“Why not?” she asked, looking surprised when he said it. “Gabriel loved your father too. He knows he was a great man, and how much he meant to me. He doesn’t expect me to forget him, or to stop telling clients about him when they come to the restaurant to see his work. That’s why they come here.”
“But Gabriel comes here because he loves you,” Theo said gently. He always marveled at Gabriel’s tolerance of being number two in his mother’s life, playing second fiddle to a man who had been dead for twelve years, and had been anything but the saint she described him as. As much as he had loved and admired his father, he thought Gabriel was the better man, and far kinder to his mother than his father in his final years. He had been a great artist, but a very difficult man. He had never been easy to live with, even in his youth, according to people who had known him then. And his talent, burning within him like a white-hot flame, sometimes seared those closest to him and who loved him most.
Gabriel took a great interest in Theo’s artwork too. He never offered to represent him, because he thought Theo should have his own gallery and not live in his father’s shadow. Theo was a very talented artist, with an entirely different perception than Lorenzo’s, but almost of equal talent, once he developed it for a few more years.
At thirty, Theo was well on his way, and extremely serious about his work. And the only thing he ever allowed to distract him were his mother’s occasional requests to help her at the restaurant—if something went wrong, they were overbooked, or short-handed, which only happened from time to time. And as much as his mother enjoyed the restaurant, Theo didn’t. He hated having to greet the guests, and listening to his mother extol his father’s virtues. He had heard more than enough of it for all the years he was growing up, and even more so since his father’s death. Listening to it made him want to scream. And he didn’t enjoy the public hustle-bustle of the restaurant. Theo was a quieter, more private person than his mother.
Gabriel had given him the names of galleries he thought Theo should pursue, but he modestly insisted he wasn’t ready yet, and wanted to work for another year or two before he had a show in Paris. He had exhibited his work at several art fairs but hadn’t settled on a gallery. Gabriel insisted that he should—he was a strong supportive force in Theo’s life. Despite the oddity of their lopsided relationship, Theo was grateful that Gabriel was in his mother’s life too. And like Gabriel, he hoped that they might marry one day, if Maylis felt ready to move forward, which clearly she didn’t yet.
Marriage wasn’t high on Theo’s list of priorities either. He had had several relationships that lasted for a few months or a year, and many for a lot less. He was too dedicated to his work as an artist to put a lot of energy into the women he went out with, and they always complained about it and eventually left. And he was sensitive to gold-digging women who were interested in him because of who his father was, and he tried to avoid that. He had been dating Chloe, his current girlfriend, for six months. She was an artist too, but did commercial work that sold to tourists out of a gallery in St. Tropez. It was a far cry from what Theo did, with his background and degree from the Beaux-Arts, his genetic heritage and inherited talent, and long-term serious ambitions. All she wanted was to make enough money to pay the rent, and she’d been complaining a lot recently that he didn’t spend enough time with her and they never went anywhere. That was how most of his relationships ended, and his current one seemed to be heading there. Chloe had reached the familiar phase of complaining all the time. He was in a particularly intense work phase at the moment, developing some new techniques that he was anxious to perfect. He wasn’t in love with Chloe, but they had fun in bed, and she had a great body. At thirty, she had suddenly started talking about marriage, which was usually a death knell for him. He wasn’t ready to settle down or have kids. And she was becoming increasingly strident about his work. In the battle between women and his artwork, his work inevitably won.
—
Maylis was checking the tables in the garden, as she did every night, making sure that there were flowers and candles on every table, the linens were impeccable, and the silver gleaming. She was a perfectionist in all things, and ran a tight ship. She had learned a lot about running a restaurant in the last few years. And there was nothing casual about Da Lorenzo. The garden restaurant was as beautiful as the food and wines were fabulous. One of the waiters came to get her as she made her rounds. They had a full house, as usual, and would open for dinner in two hours.
