One of Those Malibu Nights (21 page)

There was a sudden loud squawking and Allie stomped on the brakes. A bunch of rusty-feathered chickens stood at the gate to a farm, clucking aggrievedly at her. The dog stuck his head out the window to watch as a gigantic rooster stepped into the road. The rooster glanced both ways. Then, squawking and flapping his wings, he sent his harem scurrying back to the gate, out of the way of a small car rushing down the lane in a cloud of dust. The rooster waited till the car was gone, then stepped out into the road again. Again he looked both ways. Getting the all clear, he marched his fluttering flock safely across the road and into the field beyond.

Allie grinned, amazed. She hadn’t realized French chickens had road sense. And now her mouth was watering at the thought of a fresh omelet. She pressed on, looking for a place to stay, hopefully near a restaurant.

Quite by accident she found exactly what she was looking for in the back roads around the medieval stone village of Issigeac, where she’d stopped to fill up the car. A red-haired woman was the only other customer and, gathering her courage and adjusting her hat and her dark glasses, Allie asked in nervous French whether she knew a place to stay.

“Why yes,” the woman told her, speaking in English. “My friend Petra’s B & B is just down the road.” She gave her directions, told her it was reasonable and that Petra had also recently opened a small restaurant.

“It sounds like heaven,” Allie exclaimed, smiling.

The woman gave her a penetrating look. “Well, not exactly heaven, but if you’ve come on a long and difficult journey, it might be exactly what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.” Allie turned away.

“By the way,” the woman said, “my name’s Red Shoup.”

“Hi.” Allie hesitated. Then for the first time she said, “I’m Mary Raycheck.”

The woman nodded, still looking quizzically at her. “Be sure to tell Petra I sent you,” she said, getting into her car. She took a card from her bag and gave it to her. “Here’s my number,” she said. “If I can be of any help, give me a call.”

Allie watched as she drove away. Did Red Shoup suspect who she was? Or was she just seeing a troubled-looking woman with an unnaturally quiet and far too big a dog, roaming around France on her own?

She got back in the car and following Red’s directions
found herself crunching up a gravel driveway to a small manor house surrounded by clumps of shade trees, under which more cows lazed. A couple of black and white Border collies raced toward the car, and her own no-name dog cowered worriedly back. The front door was flung open and a tall, plump blonde dressed in what appeared to be a red satin nightgown flew down the short flight of steps toward her.

“Bonsoir, ma chérie,”
she called in French strongly laced with Brit. “Are you the one looking for a room? Red Shoup just called to say you were on your way. And your dog too. No need to be afraid of this couple of old collies, all they want is to chase sheep. Not that there’s many of them here, but we had them on the farm back in Wales, y’know. So come on, darlin’, let’s have you out of there. I have the best room in the house for you.”

Petra stopped her onslaught of words and beamed at Allie, still sitting in the car, stunned by the fiftyish blond and scarlet vision peering shortsightedly back at her.

“I still don’t know your name, love,” Petra said.

“Oh. Right. It’s Mary. Mary Raycheck.”

“That’s unusual. Polish, is it?”

“Originally, I think so. And you must be Petra.”

Allie got out of the car and they shook hands. She put the dog on a lead then walked with her new landlady into the house.

“I’m Petra Devonshire. Posh name for a bit of all right like me, eh?” She nudged Allie, laughing. “Used to be a
dancer, TV variety shows, touring musicals, that sort of thing, though everybody said I was more the Benny Hill type. Y’know the one always being chased around the garden in fishnets and a garter belt. Anyway, somehow I ended up here. Remind me to tell you the story, love, one of these nights when we’ve nothing better to do than natter over a glass of wine.”

Petra had not yet stopped for breath and Allie had no desire to stop her. She was charmed with Petra’s free-flowing barrage of information, enchanted by her free-form lifestyle, amazed by her uninhibited red satin nightie at four in the afternoon, and by her invitation to hear her life story over a glass of wine.

“Follow me, darlin’.” Petra twitched her way up a broad staircase lined with family portraits. “None of ’em’s mine,” she explained. “They all came with the house.” She flung open a door at the top of the stairs. “Best room in the place, love. How does this suit you?”

