Remember (8 page)

Just let JeanClaude know the day you’ll be arriving, and the time.

I’ll call you from Moscow, to find out how you’re doing, after you’ve settled in.”

Within forty-eight hours she was zooming across the Atlantic faster than the speed of sound, a passenger on board the French Concorde, and landed in Paris a short three hours and forty-five minutes later.

After spending the night at the Plaza-Athenee, her favorite hotel, she had taken a plane from Orly Airport to Marseilles the following morning.

JeanClaude, Clee’s office manager, had explained to her that a chauffeur from the car company they used would be waiting for her at the airport. “You won’t be able to miss him. He’ll be holding up a card with your name written on it in bold letters,” JeanClaude had said on the telephone.

True to JeanClaude’s promise, the chauffeur had been there when she had alighted from the plane and gone to the baggage area. He had introduced himself as Etienne, and he was a pleasant, chatty and informative Provencal, who throughout the drive inland had kept her entertained with rather fantastic folkloric tales of the region. He had also recited more facts about Air and Arles than she could possibly absorb at one time.

Although she spoke French well, having spent part of her youth in Paris with her globe-trotting parents, Nicky had found the Provincial accent a bit difficult to understand at first. But relatively quickly she had realized that Etienne was adding the letter to many words, so that bien became bieng, and so forth.

Once she got the hang of this adjustment of the French language and attuned her ear to the rich and throaty cadence of his speech as well as to his rapid delivery, she had discovered that she had no problem grasping everything he said.

On the way to Air-en-Provence from Marseilles, Nicky had 66 6’

begun to notice that the landscape was completely different from that of the Cate d’Azur, which was the part of southern France she knew so intimately. Her parents were Francophiles, and as a child she had been taken by them to many of the renowned coastal resorts for annual holidays and shorter stays. In particular, her mother and father had favored Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes and Monte Carlo. And then in October of 1986 she had spent those two extraordinary weeks in Cap d’Antibes with Charles Devereaux, after which he had disappeared from her life altogether and forever.

But Clee’s area of Provence was entirely new to her and, as such, held no memories. This sudden knowledge had made her feel suddenly very much at ease. She began to relax in the airconditioned comfort of the Mercedes.

They had passed through a land of flat plains interspersed with hills and mountains. There were quaint little towns set in bucolic surroundings and picturesque hilltop villages that looked as if they were propping up the vast unblemished blue sky. Many fields and hillsides were luxuriant with lavender, and dark vineyards and an abundance of fruit orchards stretched for miles.

Dotting this fertile landscape intermittently were lines of crooked olive trees and stately black cypresses, which stood like sentinels against the far horizon.

Clee’s farmhouse was in the department of Provence called the Bouches-du-Rhane, situated between the ancient university town of Air-en-Provence and Saint-Remy. It was on the outskirts of a tiny village close to the lush green foothills of Luberon, one of the mountain ranges of Provence.

The farmhouse was larger than Nicky had expected it to be. It was sprawling yet had a certain gracefulness, and was obviously quite old.

It had looked beautiful in the late afternoon sunshine, which glanced across its red-tiled roof and cast a warm honeycolored glaze over the pale stone walls. Standing at the end of a long straight driveway lined with cypress trees, it was visible for the entire approach to the white front door.

When the car was finally brought to a halt by Etienne, he had exclaimed “Eh, voila!” and waved one hand at the farm with a grand flourish.

Then he had turned and smiled at her triumphantly, looking as though getting her here had been a major achievement.

Clee’s housekeeper, Amelie, and her husband, Guillaume, had been waiting for her on the doorstep and had welcomed her enthusiastically with warm smiles.

Guillaume had then promptly whisked away her luggage— along with Etienne, who had not needed a second invitation from Guillaume to “come inside the kitchen for a pastis.” With merry laughter, Amelie had ushered Nicky inside the farmhouse and insisted on showing her around before taking her upstairs to her quarters.

They had started out in the kitchen, obviously Amelie’s favorite spot in the entire house, and a place she was very proud of. The room was large and painted white, with dark-wood beams on the ceiling and terra-cotta tiles on the floor. A massive stone fireplace took up an end wall, to the side of this stood a big oven, and several marble-topped counters were set under the three windows. Placed on these were flat woven baskets brimming with local produce. One held apples, oranges, pears, plums, peaches, apricots, cherries and grapes, the other overflowed with vegetables— carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beans, artichokes and peas. Ropes of onions and garlic and bunches of the herbs of Provence swung from a ceiling beam, and wafting in the air was the lovely aroma of marjoram, rosemary and thyme.

