Invitation to Provence (23 page)

He shrugged. “I was strong. I pulled through and after a year of tough physical therapy I considered myself ready to be back in the game. But not those in authority—they knew I burned for revenge and because of that I was dangerous. So they offered me the usual desk job given to ‘disabled’ personnel. I chose retirement instead.”

He got up and walked to the edge of the gazebo. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared blankly across the lake. “I hung around the bars for a year,” he said, “drinking too much and not caring where my life was going. Then I pulled myself together and bought my twenty-acre retreat on the mountain. I built my cabin there, every bit of it with my own hands. I let no one else touch it, allowed no one up there. The hard work, the solitude, and the simple goodness of the animals, Criminal and Dirty Harry, saved my sanity. Eventually, though, I needed more and so I set myself up in Manhattan as a P.I.

“Because people knew my father’s name, knew who I was, I got the big society scandals, the divorces, the probate squabbles and disappearances—wives running off with another man, that kind of thing. Then, because I was good at the game, came the corporate clients, pharmaceutical companies, and manufacturing giants worried about industrial
spies. Then requests for guards and special security from foreign statesmen afraid of assassins and Hollywood royalty afraid of stalkers. I recruited Mossad-trained security personnel for billionaires living on the Riviera, and I still worked closely with Intelligence, searching out potential troublemakers and terrorists. And all the while I was looking for Amanda’s killers.”

He turned to look at Franny, who was sitting with her legs curled under her, watching him, wide-eyed. “I know a lot of people in high places,” he said, “and a lot more in lower ones. I know a lot about almost everybody whose names you are familiar with, and therefore everybody is my friend. But my
real
friends are the guys I was in the service with. They are the men who work with me now. Them, I know I can trust.”

He shrugged again, finally meeting her eyes. “And that’s why I am who I am, Franny Marten.”

He picked up the rose from the floor where he’d dropped it and held it to his nose, breathing in its wild, mossy scent. Then he held it out to her. “It’s not a bouquet of Casablanca lilies,” he said softly, “but again, it comes with my apologies.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, and he came and knelt before her. “We’re alike, you and I, Franny,” he said, taking her hands in his. “Two warriors against the war of loneliness.”

Then she slid to the ground next to him and he took her in his arms and he kissed her. Properly this time, with all the passion in his warm lips, in his long, lean, hard body, in his encircling arms, that any woman could want.

J
ULIETTE PERCHED
on the edge of Rafaella’s bed, just as she’d done so many times in their youth, but then they had been gossiping about men and clothes and children. Now there were no men to gossip about, and for Rafaella now there were no longer even any children.

Louis and Mimi sprawled at the foot of the bed, exhausted after their long walk with Jake, snoring and twitching and smelling of the woods they’d been digging in, but Rafaella didn’t mind. She lay back against the pillows, the white wicker breakfast tray on her lap, not even touching her coffee. Juliette looked worriedly at her. “It’s better you know the truth,
chérie,”
she said. “Having children is one of life’s great joys, but it can also be heartrending. Believe me, you did not fail Alain, unless it was to give him too much love. And because you loved him so much, you closed your eyes to his faults. Now, my dear, you must unload yourself of this great guilt because Alain’s choices were his own, not yours.”

Impulsively, she put down her coffee cup and climbed into bed, snuggling up next to Rafaella, the way they used to in the old days. She said, “Remember, you have Little Blue now, and Franny, as well as Jake and Clare and Scott.
Life
is for them, Rafaella. You must move on,
chérie,
and I am here to help you do that.”

Rafaella looked gratefully at her. “Tell me, how have I managed without you all these years, Juliette?”

“You managed because you never needed to go shopping. If you had, then you would have called me,” Juliette said, making Rafaella laugh. It was the best sound Juliette had heard that morning. “Now,” she said, “what are you planning on wearing for tonight’s soirée?” It was what they had always done, discussed who was wearing what so they could present the perfect picture together.

Rafaella forced herself to think. “The midnight blue lace, I believe. You remember the Saint Laurent? You were with me when I bought it.”

On the surface life was back to normal and Juliette thought that was all she could expect for the moment.

