"Pour l’enfant," he said, returning to the stove. “They are always hungry, n’est-ce pas?"
After her parents had gone to the garden through the French doors, Maggie picked up her potato peeler again, this time keeping her eyes on Laurent, who had just swung open the heavy oven door to look at the turkey.
“You have basted her?” he asked, seemingly to the turkey.
“She has been recently basted, yes,” Maggie answered. The aroma of savory and marjoram filled the kitchen. “Dad liked your wine cellar, I take it.”
“Oh, Maggie,” Laurent said. When he said her name he put the emphasis on the last syllable and then held it so that it came out Ma-GEE. “Your father is going to take orders for the club in Atlanta. Is that not formidable?"
Maggie stopped peeling. “Our wine, Domaine St-Buvard, will be served at the Cherokee Country Club in Atlanta?”
“Exactement." Laurent returned his attention to the stove. “This relish of cranberries is disgraceful food,” he said cheerfully, with his back to her. “It is absolutment nécessaire?"
“It’s traditional, yes. Did Dad say how many bottles the club would buy?”
Laurent waved a hand in the air as if to indicate that this was not a serious question. Whatever the club wanted would be fine.
“So, is this something they’re going to expect, you know, every year?”
Laurent cut a white aubergine in half and then sliced it lengthwise. Maggie waited.
“How is that possible?” he said finally, as he tossed a chopped onion, carrot and garlic in a hot skillet with a little olive oil. “Unless the new owners of Domaine St-Buvard are d’accord."
Maggie watched as he added vinegar and water to the skillet to make his vegetable marinade. The pan sizzled loudly.
5
Elspeth Newberry held her husband’s hand tightly and watched her granddaughter run ahead of them toward the vineyard. It was early afternoon and the late November sun was creating a checkerboard of purples, grays and oranges on the vineyards. The stone pathway from Maggie and Laurent’s small garden was flanked by the skeletal bushes of blackberries, elderberry and nettles. The stones themselves were slippery with moss. The outlines of two bare fig trees stood on either side of the path as Elspeth and John entered the vineyard.
The sky was a periwinkle blue with scattered streaks of white cirrus clouds. Elspeth touched the tips of the spiky cannes de Provence as they walked. She could see more olive trees bordering the vineyard, and wondered if they marked the end of Laurent’s land.
“She’s afraid he won’t want to go when the time comes next year,” Elspeth said to her husband. Her eyes watched the small, straight back of Nicole as she tossed a stick to Petit-Four and tried to get the animal to chase it. Nicole dashed between the rows of staked, snaking, bare vines and her laughter lifted and fell between the rows like a musical scale.
John frowned and looked at the vineyard. “She’s probably justified,” he said. “I’ve never seen the man happier.”
“So, you’ll think he’ll want to stay?”
John smiled and waved at Nicole when she turned around to check on them. “Oh, that’s a given. He’ll want to. He wants to now.” His eyes scanned the landscape of naked vines. “I mean, look around. The place looks as tidy as someone’s living room. He patrols this whole area, inspects the vines, prunes them―and what grapes he and Maggie don’t sell he bottles himself and sells directly from the château. You saw the Vente Direct sign out front.” John shook his head. “No, whether he stays or not is another question, but wanting to...he wants to now.”
“I hate to see them go through this.” Elspeth stopped and they both turned to look at the stone farmhouse behind them. It perched, large and gray, on its gently sloping knoll. They resumed their walk. Nicole was now frolicking fifty yards ahead of them.
“Maggie said she has a cherry tree somewhere around here,” Elspeth said. She put a hand up to tug on the ends of the silk scarf around her thick, auburn hair. She could smell the woodsmoke of small bonfires from neighboring vineyards. Maggie had told her that vinestocks were sometimes used as fuel for cookstoves. The scent of the smoke was pungent and sweet in the cold air.
“And she’s got rose bushes in the garden, I see,” John said.
“Not much of a reason to stay, John.”
“There’s always Laurent, my darling. He might be a good enough reason.”
