A Twist of Orchids (38 page)

Daisy grinned. “Interesting prospect, isn’t it?”

•

Dinner was not at Chez Nous that Friday but chez Mara and
Julian on Monday night, when the bistro was closed and Paul and Mado could join them. It was a joyful celebration that included not only Loulou (who had forgiven Mara and Julian for standing him up the previous week), but also Joseph and Jacqueline Godet. Paul was in an excellent mood, and Mado, looking gorgeous, shared wonderful news. She was expecting again. The couple had brought champagne, and everyone drank to the mother’s (and the baby’s) health. Mado joined in the toast with an unaccustomed glass of milk. Julian put out a tray of Betul’s savory snacks to go with the bubbly.

“What is this?” murmured Joseph, staring at the cocktail-sized dolmas before him.

“Grape leaves and spiced rice,” said Paul.

At this point, they were joined by Laurent and his girlfriend, Stéphanie, a tall young woman with freckles and corn-colored hair, so they did the toast all over again. The pair seemed shy in the presence of others, especially since Loulou could not refrain from firing broad hints about June weddings at his grandnephew. Perhaps that was why the young couple spent most of the evening exchanging bashful glances. Mara, reading symptoms of the tender, silly first throes of love, felt warmly toward the two and wistfully envious.

“
Tout est bien qui finit bien
,” beamed Loulou. All’s well that ends well. “Monsieur O’Connor and the Besser woman have been charged, and Luca and Serge won’t be troubling us for a long time to come.”

“That’s a relief,” Julian said. “Serge was tailing me, you know.”

Laurent shook his head. “He wasn’t. He was on his way to Madame Besser’s to return some orchids that Ton-and-a-Half ’s girlfriend complained weren’t blooming. Serge just happened to fall in behind you, and when he saw you turn up the lane, he waited at the roadside until you went away. He never even realized
who you were.”

“Really?” said Julian, feeling oddly let down.

But the best news that Laurent had to impart was that Betul and Osman Ismet had been cleared of any involvement in smuggling or possessing drugs. Osman, however, would have to answer for concealing Peter’s death and burying a British national under a false identity. Kazim faced charges, but his punishment was likely to be lenient, given his youth, his clean record, and his co-operation with the police.

The meal was excellent. Julian’s starter of cold poached asparagus (fresh green sprigs, not white) and quail eggs in a tasty
sauce béarnaise
was much appreciated. Mara surprised everyone with a succulent veal roast (bought rolled, seasoned, and ready to cook from the butcher).

“Better than that dog food you made me,” Joseph grinned.

“What dog food?” asked Jacqueline, startled.

Mara also served up an entirely successful version of her mother’s recipe for oven-browned creamed potatoes.
Gratin dauphinois
sans tears, she confided to Julian. Loulou provided a selection of cheeses. Dessert was Betul’s
mulhallebi.

“So what do you think, Paul?” Julian asked as the bistro owner dug into the sweet, pistachio-sprinkled pudding.

Paul swallowed. “Not bad,” he said. “Still doesn’t beat a crème brûlée. But I guess the customers will get used to it.”

“The customers—?” Julian looked bewildered.

“Lokum,” Mado laughed. “Paul’s done a deal with Monsieur and Madame Ismet. They’re supplying us with a whole line of Turkish foods.”

“Paul?” Julian turned to his friend in astonishment. “I thought you said—”

The bistro owner cut him off. “Their stuff ’s not bad. Not to my taste, mind, but we’re giving it a try. Mado needs to take
things easier.” He pulled a folded menu from his jacket pocket, smoothed it open, pushed it in front of Julian, and pointed to the newly worded script.

“‘International Cuisine’?” Julian read and marveled. “You’re billing yourself as offering international cuisine?”

“Why not?” said Paul, assuming an offended air. “You got something against foreigners?”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Julian?” Mara asked as they walked down the rutted road that led to the forest at the side of Mara’s land. The dogs galloped ahead of them. It was getting on for the middle of May, and the sweetness of robinias had replaced the lilacs on the breeze. “We’d have the Gaillards’ property, but all of this, the woods and the fields below, would still be open for whatever Montfort-Izawa wants to put on it.”

“We can’t shut out the world, Mara.” He stood looking up at the trees, the cloudless blue sky above them. “But since Donny and Luca are two of the moving forces behind Montfort-Izawa, and since neither of them will be thinking much about golf at the moment, I’d say we’re safe. For a while, at least.”

“But your cottage. You’d have to sell your cottage.” Her voice rang with hope and an after-peal of mourning. Hope for them together, for the bigger thing his decision seemed to suggest. Mourning for what she knew he would lose.

My cottage
, he thought.
My retreat, my own little haven where I can leave my socks and books lying about, my dishes unwashed.
The wildflower garden that he had built up lovingly over the years. The chimney that never drew well, the roof that leaked. The poky back rooms that offered more damp than cheer. But his own thing, his safety net, his private space.

There came a time when one had to make big decisions, and this was one of them. Julian turned to face her.

“You know, when Luca crashed into my van, I thought I’d lost you.” His voice caught in his throat. “I don’t think I could have stood it.”

“Oh, Julian,” Mara whispered.

He took a deep breath. “So. I’m going in with you on the
viager
. But I have two conditions.”

“Name them!”

“One, starting tomorrow you help me do a serious search for my orchid. I’m not talking about an occasional tramp through the fields. I mean a thorough, methodical scan of every possible habitat until we find it. It will mean days of rough walking, rain or shine, for the next three weeks. And the same thing next spring, and the one after, and after that until we find it. You’ll get scratched and muddy. Your feet will hurt, your back will ache. You will end up hating me. Don’t agree until you’ve thought this through.”

“Done,” she said without hesitation. “And two?”

He gave her a long, searching look.

“What?” she said, her heart beginning to beat very fast.

He grinned, drew her close, kissed her, and whispered three words in her ear: “Dump Madame Audebert.”

“Dump—?”

>Patsy
, Mara fired a message into the ether,
you’re not going to believe this!
<

MICHELLE WAN
was born in Kunming, China. She and her husband, a tropical horticulturalist, travel regularly to the Dordogne to photograph and chart wild orchids. She is the author of two previous novels in the “Death in the Dordogne” series,
Deadly Slipper
and
The Orchid Shroud
, and is working on a fourth. Wan lives in Guelph, Ontario.