L
ITTLE
B
LUE SAT
at the square scrubbed-pine table in the kitchen. The woolly lamb was perched on a chair, carefully wrapped in a wash-cloth in lieu of a blanket. There was a glass of milk in front of her and she was counting the black-and-white floor tiles, thinking there must be enough to cover dozens of rooms like the one she shared with Bao Chu. She was missing Bao Chu very much.

Haigh emerged from the pantry with a single chocolate chip cookie on a plate. He put it in front of her along with a
napkin. “Old American custom,” he said, “milk and cookies, only here we keep it to single digits. One cookie only, they’re bad for the teeth.”

Little Blue looked blankly at him, she didn’t know what he meant by digits and customs.

Haigh took the chair opposite. He leaned toward her, elbows on the table, hands clasped. She was such a skinny little thing, so tired, so wary, so pathetic. For once there was softness in his eyes as he said, “Tell me about Bao Chu. I’d like to know her.”

The child’s eyes came alive. “You would like to know Bao Chu?”

“Well, she’s your grandmother, isn’t she? I want to know all about you, Little Blue. Where you live, what it’s like in Shanghai, about school …”

“My two favorite things are school and my grandmother,” she said eagerly. “I love them both.”

“Hmmm, got good teachers at that school?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I learn English there.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What kind of English?”

Little Blue blushed and hung her head. “I learned
that
English on the street from the others.”

“I thought so. And I’m sure Bao Chu would not like to hear you say those words.”

“Oh, no, never,” she said, shocked. “I
never
said that to Grandmother.”

Haigh grinned. “Better not say it in front of
this
grandmother, either.”

“Oh, I won’t, I won’t, I promise.”

“We need to go shopping soon, before the stores close,” he said. He was wondering where Franny and Jake were
when Juliette wafted into the kitchen amid a racket of yaps and yelps.

“Did I hear the word
shopping?”
She dropped a kiss on Little Blue’s hair.
“Bonjour, mon petit chou”
she said, squeezing her in an enthusiastic hug. “And if it’s shopping, then I’m your girl.”

Haigh gave her one of his pointed looks. “Hardly a girl, Madame.”

“Age is a state of mind, Haigh, you’d do well to remember that. Anyhow I’m younger than you, aren’t I?”

“I don’t remember, Madame,” Haigh said loftily. “And Miss Franny was supposed to accompany us to town, but she seems to have disappeared.”

“She’s at the lake with Jake,” Little Blue said, and they looked at her in surprise.

“Is she now?” Haigh said drily.

“Et alors”
Juliette cried, “drink the milk, child, and let’s go. You need a party dress for the grand soirée.”

I
T WAS SIX
in the evening and Rafaella had yet to emerge from her room to join her guests. She sat by the open window, in the old ground-floor library that since the advent of her arthritis had become her boudoir, surrounded by the oaken shelves of leather-bound books her great-grandfather had bought to impress
his bride and the silver-framed photos of beloved dogs through the years and pictures of aunts and uncles and her mother and father. Mementos of her long life were scattered all around: a favorite rose-colored silk shawl bought in Kashmir on a long-ago trip to India; an elaborate beaded lamp of many colors from Morocco; an English silver box containing her children’s first soft curls. Lucas’s gift still stood on her dressing table, a scrolled and flowered Venetian mirror that she still used.

They’d been lovers for only a few months when he’d bought her the mirror, as a gift after a long absence—playing polo, she assumed. She was never sure that was all he was doing, but she was too proud to go looking for him, and she knew Lucas was just not the faithful sort.

She’d forgiven him everything when he gave her the beautiful Venetian mirror. He set it in front of her and showed her her reflected face, tracing her features with his finger. “How could I ever forget you,” he murmured. Then he’d kissed her and the mirror had reflected that kiss. In fact, there was little, Rafaella thought now, that this mirror had not seen.

