The Hotel Riviera (24 page)

The weather has changed. The pines rustle in the brisk breezes and the brilliant summer light has softened, touching the countryside with ochre and rose. I light the fire early and the resiny aroma of pine and wood smoke scents the air.

At the Saturday market it's just us locals, wrapped in sweaters and jackets, rubbing our cold hands, the men knocking back a hearty glass of brandy with breakfast to ward off the early morning chill.

Sometimes I think this is my favorite time of the year, quieter, more gentle, with the fresh breeze and satiny scents and the sea sparkling under the lowering gray horizon.

I wondered what I was going to do with the rest of the long winter. Saint-Tropez is the only town on the Côte d'Azur that faces north; it can be cold and blustery, and most hotels close from mid-October to March, though not us. The Hotel Riviera stays open all year to rescue those diehards, the waifs and strays, the true romantics escaping real life for their dream of the south of France.

I stared out my window at the waves frothed with white foam. The black sloop no longer danced in the bay and it looked lonely. Jack had been gone for several days; a meeting, he'd said, with a boat builder in Marseilles.

We'd had dinner the night before he left, at the Auberge des Maures. He'd held my hand under the table and the sexy look in his eyes had left me, for once, unable to concentrate on my food.

After, we strolled the almost empty streets, stopping to look in a shop window here and there, stumbling occasionally on the cobblestones, wandering down darkened winter alleys toward the port. As we turned the corner a snatch of music drifted from the Quai Suffren. We looked at each other surprised. Most of the big yachts were gone, heading for warmer winter climes, and the shops selling postcards and T-shirts were shuttered.

The music came from a CD in a smoothly tiled area in front of the stores. Tango music. Five or six couples, oblivious to us watching, solemnly danced a perfect Argentinean tango.

We caught our breaths at the strange beauty of the moment, then hands clasped, we left them to their music. But I'll never forget that moment of magic, on a cold Saint-Tropez winter night. And neither, I believe, will Jack.

I sighed, remembering, then I pulled another sweater over my head and wrapped Miss N's striped muffler several times around my neck. It trailed past my knees, and if she'd stayed any longer, I knew it would have grown another couple of feet. Calling Chocolate, I walked across the empty terrace, through the windswept garden to the cove.

Shivering, I contemplated the waves. Chocolate gave me a miserable glare, then streaked, tail down, back to the comfort of the sofa in front of the fire.

I paced the beach, head down, waves splashing over my sandals. My eyes stung from the wind and my nose glowed red from the cold.

I heard a whistle and lifted my head. Jack was jogging toward me with Bad Dog, as always, circling wildly around him.

I turned to stone. Oh God, I thought, this is it. He's coming to say goodbye.

Bad Dog got to me first, jumping and barking, wondering why I wasn't patting him and ruffling his scruffy fur. Oh, Bad Dog, I thought, you are the most beautiful dog in the whole world. I just can't say goodbye to you. Turn now and go away, go back to your master.

“Lola,” Jack said.

I stared down at my frozen sandaled feet.

“Lola,” he said again, coming closer but not touching. “The sloop's sprung a leak. She'll have to go into dry dock for repairs.”

“Oh? Does that mean you'll be staying here for a while?” I didn't know if I wanted him to stay. I didn't know whether I could bear to go through this misery again in a few months' time when he would leave for good.

“As a matter of fact I'm having her completely overhauled. I thought she might make a nice little pleasure boat for our guests. Y'know, sunset cruises, fishing excursions, sort of like that.”

I lifted my head.
“Sunset cruises?”

“Sure. After all, they won't get a better skipper than me.”

“That they won't,” I said, thoughtfully.

He jogged on the spot, trying to keep warm, grinning at me. In his faded jeans and old sweatshirt he looked better than anybody's apple pie, including my own.

“Come on then, what d'you say?” He stopped jogging and grabbed my frozen hands. Pulling me toward him he held them to his cheek. “What do you say, Lola?” he whispered.

