The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Maggie brushed the leaves from the table and squinted into the setting of the early October sun. The long wooden farm table had been set for an elegant dinner: crystal goblets, silverware, matching china dishware on a stark white linen tablecloth. She flicked another leaf from the table.

  “You are dressed?”

  She turned to look at her husband who had materialized in the frame of the double doors leading into the house. Like everything he did, he did it silently. If she didn’t know about his long and mysterious history which sometimes involved being on the wrong side of the law, Maggie might have found his stealth a little more disconcerting.

  “No,” she admitted, turning away from the outdoor scene. “I’m running a little late.”

  She watched him silently inspect the table. He would never say if anything were not as he preferred or expected. She would never know if he found it wonderful, either, unless she asked him. And she had stopped doing that a while ago. He always said yes and always in a way she found less than convincing.

  “And yourself?” she said, moving past him to enter the house. She could smell the fragrances of their dinner cooking, especially the garlic. She knew Laurent was dressed and ready. He always was.

  “Bien sûr,” he said, turning away from the terrace. “Hurry, Maggie. Our guests will be soon here.”

  That made her smile. After four years of living with her, he was fluent in English but she still found his phrasing awkwardly charming. In fact, his occasionally mangled English was the only thing awkward about him. She realized that that was partly why she enjoyed it so much. It was the one thing he didn’t appear to do perfectly and effortlessly.

  “There’s no rush,” Maggie said. “Two of them are our neighbors and one is my uncle. It’s not like we’ve got the Sarkozys coming. They’ve seen me in my jeans before.”

  “Incroyable!” Laurent said, frowning. “Why bother to set the table at all? Why not serve them dans la cuisine, eh?”

  She could see his frustration with her and it surprised her. Up to now, she thought she was the only one not adapting particularly well to married country life.

  “It might shock you to know that I have had many a happy, exceedingly memorable meal with good friends in the kitchen,” she said.

  “That does not shock me at all,” Laurent growled. “If it happened in Atlanta, of course it is superior in all ways.”

  Before Maggie could think of a retort, Laurent turned on his heel and left her where she stood in the hallway.

  The dinner party was, as usual, perfect. Maggie enjoyed the smell of the night air full of wood smoke and the snap of fall and coming winter. She had worried it would be too cold to eat outdoors—something they did nearly every meal during the summer—but when Laurent got the braziers going at two corners of the terrace, it was perfectly comfortable. She and Laurent had silently acknowledged a détente from their earlier spat as they donned their roles as hostess and host. Laurent was the cook and Maggie led the way in banter and amusing stories. It was an arrangement that had worked for them since the day they met.

  Their neighbors, Jean-Luc and Danielle Alexandre were the first to arrive. The Alexandres had become a steady and pleasant part of Maggie and Laurent’s daily round in St-Buvard. Maggie watched Jean-Luc, a farmer in his late sixties and, until Danielle said “yes” to him six months ago, a confirmed bachelor. Now, he was the picture of a man in love. A man who could not spend enough time with his beloved. Danielle was probably the sweetest human being Maggie had ever met. Endlessly patient and accepting, she had been brutally used in her first marriage. The way she returned Jean-Luc’s moon-eyes made it clear she felt the same way about him.

  Their other guest had been a surprise. A phone call from her father earlier in the week had revealed that her uncle Stan—a family member she only vaguely remembered meeting—was staying in Paris for business and had asked if he might visit Maggie and Laurent in Provence.

  As the meal was ending, Maggie leaned back in her chair and surveyed the table—a pleasant tableau of glasses in varying depths of wine or water, ashtrays and used stacked plates. She looked at her husband at the end of the table. He looked relaxed and amiable although she, of all people, knew how deceptive his expressions could be. When she met him, he made his living conning people.

  “You look tired, my dear.” Her uncle spoke to her softly from where he sat at her side.

  Maggie turned her attention to him. Stan was tall and tan with a touch of gray at the temples and a dimpled grin that was permanently on display because he was always grinning. He was a handsome man and strongly resembled her father in appearance.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m still amazed that you’re here, though. How long has it been since we last saw each other?”

  “You were ten, I believe.”

  “Wow. Way to stay in touch, Uncle Stan,” Maggie said.

  Stan laughed. “It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “Living in California…Your father and I do call from time to time.” He glanced at Laurent who had lit a cigarette and was now speaking French in a low voice to Jean-Luc and Danielle. “Your father mention me much?”

  Maggie frowned. “Why? Is there some family scandal I don’t know about?”

  Stan lifted his wine glass to his lips. “Very probably,” he said. “Is this one of Laurent’s?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” Maggie said sheepishly. “I’m not really involved with the whole wine-growing thing.”

  “In any event, I’m here now,” Stan said. “And delighted to get to know my niece all over again.”

  A few moments later, Jean-Luc and Danielle said their goodbyes and Laurent walked them to the front drive. When Maggie and Stan reseated themselves, Maggie found herself feeling more relaxed than the wine and fragrant night air could take credit for. She watched her uncle pour himself another glass of the table wine and realized that her feeling of ease was because of the connection—the surprising, warm and immediate connection—that she felt with this man.

