The Hotel Riviera (11 page)

Suddenly, dinner became a communal affair. Tables were pushed together and my guests, with the exception of Mr. Falcon who had roared off on his Harley, huddled around, pouring wine and offering theories on Maître Dumas's statement, examining the legal documents, speculating on Laurent Solis's wealth and reputation, and exactly why he'd want to take my home from me.

“It's not only your home, it's your
living,
” Jerry Shoup reminded me sternly. Then Miss Nightingale said, “Patrick's at the bottom of this, I'm sure of it.” Not knowing Patrick, Jack Farrar stayed on the sidelines, but he did say, “This is more complicated than I thought,” which Red Shoup said was the understatement of the year.

By now I was in a state of shock and had no head for cooking, so Marit coped with dinner and Jean-Paul served, and for once everybody ate the same thing. I apologized, of course, but nobody minded; in fact, the table became almost partylike as more wine was poured and everyone tucked in to stuffed artichokes, seafood risotto and salad, then the clafoutis and tiny thin-crusted apple tarts, little wheels of brown-sugary sweetness that Marit had thrown together. More wine was poured, and the discussion shifted to what to do next.

“Maître Dumas was right,” Jack said, “the only way to find out what's really going on is for you to meet with Solis.”

It was said that he had made his first fortune selling arms to any country's enemies, including his own. Now, though, he was “a citizen of the world,” directing his global business operations from his luxury yacht, and those businesses included hotels, property, and oil. Solis was said to have the largest fleet of tankers in the world.

Noticing my terrified expression, the whole table offered to come with me, but in the end it was decided only Jack and Miss Nightingale would accompany me. Jack went off to make the call to Maître Dumas, but he wasn't there, so we poured more wine and waited for him to return the call.

It was almost midnight when the phone rang. The Honeymooners were looking sleepy, Budgie had put the boys to bed, and the Shoups were playing cribbage. We looked silently at each other as Jack went to answer it. When he came back I asked, breathlessly, “So…?”

“That was Maître Dumas. We have an appointment with Solis at eleven
A.M.
on the
Agamemnon
in Monte Carlo. Dumas said we can't miss it, it's the biggest yacht there.”

“The
Agamemnon
,” Miss Nightingale said thoughtfully. “Now that's an interesting choice, a Greek naming his yacht after a man at the root of classical Greek tragedy. Agamemnon, as you may know, was the king of Mycenae and commander of the Greek army in the Trojan War. He captured Cassandra, the daughter of the enemy king and she became his lover. Agamemnon brought her back to Troy, where he was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her lover.”

I hadn't known Agamemnon's story and I found myself wondering why Solis had chosen such a name. I knew I was not going to enjoy meeting a man who could link himself so closely with such a story.

 

Jack walked me back to the Cottage. “You sure you'll be all right?” he asked, standing, hands in his jeans pockets, on my little front porch.

“No,” I said, because I could already feel my guts shriveling at the thought of losing my little hotel.

“I'm not surprised, I'd probably feel the same if somebody just told me they were about to take away my home.”

“Where is your home exactly?”

“Newport, Rhode Island.” He looked at me and grinned. “You wouldn't like it, it's too cold.”

“Then why d'you stay there?”

“My family's always lived there. It's where I build my boats.”

I leaned on the rail separating the porch from the path. There was no moon and the sea looked black, with just the sloop's riding lights gleaming green and red.

“Newport,” I said. “Old family money, I suppose.”

“I make my own living, doing what I like to do.”

“Me too.”

He came to stand next to me, his back to the sea, arms folded. I could feel him looking at me. He said, “Did you always like to cook?”

“Right from when I was a kid. Actually, my dad taught me.” I laughed at his surprise. “Girls don't usually learn cooking from their fathers, and if you'd known him, you would have thought it even weirder. He was such a man-about-town, so handsome, dark hair, blue eyes, six two, and charming. All my girlfriend's mothers fell for him. And so did my girlfriends, when they were old enough.” I stared into the darkness, seeing my father's handsome face, smiling at me.

