“It is not far, okay?” he said as he helped her in, then squeezed himself into the driver’s seat. The motor started with a jerk and the car pushed out into the early morning Cannes traffic. Maggie turned to watch his profile as he sped through the streets, whirling down alleyways, only to emerge unscathed (as did, miraculously, the pedestrians) on the other side.
“La voiture, elle est vôtre?”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes wide. “Comment?” He neatly avoided hitting a woman walking a French poodle by driving the car onto the sidewalk and then returned to the street.
“La voiture, cette voiture.” She tapped the dashboard of the car.
“Ahhhhh!” He closed his eyes and smiled. Maggie wished he would keep his eyes on the road. “Mais, oui, yes, c’est ma voiture.”
Now, that’s more like it, Maggie thought, pleased with herself. He spoke quickly, beautifully. There was even a glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there during his labored English attempts.
“Oui,” she said. “C’est très belle.” She clutched the door handle as they revisited the sidewalk, this time to pass a little Renault Laurent obviously felt was going too slowly. “Mais, vous...vous driv-ez très fou...” She knew she was making up words but it was still her best shot.
She edged closer to the window and watched the colored, striped awnings and tents of the city’s marketplace spin by. Her eyes caught a crazy-quilt of color: tulips, asparagus, strawberries, bananas, hanging sausages, live chickens caught by their feet and twisting at the ends of long ropes, and all of it flying by in a hectic haze.
“Can we stop for breakfast?” she asked. “Est-ce que nous nous arrêtons pour le petit déjeuner?”
“Why you are speaking le français? It is because Laurent’s English is very bad, non?”
“Je parle votre langue even worse and you know it.” She turned to catch him looking at her curiously, a smile hidden behind his lips. “Breakfast, oui or non?”
“Ah, mais oui!” He turned the car abruptly into what looked like a brick wall but turned out to be a sort of bricked-up alcove serving as a parking lot. Laurent was out and helping her with her door before she had untangled her legs from the straps of her purse where it had been sitting on the floor of the car.
She could still see the gaily colored tents of the early morning market and knew they were on the outskirts of Cannes. Laurent led her to a small café and ordered two coffees. They settled themselves at a rickety outdoor table with a view of the street and, surprisingly enough, the Chateau des Abbes de Lerins. Laurent pointed it out to her.
“You see les Isles de Lerins? La?” He pointed to the islands off the gulf and then turned and pointed to the hill overlooking the water where the castle sat, tall and ominous. “Et le château? Castle, yes?” He lit a cigarette, shaking an unfiltered one from his Mediterranean-blue packet of Gaulouises, offering it first to her. She shook her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw their waiter leave the café and cross the street to a facing boulangerie, where he purchased one croissant from the baker. She watched him return to the café, place the roll on a small dish and then bring it to their table with their coffees.
Smiling hugely, Laurent took in a full breath while surveying the view they had of the Gulf of Napoule.
“Are we going someplace special today?” Maggie took a sip of her coffee.
“Ah, yes.”
Do the French say “Ah” before every sentence they utter, Maggie wondered. It was almost as if even a comment must be savored like a piece of tender lamb smothered in rosemary.
“I will take you to a place. And then Roger will come with the little girl.”
“And meantime? More sightseeing?”
“Not today.” He paused to look at her, as if assessing how much she could handle hearing. Or maybe that’s just my imagination?
“Roger will not come with the little girl until late. Your coffee is good?” He smiled at her and she felt a definite thrill filter through her, although whether from excitement or a tiny needle of fear, she wasn’t sure. Did she imagine that his English seemed to be remarkably better today?
“So, we’re still basically waiting for Roger, as usual. Is that it?”
“Oui. We are waiting again.” Laurent finished his coffee and stared out at the Gulf, its startling blueness twinkling in the sunlight. His eyes suddenly looked hooded and careful to her. It occurred to Maggie that Laurent might have had other things he’d prefer to have done than shepherding her around the South of France for the last five days.
