The Hotel Riviera (3 page)

Lola

Red and Jerry Shoup were next down for dinner. The showgirl and the diplomat, I called them, though in fact they were nothing of the sort, they just looked the roles. She had flaming red hair that I envied, and legs that went on forever, and he was silver-haired, sun-bronzed, and charming. They live in a beautiful country house in the Dordogne and were here taking a month's intensive French course.

We greeted each other with kisses, and Red proclaimed she was brain-dead in French and was speaking only English tonight, even if it was against the school rules, and could they please have their usual Domaine Ott rosé before they passed out from sheer exhaustion.

I smiled and my spirits began to lift, as they always did when I was around my guests. Taking care of people, making them happy, was my chosen role in life.

Jean-Paul, my youth-of-all-work, appeared. He was pale as a lily because he never saw the sun, only the inside of the Saint-Tropez nightclubs, thin as a rail with a shaved head and six earrings. Wearing the Hotel Riviera white and gold tee, black pants and sneakers, he was pretending to be a waiter, bringing dishes of olives and tapenade, baskets of freshly baked breads, and crocks of pale sweet butter stamped with the image of a bewildered-looking cow.

I heard children's voices and the even higher-pitched English voice of young Camilla Lampson, whose nickname for some odd reason was Budgie.

Budgie was nanny to the two small boys who'd been sent to lodge here while their mother, an American actress, spent the summer in a smart villa in Cannes with her much younger boyfriend. Budgie, who's a terrible gossip, had told us indignantly that the actress believed having the boys around made her look older, but in fact they were cute normal kids, and in my opinion any woman who shut them out of her life needed her head examined. I watched them racing around the corner thinking I would give anything for a pair just like them, but acting sensibly for once, I decided not to allow myself to go there right now.

I said hello to the boys, made sure they were set up with Orangina, and commiserated with Budgie, who'd had to endure an entire afternoon of shopping in Monte Carlo with the movie star. I told Jean-Paul to bring her usual kir, a mix of white wine and
crème de cassis,
the delicious black currant liqueur made in the little town of Hyères, just along the coast—I thought she looked as though she needed it—then took everybody's orders and dashed back to the kitchen.

By the time I emerged again my last guests had arrived, my English honeymoon couple, both so young and fuzzily blond they reminded me endearingly of Scramble as a little yellow chick. They were so dopey with love for each other it was enough to make even my newly hardened heart melt. They were to leave the following morning and looked so despondent that I sent them glasses of champagne compliments of the house. From their beaming faces you might have thought I'd given them the keys to my kingdom, so I sent Jean-Paul back with the rest of the bottle in an ice bucket, making them even happier, if possible.

So, there we were, the entire cast of the Hotel Riviera: my eight guests and my staff, just like one happy little family. And then I heard the bell ring in the front hall.

Now if you were wondering, as I was, whether it was the Naked Man, aka Jack Farrar, coming for dinner—and to compliment me on my cooking while I complimented him on his body—you were wrong.

This was somebody quite different.

I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried to answer it.

The man standing by the old rosewood table that served as a reception desk was short, wide, and aggressively jut-jawed, with pumped-up biceps and a marine-cropped haircut, though I knew instantly he was no marine. He was too sleek in his expensively casual clothes and flashy diamond-studded watch, plus he was wearing sunglasses even though he was indoors. He'd parked his motorcycle, an impressive scarlet and chrome Harley right outside the front door, and parked his expensive Louis Vuitton travel bag on my chintz sofa. Now he was pacing the hall and smoking a cigar.

He turned as I came in, smiling my hostess smile of welcome. His eyes flicked over me, taking me in from the top of my ginger head to the toes of my white kitchen clogs, then back again. “You the desk clerk?” he said.

I stiffened. “I am Madame Laforêt, the
patronne
.”

He grunted an acknowledgment, flicking cigar ash onto the old but beautiful silk rug I'd bought at a Paris auction and which had cost more than I could afford and necessitated a loan from the bank. I pushed an ashtray across the table.

“Good evening,” I said, remembering my manners and my smile, though he had neither. “How can I help you?”

He gave me a long look through his dark shades, bringing back a memory of Patrick driving away, and the sunglasses hiding his expression. I folded my arms defensively across my chest.

“I need a room,” he said abruptly.

“Of course. How many nights?” I pretended to check my reservations book though I knew perfectly well we had two rooms free.

“Your best room. Three or four nights, maybe more. I'm not sure.”

