“Oh, not to tease poor Maggie,” Laurent said. “She is being wonderful. Her French is much improved, do you not think so?”
Connor settled himself on the arm of an old wooden deck chair. “Say something, Maggie,” he urged.
“Buzz-ay off-ay,” she replied sweetly.
“No, come on, Maggie,” Connor wheedled. “We’re your friends and we’re just trying to help you.”
“Parles! Parles!" Windsor and Grace began to chant. Speak! Speak! Connor joined in.
Maggie turned to Laurent. “Thank you, darling. A very much lot, okay? Don’t you have sauces to burn in la cuisine?"
"Il n’est pas trop diffiçile!" Connor said, polishing off his wine and eyeing the bottle again.
“Yeah, well if I had a pot of money that let me do nothing but study French all day long, I guess my French would be pretty good too―”
“It’s true,” Connor said, his eyes crinkled in a grin. “And that’s just what I do all day long too.”
Again, everyone laughed.
“You know, Connor,” Maggie said, “speaking of what you do? I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot, O Curious One.”
“No, in the kitchen.” She smiled at him with challenge and mischief in her eyes. “Laurent, is there something we can do for you in there? Toss the salad? Put pickles on a plate?”
Laurent looked at his watch and seemed to be calculating the timing of his courses. “I suppose if you promised not to touch anything. That would be a help,” he said.
Maggie ushered Connor through the French doors and into the living room.
“Wow,” he said, looking around the huge room. “Square dancing next time? Or is shuffleboard your game?”
“I know,” she said, still prodding him onward. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”
Connor sighed and allowed himself to be directed. “That’s what all the girls say,” he said, as he walked through the living room to the warm glow of the kitchen.
“God, do you ever let up?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Once in the kitchen, Maggie reached for another bottle of champagne and handed it to Connor.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s all this about you getting a local girl pregnant?”
“God! What is the man cooking?” Connor held the champagne bottle tightly between two thumbs to force the cork out while he craned his neck to see inside the unlidded pots bubbling away on the stove. “It smells like heaven on a plate. Like ambrosia from the gods, like―”
“Yes, yes, very tasty. Now, seriously, Connor, I know we don’t know each other very―”
“Don’t know each other?” The champagne bottle made a muted pop as he eased the cork out of it. Maggie held out two champagne glasses. “We’re fellow Americans, right?” he said. “We’re both from the eastern seaboard, right?”
“Okay, well, then, what is all this about―”
“God, Grace cannot keep her mouth shut, you know? I love her to death but the woman must broadcast.” He poured both their glasses and looked at her.
“Well, you know, Connor, it was Lydie that really started the beans slipping out of the jar.”
He set the champagne bottle down and sighed. Both he and Maggie could hear the sounds of more laughter coming from the terrace. Maggie wondered who was being witty.
“It was just one of those things, you know?”
“Babette was, you mean?”
Connor took a long drink and then nodded. “She’s cute as a button, have you seen her?”
“Connor, you said yourself. This sort of thing just isn’t on in a town of this size, out here in the hinterlands.”
“I know, I know.” He wiped a pearl of condensation from his glass. “I feel bad about it.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Jesus, Maggie, you’re not suggesting I marry the girl?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Maggie said truthfully. She regarded Connor carefully. “Have you talked to her?” she asked.
“I’ve offered her money, I’ve offered to take her to Aix to have an abortion, I’ve...I’ve even offered to talk to her father, although, I must say, I thought that was above and beyond.”
“You’d rather pay her off.”
“And I feel bad about that!” Connor held up his hands, his champagne glass held in one. “But what can I do? I mean, she’s a nice girl and all and I feel like a rat, okay? Putting her in this spot. But what can I do?"
Maggie frowned. “You have a responsibility, Connor.”
“I very much care about this. I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I care about my actions,” he said. “And about what you and Laurent think of me.”
“We like you,” she said.