An hour later, Maggie stood with her back to the interior of a room and looked out over a little garden. A jumble of flowers and weeds, it looked as if it had been untended for years, yet was somehow more beautiful for its neglect. Geraniums exploded in uncontrollable bushes of rich reds and oranges to border all sides of the waist-high stonewalls which enveloped the tiny plot. Roses grew wild everywhere in snaking vines along the ground and up a rotted wooden trellis that reached toward the French doors and patio where Maggie now stood. Over the garden wall she could see the Mediterranean Sea—just a patch of it, but enough to fill her with delight. The air was fragrant with the scent of lemons and roses.
“C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?” Laurent stood to her left, a glass of white wine in each hand, his eyes squinting against the sunlight, his voice light and already familiar to her.
“It’s beautiful.” She turned and held her hand out for one of the wineglasses. “You know the people who live here?”
“No one could live here.” He gestured at the ruin of the place: the garden a tangle of weeds and garbled, wayward shrubbery, the panes broken out of the French doors. There was a small wooden table in the one-room cottage, with two shaky benches propped up against it.
“But, a view of the sea? This property must cost a fortune. To just let it rot like this…” She walked out onto the patio with her wine.
Laurent followed her. “It is not a good house.” Paint had peeled off in strips to lie in crinkled husks on the floor.
“I don’t care if it’s the local crack house, Laurent. Location is everything. You could tear this place down and put a double wide here. I mean, look at that view!”
“Incredible, non?” Laurent said softly.
“It really is. The whole area is. I’d never been to the Riviera before. At least now I know what all the fuss is about. Mind you, the major fuss has to be the prices. A sandwich at the Hotel Splendid cost thirty euros! A bottle of Perrier there cost almost ten.”
Maggie suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if Laurent’s silence and the quiet beauty of the cottage were working together to unsettle her. “Um, when did you say Roger would be coming with Nicole?” She turned to face him, her back to the panoramic blue view.
“In a little while.”
“What is a little while? Hours?”
“Oui, Maggie. Hours.”
“And we’re to stay here? But, there’s nothing here for us to do. Couldn’t we have waited in Monte Carlo? Or Antibes? I mean, it’s pretty, but there’s not even a decent table to sit at.”
Laurent smiled. “We won’t need a table. Come, bring your wine.” He turned and scooped up a small backpack and moved out into the garden. Maggie followed him.
“Laurent?”
“Oui?” He took out a small tablecloth and spread it carefully, ceremoniously, across the weeds, buttercups and violets.
“Did you know my sister?” It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that Laurent might have been the friend who took Nicole from Elise for Gerard and, if not, then perhaps one of Elise’s ex-boyfriends?
He began to unpack the small canvas bag of picnic supplies. “Non, Maggie, I met your sister only once. I am sorry.” He took out a large jar of mushrooms swimming in olive oil, two long baguettes, fresh pears, strawberries, a small wheel each of Gouda and Edam cheeses, and a roasted chicken pricked with toothpicks of baby onions.
“So you’re just doing all thi
s to help out Roger?”
“He is a friend.” He looked up at her again and smiled. “But perhaps I am doing all this for someone other than Roger.”
Maggie started to feel that unsettled feeling in her stomach she sometimes felt when Laurent looked at her in a certain way. His eyes were so probing she knew he had probably already figured out exactly how she looked in her bra and panties—if not less. Just the thought made her blush, and work to change the subject.
“But Roger told you about Elise?”
“He said she was a girl who had trouble.”
“That’s true.” Maggie sat down next to Laurent and picked up a pear. It felt fat and juicy in her hand. “When did you buy all this stuff? I never saw you do it.”
“Ahhh, we French, we are clever, non?”
“Roger never really knew her either.” She put a hand on Laurent’s sleeve and he seemed to freeze under her touch. “But you’ve heard stuff. You heard about her, didn’t you, Laurent?”