“So you were a daddy's girl,” Jack said, bringing me back to the present.

“Oh, I was
such
a daddy's girl. When I wasn't feeling well he'd fix soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers for me. He'd bring them to me in bed and dip the toast into the egg yolk, feeding me like a little bird. I always felt better right away. Somehow it all seems so simple when you're a kid,” I added. “You just love one other and enjoy life. When Dad died, I thought I'd die too.”

We stared at each other in the dim glow of light coming from the house, then to my surprise Jack put his hands on my shoulders. He held me at arm's length, smiling at me. “I'm sorry, I've got no toast soldiers to make you feel better tonight,” he said. “See you tomorrow. Nine.”

“It's a date.”

He gave my shoulders a little squeeze then strode off down the path to the beach.

I waited on the porch until I saw the sloop's lights go on before heading for my lonely bed.

The next morning at nine a sailor in white shorts and a white T-shirt with “Agamemnon” printed in deep blue, was waiting for us in Saint-Tropez, in a thirty-seven-foot Sea Ray that would have been anyone else's idea of luxury. Until they saw the
Agamemnon,
moored in deep water off Monte Carlo, that is.

Picture any luxury yacht, then double it in size. The
Agamemnon
was 240 feet. Add a helicopter and a seaplane on top, a small fleet of powerboats tucked inside, and fifty or so crew, including, so the sailor told me, round-the-clock chefs, and you had your own private love boat.

I was glad I'd made an attempt to look dignified and adult, in a white cotton skirt, a yellow shirt, and my espadrilles. I'd clamped back my hair with a tortoise comb, and was wearing lipstick and dark glasses—in case I got emotional. Miss Nightingale was in her Wedgwood-blue and Jack wore his usual shorts, sneakers, and a crumpled linen shirt, untucked. We looked like a bunch of tourists taking in the big time.

“The Ritz Carlton afloat,” Jack said, as the dazzling white cliff of the
Agamemnon
loomed over us. Another white-uniformed sailor helped us up the steps into what looked like heaven, but might turn out to be hell. I had a bad feeling in my stomach about which it would be.

A steward ushered us along a corridor carpeted in
Agamemnon
dark blue dotted with silver stars, then up a sweeping mahogany staircase to the grand saloon. He offered us refreshments which, though we were dying of thirst, we refused on the basis of not being seduced by the enemy. We were told that Monsieur Solis would be arriving soon and left to cool our heels in the enormous art-filled room.

I took in the view of Monte Carlo from the huge picture windows. I'd never seen it from this angle before, with the Corniche roads snaking above and below, and was surprised of how green and lush it looked.

I stared around at the tables inlaid with precious woods, at the creamy leather club chairs and sofas deep enough to get lost in. I took in the Léger, the two Picassos, the Matissse, the Brancusi sculpture, and the huge, colorful, rotund sculpture of a dancer by Niki de Saint Phalle. I noticed the antique Venetian mirrors and all the priceless bibelots and trinkets scattered around, and fear crept up my spine. There was no way I could fight this kind of wealth. For some reason, Solis wanted my little hotel and now I had no doubt he could get it. In fact, he could get anything he wanted. The puzzle was,
why
did he want it?

Jack pointed to the Niki de Saint Phalle dancer. “Remember, it's not over till the fat lady sings,” he said, making me laugh, just as Laurent Solis walked into the salon.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face at our laughter, quickly replaced by a smile as he walked toward us, both hands held out in greeting. He was older than I'd expected from his photographs; a big bear of a man, silver haired and perfectly attired in a white linen suit and dark glasses, which he did not remove.

“Welcome, welcome to the
Agamemnon
,” he said.

