“Only when it's the very last of minutes and when it's one of my rare dinner parties.”
“Once, we had to back out once.”
“I love that, 'back out,'“ Grace again affected a conspiratorial comment with someone on her end. “Not 'regretfully declined' or even 'missed out' but 'backed out.' Very telling, my dear. Very. So, what are you wearing and are you presently wearing it?”
Maggie glanced up at the clock and realized that she was, in fact, running late. She wasn't dressed and Laurent wasn't even in shouting distance.
“It isn't formal, is it?” she asked, standing and peering through the French doors to see if she could spot Laurent.
“Formal? No. Do you mean floor-length formal? Or just best-jewels formal?”
“Grace, do knock it off, won't you? The kids must be with the nanny for you to have so much time to cut up on the phone...”
“I knew it. You're not even dressed.”
“Bye-bye, Gracie.”
“Okay, okay. We'll see you there. And, Maggie...”
“Yes?”
“It's somewhere between blue jeans and your wedding dress, okay?”
“You're a peach.”
2
The front step of Marie’s and René's house was smeared with dog feces. Grace swore lightly as she stepped into it and then grabbed Windsor's arm to balance against while she tugged her slipper off.
“Can you believe this?” she said looking around the deserted street as if prepared to find and seriously scold the errant hound. The surrounding streets were quiet and dark. All motor traffic was restricted after seven o'clock and Grace and Windsor had had to park some distance away.
“Do they have a dog?” Windsor asked.
“I don't know if they have a stupid dog,” Grace said, scraping her slipper against the slate stones of the courtyard. Their voices seemed to bellow back at them in an empty echo from the street.
“Maybe they'll have something inside to scrape--”
“Windsor, don't be dim.” Grace pulled her shoe back on and rapped sharply against the door. “Marie would be horrified. I mean, you give a dinner party, you want the table to look nice and the flowers to be just so---and, ‘oh, by the way, you've got dog shit on your front steps.’ Do not say a word to her.”
Windsor shrugged and carefully sidestepped the mess.
“There's a lot of it everywhere in Provence,” he said. “The French like their dogs.”
3
Maggie sipped her wine and felt the firm reassurance of Laurent's thigh pressed against her own. Marie and René had welcomed them warmly into their home and René had even pulled Laurent aside and into the kitchen for a little culinary shop talk. Now, seated in the salon with Marie and her daughters Brigitte and Pijou and their men, Maggie finally found herself relaxing. And best of all, she thought with a grin, had even beaten Grace to the party.
“And so you have an agent back home, yes? To help you get the cookbook published?” Brigitte smiled at Maggie and nestled comfortably into the crook of her husband's arm. She was absolutely beautiful. Her hair was dark and glossy and hung in waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of amber, fringed by dark, long eyelashes, they seemed to glitter as they moved from Maggie to Laurent.
“Well, no,” Maggie said. “The idea is that first you spend all the time and effort in writing the thing--”
“With no guarantee of a publisher at the end of it,” Brigitte finished, shaking her head. “I admire your tenacity. What keeps you going?”
Laurent coughed lightly and Maggie resisted her urge to spill her drink on his hand.
“Oh, various things, I guess. I mean, nothing gets published for sure if I don't write it. Faith in myself, I suppose.”
Laurent coughed again.
“Darling, why don't you have a cigarette or something?” Maggie asked him sweetly. “Perhaps it'll help burn out that nasty cough.”
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Grace and Windsor. Marie rose to admit them.
Brigitte's husband stared unseeingly out a window, not bothering to mask his boredom. Marie had mentioned by way of introduction that Yves was a physician at the hospital in Nîmes. Maggie noticed his casual affection with Brigitte, his arm draping around her shoulders.