A round table in the center of the kitchen was covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth to match the neat little tied-back curtains at the windows. Taking pride of place on the far wall was an antique baker’s rack made of black wrought iron trimmed with brass. It was stacked with a variety of copper pots and pans that glittered and winked in the sunlight, while on the wall opposite a series of built-in shelves displayed colorful pottery platters, plates, soup bowls and double-sized cafe’all lait cups and saucers.

The dining room opened off the kitchen, and these two rooms flowed into each other, as they were visually linked through the use of the same terra-cotta floor tiles, white-painted walls and ceiling beams. Here there was a big oldfashioned fireplace and hearth made of the local cream-colored stone and stacked with logs for the winter, and a window at each end of the room filled it with light. A country feeling had been created by the long oak dining table, high-backed chairs and carved sideboard. Floating over the table was a rustic black-iron chandelier, and running down the center of the table was a collection of brass candlesticks holding thick white candles. Huge bowls of flowers in the center of the table and on the sideboard brought touches of vivid color to the rather simply furnished room.

Hurrying forward, Amelie had next shown her out into the main hall and opened a door into a small downstairs sitting room.

Highly polished cream-colored flagstones gleamed on the floor, the walls were painted a soft butter-yellow, and two sofas covered in cream linen faced each other in front of a small fireplace. Occasional wooden tables were scattered around, and two tall pottery lamps with cream shades stood on antique chests on either side of the chimney. A table under the window held all the latest magazines from around the world, copies of Life and Paris Match being much in evidence, as well as Time and Newsweek.

“Now we shall go upstairs,” Amelie had said to her, swinging around and guiding her back to the front hall. Nicky had dutifully followed her up a white stone staircase, broad and curved, which stopped on a square landing. On either side of this were the library and the main living room. Both were painted white, had soaring fireplaces, pale wood floors and flat rugs from Morocco.

The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provencal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, cafe all kit and caramel-colored fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid color everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvelous sense of tranquillity.

Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-colored cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual center in one corner, using the most up-to-date equipment, a large-screen television, video player, tape deck, compact disc player. Stereo speakers were positioned high on the bookshelves.

“This is Monsieur Clee’s room, he likes it the best, I think,” Amelie had informed her, nodding her head fondly. Then pointing her finger at the ceiling, she had announced, “One more flight, mademoiselle.

Alms!”

The two of them had gone out onto the large landing and climbed up a narrower flight of white stone steps to the bedroom floor.

Nicky had discovered that she had her own suite under the eaves, and it was composed of a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room, which were charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel, the basic colors in the house. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom, even a cursory glance had told her that a great deal of care had been taken and every comfort provided.

“I will bring up your cases,” Amelie had said after opening the armoire doors and sliding out drawers in the chest. “And please, Mademoiselle Nicky, you must tell me if there is anything else you need. Monsieur Clee will be angry if I do not look after you properly.

” “Thank you very much, Amelie,” Nicky had answered, smiling. “I’m sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour.”

“Ah, it is a pleasure, mademoiselle,” Amelie had answered with a smile before disappearing down the stairs.

This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was feeling rested. The farmhouse and the surrounding grounds had had a soothing effect on her, and she was more tranquil than she had been for a long time. She had slept better than she usually did, and had relaxed completely in this peaceful environment.

Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swim in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, plus Amelie’s delicious cooking, were restorative. In the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, and, as a news addict, she had found herself tuning into CNN.

According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. “For his work, you know, mademoiselle,” Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide a small amused smile.

Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron presse’ and took a long swallow, enjoying the tartness of the lemonade. It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearably so.

Amelie had told her, only this morning, that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blisterin,g was the word she had used. Then Amelie had suddenly launched into a little discussion about the mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing havoc. It came whistling down to the south through the Rhane Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelie, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the mistral.

“Animals can go mad. And people,” she had confided somewhat dolefully as she had poured Nicky a second cup of cafe’all lait. “It causes migraine. And la,rippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property. Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs!

Quel vent!” And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffeepot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

Just as Clee had predicted, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelie.

The housekeeper was small and stocky, and obviously very strong physically. She was undeniably Mediterranean, with blueblack hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion.

Forever laughing and smiling, and always in high good humor, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind—or the mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.

Like Amelie, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry, with a face weatherbeaten from being outdoors, jet-black hair speckled with gray and kindly, humor-filled eyes.

Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigor and enthusiasm as his wife.

He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool and tended the garden and the orchard as well as the little vineyard that stretched out behind the farmhouse for about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelie, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it. “Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement, ” he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property pointing out many of its distinctive features.

Amelie and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris and of whom they were very proud, Nicky had already heard much about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were pressed into service at the farm on the rare occasions when Clee had extra guests.

When Clee called from Moscow on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelie and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in color and weathered by the years, and it had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.

Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. As in a sense, they were. The farm and its outbuildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.