The Hotel Riviera (4 page)

Lola

Why hadn't I recognized him immediately? Dammit, I'd seen more of him than most people, but somehow he looked different with clothes on. Was I destined always to behave like a blushing teen, when here I was, a mature grown woman? And a
married
woman, at that, I reminded myself sternly, shaking the cast-iron pan over the heat, browning the rack of lamb before putting it in a hot oven for the prescribed amount of time it would take to cook to perfection.

That task accomplished, I sent the honeymooners a basket of brownies and fresh almond cookies to accompany their coffee, made sure Marit had the vegetable
tians
under control, checked that Red Shoup had her John Dory with red wine sauce, and that her husband had his bourride, the good fish soup that was almost a stew and which was always served with baguette croutons and rouille, a spicy mix of garlic, chili peppers, and mayonnaise. Heaven from the sea, I called it. Not like my sailor, whose attitude I thought had not been exactly heavenly.

I lurked in the kitchen, attending to my duties, reluctant to go back out there and face Jack Farrar again. Then I heard a squawk as Scramble pushed her way through the bead curtain over the kitchen door.

“Out!” I waved my arms at her. She was never allowed in the kitchen, or anywhere else in the hotel, only on the terrace and in the garden, and of course, in my cottage. She gave me the runaround for a few minutes, darting under the table, pecking at the floor, gleaning anything that might taste good to a chicken, which was pretty much everything, until I finally caught her and carried her outside.

I stood at the corner, looking at my contented guests, something that always made me feel good, as though through their satisfaction and happiness I could achieve my own. Miss Nightingale had finished dinner and was reading a book. The honeymooners were nibbling on my brownies and each other's lips. Budgie and the boys had already left, as had Mr. Falcon, whose Harley I'd heard roaring off a while ago. The Shoups were holding hands across the table, which meant they could eat with only one hand, but they seemed to like it that way. That's the effect my magical little terrace has on people. And Jack Farrar had finished his lobster salad and was sipping a glass of wine, gazing out over the water where his sloop rode the miniwaves, red and green mooring lights gleaming through the darkness.

He turned and caught me looking at him. I blushed again; he must have thought I was some crazy kind of voyeur. Pretending I had meant to catch his eye anyhow, I walked over and with my most polished hostess smile said, “Everything all right, Mr. Farrar?”

He folded his arms as he looked up at me. “Everything is wonderful. And I think we know each other well enough that you could call me Jack.”

“So…Jack,” I said. “Your lamb will be here in just a couple of minutes.”

“No problem, I'm enjoying myself. There's something very special about this place, Madame Laforêt.”

“Lola.”

“Lola. Of course.”

“Well, thank you for the compliment. This
is
a special place and I'm glad you're enjoying it.”

“The lobster salad was delicious.”

I nodded, smiling.

“And the artist's wine you recommended…just perfect.”

“I'm glad. Well, I'll check on your dinner. Excuse me, Jack.”

“Just one more thing.” I turned and met his eyes, denim-blue and narrowed into a smile. “Do you always carry a chicken around?”

I'd forgotten all about Scramble, who was giving Jack Farrar her beady-eyed sideways glare and who now began fluttering in my arms. “Not always,” I said, as haughtily as I could with a struggling chicken in my arms.

I hurried back to the kitchen, depositing Scramble in the hibiscus pot en route, grabbed Jack Farrar's rack of lamb from the oven; managed to burn my fingers, and uttered a word I felt sure Miss Nightingale would not have been pleased to hear coming from my mouth. I plated the lamb, adding tiny fingerling potatoes, freshly chopped parsley, and a pool of a creamy herby green sauce that made my own mouth water. I wiped the edge of the plate with a cloth, added an orange nasturtium flower, put the plate on a tray with the sizzling vegetable
tian,
straight from the oven, and sent Jean-Paul out with it.

“
Bon appétit,
Jack Farrar,” I murmured.

