The Hotel Riviera (14 page)

The next morning, little white-sailed boats skimmed past my cove, but where the sloop had been was just an empty shimmering expanse of turquoise water. Bad Dog and Jack Farrar were gone.

I turned away, unbelieving. I was a woman with a stone in her heart. I reminded myself fiercely that I had been wounded before. I could get over this. But somehow I showered, got dressed, got myself together. For the first time I didn't even notice how charming my kitchen was, didn't even think how I loved it. This kitchen was no longer mine, and Jack Farrar was not mine.

I muttered a
bonjour
to Nadine, who gave me a long searching look back, then poured me some coffee. I thought about what I had said to Jack about not falling in love. I didn't even remember exactly what I'd said, only that it was stupid, just because Patrick had hurt me.

Miss N had told me not to lock love and romance out of my life because of Patrick? Well, I had gone and done just exactly that.

“Drink the coffee,” Nadine said, in French, standing over me. “Then tell me what's the matter this time.”

“Men,” I said, staring gloomily into my coffee mug.

“A
man,
more like it,” she said, hands on her hips, her brow furrowed. “I just hope it's not Patrick again; I've had about enough of him. He's at the heart of all your problems.”

I agreed. “But now I've gone and done it again,” I said. “I've gotten involved. I spent last night with a man, and this morning he's gone. He's disappeared.” I stared at Nadine. “What is it about me, Nadine? What am I doing wrong?”

“Caring too much,” Nadine said. “You should think more about yourself instead of others. You're a people-pleaser, Lola, and everybody loves you for it, but it's time you put more thought into your life, your own
affaires de coeur.
Forget Patrick and get your own life straightened out.”

She stalked to the sink and began rattling dishes around. “And forget Jack Farrar too,” she added. “He's like the other one, he'll live his own life and it won't include you.”

This bit of advice, though well meant, did not make me feel any better. The hot coffee tasted like the bitter pill of truth. “You're probably right,” I said. “And anyway, our main problem is you and I are soon going to be out of a job. What'll we do next?”

Nadine's dark eyes gleamed with sympathy. “I'm not saying it's going to happen,” she said, “but if the time comes when you no longer own the Hotel Riviera, then maybe you and I should start up a little
bistro
in Antibes. A little storefront place. You'll cook, and I'll serve, and my sister will greet the customers, when she's not at home taking care of her babies, that is. In which case, you and I will do it between us. We'll make a go of it, you'll see.”

She was so good, so stoutly supportive, wanting it all to come true for me, that I got up and gave her a hug. “Thank you, my friend,” I said. “Let's hope it won't come to that.”

Marit walked in. “Madame Laforêt,” she said.

Instead of her usual working outfit of shorts and T-shirt, she was wearing a pretty summer dress and she was holding a suitcase. “My
maman
needs me at home, madame,” she said.

“Oh dear,” I said, “is everybody okay at home? Your mother?”

“Maman
is fine, but I have to leave you right away. My boyfriend is picking me up at the end of the lane in five minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “I'm sorry to leave so abruptly, madame, but as I said,
maman
needs me in Lyons.”

I nodded. I understood, Marit was moving on. She'd probably gotten a good job in Lyons, a city of fine food and good restaurants. It would be a step up in her career, and I didn't begrudge it for an instant, though I would have liked more notice. Still, the guests would soon be gone; I'd manage.

“I hope everything goes well for you, Marit,” I said, writing out a check for her wages. “You have true talent as a chef and I'll give you an excellent reference.” I smiled up at her. “Let me know how you're doing. And thank you for working so hard, I appreciate it.”

She seemed flustered by my calmness and good wishes; obviously she'd expected rancor, anger even. “You are
très amiable,
Madame Laforêt,” she said, then she gave me three quick kisses instead of the usual two, a true sign of affection.
“Bonne chance, madame,”
she said, picking up the check and her suitcase.

“And to you, Marit,” I said. Then she kissed Nadine and was gone.

Two gone, eight to go, I thought, just as Jean-Paul cycled past the window. As usual, he flung his bike into the rosemary bush, then sauntered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, a dreamy look on his face.

