The man gave an enormous snort, his mustache actually blowing out a bit as he expressed his dissatisfaction with Jennifer's answer.
"Some work. Yes, some work. This house and these people could use a lot of work." The nasal lilt of his French heritage was audible in every syllable. He waved a broad hand at the wall, waggling his palm side to side, irritated. "See this?" he asked, apparently waiting for her to confirm she did. When Jennifer nodded, he continued. "Everything is for the wine, and nothing is for the house. Nothing for the people. This chateau has centuries of history, but no one can be bothered to keep Antoinette's legacy alive." He sighed and dropped his hand.
"Très triste." Very sad, he said, his eyes looking at the house as if he'd suddenly had forgotten the young woman standing next to him.
"I'm sorry, but have we met?" she asked, and her words seemed to jar him out of his reverie. He looked her over, assessing her reason for being there.
"I am Lapin. I live there." He waved vaguely toward the surrounding vineyard, as though he'd somehow sprung magically out of the groomed rows. While on her walk, Jennifer had spotted a small stone house situated in a clump of shade trees, nestled into the bottom of a rolling hill at the edge of the vineyard. Probably Lapin’s house.
Jennifer had to suppress a smile. She knew 'lapin' was the French word for rabbit. Monsieur Rabbit, her new acquaintance, and apparently a very opinionated neighbor.
"I'm Jennifer Peetman. Enchanté," she said and the burly man grabbed her hand and shook it with enthusiastic force.
"Enchanté. You are the insurance person?"
"Yes, I am." She thought back on his words. "I’m sorry, who’s Antoinette?"
At her question the man's brown eyes, shaded by the eyebrows which gave him the appearance of a local sheepdog, saddened.
"She is gone, my Antoinette. For many years. Gone." He sighed, remembering. "Young, like you."
"So, she..."
"Dead. After she was gone, her husband raised their daughter here and then she moved away. Now Antoinette's granddaughter owns the chateau. She has only been here once, to sign papers when her mother died." He gave a deep, troubled sigh, as if the thought hurt him. "She will never know the love Antoinette had for this land, for this house."
There was a stretch of silence between them, with only the hum of working bees and occasional chirping of birds intruding into the old man's thoughts. Jennifer made mental notes to find out more about the family that owned Chateau Mersau.
Monsieur Lapin apparently had satisfied his curiosity enough about Jennifer's purpose to not question her any further. They made small talk about the heat and the amazing quality of the local wine. Finally, he bid her a good day and walked back across the vineyard, his canvas shoes leaving soft impressions in the warm, raked soil.
As Jennifer walked back across the courtyard toward the kitchen door, she thought back on Lapin's words about the house, and everything she'd seen from her initial view of the property. An owner who had only seen the house once, and that was just to take care of her inheritance paperwork.
This place was ripe for the plucking, and probably at a bargain basement price.
Chapter 4
All in all, perhaps a few days in Provence wasn’t a bad thing.
Jennifer’s room was surprisingly large and bright, overlooking the courtyard from a second story window. The cook had shown it off with apparent pride, pointing out how to swing open the ancient windows and where the washstand was. The furniture was old-fashioned and sturdy, with a dark wood armoire and a large bed. The whole room had been cleaned with meticulous detail, and Sally’s face shone with satisfaction when Jennifer praised it.
Left alone to unpack her things, it was another hour before Jennifer ventured through the plastered hallways toward the main dining room. Sally had pointed it out to her when they'd walked by it earlier, and had reissued her invitation for dinner at eight. Taking the last turn in the hallway, Jennifer could hear a lively conversation already coming from the room, but it didn't sound particularly pleasant. There was a rise and fall of emotion and frustration in every word of French someone was saying, and the response was equally as passionate, as though an argument was going on.
She poked her head around the doorjamb. Martin Dubois and a red-haired fellow in a tight yellow tee-shirt were obviously debating something of great importance, leaning forward and gesturing with both hands as they tried to make their point. The conversation was so emotional and fast that Jennifer could only catch the words 'tourist' and ‘dead. As the only new person at the chateau, neither of which made her feel at ease as she walked into the room.