Dazzled, Allie looked at the gilded Empire bed upholstered in threadbare blue damask; at the battered old pine armoire and the ornate dressing table with three blotchy mirrors and a pair of silver candle sconces; at the fluffy white sheepskin rug and the lavish once-red satin curtains now faded to a pale pink. A tiled fireplace dominated one wall, fronted by a sagging sofa whose flowered chintz bulged at the seams, and a massive gilt mirror looked down over all. On a red tray on the table in front of the big window was a
coffeepot and the fixings, and a door led into a blindingly white new bathroom with a plastic shower cubicle barely big enough to hold a grown-up.

All memories of Allie’s lavish three-thousand-square-foot boudoir in Bel Air disappeared in an instant. “Petra,” she breathed, a hand clutched to her chest. “I love it. You may never get rid of me.”

Petra’s raucous laugh mingled with her own. “That’s good,” she said. “Because I could use the money. Now make yourself at home, then come down and join me for a cup of tea. And please, love, take off that awful hat. It doesn’t suit you. You’ll find plenty of straw hats hanging on the rack in the front hall. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

She disappeared in a flurry of red satin, completely uninhibited about being caught in her lingerie.

Allie walked to the window, opened it and stuck her head out. There was no traffic noise; no sirens; no stalkers. A breeze set the leaves of nearby poplars rustling softly, a cow mooed in the distance and the two Border collies chased each other around the meadow at the bottom of the drive. She could see a horse, black and glossy, nibbling the grass, and a couple of old bicycles lay cast to one side by the front steps, where twin urns held a tumble of geraniums in every color of red, and the fragrance of jasmine twining up the old stone walls mingled with the faint tang of hay.

She sighed happily. Could she have found Paradise at last?

After Allie had showered and changed into a pair of black jeans and a white linen shirt, she walked downstairs, smiling as she passed a suit of armor standing guard draped with a magenta feather boa.

She found Petra in the kitchen, a long room with the kind of plasterwork known as
columbage
, creamy plaster set between a pattern of small beams. Cupboards lined two of the walls while tall windows, inset here and there with stained glass, occupied another. A planked wooden table took up most of the room, big enough to seat at least twenty. On it was piled folded laundry and a basket of knitting wools complete with two sleeping orange kittens. There was an enormous half-finished jigsaw puzzle of the Dordogne countryside and an old radio blasting the latest
French hits, several mixing bowls and chopping boards, pottery mugs and plates, together with various magazines and a scattering of papers.

Rickety side tables held tottering piles of books, and coats were thrown over armchairs in front of the enormous fireplace, as if the owners had come in and simply left them there until the next time they were needed. The kitchen door stood open, letting in the breeze and the smell of the countryside.

In the middle of the chaos, Petra, serene, with a pink negligee over her red satin nightie, was fixing tea in a large serviceable brown pot.

“Somehow it always tastes better from a brown pot,” she told Allie, pouring boiling water over the tea leaves then clearing a space at the table by leaning her arm along it and shifting the nearest pile to one side.

“There you are, love, you’ll be gasping, I’ll bet. And here’s good English biscuits. McVitie’s chocolate digestives. And what about the doggie? What’s his name anyway?”

“He doesn’t have a name.”

Petra’s shocked blue eyes were ringed with black and fringed with heavy mascara. “How can that be? We
all
have names, love, even if it’s just to differentiate one from the other. I mean, what do
you
call him?”

Allie thought. “Dog dear,” she said. “That’s all I’ve called him. So far anyway.”

“Well there you are then. Dog Dear he is. Dearie for
short. How’s that name suit you, old love?” she added, bending to take the newly named Dearie’s muzzle in her hand. “I can tell, you’re a good dog,” she said gently. “You take care of your mum, then. That’s your job. All right?” Aiming a critical look at Allie, she added, “Besides, she looks as though she needs it.”

Allie took a gulp of the hot tea, burning her throat. She met Petra’s mascaraed blue gaze. “Do I look that bad?”

“That haircut’s a killer. Whatever possessed you?”

Allie hid her face behind the big blue mug of tea. “Necessity.”

Petra nodded. “I’ve been there myself. A couple of times.” She poured milk into her tea from a cow-shaped white jug then added three heaped spoons of sugar, stirring vigorously. “Man trouble was it?”