  When Laurent returned, he gathered up a stack of plates and when Maggie started to stand, he waved her back.

  “Non, non,” he said. “Continue talking. I will bring the coffee and dessert.”

  “Thanks, Laurent,” Maggie said.

  When he disappeared into the house, she turned to see her uncle watching her.

  “Are you happy, Maggie?” he asked. “I only ask,” he said hurriedly, “because I hear through the family grapevine that it’s kind of an inside joke back home about how you’re living in paradise yet somehow are still homesick.”

  “What can I say?” Maggie picked up her wine glass. “I guess I’m just a grass-is-greener kinda girl.”

  “At least you have self-knowledge. That’s a good sign.”

  “You aren’t the first wave of my intervention from Atlanta, are you? Because I gotta tell you, my memories of a better time back home run pretty deep.”

  Stan laughed. “No, but if you’d let your old uncle give you some advice…”

  “You have the floor, oh wise one.”

  “I’ve noticed when you talk about home, you always refer to Atlanta.”

  “That’s right. Where all my friends are and my family.”

  “Well, at least I’m sure where all your friends used to be. Haven’t a lot of them moved on?”

  Maggie frowned.

  “Anyway, it’s always been my belief,” Stan continued, “and you can absolutely take this with a grain of salt because I’ve travelled very little up until now—that home is really not so much a place as it is a time. Do you know what I mean?”

  Maggie said nothing. Her glance fell on the steep pitch of
Domaine St-Buvard. A few leaves scuttled across the tiles and floated to the ground. The house that Laurent had inherited four years earlier, their home, was a very old stone mas situated deep in the heart of Provence. It was connected to fifteen acres of prime vineyard that Laurent cultivated for the vin de pays he produced and called Vin de Domaine St-Buvard. The original plan had been to live in Provence for three months to get the property ready to sell. That was four years ago. Never one to enjoy travel, Maggie had struggled with her status as an expat ever since.

  “And for you, if I may be so bold as to suggest it,” her uncle said, “that time is here and now, not…” he reached out and took her hand on the table. “…where your memories are.”

  “Wow, Stan,” she said. “Very deep.”

  “Yes, well, we wise ones are nothing if not deep,” he said, almost sadly.

  The next morning, Maggie slept late. When she finally came down the broad smooth stone steps of the staircase to the cavernous kitchen that Laurent had claimed as his own, she went in search of the breakfast she knew he would have set aside for her. She settled herself on a stool at the kitchen counter and poured a coffee out of the carafe. From where she sat, she could just barely see her husband and her uncle—both tall men—walking the perimeter of Laurent’s vineyard. She had a silly moment of trying to imagine what Laurent could possibly be saying during the tour. Was he introducing her uncle to a “naughty little vine over here” and a “robust fat fellow of a grape la bas?” What in the world was there to say? It’s a vineyard. There’s a bunch of grapes. We make wine out of them. Knowing Laurent, he could not only talk about and walk about his vineyard for hours, he could happily believe that most normal people would like to do so too. She ate her croissant and observed the men through the French doors. She watched Laurent pointing to some feature and Stan turning and looking in that direction as if it was all very interesting.

  Such a polite man, Maggie thought. Try living with it twenty four seven, Uncle Stan. Little harder to drum up enthusiasm for a bunch of vines strung along wires when it’s day in and day out. As she watched the men, she recognized that she was taking particular pleasure in watching Laurent as he moved and pointed and gestured. He was a big man, not just tall. His chest was full, his shoulders were broad, but his hips were slim. He may look like a linebacker, Maggie thought with amazement, but he moves like a cat. As she finished her breakfast, she found herself watching him and thinking: The problem isn’t that I don’t love him. I probably love him too much.

  When she could tell they were heading back toward the mas, she put her dish and cup in the sink and went upstairs to dress for the day.

  Stan eased his shoes off and massaged his feet. He wasn’t used to this much walking and between Laurent’s tour of the property and a day in the village of St-Buvard with Maggie, he’d pretty quickly hit his limit. He hated to beg off from dinner this evening—especially with it being his last night before he returned to Paris—but he knew when he was done in. Besides, having guests was stressful and he figured Maggie and Laurent could both use a breather from the pressure of having to be on their best behavior.

  A chime from his cellphone on the dresser made him turn his head to see if he could see who it was without getting up. Groaning, he padded over and squinted at the screen.

  Jeremy. Again.

  He turned the phone to vibrate and tossed it down on his bed. He was well aware that if tonight was anything like this morning, it would take all his energy and mental faculties just to get the ancient showerhead to function properly.

  Laurent dragged the chaise lounge over to the brazier and then set two wine glasses down on the stone side table. He tossed one of the heavy cotton knit throws he’d taken from the living room onto the lounge and then looked to see if he could see his wife. Through the French doors, he saw her silhouette standing in the door of the kitchen. She balanced a plate of cheese and, under her arm, what was left of the baguette from lunch. Just watching her like this when she was unaware of him, gave him pleasure that never ceased to surprise him. She was slim and graceful, moving like a dancer. Every gesture she made was unselfconscious and fluid. He loved her body. Loved to watch it, loved to run his rough, callused hands down the length of it. He grinned at his thoughts and shook himself out of them.