The moment her presence became known, the argument between the men stopped, their hands still raised as though they would continue debating the moment she backed out of the room.
"Bonsoir" she greeted them, as though she hadn't heard the commotion while out in the hallway, and there was a grunted response to her wishing them a good evening.
As she walked across the room, she noted the size and ancient beauty of the space. It was obviously not some small dining area for servants, but was the main eating area for owners or valued visitors. The space was swept and tidy, with faded tapestries hanging along its stone walls. Wide, dark floorboards spanned the room, mimicking the thick beams on the ceiling. There were several people sitting in high-backed chairs around a long table the stretched the length of the room.
Sally nodded at Jennifer in recognition as she bustled in from the kitchen, a stoneware platter of cut up melon and figs in her hands. "Just give me a minute to get everything situated and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew," she said, setting down the fruit and hurrying back to the kitchen.
Jennifer's first inclination was to follow her to check if she could help, but she could see that the table was already groaning with food, with fresh bread and bottles of red wine and bowls of olives of all colors. Vine-ripened tomatoes were sliced and arranged with drizzled dark vinegar and bits of white cheese. A large tureen of gazpacho sat next to Sally's plate, with a porcelain ladle set beside it, ready to dish up a cold first course.
Bernard DuBois had a short knife and was using a small cutting board to slice thin pieces from a long sausage, stacking them on a nearby plate before finally pushing it toward the center of the table.
Through the window, she could see a corrugated pink sky of high clouds and streaked sunset brilliance.
When Sally came back, a sweating pewter pitcher of ice-cold well water in her hands, she set it down in front of Jennifer and gestured at the empty place beside her.
"Come sit here," she offered, and Jennifer slid into the seat, nodding at the middle-aged woman across the table from her, who was looking her over with unabashed interest.
Even before Sally pulled her chair toward the table was a jumble of reaching arms and moving plates as everyone started to serve up the closest dish, then pass it along to the next open set of hands. Bread was ripped apart, a wedge of blue-veined cheese was cut, and wine glasses were filled from the open bottles. When it was decided that the rest of the bottles needed to be opened, Martin DuBois produced a corkscrew from the pocket of his overalls with the practiced skill of a long-term wine enthusiast, and cheerfully uncorked the last two. Once the first round of food was on people’s plates, there was a reverent silence while it was fallen on with great gusto. Occasional comments about its worth and flavor were quietly shared, between approving smacks of lips and a bit of laughter. The red-haired man to Jennifer's right put his oil-covered fingers together and kissed them loudly, showing his approval for the white fish with cucumbers Sally had made.
Jennifer ate and listened to all it. She tried to do her job to observe and file away information for Gable, all while she was taking mental notes on trying to discover a couple of Sally's recipes. The meal was a blend of Italian and Spanish and French and the best of who-knows-what, and Jennifer had to admit that it was at a level of simple gourmet cooking that she'd never had before. It was both
rustic and sophisticated. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the enthusiastic eaters, and maybe it was the fact lunch was many hours ago, but the whole meal was absolutely delicious.
She could see Sally was watching her, and when she leaned back in her chair, after sampling everything she could, the cook leaned in.
"Well, missy. I think it's time I introduced you to everyone."
At her words, the people around the table stopped, swallowing what was in their mouths or setting down their glasses, and turned their attention toward Jennifer.
Sally pointed to the father-son team of Martin and Bernard DuBois. "You've already met our vintners, I believe. Martin's been in charge of the vineyard for over thirty years now, ever since his father retired, and he's the reason the chateau's wine has been selling so well." She lowered her voice and leaned toward Jennifer. "That's the reason the chateau is in as good of shape as it is, really. The money from wine sales is what keeps us all afloat." Martin smiled, apparently understanding enough English to know he was being praised, and Sally smiled back. "His son, Bernard, has just graduated university and has come back home to help his father and learn more about wine."