He sighed and finished emptying his knapsack: napkins, forks, another bottle of wine. “What you hear in a town like Cannes is...” He shrugged.
“Look, Laurent, I know my sister did drugs. I don’t think you can tell me anything that is going to surprise me. But if you know anything about her...”
Laurent turned without speaking and put a large hand on top of Maggie’s slim one. When he did, she felt an electric shock build in her chest and begin to hum down her arm to where it connected with his. His eyes were dark and unreadable. “You would not be shocked,” he said, “mais non, and in my country, to have the bèbè with no father is...not so terrible.” He shrugged.
“Please, tell me what you’ve heard.”
“Nothing very bad. Perhaps she smoked cannabis and she was toujours a part of the folie á deux, you understand? Always she was choosing the wrong man.”
Maggie moved her hand from his and picked up the jar of mushrooms. She watched them bob and float in their oily mire. “I imagine you’re right about the men she chose. She was an artist. Did you know that? She came to Paris six years ago.” Maggie put down the mushrooms and stared out to the Mediterranean.
“You were close with her, yes?” Laurent tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in a saucer of olive oil and offered it to her. She took it absently.
“When we were kids. After we got older, we weren’t. She dressed odd and hung around weirdoes and she wasn’t interested in college or anything.” She looked at Laurent and suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss those full lips. She turned away.
“Nothing like me. I always knew what I wanted to do. I liked college and I liked outfits that, you know, matched. She scared me a little, and that’s funny because that just now occurred to me. And if you knew her, you’d think I was crazy because she was totally unintimidating. Sweet and maybe a little goofy, but not formidable at all.
“Anyway, she came over here to go to school. Our folks said they thought it would be good for her. Or maybe she was just this major embarrassment to them back home and it was easier if she did her aimless mayhem from a few thousand miles away. That’s an awful thing to say.” She looked at Laurent and found him watching her intently. “I loved her.”
“Bien sûr.”
“And I still can’t believe she wanted the life she wanted.”
“It was not a life you would have chosen.”
“Smoking and shooting dope?”
Laurent made no response.
“And having babies out of wedlock? Maybe y’all do that sort of thing over here and it’s no big deal, but it’s a definite faux pas where I come from.”
“Perhaps that is why your sister came to France, non? It is, for her, a world that understands her better.”
“I just couldn’t believe she could live the childhood we both had—going to the beach and the mountains, with our own ponies and private schools and stuff—and after all that she could say, ‘Naaahhh, not for me.’”
Laurent poured her a glass of wine.
“At first, she wrote home, but soon she stopped going to classes and then she stopped writing or calling. Turns out she’d gotten pregnant, had the child, and never mentioned it to us. Never called to tell us. Can you believe that?”
“Your mother and father were angry?”
“They were worried. But I have to admit, I don’t know why more wasn’t done.” Maggie pushed her thick, dark hair from her eyes. “I hate myself for thinking they didn’t go looking for her because they were afraid they might have found her. Like maybe she’d want to come home and be the crazy artist in their neighborhood and around their country club and stuff.” She looked into Laurent’s eyes, her own misting. “Why am I thinking that? My parents adored Elise. They did.”
“But they did not look for her?”
“It was about three years ago and I was all caught up in my job and stuff. I mean, I knew it was all going on, but I was super busy at the office. I’m in advertising.”
“Ahhh.” He nodded and smiled politely and Maggie found herself feeling stupid again.
“It’s a really great job. I write the words, you see, for the ads. You know? Television commercials and stuff?”
Laurent nodded while he unscrewed a jar of fragrant tapenade and rummaged in the basket for a knife with which to spread the olive mixture.
“Anyway, it’s a great job,” Maggie repeated, her eyes watching the blue horizon of the Mediterranean as it merged with the blue southern sky. “Very fast-paced and exciting. You meet a lot of interesting people, too. Plus, it gives me a creative outlet. I think that’s important.”