“Mistral has the best sea view, I'm sure you'll like it. All our rooms are named after famous French artistes and writers,” I explained. Not that he cared. I told him the price, and saw the corner of his mouth curve contemptuously and I wondered why, since he obviously thought he was above the Hotel Riviera—he wasn't at the Carlton in Cannes, instead.

I asked for his passport—Dutch in the name of Jeb Falcon, and his credit card—Amex Platinum—then hooked the key to Mistral from the board behind me and said, “This way, Mr. Falcon, please.”

Finally, he took off the sunglasses. He gave me another long inspection and I stared back, waiting. His eyes were a dull black in the lamplight and I decided I definitely didn't like him, nor did I like his cold expression. He glanced at his bag on the sofa, then back at me. My lips tightened; if he thought I was going to carry his bag then he was sadly mistaken.

I swear I could feel his eyes burning into my back as he followed me up the creaking wooden stairs, and I quickly showed him his room, handed him the key, and told him curtly that dinner was being served on the terrace, if he wished.

I thought of the sign that said: “Our Welcome Is Bigger Than Our Hotel.” Never before had I failed to make a guest feel “welcome,” but now I stalked back downstairs wishing this guest had gone somewhere else.

Jack

The dinghy glided alongside the rickety wooden jetty and Jack secured the line around the slab of tree trunk that served as a bollard. He climbed the steps over the rocks and wound his way up a meandering sandy path, passing a small pink house with an old-fashioned front porch. Through the windows he caught a sideways glimpse of an untidy sitting room with squashy sofas upholstered in the local fabrics, and, as he rounded the corner, a bedroom dominated by a massive four-poster, stunningly draped in gold lamé.

“Jesus,” he muttered, wondering about the owner's taste, as he strode past the oleander hedge and up to the path that led to the front of the hotel. A red and chrome Harley parked outside took his eye, and he paused to admire it. He wondered if it was Miss Voyeur's, then thought, nah, anyone who was shocked by the sight of a naked man probably drove a sedate little Renault.

The front doors of the hotel stood invitingly open. He walked in and looked around. If the cottage belonged to the owner, and she was also responsible for the décor in here, then he forgave her for the gold lamé bed.
Comfortable
was the word that sprang to mind, and he was a man who appreciated comfort, on land though not at sea, where he never even thought about it. He could smell lavender and beeswax and flowers; jasmine perhaps, though he was not a man who knew much about flowers. And the aroma of something wonderful wafting from the direction of the kitchen.

Without bothering to ring the bell, he strolled through the pretty hall into the salon and through the French windows onto the terrace, where he stood, hands in the pockets of his shorts, looking around.

He thought this was exactly what the south of France on a summer night was about: the flowery terrace overlooking the bay and the strings of lights looped around the peninsula; the scent of flowers; the hum of conversation and a woman's laughter; the tinkle of ice in glasses and the pop of a cork as someone opened a bottle of the local pink wine. He decided this just might be perfection; it all depended on the taffy-haired woman. He was curious about her now, wondered what nationality she was, and whether she tended bar here, or if she was just the hostess. And here she came now, heading his way.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,”
Lola said, with a deep look from her long-lashed brown eyes that sent a tingle through his spine. She'd pulled back her hair in a ponytail, but the long soft bangs almost touched her lashes, framing her heart-shaped face like a Victorian cameo. Jack realized from her accent she was American, and taller than he'd thought: long legs in wedgie espadrilles that tied in little bows around her skinny ankles, tight white Capris, and a Hotel Riviera tee. No jewelry, save for a gold wedding band. Hah! So she was married.

He realized she hadn't recognized him, and he grinned back, that lopsided kind of grin that had been known to knock a woman's socks off. But not this one; she was all hostess/business. “Good evening,” he said.

“A table for two?” Lola asked, peering behind him, as though expecting to see a female companion, though he guessed from her up-and-down look at him she was hoping the woman might be wearing something other than shorts and a T-shirt and old shoes.

“I'm alone,” he said, following her as she threaded her way through the tables and pulled back a chair for him. “Thanks,” he said again.

She was looking at him now, really looking, and he saw, amused, that she was blushing. “Oh,” she said, “Oh, my…”

“I think we've already met.” He held out his hand. “I'm Jack Farrar, the guy from the sloop moored opposite the hotel.”

“I know who you are,” Lola said, stiff with embarrassment, “and I want you to know I didn't mean to spy on you. I was just curious to see who was mooring in my cove.”

“Excuse me?
Your
cove? I thought the waters were free to everyone.”

“Well, of course they are. But I always think of this as
my
cove, and I'm not fond of rowdy vacationers having wild parties on their boats and disturbing my guests.”