The hall clock groaned and creaked and struck 6
P.M
., its tone a half-beat flat, as it had been for decades. But tonight was different, and the château was no longer silent. She could hear water gurgling in the old pipes as her guests took their baths. A TV blared the news—that would be Juliette, always a TV addict. A child’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, and her high voice excitedly called for Franny. Those noises mingled with the
clip-clop
of high heels on the parquet, the yapping of the Pomeranians, and Haigh’s authoritative voice giving orders to the waiters recruited from town because tonight
all the villagers were invited guests. The band hired for the evening was testing the microphones on the terrace. There was the rattle of trays and silverware as tables were set, and the smell of flowers was everywhere.

The silence of loneliness was banished. Rafaella lifted her head. She took a great draft of the sweet air, filling her lungs, smiling, imagining that the château breathed with her. It was alive again and tonight was a new beginning.

L
ITTLE
B
LUE
was taking a shower in her very own bathroom. She had never had a bathroom or even a real shower before, and she spun under the warm jets, shaking her head like a puppy under garden sprinklers. She’d had a wonderful time. Juliette had found the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, and she’d also picked out more things, shorts and T-shirts, sundresses, bathing suits, cute sneakers, and the softest little sandals. When they got back to the château, Juliette had simply thrown the cruel black Mary Janes into the garbage. Then she’d kissed her and said, “Go see Franny,
ma petite.
She will help you get ready.”

Little Blue had run upstairs, stopping to do an excited little jig on the landing, then she’d paused to think. Some things puzzled her. If her papa was really
grand
mè
re
Rafaella’s son, then he must be rich. So why, she wondered sadly, had he not taken care of her and Bao Chu? Why had he never come to see her and brought her here to meet her
grandmère
? And why, oh why, had he not
loved
her?

She’d run back downstairs to ask Haigh the important question, knowing instinctively he would speak the truth,
but Haigh simply told her it was complicated. He’d said that later Rafaella would explain everything and she would just have to be patient. Then, speaking slowly so he was sure she understood, Haigh had said, “Your
grand
mè
re
Rafaella loves you. You can trust me on that.” And for once in her life, Little Blue trusted.

Now she jumped out of the shower and, wrapped in a towel, danced around her own Red Room, examining the old dollhouse and its intricate furnishings, inspecting the altar tables where she paused to bow just in case any of the ancestors Bao Chu had told her about happened to be around. She pirouetted to the window and climbed onto the cushioned seat, leaning out and comparing the view with the one from their small Shanghai apartment, of the desolate street with the garbage blowing in the gutters, the sagging buildings propped with bamboo poles, and the halogen glare that turned faces into alien masks. She wished so badly that Bao Chu were here to share this lovely château with her, to experience this wonderful freedom, these green places alive with flowers, and these people who loved her. Happiness was a new emotion, and she savored it like a rare good meal.

She cried out in surprise when she noticed the small blue box tied with white ribbon sitting on her pillow.
A small treasure for you, Little Blue, to bring you happiness at your
grand-mère’s
party tonight. Love, Tante Juliette,
the card read.

She read it again, then picked up the box, hitched up her slipping towel, and sped next door to show Franny, who was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.

“Look, look. It’s
a present,”
Little Blue cried, showing her the box.

Franny smiled and showed her an identical box on the
dressing table. “How lovely of Juliette to think of us, Little Blue,” she said, just as Clare wafted through the door in a cloud of perfume and little else. In one hand she carried her dress on a hanger, and in the other a blue Tiffany box. “From Juliette,” she said, amazed. “Do you
believe
her? She’s just so wonderful I want to grow up and be like her.”

Little Blue couldn’t wait. She opened her box first and stared at the silver bracelet with the heart charm. “Is it really mine?” she asked, looking at Franny, and when Franny told her it certainly was and that she must wear it tonight for good luck, a big grin split her face. Then Franny and Clare opened their own boxes, exclaiming over their gifts.

Franny glanced anxiously at her watch as they quickly dressed Little Blue in her new sugar-pink cotton dress that tied on the shoulders with satin bows. Little Blue put on her new soft pink suede sandals and Clare painted her nails a matching pink while Franny brushed her short black hair until it gleamed. They stood back, admiring her as she perched the sparkly little tiara Juliette had found in the street market on top. “You’ll be a princess tonight,
ma petite,”
Juliette had promised, and looking amazed at herself in the mirror, Little Blue thought that it was true.