A couple of strides behind him came a gorgeous blonde, young enough to be his granddaughter, over six feet tall in a pair of killer yellow mules, a tiny yellow bikini, a lime-green sarong, and a blinding amount of carats in diamonds—in her ears, around her neck, on her wrist, and on three of her fingers. I glanced at Miss Nightingale to see what she thought of this vision, but her face showed no reaction. Solidly queen-like in her Wedgwood-blue and pearls, she inclined her head regally as first Solis introduced himself, then said, “And this is my wife, Evgenia.”

Evgenia did not bother even to nod. She took a seat in one of the club chairs immediately behind her husband, crossed her legs, lit a Gitane, and eyed us impatiently.

Laurent Solis picked me out immediately as the victim. He smiled as he took my hand in both of his. “Madame Laforêt, I'm charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said, and to my surprise, I could have sworn he meant it. “It's just a pity the circumstances are so…unfortunate. Yes,
most
unfortunate.”

I found my voice and introduced Miss Nightingale. Solis bent his head reverentially over her hand, as though she were truly a queen. “And this is Mr. Farrar,” I said, touching Jack's arm for comfort more than anything. “He's a friend,” I added, quickly defining the relationship, just in case Solis was wondering.

Solis shook Jack's hand, then indicated where we should sit, lining us up on a sofa like ducks in a row at the fair, with the light from the picture window dazzling our eyes. He took a seat immediately opposite. He now had the advantage of being able to see our faces—and our reactions—perfectly, while we remained dazzled and, so to speak, in the dark about his.

“First,” he said, “are you sure I can't offer you some refreshment? It's so hot today. Evgenia,” he said over his shoulder, “call Manolo, tell him to bring cold drinks for my guests, and some of that baklava.” He turned to us. “Unless you would prefer something else? Wine? Champagne? Bourbon?”

Behind him, Evgenia lifted a phone and relayed his order. Then she took another drag on her Gitane and crossed her legs the other way.

Solis looked at me, still behind his dark glasses. “I'm about to tell you my life story, Madame Laforêt,” he said, ignoring the others, “so you will understand why I am what I am. A businessman. If it were otherwise, I would not be here today. And neither, madame, would you.”

He smoothed back his thick silver hair, indicating to Manolo, who'd appeared so promptly I suspected he'd been waiting outside the door, to put the silver tray of drinks on the table next to him. Manolo did so, then stood with his white-gloved hands behind his back, awaiting further orders.

“Miss Nightingale?” Solis asked. She primly said, no, thank you. “Then perhaps a little of the baklava?” He looked greedily at the plate. “It's my favorite, in fact you might say it's my downfall.”

Manolo took the silver tongs, placed a square of sugary baklava on a starry blue fragile china plate and set it on a small table, alongside Miss Nightingale. He repeated the performance for myself, then Jack. He stepped back, hands folded behind his back again. I noticed he did not serve any to his master, and we did not touch ours.

“Ice water for everyone,” Solis told Manolo, looking as delighted as if he'd just given us the keys to the kingdom, or at least to his ship. “Let me tell you,” he said, “baklava was not the kind of delicacy I ate in my youth. Oh no. It was years before I could afford to put anything in my mouth other than the most basic of foods. Bread, couscous, rice.” He twinkled at us from behind the dark glasses. “I was, you might say, a third-world orphan before anyone had coined the phrase ‘third world.' And I was alone in that world of poverty and no education.”

He took a sip of his iced water. “Not a good position to be in, you might say. And I would agree, it was not.”

Behind him, Evgenia closed her eyes, as if feeling her husband's pain.

“Poverty is the same in any city in the world,” Solis went on. “Athens, Rio, Caracas…you sleep on the street, you eat whatever you can steal, you live by your wits—and if you have no ‘wits,' then you die on the street. Life can be short and death sometimes merciful, for the poor.”

He paused for another long swallow of ice water. “But of course,” he said, and that smile appeared again, “my story, as you can see, has a happy ending. Though not without its travails. I'll begin, as all stories should, at the beginning.”