She then turned toward the woman across the table from Jennifer, continuing introductions. "And this is Madame Durand. She's been the housekeeper here at Chateau Mersau for the past seventeen years."
Jennifer smiled at the stern-looking woman and got a nod of acknowledgment in return. Sally watched the exchange, then extended a hand, palm up, toward the red-haired man in the bright t-shirt.
"And this is Robert Abeneau, our handyman. He’s been here almost two years, and he does all the maintenance on the house. He also takes care of the chickens and the bees."
Robert grinned at her, around a mouthful of fish and bread. He quickly gulped it down, took a swig of wine, and looked at Jennifer.
"Hello," he said, his French heritage evident in both syllables. "I do not speak.... English."
"Je comprends," Jennifer replied. I understand. "Enchanté." Nice to meet you.
She turned to Sally. "Oh, I also met one of your neighbors today. A Monsieur Lapin."
Sally gave a snort of laughter, her eyes still watching the group of people at the table. "Mister Rabbit? He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? Did he tell you how his heart is still broken over the tragic loss of Antoinette?"
Jennifer's expression must've answered Sally's question to her satisfaction. "Thought so. He's been peddling that story about how he should've been married to Antoinette, now for at least forty years. Brings it up anytime anyone even speaks to him. Sad, really."
The meal was different than anything Jennifer was used to, lasting longer than the usual gulp-and-run she normally did for her own meals. Being single, a lot of her eating seemed to be done over a kitchen sink or standing at a table, reading something. Sitting down with a group of strangers who were openly curious about her and her mission was an entirely unexpected experience. Her training had been for languages and combat, along with covert operations. It hadn't prepared her for how to deal with a French-speaking twenty-year-old college graduate having drunk his weight in wine and trying to sneak a peek down her buttoned-up blouse. She'd never been taught how to interpret wild hand gestures between two men who seemed to be arguing over the value of snails, or perhaps potatoes or the local soccer team, it was difficult to tell which. Their voices rose in direct proportion to which bottle of wine had just been polished off.
Through the small bits of conversation that were shared with her, or which she was able to interpret, she could tell the people who worked at Chateau Mersau sometimes liked each other, sometimes disagreed with each other, and sometimes wanted to whack each other over the head with an empty bottle or two. As both DuBois men were amping up in a loud discussion with the housekeeper, she quietly picked up her plate and glass and walked toward the kitchen, leaving the sound of rising and falling voices behind her.
As she got ready for bed, her windows open to draw in every bit of coolness she could, Jennifer sat down and composed an email to Gable and Mrs. Wheaton. She detailed what she'd observed that day and elaborated about her opinion about the various people she'd met. They were an odd lot, that was certain, and she was just about to press send when she heard a muffled conversation outside, in the courtyard.
Leaning forward just enough to peer over the stone windowsill but still be in deep shadow, she could see the housekeeper Madame Durand and Bernard Dubois talking near the old truck, their heads close together. It looked like Madame Durand was trying to make a point, her hands moving in agitation as the older man watched. After just a few seconds he reached toward her, gently grabbing her head and leaned over to kiss her deeply for a couple of seconds. As he drew back Jennifer could hear the sharp rebuke he got from Madame Durand. She spun on her heel and stalked off, back toward the house. Bernard watched her go, his hands on his hips and a slight smile on his face. Just as Jennifer could hear the door downstairs open, she also caught the faint sound of a woman's pleased laughter, soft and delighted as she walked into the chateau.
Chapter 5
The next day, mercifully, was a bit cooler due to a thin cloud cover, and as soon as Jennifer was up she headed to the kitchen for food and to get started working. Sally was already in full swing, with a tray of fruit-studded pastries cooling on the windowsill and a sink full of soapy dishes. As soon as Jennifer walked in the door, Sally pointed to a chair and pulled a fat mug off a cup hook near the sink.