John put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Let’s not fret until it’s necessary, shall we?” he said. “Meanwhile, they’re living in the south of France, practically in a château. That’s an experience Maggie will always cherish. Not much to pity her for just yet, is there?”
Elspeth kissed her husband on the cheek. “You’re right,” she said. “And it’s Thanksgiving Day. Time to count blessings, not project problems.”
“Exactly. Who all is coming, do you know?” John scanned the horizon until he caught sight of his granddaughter once more. Her dark, bobbed hair looked so French and, for a brief moment, so foreign, to him.
“Well, their neighbors, the Marceaus,” Elspeth said. “And some American friends, I think.”
“Now, the Marceaus...they’re the ones who want to buy the place, right?”
“I really don’t know, John.”
“What about the other fellow? Laurent said he was unmarried and he is also interested in Laurent’s property.”
“Maggie did say one other fellow, a neighbor, was invited to dinner but wouldn’t be able to come until the dégustation later.”
“That should be a party.” John grinned and tucked his free hand into his corduroy pants pockets. It was getting colder.
“What is a dégustation anyway?” Elspeth asked, waving a hand at Nicole to indicate she wanted her to start heading back toward the house. “She should be wearing her jacket over her sweater.”
“Well, I think, in this case, it’s a first tasting of Laurent’s wine,” John said “He invites some of the townspeople to his house for it and that honors them and they all sit around and drink up his wine.”
“Sounds delightful,” Elspeth laughed and cuddled closer to him. “It’s gotten cold, hasn’t it?”
“Mamie! Mamie!" Nicole called to them from the middle of the vineyard. They couldn’t see her now. They both began to walk quickly in the direction of the child’s voice.
Elspeth called to Nicole as she walked. “Time to come back now, darling! Can you see her, John? She’s dropped down behind the bushes or something.”
They could hear the high-pitched yapping of Petit-Four and they began to run. Elspeth found herself hoping she wouldn’t trip over one of the vinestocks, hoping the panic she thought she detected in Nicole’s voice was just the rising wind playing tricks on her ears.
Suddenly, they heard Nicole scream.
Chapter Seven
1
“Extraordinary,” John Newberry said as he watched Laurent examine the pumpkin head. “Who would do this? Is it a joke? Is this supposed to be funny?”
Laurent stood up slowly and ran a hand through his brown hair. A rusting ax was embedded in the pumpkin, which had been painted to look like a human head. The “mouth” was agape as though in a silent scream of agony.
“It is no joke,” Laurent said solemnly.
“Laurent, is there some sort of trouble going on here?” John asked.
“Non, non, John,” Laurent shook his head and put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “It is a message, I think. That is all.”
“What in the world kind of―”
“Je ne sais pas,” Laurent interrupted him. “But there is no danger, I am sure. Je suis sûr.”
“All right, Laurent. I guess you’ll take care of it.” John looked back in the direction of the house where Maggie, her mother and Nicole were. “I trust you will.”
Laurent picked up the pumpkin and handed the ax to John.
“What are you going to do with it?” John asked.
“For
now, I will put it down in the cave. “ Laurent said. “Come. There is another entrance from the garden. I don’t want Nicole to see this again.”
“Aunt Maggie, it was horrible! It was laughing at me!” The small girl turned to her grandmother from her seat on a wooden stool in the kitchen. “You heard it, Mamie?” she asked, her dark brown eyes wide.
“No, darling, but I saw it―”
“It was laughing! It laughed!”
“Uncle Laurent will take care of it, Nicole,” Maggie said gently to the child. “It was just somebody’s idea of a joke, I think. Do you understand?”
Elspeth placed her hands on her granddaughter’s knees. “C’est une ruse, Nicole. Comprends-tu? C’est une mauvaise ruse. C’est tout,” she said firmly. It was just a bad trick.
Nicole listened carefully to her grandmother, finally nodding.
“Je m’excuse,” she whispered. I’m sorry.
“Don’t be silly!” Maggie pulled Nicole off the stool and held her by both hands. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was a terrible trick and Aunt Maggie would have cried too if it’d been me that had found it.”
“Vraiment?”
