband, but also over her own. A spell to inspire a man to murder.

The report on TV, and in the newspapers, said that Evgenia Solis had died in a car accident on the Corniche road. On the same day, it was reported that the “missing” man, Patrick Laforêt, had been “discovered,” and killed riding his motorcycle.

The Solis yacht slipped quietly out of Monte Carlo that same night, without the body of Evgenia Solis, or what was left of it, on board. Instructions had been given to Maître Dumas for Evgenia to be interred in a convenient cemetery. No headstone, other than a plain marker with her name and the dates of her birth and death, was planned. There would be no memorial service and no questions asked. Laurent Solis donated a large sum of money to the fund for the restoration of ancient artifacts and went quickly back to living the high life. If he had any wounds, he certainly didn't lick them in public.

That night too an envelope was hand-delivered to my door. In it was Patrick's note assigning the hotel to Solis. It was torn into little pieces. Solis had given up his claim to the Hotel Riviera. He had given me a gift, instead of giving the hotel to his wife.

If there was anyone, besides poor Patrick, I felt sorry for in this whole tragic affair, it was Laurent Solis. That is, if it's possible to feel sorry for a billionaire. I believed his story of how Patrick's grandmother had saved him. Solis wasn't a wicked man; he was a good businessman in the spell of a beautiful, powerful, crazy woman.

The police came round, asking questions about Jeb Falcon, who had died in the crash, alongside Evgenia, but we claimed to know nothing. And as for Giselle Castille, she'd slunk back to Paris and her villa was now up for sale.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Miss Nightingale said, satisfied, though whether she meant Patrick as well was unclear.

However, I gave Patrick a bang-up memorial service, attended by all his “friends,” including quite a few attractive women. Plus the Shoups came down from the Dordogne to lend support and the Honeymooners sent a bountiful bouquet, though it was for me, not Patrick. Even Budgie Lampson sent a note of condolence, though I got the impression that, all things considered, she felt Patrick's death was a relief.

I hosted the “wake” on the Riviera's terrace, shaking hands with Patrick's friends and being kissed on both cheeks by women who had been his lovers. They drank champagne and reminisced in hushed voices while wolfing down excellent hors d'oeuvres prepared by Nadine and served by Jean-Paul, returned for the occasion and somberly suited in a black T-shirt and black pants.

Jack kept watch and his distance, because after all, this was my husband's funeral. But Miss Nightingale stood squarely at my side, sizing up the mourners and occasionally patting my arm for comfort.

I'd gotten myself properly together for my last goodbye to Patrick, in a sleeveless black linen shift and my highest heels. A big-brimmed hat of black straw hid my eyes, which anyway were already hidden behind the darkest sunglasses I could find. Jack seemed surprised by my new look and Miss Nightingale said I made a very beautiful widow, which made me laugh. At that moment, with the sound of my own laughter in my ears, I realized that I really was my own woman. That Patrick had chosen his path, and now I was free to choose mine.

And what would I choose? I stole a glance over my shoulder at Jack, standing behind me. He looked solemn and a bit wary, and so incredibly strong and handsome that my heart turned over. The only question now was, would
he
choose
me
? I doubted it. After all, he was a sailor, and anyhow, I was far too shy to ask.

The mourners were gone, drifting off like a flock of crows in their funeral black, laughing and chattering and making plans for the evening. It was goodbye, Patrick, and on with their lives. And I supposed there was nothing wrong with that.

We dined out that night, with Red and Jerry Shoup to lighten our hearts and “take us out of ourselves,” as Miss Nightingale put it. I chose the Auberge des Maures, off the Place des Lices in Saint-Tropez, where, wrapped in sweaters and in sneakers and jeans, we dined with other locals under the grape arbor on barbecued loup de mer and platters of tiny green lentils, and quite a few bottles of rosé.

We drank a toast to the Hotel Riviera, which was now mine to “have and to hold” forever, and I vowed to make it as beautiful as it was before. Then we drank a toast to Patrick, and I remembered that he had loved me, after all.

Back at the hotel, the Shoups had their old room, now fully restored; Miss Nightingale was in her Marie-Antoinette, and Jack and I were in my cottage.

“Isn't this wrong?” I asked nervously as he closed the door and slid his arms around me. “I feel like a wicked woman. After all, I've just buried my husband.”

“Sweetheart, you buried him a long time ago.” He nuzzled my ear, sending shivers through me. “Today was just a formality.”

Though the night was warm, I lit the fire and we snuggled together on the sofa, watching the flames, listening to Bad Dog snoring at our feet and the soothing sound of Antonio Carlos Jobim, singing of love in Portuguese, backed by the even softer sound of the sea. In my heart, I thanked Patrick again, and I thanked God for sending me Miss Nightingale and for Jack Farrar. Oddly, at the end of this terrible week of tragedy I felt comforted. At that moment I was a contented woman.

I drove Miss Nightingale to the nice airport and put her on the flight to London. I would miss her more than anyone could know; there was so much more to her than discussions about the weather and how the drought was affecting her roses this year. Miss N was as deep and mysterious as Pandora's box, and the truth was I loved her and I hated to see her go.