“Madame Luca, Jean-Pierre is on the phone.” He was her brilliantly efficient maître d’, and the fact that he was calling wasn’t a good sign, as the waiter handed her the phone.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, still wearing jeans and a white shirt. She was going to dress in an hour. She usually wore a black silk dress, high heels, and a string of pearls, with her long white hair neatly coiffed in a bun. She was still a pretty woman at sixty-three.
“I’m afraid not,” Jean-Pierre said, sounding ill. “I had lunch in Antibes today, and I’m sick as a dog. Bad mussels, I think.”
“Damn,” she said, looking at her watch. She still had time to call Theo, although she knew how much he hated it. But it was a family restaurant, and when she or the maître d’ couldn’t work, she always called her son, and he never refused her pleas for help.
“I’m too sick to come in.” He sounded it over the phone, and Jean-Pierre never called in sick unless he was really ill.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll call Theo. I’m sure he has nothing to do.” He was always in his studio working. He had very little social life, and painted on most nights.
Jean-Pierre apologized again and hung up, and she called her son a minute later. It rang for quite a while, and then Theo picked up, sounding distracted. He was going to let it ring and then glanced at the phone and saw who it was.
“Hello, Maman. What’s up?” He squinted at the canvas as he spoke to her, not sure if he liked what he’d just done. He was very critical of his own work, as his father had been with his.
“Jean-Pierre is sick.” She got right to the point. “Can you bail me out?”
Theo groaned. “I’m just working on something, and I hate to stop. And I promised Chloe I’d take her out tonight.”
“We can feed her here, if she’s willing to eat late.” He knew that would mean dinner between eleven P.M. and midnight, after most of the customers left. And he wouldn’t have time to sit down with her until then. He would have to supervise the waiters, and spend time with their most important guests, to make sure their dinners were going well. His mother would keep an eye on the really illustrious ones, and see to their needs, but he would have to take care of his share too. The one thing he never admitted was that he was Lorenzo Luca’s son. He preferred to be anonymous when he worked for her, and his mother indulged him, although she thought he should be proud of it. But at Theo’s request, she never told any of their customers that he was her son. And she was grateful for his help. He was attentive to her, patient with her, and helpful when he could be. He thought it his duty, as an only child, and he liked his mother, despite her quirks. They had always gotten along, although she worried about him being alone and rarely liked the women he went out with.
“What time do you need me to come in?” He didn’t sound happy. He respected her success with the restaurant, and admired her for it, but he hated being there himself and, even more, wearing a suit and tie in the heat, and having to be charming to strangers he’d never see again. His mother was far more extroverted and loved it. The restaurant replaced a social life for her, and gave her contact with a wide variety of interesting people.
“You can come at seven-thirty. Our first sitting is at eight,” she said. Sometimes they got Americans who wanted to come earlier, but not that night. All the clients on their reservation list were European, except for Vladimir Stanislas, which was a major coup, and she was aware that he had never been there before. She wanted everything to go seamlessly that night, particularly for him.
She knew about his art collection, and was hoping he would stop to admire Lorenzo’s work, which was obviously why he was coming. He had booked a table for two, through a regular guest of theirs.
“Chloe is going to kill me,” he said, wondering what to say to her. All he could do was tell her the truth, that his mother needed him to help out at the restaurant, which she would think was an excuse to avoid taking her out.
“You can make it up to her tomorrow night,” his mother said cheerfully.
“Maybe not. I want to work.” He was at a tough spot on the painting he was working on, and hated going out two nights in a row before he had solved the problems that were slowing him down. His father had been that way too. Nothing existed in his universe except the canvas he was working on. “Okay, never mind. I’ll deal with it. I’ll come in.” He never let her down.
“Thank you, darling. If you come at seven, you can eat with the waiters. They’re having bouillabaisse tonight, with rouille.” She knew it was one of his favorites, although he could order anything he wanted, but he never took advantage of the fact that he was the boss’s son. Theo preferred to eat what the others did, and wasn’t a demanding person, unlike his father.