Seated across from Maggie and Laurent were Pijou and her boyfriend, Claude. Pijou, who was falling out of her too-loose haltertop, was much more friendly today, Maggie noted, especially to Laurent. Maggie was accustomed to the effect that Laurent seemed to have on women and, although not totally comfortable with it, she was at least not as annoyed with him about it as she used to be. His saving grace in this matter, it seemed to her, was the fact that he was rarely aware of his attractiveness to other women. This feature, Maggie thought, was, in fact, one of his predominant charms.
Claude, a thin, pale young man with wispy black hair seemed nervous and had taken to randomly plucking at the multi-colored threads in Marie's camel-back sofa.
Maggie was quite ready for Grace to make her appearance.
“Darlings! You're here! And ahead of us! Quelle surprise. Quelle fucking shock, in fact.”
“Grace, for Chrissake,” Windsor muttered as the two were ushered into the salon.
Maggie stood and embraced Grace then sat and waited while Laurent did the same. It embarrassed her a little that she and Grace--both Americans--would practice the French custom of kissing on the cheek even after the briefest of absences from each other. (She'd seen Grace the night before for drinks at their local café with both Windsor and Laurent.) But Grace wouldn't have heard of it any other way.
“Marie, I love the walk to your home,” Grace gushed happily as she shed a lime-green chiffon stole onto the sofa. “So quiet and spooky. I thought I could hear the voices of Roman soldiers echoing from the cobblestones as we walked. Win, maybe we could block traffic to our little pied á terre?”
Maggie made room for her friend on the sofa and laughed.
“Grace, you'd have to block off the whole D538!”
General laughter rewarded her and she grinned at her own wit.
Marie stood next to Grace, her hands resting lightly on the woman's shoulders. She touched a strand of her blonde hair almost lovingly, as a mother might absently do to a favored child.
“Well, with our Grace,” she said, teasingly. “Qui sais?”
More laughter. Maggie noted that Yves looked on with interest now, even a smile playing at his lips at Grace's entrance, but Claude only fiddled with his remnant strings and threads the more frenetically.
Marie took their drink orders and, promising that dinner would not be much longer, joined René in the kitchen.
Pijou turned to Grace and made a face.
“Guess you heard about the nurse that got killed not too far from here?”
Grace smiled and looked uncertainly at Maggie as if hoping this might be the beginning of a joke.
“Yes?” she said.
“You've heard of it?” Pijou persisted.
“Everyone's heard of it, Pijou,” Brigitte said. “And sick to death of discussing it endlessly.” She turned to Maggie. “The nurse was from Yves' hospital. All the nurses there agree that Catherine was foolish to take a short cut after dark. This isn't the fifties any more, you know. You have to be careful.”
“Where was this?” Maggie asked.
“A small village, southeast of Nîmes. Called Geyrins? You know it?”
Maggie shook her head. “Did you know her?” she asked. Her eyes darted to Yves as if inviting him to join in the answer. He ignored her.
“Yes, a little,” Brigitte said.
Yves snorted. “You did not,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“I did,” Brigitte said, her surprise at him lighting her face like a glowing candle. Was she surprised he didn't know, Maggie wondered? Or just that he would deign to speak at all?
“Quoique,” he replied, retreating to his isolationism. Whatever.
“A sweet girl,” Brigitte s
aid to Maggie. “It made me sick to hear of it.”
“She was raped and beaten to death,” Pijou offered. “Her family couldn't even identify the remains. Yucck. A real pudding.”
“How awful,” Grace murmured. “I hadn't heard.”
“Do they know who did it?” Maggie asked.
Pijou answered, “No, and they probably never will. You don't know our police. It's been two weeks since the killing. The trail is ice-cold.”
“And so, of course, will the food be if you do not come at once!” Marie stood in the doorway to the salon, a wide tray of glittering drink glasses in her hands. She smiled at her guests but looked meaningfully at Pijou who shrugged and got to her feet with everyone else.
“I believe,” Marie continued brightly as her guests filed past her into the dining room, “that tonight, Brigitte and Pijou's Papa has created a true masterpiece!”