“What happened?” Nadine demanded, hands on her ample hips again.

Jean-Paul stopped to look at her.
“L'amour,”
he said succinctly, then he added, “
Bonjour, Madame Laforêt.
I will attend to the tables right away.”

He drifted into his room in back of the kitchen and we heard the shower go on. “Love,” I said to Nadine, “has a lot to answer for.”

The shrill ring of the phone blended with the sound of Nadine shunting plates around. I answered it. It was Freddy Oldroyd, Mr. Honeymoon's lawyer father. I went over the situation in detail, promised to FedEx him copies of the documents today. He told me not to worry, he would sort it out. He'd get back to me as soon as he'd read the legal documents. I thanked him, but I didn't believe him. In my heart I knew there was no way I was going to be able to keep my little
auberge
.

It was not a great beginning to the week.

The days slid past in the usual blur of marketing, preparing, cooking, looking after my guests. Jean-Paul left early too. He'd found himself a winter job in Cannes.

“I'll be back next summer, Madame Laforêt,” he promised. I advised him instead to go back to school, or apprentice himself to a good kitchen where he could learn, and progress up the ladder. But ambition was not in his makeup. Oddly, I missed him.

Before I knew it, my guests were leaving. They gathered in the front hall, suitcases piled around them, settling their bills with Nadine at the old rosewood table, exchanging addresses and promising to keep in touch. I helped them pile luggage into their cars, then stood back. The moment I had dreaded was here.

“Keep your chin up,” Budgie Lampson said, and the two boys gave me bear hugs and said they would miss me and miss my brownies. I laughed and gave them a goody bag filled with those brownies. They climbed gleefully into the car, already devouring them. “Hey, those were meant for the plane,” Budgie protested, but it was too late, and she drove away, laughing.

“We'll keep tabs on what's happening via my dad,” Mr. Honeymoon said, giving me a kiss, and Mrs. Honeymoon hugged me tight and said, “We're on your side, remember, and of course we'll be back next year.”

I waved them goodbye, then turned to Red Shoup who was standing quietly, looking at me.

“So, now what?” she said, brushing back her red curls and looking me in the eye. She was a straight shooter; I could expect no false sympathy or promises it would be all right from her.

I shrugged. “I'll just have to see how the cards play out,” I said, unthinkingly using a gambling metaphor.

“That's the way it is, little honey,” she said. “But let me give you some advice. Take time out, put yourself first for a while, stop looking after people. Especially men.” She gave me a shrewd glance. “So what happened to Jack Farrar?”

“He left.”

She nodded. “Not for good, though, I can promise you that.” She kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me tight, said, “
Bonne chance,
little honey,” then climbed into the car.

Handsome, kind Jerry Shoup, who'd been piling in the luggage and grumbling about the quantity of stuff his wife had managed to acquire in a month, came over and took me in his arms.

“We all love you, Lola,” he said. “You're the best, remember that.” He climbed in the car and started it up.

“See you next year,” Red called, waving out the window.

I hope so, I thought. Oh, I hope so.

And then they were gone.

Only Miss Nightingale was staying on for another week. Meanwhile, she had gone off on a little trip up the coast by herself.

“You need space, my dear,” she had said. She knew what was going on between me and Jack. “It'll all work out in the end,” she promised, driving off in the little Fiat she'd rented.

Oh, but will it? I thought, standing in the empty lane, looking at my suddenly empty inn, and feeling completely alone.

I wasn't alone for long. A silver-blue jaguar convertible came barreling down the lane with Giselle Castille at the wheel. The top was down and she was wearing a chiffon scarf over her hair and huge, very dark sunglasses, à la Grace Kelly in
To Catch a Thief.

I stood on the front steps, watching as she climbed gracefully out of the convertible, swinging her long elegant legs out first, adjusting her short skirt, then sliding out without showing anything she shouldn't, as professional as a star exiting a limo at a Hollywood premiere.

A man was in the passenger seat; young, dark glasses, baseball cap. He looked at me, but didn't get out.