He called Chloe as soon as he and his mother hung up, and gave her the bad news. She wasn’t pleased.
“I’m really sorry.” He had promised to take her out for socca, which was like pizza made of chickpeas, baked in a special oven, and they both loved it. It was a local dish, and they were serving it in the square that night. She loved playing boules with the old men afterward, which was a thrill for them, to have a pretty young woman join their game. Theo enjoyed it too, when he wasn’t working, and now he couldn’t do anything with her except midnight supper, if she was willing. “I promised to help my mother. She just called me, the maître d’ is sick. She said you’re welcome to come to dinner, if you don’t mind eating late. We can probably grab a table at eleven, if the guests are starting to leave by then.” But they both knew that at Da Lorenzo, people often stayed much later. The surroundings were too romantic and the atmosphere too welcoming for anyone to want to leave early, which was part of the restaurant’s success, along with fabulous food and great art.
“I was hoping to be in bed by then,” Chloe said tartly, “and not alone. I haven’t seen you in a week.” She sounded angry again, which had become the norm.
“I’ve been working,” he said, thinking he sounded lame. It was always his excuse.
“I don’t know why you can’t stop at a decent hour. I leave my studio by six every day.” But she did second-rate commercial work, although he would never have said that to her. His was of a far different caliber than hers, but he was never rude about her work.
“I work different hours than you do. But anyway, I’m stuck tonight. Do you want to come to the restaurant late?” It was the best he could offer her, and a fabulous meal if she did.
“No, I don’t. I don’t want to get all dressed up. I was going to wear shorts and a T-shirt. The restaurant is a little too fancy for me. Socca, boules, and bed immediately after sounded good to me.”
“It sounded good to me too, and a lot more fun than wearing a suit and tie, but I’ve got to give my mother a hand.” That annoyed Chloe too. She had met his mother a couple of times, and found her a little too serious about art, and possessive of her only son. And Chloe wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about the great Lorenzo Luca, which bored her to tears. She wanted to go out and have a good time with him. She had thought he was a great guy at first, handsome and sexy and terrific in bed. Now she found him much too serious about his work. “I’ll call you when I finish,” he said. “Maybe I could come by.” She didn’t answer at first, and a few minutes later, sounding petulant, she hung up.
Theo went to take a shower then, and an hour later he was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, and a red tie, on his way to the restaurant, in his ancient deux chevaux. Chloe didn’t like his car either, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t buy a better one. He was hardly a starving artist, even though he liked looking like one. He was tall and handsome in the dark suit, with his dark hair brushed. He had dark brown eyes like his father, and he had the unconsciously good looks of Italian men. His mother appeared more French. He had an innate style about him that women loved.
Maylis was in the kitchen, talking to the chef, when he got to the restaurant. She went over the menu carefully every day, and she had been tasting some of the amuse-bouches, and was telling the chef they were exceptionally good that night. She smiled when she saw her son. He sauntered into the kitchen, looking strikingly attractive, and she thanked him for coming in. And then she hurried off to check something in the garden again, as Theo chatted with the waiters. They all thought he was a nice guy. And then they all took their places. Theo and his mother were ready and waiting when the first guests arrived at eight o’clock. Another night of unforgettable dining at Da Lorenzo had begun.
—
Vladimir and Natasha left their cabin, made their way downstairs to the lower aft deck, and walked past all the speedboats and toys they had onboard, to where the tender was waiting to take them to shore. It was a high-speed boat Vladimir had had built for three million dollars and particularly enjoyed. It was designed to outrun anyone on the water, and they were at the dock of the Hôtel du Cap within minutes, where one of the crew members of the boat had Vladimir’s Ferrari waiting for him at the hotel. He sometimes took a bodyguard in a chase car, but all was peaceful in his world at the moment, and he didn’t feel he needed one tonight. He got behind the wheel of the car, and they took off. It would be a short ride to St. Paul de Vence in the fast car.