“Stay, please, why don't you?” I'd begged. I wanted to say “I love you” but understood that Miss Nightingale would disapprove of such a show of emotion: in Miss Nightingale's view it went without saying that we cared about each other.

“Well, dear,” she replied, as we sipped a final after-dinner brandy together. “I have my garden to look after, you know. The wisteria needs cutting back, and the roses, and Little Nell is still boarding with the Wormeslys at the Blakelys Arms and no doubt missing me, though I sometimes wonder, because the Wormeslys spoil her so—all those pork sausages and the spilled beer.”

“Then come for Christmas?” I eyed her hopefully, already planning our Christmas feast and wondering in the back of my mind if I could persuade Jack to stay too. Oh, Jack, I thought with a sudden drop of my heart…The sailor, the wanderer, a nomad just like Patrick…

“That's sweet of you”—Miss Nightingale was genuinely pleased with her invitation—“but you see, I'm always so busy with my church activities at Christmas. There's the carol singing Christmas Eve, though it does seem a little odd to go and stand on the doorstep of what was once my home and sing ‘God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen' to the total stranger who now owns it. And then there's the annual pantomime at the village hall. It's
Cinderella
this year, the children always like that, and my Little Nell has a walk-on as Cinder's faithful little doggie, dressed in a tutu, which always brings a round of applause. Then, of course, the vicar and his wife are sure to invite me for Christmas lunch and I couldn't disappoint them. So you see, my dear, how busy I am?”

“Of course, I understand,” I said, thinking of my own lonesome Christmas.

“But perhaps in the New Year?” Miss Nightingale suggested.

And I said I hoped so, oh I hoped so.

 

After I'd put Miss N on the plane, on an impulse I turned east out of Nice, heading for Cap-Ferrat, and the old villa she had told me about. The one that had belonged to a woman called Leonie, and where Miss Nightingale had said I would find a true peace. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

I remembered the directions only hazily, but somehow I found my way there. As though it were destined, I thought, looking at the name La Vieille Auberge inscribed in faded script across the two huge white stones that marked the entrance to the overgrown driveway.

I pushed open the creaking iron gate, and walked under the tall, shadowy trees, along the rutted gravel path to the house. And there it was, a dilapidated white house set amid green-black cypresses and silvery olives. A series of paths and little terraces led to a spit of white sand, and a flight of rather rickety-looking steps led down to the sea.

It was, I thought, wandering slowly along the overgrown paths, not a million miles from my own place, though this had more grandeur than the Hotel Riviera. And yet it had about it the feel of a family home. There were memories in this place, you could feel them in the air around you, breathe them in with the scent of wild thyme and rosemary and the salty sea.

I came to a stone bench beneath a jacaranda, the perfect place to sit and dream away a warm afternoon, watching the sea change color from turquoise to ink-blue as evening approached. The perfect place to dream about life, and about love. The perfect place to come to terms with my true self, and with my own life, just as I somehow knew the woman known as Leonie must have done, many years before.

I sank onto the bench, gazing out at the magical view, and I remembered Patrick, and the good times and that, in the end, he had loved me. I thought about the Hotel Riviera, and how now I would work even harder to make it a success, and how much I enjoyed pampering my guests, and sharing their days. I even planned a couple of new menus, just sitting there, staring into that blue space.

I thought about my friend Mollie Nightingale, and how I would never be able to call her Mollie, even though I loved her.

And of course, I thought about Jack. Just a jumble of thoughts…how I loved his body and the touch of his hands and how blue his eyes were, narrowed in that smile that knocked me for a loop. I remembered his voice with that faint New England twang, telling me how much he loved his boat. Soon, he too would be gone, sailing halfway around the world in search of adventure, because that's the kind of man he was.

And I would be alone again, at the Hotel Riviera, waiting for the summer when I would bloom again like the bougainvillea.

Loneliness wrapped itself around me like a damp blanket and I shivered, though the day was warm. “Lonely” was not a good place to be. I heard a faint rustling noise and turned to look.

A little chocolate-brown cat with golden eyes looked back at me. It was small and dainty, with a sweet pink-tipped nose, a little triangular face and pointed ears.

“Well, hello,” I said, “and who are you?”

The cat arched its back in a long stretch, then it slinked over to me, and rubbed against my legs, purring throatily. I held out my hand. The cat sniffed it, then sat on its elegant haunches, looking at me. I picked it up and held it on my lap, stroking its fur, the softest fur I had ever touched. It licked my hand with its rough pink tongue.

Suddenly I began to cry, finally letting out the emotion of the past months. And the little cat sat quietly in my lap, not purring now, just comforting me with her presence.

When the tears finally stopped, I mopped my face on the edge of my T-shirt, because I had no Kleenex handy. I looked down at the little brown cat in my lap. She had no collar, no identification…she was just a little lost cat. And now she was mine. She would be my guardian angel, she would fit into my life as though it were always meant to be.

Picking her up, I took her into my life, which, had I known it, was exactly what Leonie Bahri had done, many years ago.

There was only one name for her. Chocolate, of course. It suited her soft brown color and my culinary career. I think Scramble would have liked her. I hoped so, because from now on, Chocolate would be sleeping on my pillow at night, and I would no longer be alone.