4
The high paneled walls of the dining room were covered with beautiful oil paintings--each encased in a heavy gilt frame. A waist-high mahogany bookcase encircled the room, the leather-bound backs of its books stamped in gold. On the tops of the bookcase, Marie had clustered a thick array of memorabilia and art. Silver teapots stuffed with quivering, pale peonies, little folded silk fans in soft green and pink moires, black and white family pictures displayed in antique frames of silver and painted wood. Two large matching lamps, their pleated paisley shades dramatic and bold, seemed to flood the dining room table with carefully placed swathes of light.
The guests seated themselves around the table, a painted 19th-century French country piece, which was in complete contrast to the almost painfully-traditional tone of the room. Maggie noted that it all worked well together. But she would never have believed it without having seen it.
“You will have to use this meal in your book, yes?” Marie asked eagerly as she set Maggie's soup bowl down in front of her.
“Marie!” René bellowed to his wife from the kitchen.
“You are writing a book?” Yves frowned at Maggie from across the table.
“Of course, Maggie is writing a cook book,” Brigitte said. “Haven’t you been listening? A French cookbook.”
“You are a cook?” Yves asked, speaking to Maggie but looking at Laurent.
Here we go again, Maggie thought.
“Well, not as such,” she said.
“She cooks,” Laurent said, sipping his soup.
“I....” Maggie stared at Laurent in disbelief. “I...do?”
“Can you not cook, Maggie?” Laurent asked, a little loudly. “Do you not know how to cook or are you like some bride from America who cannot make a meal for her husband?”
Maggie wasn't sure where this was going but she had an idea it had nothing to do with her. She looked back at Yves who was still staring at Laurent.
“Of course, I can cook,” she said evenly. “But the book is about the kind of cooking that great chefs do, not mortal housewives. Of course, I can cook,” she repeated. She looked for help from Brigitte or Pijou. “I mean, who can't cook?”
“I can't,” Grace said simply.
Oh, great, thank you, Gracie, Maggie sighed.
“Are you two going to slug it out, or what?” Pijou asked, waving her soup spoon between Laurent and Yves.
“Pijou, do not be ridiculous,” Brigitte said, her face darkened with anger, but her eyes stayed focused on her soup bowl.
“I mean, don't feel bad,” Pijou continued. “Yves can't get along with anybody, can you, Yves? My parents loathe him.”
“Pijou!” Marie and René came into the dining room carrying two huge platters of Paella. “Whatever you are saying, I am sure it is not worth listening to, so kindly, don't say it.” Marie gave Grace a tired look and then tacked her smile back in place.
Yves smiled at Marie and then slowly turned to René who was still standing in the doorway.
“Just a misunderstanding,” Yves said soothingly, his face an open lie to them. “Just Pijou being Pijou.”
René's face hardened.
“May we have one dinner...” he said angrily, “...one occasion where we do not have some ugliness that must be trotted out to sit among us again?!”
Pijou hopped up from her chair and hurried to her father. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and pulled him to his own place at the head of the table.
“Yves said it was nothing,” she said to him, “just my usual hi-jinks and you never minded my mischief before, Papa. So, come on and let us enjoy this wonderful meal you've prepared for us. Me, I am starving and ready to eat both platters. And just look at the size of the husband Maggie has brought to your table! Are you sure you've made enough? He's awfully big!”
The table laughed and Laurent grinned good-naturedly.
“So, everybody, sit, sit!” Marie said as she deposited her platter onto the table. “And no more talk of murders,” she gave a scolding look to Pijou, who, having salvaged the mood, returned to her chair with a buoyant air. “Or taxes or news that the Amphitheater is crumbling...or anything that will detract from a good evening with family and friends.” She picked up her wine glass and urged the rest of them to follow suit. “And new friends too.” She held her wine glass in the direction of Laurent and Maggie. “We are glad you are among us. You make us better, stronger, happier.”
“Thank you,” Maggie murmured, not sure if she was supposed to respond to a toast, but too pleased to stay quiet.