“I’m glad. I like you guys, too.” He grinned and reached for the champagne bottle. She declined, indicating her full glass.
“What’s really awful,” Connor said, “is Grace knowing about this, what with what’s happening with her and Windsor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought she might have told you. She adores you.”
“I think she’s wonderful, too.”
“Well, about me getting Babette pregnant and all when she and Win are trying everything they can to get pregnant.”
Maggie stood watching him.
“She hadn’t said anything to you?” Connor asked.
Maggie shook her head.
“Yeah, it’s kinda tough.” Connor leaned against the counter and sighed. “I got my information from Windsor, not Grace. It’s been really hard on both of them.”
“Do they know what the problem is?”
“I guess all the tests say that there is no problem. She’s normal, he’s normal...”
“And they can obviously produce children, right? I mean, there’s Taylor.”
“One would assume. Listen, if you’ve finished grilling me about the fair Babette…?” He motioned toward the terrace with his champagne glass and smiled winningly. “Only, muss up your hair a little, will you? It’s my reputation, you see...”
“Get outta here.” Maggie pushed past him good-naturedly and led the way back to the group outside.
“Laurent won’t mind,” Connor protested. “He’s French. He expects this sort of thing to go on in his own kitchen.”
“What has gone on in my kitchen? You touched nothing?” Laurent said as he met them in the living room on his way back into the kitchen. He wagged a big finger at the both of them.
“Oh, Laurent, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, patting his arm as she walked on through. “We just added a wee bit of Worcestershire sauce to the roue. We both agreed it’s much improved.”
“And I doctored up those little puff-ball things you had sittin’ there,” Connor added happily. “You’d left the grape jelly out, big guy. Easy mistake to make.”
Laurent rolled his eyes at them both and turned back toward the kitchen as Maggie and Connor rejoined Grace and Windsor on the terrace. Once outside, Connor immediately went over to Grace and nestled beside her.
“Have a nice little chat, did you?” Grace said, eyeing them both curiously.
“Maggie wanted to make sure I wasn’t a total cretin by getting the baker girl pregnant,” Connor said, poking a finger into the empty pâté crock.
“And did he convince you?” Grace asked brightly, turning in Maggie’s direction.
“Well, yes, actually he did,” Maggie said, as she settled down on a small stone bench opposite the three. “And I agree, a small wedding service will be best under the circumstances. Nothing too noisy that might call too much attention to―”
“You’re kidding.” Grace’s mouth fell open. Maggie struggled to keep her own face serious.
“Windsor, take this woman home,” Connor said, jabbing Windsor on the shoulder. “She’s hopelessly drunk.”
“You are kidding,” Grace said, her face falling into a sheepish grin.
“She’s kidding,”
Connor said, smiling. “So listen, what’s happening on the dinner front?” He leaned over and snaked a cigarette from a pack that Grace had placed beside her on the bench. “Je suis starving, you-all.”
“You are a man of many appetites,” Windsor said cryptically.
“God, Windsor, you sounded just like Peter Lorre from Casablanca when you said that.” Connor lit his cigarette and twisted in his seat to look at Windsor. “And Grace said you had no talents.” He took a quick drag off his stolen cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air over everyone’s heads.
“You’re feeling your Cheerios tonight, aren’t you?” Grace smiled at Connor but Maggie noticed something a little cool under the smile.
“We’re all hungry,” Maggie said as she hopped up. “Let me see how close we are to the first course.” Windsor stood up to refill everyone’s wine glasses as Maggie went to join Laurent in the kitchen.
She stood at the open door of the kitchen and watched her lover’s broad back as he worked deftly at the range. Quickly, he ladled up ratatouille into five small blue ramekins, then turned and saw Maggie watching him.
“Bon," he said. “You can bring out the first bowls.”