  She stood in the doorway of the French doors.

  “Is it too cold, do you think?” she asked, hesitating.

  “I will keep you warm,” he said and then gestured to the blanket and the brazier.

  She moved toward him and set the plate down. “A long day,” she said. She looked at him, he thought, as if asking a question. As usual, he had no idea what she was really asking.

  “Oui,” he said. “I have enjoyed meeting your uncle.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Never have you mentioned him to me before.”

  “I guess that’s weird. But I haven’t seen him, myself, since I was a kid.”

  “Your father and he fought?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Maggie reached for her wine glass and settled onto the chaise lounge. Laurent draped the throw across her knees and pulled up a large outdoor armchair next to her.

  “Perhaps it is as he says,” Laurent said. “California is a long way from Atlanta.”

  Maggie looked at Laurent and frowned. “You think it might not be as he says,” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said shrugging. “Always it is possible with whatever one says.”

  “And whoever is saying it.”

  “Now I am losing the meaning of what we are saying.”

  “Never mind. The point is, you’re right. He’s a bit of a mystery.”

  “Why is he living in Paris, has he said this to you?”

  “Just that he always wanted to. What sounds weird about that to you?”

  Laurent shrugged. “Rien,” he said. “People love Paris.”

  “You don’t, do you? And you born there.”

  Laurent’s eyes glittered as he thought of the Paris of his youth. Filthy, painful, hungry, ugly Paris.

  “Stan spent forty years as a buyer for Gumps, one of the biggest department stores in San Francisco,” Maggie said, tearing off a piece of bread and tucking a wedge of cheese in it. “He told me that every year he went to Paris to the fashion shows and eventually, he got to thinking that that was where he’d go when he retired.” She shrugged and popped the piece of bread in her mouth.

  “So that is where he went,” Laurent said, reaching over and tucking a long strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Evidemment.”

  “Yeah, evidemment,” Maggie said, sipping her wine. “And you’re sure you’re okay with me going up there next week to stay with him and see the shows?”

  “Of course. It will be good for you.”

  Laurent watched her catch her breath as if she were about to say something, then think better of it. Unusual for her, he thought. It was a new sensation, watching her guard her words. He found it unsettling, as if she’d given up on something. A chill breeze came down through the dogwoods, their leaves long since gone, and flapped the cotton throw. Laurent had an image of the mistral darting through Provence, stopping just long enough to rattle his cage before moving on.

  “We should go in,” Maggie said, gathering the throw in one hand and her wine glass in the other. “Summer’s long over, Laurent.” She hurried into the house.

  Wearily, Laurent got up and turned off the fire in the brazier and picked up the cheese plate. He looked at the light coming from the inside of the house and felt strangely lonely.

  Unfortunately, tonight he would have to agree with her.

  Chapter Two

  It had been awhile since Maggie had worn heels quite this high.

  In fact, she had never worn heels this high. Or this expensive.

  Sitting with Stan at a bistro across from the Musee d’Orsay, she kept glancing down at her new shoes.

  Had Laurent really said “Go for it?” Had he heard correctly when she told
him the price?

  “Darling, they make your legs look miles long.” Stan patted her hand as he sat next to her in the booth. “You can’t possibly regret getting them.”

  Maggie had to admit they were beautiful. Black velvet platform pumps. Six inches high. She had literally tottered to her seat.

  “I live in the country, Stan,” she said.

  “So of course you need a pair of special-occasions pumps.”

  “They cost seven hundred euros.”

  “Just proving what a good thrifty girl you are. You turned down the fifteen hundred Blahniks. I, for one, marveled at your restraint.”

  “They are stupendously gorgeous,” Maggie said, wagging her foot. “And I haven’t worn anything but Keds or hiking boots in three years.”

  “I can already hear your husband calling to thank me.”

  “Really, Stan, these three days have been amazing. They were exactly what I needed.”

  “I could tell that, darling,” Stan said, pulling out a cigarette and offering it to her. She shook her head. “Since you’ve been in town, you’ve positively radiated relaxation and bonhomie.”

  “How did you get tickets to the Gaultier show again? I was agog just being there. I’d heard of Paris Fashion Week all my life.”

  “I go every year,” Stan said, shrugging. “And what with my blog, they practically throw the tickets at me.” He lighted his cigarette. “So often it’s a disappointment, or just cliché. But even those years, it’s always fun. Great fun. Especially the parties. Tonight you’ll meet my whole crowd. I hope you’re ready for them.”

  After two days of nonstop shopping and attending the fashion shows, Maggie felt nearly ready to write Stan’s fashion blog herself. She had never given much thought to her clothes before.

  “It is amazing to me how you could get to be thirty and never own a single piece of couture clothing,” Stan said shaking his head. “I mean, you didn’t always live in the backwater of France.”

  “I worked when I lived in Atlanta,” Maggie said. “And working girls don’t tend to prance about in Dolce and Gabbana and six inch heels. It’s not practical.”