“I was just six years old when my mother was run down by a truck in the road and killed,” Solis said. “It was then I learned my first lesson of real poverty.
Life is cheap.
My mother counted for nothing. I don't even know where she is buried, just somewhere by the side of that forgotten road.”

My face must have registered shock because he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, looking into my eyes.

“We were living in Morocco,” he said, “but my father was Greek. He took me back to Athens to live. We were poor, as you know.” He paused, looking at us. “In fact you
don't
know,” he added, “because only a person who has been as poor as I was, can
know
what true poverty is like.”

He opened his arms wide, embracing the sumptuous salon, the treasures it contained, his glossy young wife, the whole incredible ship that was his to command. “All you see is this,” he said, “and sadly for me, that's all anyone sees of Laurent Solis. All anyone knows about, or cares about, is that I am rich.”

“And are you going to give us any other reason we should care, Monsieur Solis?” Miss Nightingale said sharply, obviously resistant to his charm.

He eyed her for a moment from behind the dark glasses, then gave a deep sigh that I thought came from the heart. I felt myself melting with sympathy. “I doubt that's possible, in the short time I shall spend in your company, Miss Nightingale,” he said. “But I shall try my best.”

I glanced at Jack out of the corner of my eye. His arms were folded across his chest, his face impassive. Only I seemed affected by Solis's personal charm, and his sad story.

But I was wrong, there was one other. Evgenia unraveled her long legs and came to stand behind her husband. She draped her arms around his neck. “Poor darling,” she said, in a heavy Russian accent. She dropped a kiss on his silver hair and Solis took her hand and pressed it tenderly to his cheek.

“Evgenia has heard this before,” he said.

“But it never fails to hurt me,” she murmured, retreating to her chair again.

“Soon after we arrived in Athens, my father abandoned me,” he said. “Or perhaps he just died. I never knew for I never saw him again. I was living on the streets of Piraeus, the port city southwest of Athens, finding whatever odd jobs I could, running errands, fetching, carrying. I was a little workhorse, but I was also a fast learner, and I knew there was something better than this in my destiny. And that destiny was in my own two work-scarred young hands.”

He extended those hands as if for us to see—smooth, well-manicured, the hands of a rich man, if not a gentleman.

“I had no family, nothing to keep me in Greece, so I lied about my age and signed on as a cabin boy—a kind of slave you might call it—on a tanker. They were much smaller in those days.” He paused for a moment, as though remembering, then, “Bound for Marseilles,” he added.

“Marseilles?” I heard myself echo his words and he took off his dark glasses and for the first time I looked into his eyes. Dark eyes, gentle eyes. The windows to his soul. I felt myself sinking into them.

“I can see you are ahead of me, Madame Laforêt,” he said. “And yes, Marseilles is the connection. I was a boy with nothing in the world and in Marseilles a woman I had robbed because I had no other option helped me. Her name was Nilda Laforêt and I have never forgotten her act of kindness. She refused to hand me over to the gendarmes. She gave me food, talked to me the way no one had ever talked to me in my short life. She treated me like a human being and I never forgot her.

“Many years later, I was able to repay that kindness—ah, it was more than mere kindness or even charity, it was an act of pure love on Nilda Laforêt's part.

“I revered this woman,” he said, still holding my eyes with his. “Though I had no contact with her after that initial year when she helped me. But when I heard she had died, I commissioned marble angels for her grave.” He paused, then added, “And of course Patrick Laforêt was her grandson.”

Evgenia slithered to her feet. She stood looking down at me. She was beautiful, a natural beauty, from the blond hair to the pert breasts and the flawless golden skin. Solis glanced at her over his shoulder and again she wrapped her arms around him.

“You are such a good man, my darling,” she whispered, loud enough for us to hear, then she walked to the window and turned her back, staring out at the dazzling Côte d'Azur.