“Can I bring in the first kiss first?” she said stepping up to him, careful not to entangle with any whisks, spoons or other kitchen apparatus he might be connected to. She noticed the single bead of sweat marking a line down his brow as he leaned over to kiss her fully on the mouth.
The French, she thought with amusement, as he pulled away to resume his preparations. They don’t do anything half way when it comes to cooking or kissing.
“We didn’t really put grape jelly in the d’agneau en croûte, “ she said as she carefully lifted the tray of steaming bowls.
Laurent looked up from the bottle of Côtes du Rhône he was in the process of opening. “Je sais, chérie, " he said. I know. “Connor is a funny man, no?”
“Pretty funny,” she said, watching his face closely.
“But there is something not very funny under the joke, n’est-ce pas?" Laurent brought the cork out and held it up like an ill-shapen tooth extracted by a proud dentist. “Monsieur MacKenzie has, I think, a not very funny secret or two.” He turned his back on her to attend a bubbling pot. “Vas y, Maggie,” he said over his shoulder. “The stew is served hot tonight. Veuillez, vite, vite!"
Maggie turned and hurried across the polished wooden floor of the living room to the glowing lights and laughter of the terrace. As she walked, she could hear Grace’s laugh, high and musical, floating in from among the hollyhocks and towering apple trees.
“You’re kidding? You can afford a whole, complete house in Westwood? As in Westwood, Los Angeles? That’s where your other house is in the States?” Maggie pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and stood up over the table searching for a potholder.
“Well, we’re rich,” Windsor said drunkenly.
“Oh, Win, shut up.” Grace gave him a playful slap. “We are not rich.”
“We are, too.” He looked sleepily up at Maggie who used the potholder to cover the heated handle on the espresso pot and was pouring their coffees.
Dinner had taken a relaxing three hours to consume, punctuated with laughter and conversation that grew fuzzier yet somehow more interesting as the wine continued to pour. “At least, then, we’re really, really, really, really...” He looked at Grace with a dull, glazed expression “...comfortable.”
“You certainly are, that’s clear,” Connor said sarcastically, regarding his friend’s inebriated state just as Windsor’s elbow refused to hold up his chin, which collapsed into the remnants of his créme brulée.
“Oh, Windsor!” Grace said in dismay. “You’re making a mess.” She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were unhappy and tired. “I’m sorry, Maggie. We’d probably better call it a night.”
“That’s okay,” Maggie said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I guess it’s getting sort of late anyway.”
“It’s only eleven o’clock!” Connor protested.
Laurent was sitting back in his chair, his arm draped gracefully over the back of Maggie’s chair. He smoked and watched Connor.
“Can’t we put him to bed somewhere?” Connor asked, looking at Maggie and raising his eyebrows. “Maybe? Or, hell, we could throw him in the backseat of the car...? Gracie?”
“Don’t call me that, Connor, “ she said testily. “And I’m not throwing him in the backseat―”
“Grace, if you want,” Maggie said, “he could take a little rest on the couch. It’s just in the living room...”
“What a novel place to hide a couch.” Connor jumped up to catch Windsor under the arms in order to maneuver him into the other room. Maggie realized with surprise that, for no good reason that she could think of, she had been a little annoyed with Connor all night.
“Laurent, can you help, please?” she asked.
“I’ll take one side, Laurent,” Connor said. Maggie was struck by the fact that this was the first time she had ever heard Connor call Laurent by his name. They carried Windsor into the house. Grace watched with concern until the doors shut behind them. She sighed and lit up another cigarette. Laurent and Connor, after settling poor Windsor down on the couch, retired to the kitchen for Calvados. Maggie felt some relief and wondered why.
“Don’t worry about him, Grace,” she said, smiling.
Grace waved away a wisp of blue smoke and Maggie’s concern.
“I’m not, I’m not,” she said. “He never does this sort of thing. Really.”
Maggie pulled her chair closer to Grace’s and picked up a lighted cigarette from the ashtray.
“You don’t smoke, do you?” Grace asked, frowning.