“Okay, I promise I'm not going to be rowdy. Now, will you shake my hand and call a truce, and tell me who you are?”

Lola pulled herself together. She gave him her best hostess smile as well as her hand; after all, he was her dinner guest. “I'm Lola Laforêt. Welcome to my little auberge. Now, can I get you a drink, some wine, perhaps? We have excellent local wines, and if you prefer rosé, I can recommend the Cuvée Paul Signac.”

She stood, pencil poised over her notepad, looking haughtily down at him, thinking he was too full of himself and too smug about catching her peeking at him, and anyhow, he'd peeked right back, hadn't he?

“I'll take a bottle of the artist's wine,” he said and caught her sharp glance. She probably hadn't thought a scruffy sailor like himself would know about Signac, a painter who'd frequented Saint-Tropez in its early incarnation as a small fishing port.

“A good choice,” she said, all professionalism.

“You didn't give me any.”

She glanced up. “Didn't give you any what?”

“Choice. You recommended only one wine and I took it.”

She glared at him now. “In that case I'll send Jean-Paul over with the wine list and the menu. He'll take care of you.” And with that she whisked away.

Well, you blew that one, Jack told himself. Or was it Miss Prickly Taffy Hair Brown Eyes who'd blown it? He thought about her eyes, how her long lashes swept onto her cheeks, the way Bambi's had in the Disney cartoon, and how very appealing that was. But boy, did she have attitude!

A thin French kid, pale as a bleached moth in black pants and a black Hotel Riviera tee, sporting half a dozen gold hoops in his ear, strolled over with the wine list, the menu, and a basket of rosemary-olive bread that smelled freshly made.

“You must be Jean-Paul,” Jack said, friendly as always.

“Yes, monsieur, that is me,” the French kid said. “Madame said I should take your order.”

“I'll have a bottle of the Cuvée Paul Signac,” Jack said, glancing down at the hand-lettered umber-colored card that was the menu.

“Right away, monsieur.” Jean-Paul moved as though he had lead in his shoes and Jack wasn't betting on any fast service around here.

He glanced round at his fellow diners: a flamboyant couple; a pair of young lovebirds; a girl in charge of two well-behaved little boys; a spinster lady of “a certain age”—actually, probably a little older than that—who looked remarkably queen like in her pearls and who flashed him a discreet ladylike smile of welcome; and another guy dining alone, like himself.

There were several empty tables on the terrace and a very empty small dining room in the back. He wondered if the food was bad, then thought it was not busy because it was the end of the season. The French
rentrée,
when the whole of France returned to work, had already taken place, kids were back in school, students were back in college, and tourists were back in their home countries. Few people were able, as he was, to wander the world at will.

Jean-Paul returned with the wine in a frosty silver bucket. It was remarkably good: cold, fruity, light. Madame Lola Laforêt had good taste in wine as well as décor. He glanced around approvingly. Everything here was in harmony, gentle and appealing. Except for the nervous-looking guy at the table next to him.

The man was downing a good red Domaine Tempier as though it were Coca-Cola and looking as though he couldn't wait to leave. Jack thought there was something familiar about him. You didn't easily forget a face like his: that hard impassive look that allowed for no expression. Nor the way he bounced on his toes as he got up, fists clenched, biceps pumped, ready to take on anyone who crossed him; the flashy gold watch, the diamond pinky ring, the expensive loafers and designer sportswear. This was obviously a man-about-town in the south of France. So what the hell he was doing, dining at this little hostelry?

Trouble was, he couldn't place him. Was it at Les Caves du Roy, where Jack had been with Sugar one night? Actually, he'd escorted Sugar there and left her to her own devices after the first half hour, when he could no longer take the decibel level, and anyhow Sugar had found her own company. Or was it on the terrace of the Carlton in Cannes, where he'd been talking business with a man whose boat he was building and who loved boats as much as he did himself?

Ah, what the hell, the guy had probably just been part of the passing parade at the Café Sénéquier, where everybody in Saint-Tropez ended up at some time or other.

He took another long assessing glance as the man passed him on his way out. He didn't like the guy, that was for sure. A minute later he heard the familiar Harley roar and the sound of gravel spurting from tires. He might have guessed the Harley was his.

He turned his attention back to the menu, ordered lobster salad with ginger, and the rack of lamb with eggplant
tian
and sat back to enjoy the wine and the view, hoping for another glimpse of Madame Laforêt—the hostess-without-the-mostest and the eyes like Bambi.