“Absolutely vraiment. Now why don’t you help me set the table? That would be a big help, darling.”
The child smiled at her aunt as she reached for the stack of pressed cotton napkins on the counter. They could hear the sound of Petit-Four’s tail smacking against the floorboards from under the kitchen table. The thumping increased just before the dog jumped up and followed Nicole into the dining room.
As soon as Nicole left the room, Elspeth spoke to Maggie.
“Who on earth could have done such a thing?” she asked, slapping her hands against her wool slacks in frustration. “Maggie, it looked so horrid!”
Maggie began counting wine glasses on the counter.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t imagine.” Laurent will kill that crazy Gaston, she thought. He will kill him and then Laurent will end up in a nasty French jail somewhere and that will be that.
“Is this some sort of autumn tradition? Macabre pumpkins in the neighbors’ fields?”
“I really don’t know, Mother.” Maggie touched a finger to the turkey which was resting on the counter. It was roasted to a honey-brown, stuffed with pine kernels, fresh chopped chervil and savory. “There’s only twelve of us,” she said. “Do you think there’s enough food?”
“You must be joking.” Elspeth stepped away from the kitchen counter to watch Nicole as she carefully placed the twelve napkins next to their plates. “While the rest of the United States is eating turkey hash for the next week, Margaret, you’ll be eating turkey hash and goat cheese and left over...what is this?” She lifted up the lid on a large crock of pâté. “Pâté? For Thanksgiving?”
Maggie opened the refrigerator. “Laurent can’t eat a meal without the stuff,” she said. “Apparently, no Frenchman can. It’s in their country’s constitution. Here, try some of this.” Maggie spread a dollop of oily, black tapenade on a piece of Madame Renoir’s olive loaf. She handed it to her mother.
“Mm-mm.” Elspeth said. “I love tapenade but you can’t find it back home.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can find it where they keep all the other stuff that will send you to an early, high-cholesterol grave.”
“Oh, yes, isn’t that on Roswell Road in Atlanta?”
Maggie laughed.
Nicole popped her head back into the kitchen. “Mamie! Aunt Maggie! Someone is here. I hear the car!”
“Oh, God,” Maggie said, her mouth full of bread. “I look like hell.”
“You look lovely.” Elspeth said. “Nicole, go and let them in, darling.”
Nicole vanished and Maggie peered out the little kitchen window. “Oh, good, it’s Grace,” she said. “I was hoping she’d come first.”
Laurent and her father emerged from the basement.
“Voila!” Laurent said, brandishing a bottle of rosé in each hand. His broad, handsome face was flushed from the cold and his own returned good humor. He grinned conspiratorially at Maggie and winked. “Thanksgiving, she can now begin!”
2
The shame of it was unbearable. To be forced to go, dragged so unrelentingly by her father―for what? To what end? To be humiliated, that’s what! To be publicly degraded! She was not fooled. Babette knew that was why her father was insisting she go in the first place. Bâtard!
She stood in her bedroom and stared out of the large window of her bedroom. Her parents had always reminded her that hers was the best bedroom in the house. This! A pigsty! A hole too small to interest a rat or a hedgehog! She glared out the window and across the dirty, cobblestone street to the bureau de poste. If not for the thin and dilapidated row of houses and shops which outlined the village of St-Buvard, she would be able to see the road that ran to the Dernier’s property. She thought of Laurent Dernier and a feeling fluttered pleasurably in her throat. A fantasy of Laurent and herself locked in sexual combat filtered through her mind and she smiled.
Bah! Why is he with that old American hag? The beast must be forty! Babette’s own mother had had grandchildren at thirty-five. She wrenched her eyes away from the storefront and the image of the fields behind it and returned, once more, to her shabby room. But best of all, she thought, it would kill the bastard Connor to think I had made love with Dernier.
“Babette? Es-tu prête?” Her mother’s voice climbed up the stairs of the creaky old house and slid under the girl’s door.