"Care for some tea and breakfast?"
"Yes, please," Jennifer answered. There was a stack of white stoneware plates set on the corner of the table, and Jennifer took the top one, then reached over to the cooling pastries so she could plop one on her plate. "Thank you, Sally. These look amazing." She took a quite bite, then looked at the perfect color of the buttery dough and sighed. "You know, as much as I tried, I never could get this type of pastry exactly right. You've definitely got the touch."
Sally's eyebrows went up in surprise, her hands dripping soapsuds. "You're a cook?"
"Used to be, before I got into insurance." The lie was easy on her tongue, but she felt a pang of guilt at saying it, which surprised her.
Suddenly, something soft and warm plopped down on the side of her foot. Her mind instantly raced back to the memory of the lizard in the courtyard, so she quickly looked under the table. A pair of brown, serious eyes peered back at her, under a set of oversized ears perked up in interest.
"Well, good morning, Orly," she said, reaching down and giving the little puppy a gentle pat. He seemed to approve, tilting his head to get the maximum effect of her attention, then giving her hand a little lick when she stopped.
"So, you've just got one more night here, right?" Sally asked, bringing over the mug of tea and a small pitcher of cream.
Jennifer straightened up, wiping her hands on a nearby napkin. "Yes, I'm supposed to leave with my analysis tomorrow. The owner should be hearing from my company in the next week or so, with an estimate of what it will cost for coverage. They can choose from an array of options."
Sally pulled out a wooden chair and slid into it, opposite Jennifer. "Sounds like you've got a lot to get done today, then. What’s your gameplan?"
Jennifer swallowed another bite. "Um, interiors. I'll do the barns and the outbuildings, and I'd like to go through the house, too, if that's all right.”
Sally nodded. “I thought that might be the case. I've told the employees to put a note on their doors so you won't go through their personal rooms, but the rest of the house is yours to explore. Feel free to poke your nose in anywhere, and if you need anything, just let me know. To be honest, I'd feel much better with this house having a good insurance policy on it. Right now, if there's a fire or something like that we're all out of a job and the owner is responsible for all expenses to repair or replace anything that's lost."
Jennifer could see the worry in the cook’s eyes, even as she got up again to go back to the sink. “I’ll do the best I can,
” she said, and tried to put the thought out of her mind that Sally’s worry about losing a job might be well-founded. If Gable bought the chateau, she had no idea if he was planning on retaining any of the current staff or not.
She tried to tamp that thought down, and within an hour she'd poked her way through an entire enormous barn. She took pictures of cobwebbed horse stalls and empty pigpens, and noted how sound the massive beams were in the roof and how thick the stone walls were. As she took measurements, she had an inkling that this sort of structure would be a great benefit to Gable's plans. With a remodeled interior, it could be converted into all sorts of things. She wasn’t sure if he'd turn it into luxurious suites or conference rooms, or put in a day spa to pamper his elite clients, but she could see the potential for a wide array of possibilities.
At the next barn, she stepped through the smaller man-door cut into a tractor-high wooden door and gave a small gasp of surprise. In stark contrast to the derelict building she’d just left, the interior of this place was spotless, as if a mote of dust wasn’t welcome. It was the winemaking area, with huge barrels set on their side in wooden cradles, each with a chalk number scrawled on the round end. Sprayers and pruning shears were neatly lined up along a long workbench, and the floor, unlike the last barn, was completely paved with scrupulously washed flat stone rectangles. Two gleaming tractors were backed into parking spots next to the wall, and wooden boxes of empty bottles and stacks of baskets and plastic carriers were set on pallets, keeping them off the floor.
As quickly as she took in the sight, the two occupants of the huge room spotted her.
"Non! Non, non, NON!" Bernard Dubois hollered, his father hot on his heels as he marched over to where Jennifer was standing. "Pas ici!" Not here.
"Oui, ici," Jennifer said. Yes, here.
Perils in Provence Page 3