Laurent lit a cigarette and exhaled a puff of blue smoke between them.
“I’ve wanted to be a copywriter ever since I saw the early Heineken ads...you remember the ones?”
“I don’t watch much television,” Laurent said.
“They were print ads.”
From across the courtyard and down the vineyard-studded hills, she noticed a colorful, flapping line of laundered clothes starkly visible against the landscape of browns and muted greens. The clothesline bucked and twisted in the bright sky like the gay signal flags she’d seen on the yachts moored in the harbor at Monte Carlo.
Maggie brushed a dusting of pollen from her cotton dress and Laurent reached over and took her hand in his. She looked at him, her heart pounding with the thrill of what she knew was coming as the big Frenchman leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth. She felt the coarseness of his rough face against her cheek.
Slowly, she moved toward him, folding herself against his broad chest, smelling the soap and sunshine in his blue cotton pullover. A moment passed and he lifted her chin with his fingers and looked into her eyes. He kissed her again. His tongue pushed gently past her lips into her mouth and his arms tightened around her.
Maggie was vaguely aware of the Mediterranean sun caressing her bare arms and legs, and of her cotton sundress pulled high across her thighs. She could smell the redolent mixture of olives and lemons and sun-sweetened grass and roses. And when she felt him kiss her, she felt nothing else about Elise or Nicole or Atlanta, or her own fears of failure.
3
Maggie had seven hours to roll the thought over and over in her mind: an indescribably sexy Frenchman brought her to a magic place by the sea and then made her his own in every sense of the word.
Twice.
Every time she thought of it—thought of him, his large warm hands on her skin, his full lips nibbling at her ear lobe, his husky, whispered voice against her throat—she began to tingle and blush in a way that made it impossible to sit still.
And then she had gotten on a plane and left.
Even now, Maggie found it difficult to believe she could have gone where he took her, emotionally and physically, only to walk away for good. Had she really not expected something like this to happen with him? With Laurent, whose every smile, every gesture was so damn sexy she nearly had to fan herself just sipping an espresso with him in broad daylight on the r
ue Meynardiers Had he really taken her by surprise? Or hadn’t she been longing for it, for him, ever since she looked up to see him standing next to her at the breakfast terrace of the Hotel d’Albion that very first day?
From the warmth and exhilaration of their sweet union late that afternoon until this moment, where she sat on a Boeing 747 revving its engines for takeoff, it was clear that a very right thing had developed between them. A very right, but very fleeting thing. Her heart stuttered at the thought of not seeing Laurent again, and she cursed the fact she couldn’t just enjoy the moment—and the adventure—for what it was. She glanced over at the child sitting next to her and reminded herself that it had been a very successful adventure on all counts.
Bentley brought Nicole to the little house not an hour after she and Laurent had made love on the grass by the sea. One brief hour to lay in each other’s arms and talk—or not—and feed each other the picnic feast…and make love again.
One hour before the whole adventure successful concluded with the sound of Bentley rapping on the door in the early evening and placing Nicole in her arms.
When the flight attendant walked by to double-check everyone’s seatback tray compliance, Maggie glanced down at the blank-eyed child sitting next to her. Elise’s baby, her own niece, flesh of her flesh. Maggie spoke softly, gently to the girl. “Nicole? Ça va, Nicole?”
The child lifted her head and looked at Maggie, but her eyes held no expression. In spite of the seatbelt sign and the imminent departure, Maggie had an impulse to gather the girl up into her arms and hold her, as if by doing so she could make it all right again.
Bentley had very little to say about the details of where he had found Nicole. He gave Maggie the forged passport—well paid for by her father—and after dropping her and Nicole off at her hotel, he and Laurent disappeared into the night. Maggie had been so busy with the overnight care of the little waif she barely had time to process what had happened between her and Laurent.
Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 3