Babette’s anger returned. She looked at her reflection in the small mirror over her dresser. Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders. Her smooth complexion was puckered with her ire, erasing her prettiness. She thought she could see the seams of her tight blue dress strain just a bit more than usual across her lower abdomen. And now she was to be dragged― pregnant and disgraced―to the house where her lover was dining? She looked at her reflection in anger. And to be presented as part of the peasants’ dégustation afterward! The humiliation was absolute. Her father’s betrayal of her was complete.
“Babette!”
Babette closed her eyes against the image in the mirror and the voice downstairs.
They will pay. They will, all of them, pay and pay and pay.
3
Maggie eased into her seat next to Laurent, grateful that they had decided to sit next to each other and not be the bookend host and hostess at the ends of the table. The turkey had been perfect. The best ever. The dressing―the only item besides the cranberries that hadn’t been Frenchified―was a hit with the Marceaus, which Maggie took as a personal victory. Both the Marceaus were in happy spirits, Eduard laughing heartily at all of John Newberry’s jokes and nodding sagely at whatever bon mot Laurent happened to utter. And Danielle, although every bit as taciturn as usual, was at least smiling in all the right places throughout dinner. Maggie could tell that her mother liked the woman. Her French was so much better than Maggie’s, so she was able to chat with Danielle.
Grace was her usual charming, wonderful self, Maggie thought, and she looked particularly beautiful today in a forest-green cashmere sweater set. Maggie was always a little amazed that Laurent professed no attraction to Grace. Windsor sat at Grace’s side, handsome, stoic...pouting? It was hard to tell. Something was going on between the two of them, Maggie was certain, although it was hard to determine exactly what.
And then there was Taylor. In all her glory. Maggie had been prepared for a brat, had tried to prepare Nicole without actually warning her, and had done her best to remove those items around the living room that would be missed too much if they got smashed or broken.
Moments before dinner was served, while everyone was sipping marc and munching on marinated olives, Maggie heard a sharp cry from Petit-Four that sent her running from the kitchen into the living room. There, she found Taylor and Nicole huddled over the quivering puppy.
“What’s going on here?” She had said it as calmly as she could, but images of Grace’s infam
ous daughter trying to perform living-room surgery on her dog came immediately to mind. Windsor appeared at her elbow, a cast of resignation and inevitability across his attractive features. Maggie found herself wondering what the man looked like before he had kids.
“Taylor,” he said sternly. “What happened?”
Maggie scooped up Petit-Four and examined her to make sure there was no lasting damage. The puppy licked her face enthusiastically and snuggled into the crook of her arm.
“Nothing, Daddy!” Taylor stood up and glared at her father. Maggie noticed a vague outline of some breakfast morsel that had obviously found its way to the front of her beautiful blue velvet dress. “It wasn’t me. The puppy just won’t play.”
“Never mind, Taylor,” Maggie said. She glanced at Nicole, who was watching Taylor with a frown on her face. “Petit-Four has had too much excitement for one day, I’m afraid. I’m putting her away.” She looked kindly at Nicole, hoping she’d understand. “She’s off limits for awhile, okay?” Nicole nodded.
“No problem, Win,” Maggie said breezily. “Just pre-dinner hi-jinks. Laurent and I have been having them all morning.”
Windsor dragged his eyes off his pouting daughter and allowed himself a smile in Maggie’s direction. “That’s kind of hard to imagine,” he said, teasingly.
“Well, thank you very much,” Maggie said with an indignant laugh as she walked toward the kitchen. “Laurent and I can hi-jink with the best of them, I’ll have you know.”
Once in the kitchen, she plopped the puppy into its cardboard box under the kitchen table. Laurent sliced off a piece of turkey and gave it to Maggie to give to the dog. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her.
“Nothing,” Maggie said in answer. “I probably over-reacted.”
Two hours later, Maggie was ready to strangle the child―and Connor MacKenzie too, who still hadn’t shown up for dinner.
“What is this MacKenzie fellow like?” Maggie’s father frowned and scooped up the last portion of the Potatoes Anna onto his plate.
“Oh, Dad, he’s really nice.” Maggie watched Taylor as she dropped an oily green olive onto the tablecloth, then stuck her fingers into her water glass. “I can’t imagine where he is. He’s not usually late.”
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 43