Natasha put her seatbelt on as Vladimir turned on the radio, and played a CD he knew Natasha loved. He was in a festive mood, and looking forward to dinner and seeing the art at the restaurant. And Natasha was exceptionally pretty in a short pale pink dress she hadn’t worn before. It was Chanel haute couture with a demure little lace schoolgirl collar and no back that he had selected for her, with matching sandals in the same color. She looked exquisite, as always.
“I like your new dress.” He smiled at her admiringly as they got on the road, and she nodded, pleased that he had noticed, although he’d picked it himself. She had worn her hair down and looked very young. He was wearing a white linen suit, which set off his tan from being on the boat. With the exception of a few hours in his office that morning, they had spent the day relaxing and lying in the sun. And they both had deep tans. “I love it. You look like a little girl, until you turn around.” The dress showed off her perfectly tanned back with no bra line. She always sunbathed topless on the boat. And the back of the dress was cut down to her waist. The dress was sexy and innocent all at the same time. “I’m interested to see the art tonight,” he said, as they drove along. Their reservation was at eight-thirty, and he wanted to look around before they sat down to dine.
“So am I,” she said easily, as they drove with the top down. The night was warm, and she had tied her hair back for the brief ride to St. Paul de Vence. It took them half the normal time to get there in the Ferrari, the way he drove, and an attendant took their car when they arrived at the restaurant, which from the street seemed like an ordinary, rambling house. They stepped into a courtyard through an archway, as the parking attendant roared away in the Ferrari and a woman in a black dress with snow-white hair in a bun walked toward them with a smile. Maylis had recognized Vladimir immediately. As she approached them and introduced herself as Madame Luca, she glanced at Natasha with interest.
“Your table will be ready in five minutes. Would you like to walk around inside the house and see Lorenzo’s work first?” she asked as though they were friends, and Vladimir nodded, pleased that they had time for a quick look before dinner.
Natasha followed him into the house, as she let down her hair. The walls were white so as not to distract from the art, and instantly they were surrounded by Lorenzo’s work. The paintings were all hung close together becaus
e there were so many of them, and the subtleties of his palette and the masterful quality of his brushstrokes struck them immediately. When Vladimir stopped to admire a painting of a beautiful young woman, they both recognized her as the woman who had greeted them. And beneath the painting was a small bronze plaque that said “Not for Sale.” Vladimir was mesmerized by the painting, and could barely tear himself away to move on to the next one. Natasha was impressed by all of them as she walked from one to the other, and noticed the same bronze plaque below each one.
“Well, it’s clearly not a gallery,” he said, looking slightly irritated, after noticing all the “Not for Sale” signs too. They toured the room, then walked down a hall lined with his work and into another room. None of the paintings were for sale. “She treats it like a museum,” Vladimir commented.
“I read about it online today. This is all her collection, and supposedly she has many, many more in storage and in his studio,” Natasha explained. She liked being well informed when they went somewhere, and sharing the information with him.
“It’s ridiculous not to sell any of them,” he said as they walked back into the first room, and Natasha was aware of a young man in a dark blue suit watching them. He had dark hair and deep brown eyes, but didn’t speak to them. Natasha could sense that he was watching her intently, and then he walked back outside. She had been struck by his serious brown eyes. And she noticed him again as they walked into the garden, where Maylis was waiting to escort them to their table. She smiled at them as they sat down, and couldn’t help thinking how beautiful Natasha was, and how perfect her features were, and then Maylis turned her attention back to Vladimir.
“Did you find your walk around the house interesting?” she asked pleasantly.
“I noticed that nothing was for sale.” Vladimir looked serious when he answered her. And he didn’t seem happy about it. She nodded in response.
“That’s right. We don’t sell his work. This is part of the family collection. My husband was represented by a gallery in Paris. Bovigny Ferrand.” Gabriel had had a partner initially, whom he had bought out years before, but kept the name, since it was already well known by then, and he had paid Georges Bovigny handsomely for it.
The Mistress Page 4