“Patrick Laforêt was a notorious gambler,” Solis went on. “When you met him in Las Vegas he was already drastically in debt. The casinos had allowed him a big line of credit and for a while everything was good. But gambling is like love, you win some, you lose some. Patrick had nothing left by the time he came to me, begging for a loan to stall those creditors.”

Solis took time out to smile at me. “But creditors are cold-hearted people and business is business. Patrick was in an all-or-nothing situation. And all he had left to pledge against this loan was the Hotel Riviera. So I gave Patrick his money, I assumed he paid off his creditors, then he defaulted on my loan.

“And so you see, Madame Laforêt, I am now the sole and legitimate owner of the Hotel Riviera.”

“But that can't be,” Jack said. “As Patrick's wife, Madame Laforêt is co-owner of the hotel.”

Solis shook his head slowly; his smile had suddenly lost its charm. “Patrick signed the loan document before the marriage.”

Shocked, I snapped out from under his spell. Solis had spun me the story of his rise above poverty, about what a compassionate man he was, only to thrust the knife in at the end.

“Monsieur Solis, tell me exactly why you
want
the Hotel Riviera?” Miss Nightingale said.

“There's an obvious answer, Miss Nightingale, and it's the only reason Patrick was able to borrow against the property. It's rare to find undeveloped land directly on the sea, hereon the Côte d'Azur. I am certain that Madame Laforêt is unaware that the land on either side of the hotel's peninsula is included in the property. Patrick was sitting on quite a little nest egg. Pity he gambled it away, but then”—Solis spread his hands again, giving us that smile—“a gambler never learns. And what's more, a gambler never cares. You see,
gambling
is all that matters.”

Like magic, Maître Dumas had appeared at Solis's side. I had no idea he was even in the room. Evgenia was still looking out the window, still smoking, nervously tapping ash into a crystal ashtray clutched in her other hand.

“Evgenia, must you smoke in here?” Solis said coldly. ‘It's not good for the art.”

Evgenia stubbed out the cigarette. Maître Dumas stood by Solis's chair, awaiting instructions.

“Sir?” he said.

“Show these people the documents, Dumas.”

“Yes, sir.” Dumas stepped toward me and handed me a copy of the contract pledging the property and land known as the Hotel Riviera to the Consortium Solis. It was dated six months before my marriage and signed clearly by Patrick.

I handed it to Jack. “I presume it's Patrick's signature?” Jack said. I nodded.

I was glad I hadn't taken so much as a sip of Solis's damned ice water.

“And so now you hate me, Madame Laforêt,” Solis said, “for a business transaction that turned out in my favor. Let me remind you all, it could have gone the other way. Patrick gambled, he could have won money, paid back the loan, and all would have been forgiven. Surely, it's
Patrick
you should be blaming, Madame Laforêt, not me? And the only reason I lent Patrick the money and saved his skin was because of his grandmother. The woman who helped a young boy on the streets, so many years ago.”

I struggled out of the depths of the sofa and smoothed down my now-wrinkled white cotton skirt. Jack and Miss N stood by me as I said, “I will have my attorneys look at this document, Monsieur Solis.”

“I can assure you they will find it in order.”

Miss Nightingale clutched her handbag firmly and pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. She looked, I thought, solid as a rock, a bastion of decency. She cast a glance at the sulky beauty. “And Madame Solis, what does she think of all this?” she said.

Evgenia jerked her eyes from the view of Monte Carlo and fixed them soulfully on Miss N.

“It's very simple,” Solis said. “I'm giving Evgenia the Hotel Riviera as a little present. She can do whatever she wishes with it.”

Evgenia flashed him a heartbreaker of a smile, then leaned her back against the window and folded her arms, gazing silently up at the ceiling.

Again, Manolo appeared from nowhere, as everybody seemed to on this ship. Our audience with Laurent Solis was obviously over. He did not get up, nor did he bid us goodbye.

I turned for one last look at him. He was still sitting where we had left him, but he was looking at Evgenia. I couldn't see his face, but I saw the look on hers. I thought it could be described as happiness.