It was late when I emerged from the kitchen again, and I confess I had deliberately lingered, unwilling to engage Mr. Farrar—Jack—in conversation again. By the time I came back to the terrace he had gone. He'd left a note though, scrawled on the back of the bill—which he had paid in cash.

I laughed out loud. Maybe Jack Farrar was okay after all.

By now, everyone except Miss Nightingale had gone up to bed, so I took off my apron, poured a couple of glasses of cognac and carried them out onto the terrace. I put one in front of Miss N and slumped wearily into the chair opposite.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, putting down her book, as pleased to have the company as she was with the cognac. “How very nice. Thank you, and
santé.
”

We clinked glasses, sipping the brandy reflectively, both enjoying the quiet time after the rush.

After a little while I said, “I see you met our new guest, Mr. Falcon.”

Miss N gave a derisive little snort. “Well, hardly. He's not very friendly.”

“Not civilized is more like it.”

She gave me a long look. “Be careful,” she said. “He's dangerous.”

I looked at her, surprised. “And what would you know about dangerous men, Miss N?”

“Quite a lot, my dear.” Her blue eyes behind the pale plastic spectacles met mine. “I was married to one.” And with that she turned and gazed placidly out across the bay.

Now I don't know much about Miss N's private life, but a husband? And a dangerous one? She couldn't have told me anything more surprising.

“I didn't know you'd been married,” I said, dying of curiosity.

“Very few people do. He was a Scotland Yard detective, quite a famous one. I kept my own name because that's who I was at my school, you see. I suppose I was a bit ahead of the feminists, but I alway felt I had earned my way in the world without the help of a man, and that I was entitled to be recognized in my own right. I was Miss Mollie Nightingale, headmistress of Queen Wilhelmina's School for Girls, and Mollie Nightingale was who I intended to stay.”

“Well, good golly, Miss Mollie,” I said with a grin, making her laugh. Impulsively, I reached out and took her hand. “I'm so glad you're here, Miss N,” I said.

“Thank you, my dear.” She gave me that long piercing stare again. “It's always good to have a friend.”

I nodded; there was a good feeling in my heart again. “So, did you notice the other stranger in our midst tonight?” I asked casually. Too casually apparently, because Miss N caught my tone and raised her brows.

“The handsome one? Who could miss him?”

“He's not
that
handsome.”

She thought about it. “Perhaps not, but very
fanciable
as the girls at my school would have said. Actually,
sex appeal
is what my generation would have said he had, and that's not a bad thing.”

I was a little stunned to hear Miss N talking about husbands and Scotland Yard detectives and fanciable men with sex appeal, but was forced to admit that was exactly what Jack Farrar had. “Not for me, though,” I said. “Remember, I'm the abandoned wife, the one still married but without a husband.”

“Don't close your eyes to romance because of Patrick,” Miss N said sternly. “Live your own life, Lola.”

I sighed. “It's hard. Sometimes I don't know what I am anymore, or where I am in my life.”

“So exactly
who
do you
think
you are, my dear?” she said.

I looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me,
who
are you?
Who is Lola March Laforêt?
”

I hesitated, thinking about what she meant. “Well…I'm a woman. I'm thirty-nine looking at forty. I'm a chef. I'm den mother to my guests. I want to make all their vacation wishes come true, spin a little magic for them, here at the Hotel Riviera.” I looked at her. “I guess that's about it.”

“Think about what you've just told me. You are
all
those wonderful things, Lola; you do spin a magic spell for your guests. We love it here and it's all because of you. Never forget who you are, Lola, because you are someone special. You touch our lives and leave us feeling better for knowing you. And that is no small feat, my dear.”

And then she drained her glass, picked up her book, and with a last, lingering look at the midnight-dark sea, where
Bad Dog
still rode at anchor, she said good night.

You know, it's not easy dealing with a broken heart, even though mine was broken long ago, long before Patrick left me. Sometimes I'm so sad at the loss of my dream love affair, I spend entire days in my kitchen trying out new recipes. Hence the extra pounds that have floated onto my once-slender frame, sticking to my bones like marshmallows to hot twigs.