“Well, while we're toasting,” Windsor said, keeping his wineglass held up. “I guess this is as good a time as any to announce our news.”
“Windsor...” Grace looked panicked as she turned to face her husband.
“What? There's no reason not to tell, is there?”
Maggie watched them both with mounting apprehension. Grace pregnant again? But that would be good news, wouldn't it? And Grace wasn’t acting like this was good news.
“I just...” Grace turned to look at Maggie and their eyes locked. “Maggie, I wanted to tell you alone.”
“What the hell is it?” Maggie asked, looking from Grace to Windsor.
“Hey, this is some great toast!” Pijou said.
“Shut-up, Pijou,” Brigitte said. When Pijou looked at her sister, Brigitte shook her head at her. Not now, Brigitte mouthed.
“Well, it's good news,” Windsor said, almost petulantly. “It’s fantastic news.” He spoke to his host and hostess now, who looked about their table in bewilderment. “I've made a terrific coup.” He appealed to Laurent. “Remember that little computer company I was telling you about? JP Electronics?”
Laurent nodded uncertainly.
“I bought it! Just yesterday.”
Maggie looked impatiently at Grace.
“The kicker, please,” she said quietly.
“‘Kicker’?” Marie asked, looking to René for translation.
“It's in California,” Grace said to Maggie. “We're moving back home at the end of the summer.”
Chapter Four
1
“'We're moving back home,' she says to me. 'Pass the creme bruleé.'“
“She never said 'Pass the creme bruleé,” Laurent said as climbed into bed.
“She might as well have.” Maggie stopped straightening the duvet across their king-sized bed. “You didn't know about this, did you?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“I did not.” Laurent closed his eyes.
Maggie got out of bed and went to the dresser.
“I guess no time was really a good time to tell me,” she said thoughtfully. She pulled out a pad of paper from the drawer and returned to bed. “But it was a shock hearing it at a public dinner party.”
Laurent sighed.
Maggie climbed back into bed.
“I know she's not happy about it,” she said, groping for a pencil from her bedside table. “I know she doesn't want to leave St-Buvard. It's Windsor who's insisting.”
“The light, Maggie?”
“Give me one minute, darling. I mean, did sh
e look happy to you? Grace adores France. She loves St-Buvard. I know she doesn't want to leave.”
“Maggie, what are you doing?” A slight tone of exasperation.
“Nothing, it's just that I did happen to get one little recipe from René and I want to get it down before I--”
“You are going to write it down from memory?” Laurent opened his eyes and peered at her as she wrote on the pad.
“It's a very simple little--”
“No recipe is that very simple,” Laurent said, punching his pillow. “You should have written it down at the party.”
“Don't worry about it, Laurent,” she said absently. “I remember the main bits.”
“Mon Dieu,” he murmured, closing his eyes again.
2
“I thought Maggie took it very well, don't you? She seemed very gay and upbeat after we broke the news.”
“It's a wonder.”
“What? What's a wonder?”
“That she didn't fling herself crying from the room the way you told her: ‘Hey we're going to California, get over it’.”
“I said nothing of the kind.” Grace looked at her husband from her dressing table, a frown creasing her perfect features. “And if I did it was because you put me in an impossible position. What made you think to blurt it out in front of fifty-two people at a dinner party for heaven's sake?”
“There were only ten people. Besides, I wasn't aware our moving Stateside qualified as having the same ramifications as admitting to being HIV positive or being arrested for indecent exposure.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I just wanted to tell Maggie first before she heard it like that.”
“You've known for two weeks. Not my fault you're a coward.”
Grace walked to the bed where Windsor was pulling off his shoes. He looked up at her.
“I didn't know how to tell her,” she said.
“Obviously.”
“No.” Grace sat down next to him. She looked out their bedroom window into the inky outline of the forest that surrounded their home. “I didn't know how to tell her without her realizing the truth.”
Windsor tossed his keys into a dish on the dresser and returned to the bed. He sat down heavily next to Grace.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 71