“Lola,” Giselle said, walking toward me, cool and elegant in simple white linen.

“Giselle,” I said. We stood awkwardly on the step, looking at each other.

“We need to talk,” she said.

I nodded. “Please come in.”

Inside, she stared around the comfortable hall, taking it in. She walked through the arch into the salon, then I heard her heels clattering on the tiles as she went out onto the terrace.

I looked around seeing what she saw and suddenly my charming little hotel looked not chic enough, not glossy enough, a little worn at the edges. Yet what it lacked in luxury, I had always thought it made up for in charm.

Giselle obviously didn't see “charm.” She saw the rather battered antiques, the gaily patterned inexpensive Provençal fabrics, the chips on the rosewood table, and the flowers drooping in the battered silver urns.

“So, this is the Hotel Riviera,” she said.

“This is it,” I agreed.

“Patrick's only asset,” she added, settling onto the fake Louis-the-something gilt sofa, covered by me in yellow and blue stripes and a lot of upholstery tacks.

“It was,” I agreed with her again.

“I heard a rumor that Solis bought the property from you, for his wife?”

It was a question, not a statement. I put her straight. “Patrick owed Solis money. He pledged the property, then reneged on the debt. Solis is claiming the hotel. He plans on giving it to his wife.”

“Ah, Evgenia.” She gave me a knowing look from those turquoise eyes. “It's always
cherchez la femme
with Patrick.”

That was exactly what Miss Nightingale had said. I wondered if it were true, about Patrick and Evgenia? And if so, how did Giselle know?

She said, “However, Madame Solis will have to fight
me
for the property. I have here a list of the monies Patrick owes me. I always gave him checks. I have a note of their numbers and the amounts, and all the checks were made out to him, in his name. I believe my claim will predate Monsieur Solis's. I have been lending Patrick money for many years.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” My chin was up in the air where Budgie Lampson had told me to keep it. I was haughty, cold, and angry with this rich maneuvering bitch, who wasn't satisfied just to have had my husband, now she wanted my home too.

“That is all, my dear Lola. Except, maybe, just one other thing.”

“Okay,” I said, a little wearily, because at this point Patrick's life was just too complicated even to fathom. “What is it?”

“Tell me where Patrick is,” she said, surprising me. “Just tell me where he is, and I will drop my claim. I promise.”

I stared stonily at her. “I have no idea where Patrick is.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” She was on her feet, heading for the door, immaculate in her white linen with the white chiffon scarf over her long dark hair, looking like a suntanned Madonna without the innocence. “I warn you,” she said, “it's in your best interests to tell me where Patrick is.”

I followed her to the door. “
Why
is it in my best interests?” I demanded, really angry now.

“Because, my dear Lola, Patrick belongs to me. He always has.”

She left me standing on my doorstep, a stunned look on my face. Of course, I'd known the minute I met her, she had been Patrick's lover, but he
belonged
to her? The woman was crazy.

As if to prove my point, Scramble appeared from around the corner. She stopped to survey the scene, then with an almighty squawk, she ran at Giselle, wings flapping in a hen-jet takeoff. Giselle screamed, arms flailing, as she tried to beat her off, but Scramble pecked her arms, her legs, anywhere she could reach.

“Get it off me, get it off me!” Giselle yelled, along with a string of unladylike epithets. I just stood there, arms folded, thinking, Go to it, Scramble. I would have scratched Giselle's eyes out myself if good manners hadn't stopped me.

The young guy jumped out of the car. He grabbed Giselle and aimed a kick at Scramble. I grabbed her, clutching her under my arm.

“Get out,” I said firmly. “You are not wanted here.”

Giselle was still yelling as they drove off, but I didn't care. Still, I'd had the uneasy feeling I hadn't seen the last of her. She would be back and looking for revenge.

 

I stalked back into the hotel. It was suddenly quiet, unnervingly quiet.

Clutching Scramble, still squawking, I walked back down the path to my cottage. As I rounded the oleander hedge I saw it.

The sloop was moored in my little cove, just like the first time.