Sometimes, I allow myself to be angry and resentful, stomping around acting mean to everybody; I know it's unfair but I just can't help it, and I'm always sorry afterwards. And then there are the long, long lonely nights when I cry into my pillow, wondering where he's gone, hugging my little hen to my chest while she clucks sympathetically. But then, no one ever said it was easy being a woman.

It had all started out so beautifully with Patrick, so glamorously, so romantically over champagne and caviar and locked glances.

I was working in Las Vegas as dessert chef at a grand restaurant in one of the grandest hotels, with the freedom to create whatever dishes I wished and a fabulous kitchen to do it in. I loved my job, I was happy there, even though there was little time for a personal life, Anyhow I'd decided to take a breather from men, since I wasn't having much luck with them.

It was my thirty-third birthday and I'd made my own cake, chocolate of course with a praline
ganache
filling. After the last diners had departed I shared it with my fellow workers, then I cast off those baggy chef's pants and got into my skinny black jeans and—very daring for me—a black chiffon blouse, the kind that's ruched at the top and hangs sexily off one shoulder. I'd bought it as an impulse birthday gift for myself from one of Vegas's smart boutiques. I was astonished at the astronomical cost, but then I'd told myself firmly that it was my day and no one else was buying me extravagant, romantic gifts.

I inspected myself anxiously in the mirror, adjusting the slipping shoulder and tugging at the low neckline, realizing how foolish I'd been to spend so much, because there was no one at all to look sexily romantic for. Still, it was my day and I was determined to go out. I wafted mascara onto my ginger lashes and brushed my long, straight hair. I shoved my aching feet into black suede heels, grabbed my purse, and headed for the Bellagio casino.

I lingered near the tables of high rollers playing blackjack and
pai gow,
cocooned from the real world in their own sumptuous softly lit area, marveling at the coolness of the dealers and the tense silence of the players. I wondered if they were betting their futures and entire fortunes on one last chance. Poor fools, I thought, little knowing that my own gamble with fate was about to take place.

Fatigue swept over me. I'd been on my feet for hours and my shoes were killing me. This had been a mistake. I didn't want to be here alone, all dressed up with nowhere really to go. I wanted to go home and get into bed with a good book.
Right now!
I spun round and literally fell over him.

“Pardon, mademoiselle, pardon…,”
he said, and “Excuse me, I'm so sorry…,” I said. Then his arms were around me, steadying me, and I was staring into his eyes.

He was without doubt the best-looking man ever to hold me in his arms. In fact, he was all the clichés: tall, dark, handsome, and added to that he was French. What chance did I stand?

“Are you all right?” he asked in a devastatingly romantic French accent. “You look a little shaken.”

Befuddled, I was unable to think of anything to say. My shoe had come off in the scuffle and now he retrieved it. “Cinderella?” he said, looking at me. Then kneeling at my feet, he took hold of my ankle and gently slid my shoe back on.

It was just so
sexy,
I almost couldn't breathe, “Oh! Oh! Thank you,” I said, groaning inwardly because this was not exactly scintillating dialogue. “I'm sorry,” I added, still sounding breathless.

“I am the one who should be sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. Please, won't you allow me to buy you a drink? Just to make sure you're all right?”

I hesitated, though God knows why—maybe it was a premonition of disaster to come—but then I said yes anyway. His hand was cool under my chiffon elbow as he guided me to the softly lit bar off the lobby.

“Champagne?” he said.

I smiled back. “Why not? After all, it's my birthday.”

One dark brow rose, and I felt foolish and naïve and wished I hadn't shared that with him.

He signaled the waiter. “In that case,
chérie,
we must also have caviar.”

I perched on the edge of my chair trying to look ‘cool,' while he discussed caviar with the waiter. He was even better at second look, in an impeccably cut dark suit, a shirt of fine cotton in that wonderful marine-blue, and an expensive silk tie. There was a spattering of dark hair on the backs of his bronzed hand and a fashionable bluish stubble on his firm jaw. I felt that familiar clenching in the pit of my stomach.