“About what?” My eyes were tearing from the wind, or at least I pretended that was the reason. He laughed and dropped onto one knee.

“About marrying me?”

“Oh…that,” I said airily. Then I stared at him.
“What?”

“Please, Lola, will you marry me?”

Another wave splashed over my feet but I hardly noticed. “You want
me
to marry
you
?”

“That's it. Only please hurry and say yes before we both freeze to death.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never more, sweetheart.”

“But your boat, your long-haul trip, your sailor's life…Can you really stay in one place?”

“We'll work it out together,” he said, giving me that long lingering look that turned me to jelly. My heart did a little jump.
I
did a little jump. My feet actually lifted off the ground!

“Tell me again.”

“Damn it, woman, you're marrying me,” he said. “Sunset cruises and all.” And he lifted me off my feet—
really
this time. We were hugging and laughing in between kisses and Bad Dog was jumping up at us, barking his head off.

Jack held me close, murmuring did I know how much he loved me, and other things I don't think I should confess to right here and now. I was lost in his words when he suddenly pushed me away. He held me at arm's length, gazing heavenward.

“Lola, look what the gods have sent us as a celebration,” he said.

I saw the icy white flakes drifting gently to earth. “It's
snow
!” I yelled. “It's
snowing
on the Riviera.” And like a big kid I stuck out my tongue to catch them.

Then we were hugging again and laughing until Jack stopped my laughter by kissing those snowflakes right out of my mouth. When we finally came up for air I had to blow my nose and wipe away the tears, but they were tears of laughter this time.

“By the way, I will,” I said.

“Will what?” he answered, putting on a pretend-bemused face.

“Think about marrying you,” I answered, sighing, as he nuzzled my neck, holding me close so the warmth of his body thawed my frozen heart.

“Darn right you'll marry me,” he said.

It's early morning on the Côte d'Azur and the May sky is a limpid pearly-pink, like the inside of an oyster shell. On my way to the kitchen I stopped to watch the sun drifting lazily above the horizon, touching the sea and treetops and tiled roofs with gold until the whole world glowed as it must have at the dawn of creation.

Lucky me, I thought, to get to see this every morning. Lucky me, heading for the early market again. Lucky me, with the Hotel Riviera back in business, already with six guests who'll soon be stirring and looking for croissants and coffee to begin their leisurely day.

And lucky, oh so lucky me, to have slept the carefree night away in the arms of the man I love, the sexy, wonderful captain of the sloop
Bad Dog,
and now captain and owner of my heart. “You're too much,” you might be saying, “you're too romantic, too over the top.” Of course I am, but then I've never felt like this before. I'm head over dizzy heels in love, and this time he loves me too.
Really
loves me.

How do I know? Why, because Jack Farrar, the nomad, the roamer of the sea, the man's man whose usual hangouts are the fishing ports of the world, told me so. And to prove it, he married me on New Year's Day in the little nineteenth-century church of Saint Torpes, conveniently overlooking Saint-Tropez yacht harbor.

The locals have finally taken us to their French bosoms and many attended, including the firemen who saved the Hotel Riviera from the flames, and even a couple of the local gendarmes who came to show their support.

Jack looked so to-die-for handsome in a nautical dark blue blazer, his eyes linked reassuringly with mine, as I walked toward him like a woman in a dream. Bad Dog trotted down the aisle behind me wearing a scarlet bow tie that matched his master's and minding his manners for once, though he did give a quick exploratory sniff to the priest's shoes. Of course, Chocolate, my little love, had to be left at the hotel as we were not sure of her “wedding manners.” She had a special bowl of fresh fish to compensate her for missing the banquet.

I wore a vintage lace dress that I feel sure must have belonged to Rita Hayworth when she was married to Aly Khan, here on the Côte d'Azur all those years ago. It was glamorous and low-cut and ruched up the rear like old-time cinema curtains. Very sexy. Which, to tell the truth, is exactly the way I was feeling. I wore dangly pearl earrings and carried a bouquet of pinky-red roses, and as usual, my pointy red shoes were killing me.