Allie put her head in her hands, suddenly filled again with despair.

“I left my husband,” she said in a whisper so that Petra had to lean toward her to hear. “Or rather he left me. I’m getting a divorce.”

Petra sucked in her cheeks and her breath noisily. “Ah, that’s bad.”

“There was another woman.”

“That’s even worse!”

“Then he disappeared. Nobody knows where he is.”

“Trying to skip out on the alimony, is that it?” Petra heaved a sigh that sent her ample bosom a-tremble. “Men,”
she groaned. “They never know how good they’ve got it until it’s too late. Trust me, love, if he’s got any sense—and since he married you in the first place, I have to credit him with that—he’ll come running back, begging you on his knees to let him come home.”

“Is that what happened to you then?”

Petra took a biscuit and dunked it into the mug. “I love it when the chocolate melts,” she said. “And yes. It did. Twice, in fact.”

They were silent as she ate the English cookie, obviously enjoying it.

“So did you take him—both of them—back then?”

Petra’s laugh filled the kitchen. “Of course I didn’t. I was already on to the next bastard by then. Never could pick ’em, love. Just wasn’t in my genetic makeup. Ah well, four husbands and numerous lovers later, here I am on my own again. And I have to admit I’m kind of enjoying it. Though there is a gent I have my eye on. The local squire in fact. Owns a big vineyard hereabouts; tall, dark, good looking. You should see him astride a horse. It turns a girl’s knees to jelly.”

She threw a penetrating glance Allie’s way. “Actually, you’re probably more his type than I am. Classier, you know what I mean? Except for the haircut. We have to let our local hairdresser loose on you, see what she can do to tidy it up. Give yourself a break, Mary, just because your marriage is on the rocks doesn’t mean you have to let yourself go, now does it?”

Allie recalled standing on the red carpet in Cannes being photographed for the world’s press, and she smiled. Her disguise seemed to have worked, even if she did look like hell.

Petra pushed both hands down on the table and heaved herself to her feet, startling the two sleeping orange kittens, who tumbled meowing out of the knitting basket. Rummaging in the table’s chaos, Petra found a bowl and filled it with milk from the cow jug.

Just then the two collies bounded through the open door, leaping up to sniff the kittens, who cowered back for a second, then went on calmly lapping. Dearie watched the other dogs nervously, looking ready to run. He turned his big head to look at Allie, and she smiled and gave him a pat and said it was okay.

“Peace reigns,” Petra said. “And now, my love, I have to get dressed. My restaurant opens at six and I haven’t even started the pastry for the beef Wellingtons.” She raised a questioning eyebrow at Allie. “You ever make a beef Wellington? No? Well then don’t bother. I don’t know what inspired me to try it but I can assure you it’s a bitch to get right. Still, nothing ventured, nothing won is what I always say. And this is a fairly new business so I have to offer something a bit different, don’t I?”

She made for the door, turning to look again at Allie. “You want to come along, Mary? You must be hungry, though you don’t have to order the Wellington. There’s simpler stuff on
the menu.” She hesitated. “Unless you have other plans, of course.”

“No! Oh, no. I have no plans.” Allie had no plans for her entire life. She was free-falling and right now she wanted to do it in the company of Petra Devonshire.

“You wanna help then? Or are you going to be a customer?”

“Oh, I’ll help. I can be a waitress, washer up, anything you like.”

“Right. Here’s an apron. Put it on, love, and let’s get going.”

“Can Dearie come too?”

Petra eyed the dog, who was now up on his feet and practically glued to Allie’s side.

“Doesn’t look like we have much choice, does it?” she said with a cheerful grin.

The Bistro du Manoir turned out to be a small converted stone barn. A graveled pathway led to it, just wide enough for two cars to pass, with a sandy parking area to one side. The front entrance was protected from the elements by a gorgeous fluted glass canopy similar to the art nouveau ones found at some Paris Métro stations, and which Petra told Allie she’d had copied by a local glassmaker.

A spacious flagged pergola shaded by a hundred-year-old wisteria, dripping with purple blossoms, wrapped around the back, where tall French doors stood open to the warm night air. Candles flickered on rosy tablecloths, and the zinc bar was already being propped up by a few diehard locals who looked very much at home.