He turned and gave me a searching look. “Hello,” he said, “I'm Patrick Laforêt, from France.”

“And I'm Lola March, from Los Angeles. Well, from Encino to be precise, in the San Fernando Valley.”

“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance,
Lola March,” he said and we clinked glasses and toasted my birthday with Dom Pérignon, very pleased with ourselves. Then he leaned forward, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, “But who are you
really,
Lola March? Tell me about yourself.”

Now, it's not often a woman gets this sort of opportunity, so of course I took it. I told him how I'd dropped out of college (not my best move but then, as you will see, I'm prone to moves like that) and instead had opted for culinary school, where somehow I knew I would show more talent. I told him how I had worked in lowly positions at great restaurants, and boasted of how I had progressed until now my dessert confections were considered by those in the know to be an edible art form.

“But I still make the best brownies in Vegas,” I added finally, not wanting him to think I was all spun-sugar flash and no content. And he laughed and said he adored brownies.

“Not as much as I adore this caviar,” I said, spooning more beluga onto wafer-thin toast points, and I saw he was amused by my round-eyed enjoyment.

Then it was Patrick's turn. He leaned closer, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, as he told me that for generations his family had been fishermen in Marseilles. Now they were gone and he was the last in the line of Laforêts. His father had left him some land outside of Saint-Tropez with a small hotel. He said he was sentimental about it, that he would never sell it “for family reasons,” and that he always spent his summers there. The rest of the year he lived like a nomad, roaming the world.

Later, when I thought about it, I realized he never did get around to telling me exactly how he could afford this rich nomadic lifestyle, but it didn't seem to matter then, and I just assumed his family had left him money.

He told me about the Côte d'Azur and about the many different colors of blue in the sea; about the scent of jasmine on crystal air, and how he loved the long, languorous summer nights when the moon flooded the sea with silver light. He told me about the small vineyard he owned on a sandy hill, and about how it felt to be there in the early autumn mornings when the grapes hung, moon-dusted and heavy on the vines, ready for picking. He told me about the long hot afternoons of summer “best spent in a cool bed with the shutters closed, and of course, not alone.” And I just sat there silently, eyes wide, like a child listening to a fairy tale, totally enthralled.

He was a dream-weaver, Patrick, and that night he wove my perfect dream of the Côte d'Azur, of a small hotel; of sunshine and flowers; of cool wine and a warm, passionate man.

I was head over heels, no question about it. And although it was not my usual cautious style, we ended up in bed that night, crazy for each other. And on an even crazier impulse one month later we were married and I became Lola Laforêt. I still remember how embarrassed I was when I heard my new name for the first time, and how I had wished I'd been named plain Jane, because Jane Laforêt would have sounded somehow less like a stripper.

It was hot the day we became husband and wife in the chambers of a silver-haired Las Vegas judge. Patrick was almost
too
handsome in a cream linen suit that looked far more bridal than the inexpensive beige silk shift I'd grabbed from my closet—because this was a spur-of-the-moment marriage and there'd been no time for bridal shopping. As usual my shoes were killing me, and my bridal bouquet was a bunch of drooping hot-pink roses, a color I hated, picked up hurriedly from a gas station and already half-dead in the heat.

Despite everything, like any bride, I still have my inexpensive “wedding dress,” sentimentally preserved between sheets of special acid-free tissue. And I still have that sad bouquet, pressed between the pages of an album that contains a single wedding photograph, taken by our only witness, the judge's secretary. In it Patrick looks solemn, while I look vaguely alarmed, brows raised, eyes wide, as if aware of what was to come.

Of course,
now
I realize it was more than just Patrick I had wanted. I'd wanted the romance of southern France, the wines, the food, the lovemaking under summer stars, and I realized, too late, that the stars were in my eyes and not in those summer skies.

So you see, the truth is I'm as fragile as every other woman when it comes to love and relationships and men.