A small retinue of children threw rose petals and waved banners as we left the church, laughing and greeting people, and I swear our happiness was contagious.

Afterward, we dined and drank champagne at a bistro in the Place des Lices, with Bad Dog sneaking every morsel he could from the plates. Jack wore a permanent smile and, clutching his hand, I fizzed like the champagne with delight. Everyone was laughing, the band played under the plane trees, and lovers kissed in the shadows.

Later, we sailed off in the old sloop for our three-day honeymoon, floating happily around the Mediterranean. Did I mention earlier that I hated boats? I've changed my mind. Making love rocked by the waves can do that for you.

Bad Dog went with us, of course. He goes everywhere with us. He sleeps at the foot of our bed and Chocolate sleeps on my pillow. (By the way, the gold lamé has been replaced with white linen.) At least, Bad Dog starts out at the foot of the bed and Chocolate at the top. Come morning, though, Bad Dog's cute little black nose is usually propped on my chin. I open my eyes and find both he and Chocolate staring intently at me, willing me to wake up. I know Bad Dog wants me to take him to the market where he'll find food. Like me, this dog is food obsessed, while Chocolate (also like me) wants love and attention.

Jack still has his boatbuilding business in Rhode Island which he visits regularly, but he's put Carlos in charge there. Now he's opening a local branch, and, of course, he still plans on doing those sunset cruises around the bay for our guests.

And as for me, the nester-in-chief, this time my “nest” is complete. I have a special person to love and to cherish, to laugh with, to make love with—and I have to say that making love with Jack Farrar makes my toes curl.

I sigh with happiness as I walk up the steps and along the terrace to the kitchen. Nadine gives me a welcoming good-morning grin. The new assistant, a replica of last year's Marit, is rolling out the croissant dough and singing along to the radio, and as usual our new “youth of all work” is late.
C'est la même vie,
here at the Hotel Riviera. Everything's the same.

After a quick cup of coffee and a consultation, I decide we'll go for the spiny Mediterranean lobsters as our special tonight, with a mustardy aioli sauce, and a salad of mesclun greens topped with wild mushrooms and shavings of Parmesan in a light vinaigrette. Then the lamb from Sisteron, of course, and how about that lavender crème brûlée?

I snatch up my list, whistle for Bad Dog, and amble toward the car. The dog's in it almost before I have the door open. He sits there panting, glancing impatiently at me, as though I'm holding him up from some important meeting. I'm not sure if it's that, like his master, he can't bear to leave my side, or simply the allure of those gleanings from the marketplace. The vendors all know him by now and most of them feed him. In fact, he's getting quite portly. “Hmm, might be a diet for you, Bad Dog,” I say, just as Jack comes tearing around the corner, hitching up his shorts and waving madly at me.

“What's up?” I ask, rolling down the window with that soppy madly-in-love smile on my face.

“Don't ever leave without saying goodbye,” he says, snaking his arms around me through the open window and pressing my head against his chest.

His heart beats in my ear and I clutch him even closer. “But you were sleeping.”

“Then wake me up. Just don't leave me. Ever.”

“I won't,” I say, linking my eyes with his in a promise, as we disentwine ourselves.

I wave goodbye and chug up the lane in my trusty old Deux Chevaux, stopping at the junction with the road to admire our new “Welcome to the Hotel Riviera” sign, grinning as I read “Under New Management.” And, of course, as the sign promises, our welcome will always be bigger than our small but perfect hotel.

So, Jack and I, and, of course, Miss Nightingale, are looking forward to seeing you again, and to sharing those long summer days on the beach. We look forward to the sunset cruises and to perfect evenings dining on the flowery terrace, where the wine is cool and hopefully the men are hot, and the food is as delicious as I can make it, with, of course, the perfect brownie to top it off. Which, as always, will be made with love.

À bientôt, mes amis.
Until then.