“No, and I wish Laurent wouldn’t either.” Maggie held up the cigarette between two fingers and waved it as if she were about to bring it to her lips. “It can look sort of romantic though. When you do it, for example.”
“I hate the things,” Grace said, looking at her own cigarette. “I’m incapable of quitting, though. I am sorry about tonight, Maggie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Maggie looked at her with surprise. “Nothing happened.” she asked. “Windsor fell asleep...”
“He got drunk.”
“Sometimes Laurent does that,” Maggie lied.
“I cannot imagine that.” Grace turned her glance briefly in the direction of the kitchen. “Monsieur Self-control? Not possible.”
“Oh, he has his moments, believe me.” Maggie put down the cigarette. “You think Laurent is pretty flat, I guess, huh? Sort of, nonemotional?”
“You could say that!” Grace laughed and touched Maggie’s arm. “But he’s gorgeous, Maggie, and that accent of his positively makes me damp, I am serious! Don’t you dare tell him I said that!”
They both laughed. Grace’s annoyance with Windsor seemed to dissipate, the tension easing out of the moment like air escaping from a balloon.
“Windsor and I are trying to get pregnant again,” Grace said, and sucked hard on her cigarette.
“A sister or brother for Taylor?” Maggie asked cheerfully, not wanting to give away the game of already knowing.
“Did you know Taylor plays the piano?”
Maggie shook her head.
“No, I mean, she plays―like a miniature Mozart. She’s got a gift. God knows she didn’t get it from me or Win.” Grace stared out across the blackness that was Laurent’s vineyard. “She’s a brilliant musician and no one’s really sure how it happened.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.” Grace shook herself out of her dreamy stare and smiled at Maggie. “Still a little pain in the butt too much of the time. But brilliant.”
“So, you’re going for the rest of the orchestra, huh?”
“We have gone through nearly three years of infertility, Maggie.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
“You don’t know what I mean, do you?”
“I know it’
s sometimes hard to conceive when you want to,” she said, pulling her demitasse toward her and pointing to the espresso pot.
Grace shook her head. She crushed out her cigarette and shook the last one out of her pack. She twisted the empty package before lighting up.
“What it means is a lot of tests and shots and drugs and trips to the doctor. It means wanting to kill yourself every time your period rolls around and, instead of morning sickness, you’re in bed with cramps again. It means having sex with your husband on a schedule―not when you feel like it. It means crying every time you see a pregnant woman or a little baby. And panicking instead of celebrating every birthday and not taking vacations because you’re afraid to miss a cycle of treatment.”
Grace took a big breath and Maggie could see her hand was shaking. “Anyway,” she said, looking up at Maggie and smiling, “today’s the day, you know?”
“‘The day’?”
“I ovulated today. It’s my window of opportunity. Lucky me, n’est-ce pas?"
“Oh.” And Windsor is passed out drunk on the couch in my living room. “Oh, Grace,” Maggie said, “is the window really that small?”
“You’d be surprised,” Grace said bitterly, watching the glowing ember on the tip of her cigarette.
Chapter Five
1
Late November came to St-Buvard in the form of a rude stretch of icy weather. Mornings left a halo of cold fog over the vineyards, the mist rising up in clouds as if the ground itself were gasping. The barking of far-off farm dogs would break the frigid air and echo down the valley away from the hilltop village. There was a definite scent of decay in the air that mingled with the thin curls of blue smoke from the village chimneys.
Maggie had spent the two weeks since the dinner party concentrating on preparations for the Thanksgiving visit of her parents and niece, who were due to arrive in two days. Consumed with decorating their large, and now, it had become evident, drafty, mas, she had seen very little of Grace or Windsor or Connor. Except for almost daily phone calls and the occasional hurried lunch at Le Canard, Maggie had seen more of Madame Renoir at the boulangerie than she had of Grace.
Murder à la Carte (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 8
