Invitation to Provence

Invitation to Provence

A
LSO BY
E
LIZABETH
A
DLER

The Hotel Riviera

Summer in Tuscany

The Last Time I Saw Paris

In a Heartbeat

All or Nothing

Sooner or Later

Now or Never

The Secret of the Villa Mimosa

Legacy of Secrets

Fortune Is a Woman

The Property of a Lady

The Rich Shall Inherit

Indiscretions
(writing as Ariana Scott)

Fleeting Images
(writing as Ariana Scott)

Leonie

Invitation to Provence

ST.  MARTIN’S  PRESS

NEW  YORK

INVITATION TO PROVENCE.
Copyright © 2004 by Elizabeth Adler. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

DESIGN BY JUDITH STAGNITTO ABBATE

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Adler, Elizabeth (Elizabeth A.)

Invitation to Provence / Elizabeth Adler.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-30811-6

EAN 978-0312-30811-7

1. Americans—France—Fiction. 2. Provence (France)—Fiction. 3. Family reunions—Fiction. 4. Secrecy—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6051.D56I58 2004

823’.914—dc22

2004048388

First Edition: September 2004

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1

F
OR
A
NABELLE AND
E
RIC

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

M
Y THANKS,
as always, to my agent and friend, Anne Sibbald, and to the people at Janklow & Nesbit, who look after me so well. To my editor, Jen Enderlin, who is simply the best. To Richard, my husband, for a multitude of reasons. And to Victor and Carmen Bacigalupe; Francesca Bowyer; Warren and Betty Forman; Bill and Sandi Phillips; and Ross and Barbara Salamone—friends whose love and support I truly value.

All my past life is mine no more;

The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams given o’er,

Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

—J
OHN
W
ILMOT
,

Earl of Rochester
,

“Love and Life” (1680)

Invitation to Provence

P
ROLOGUE

N
OTHING MUCH
ever changes in the village of Marten-de-Provence. The terrace café now has plastic chairs instead of tin, and the awning is green instead of blue, but the Café des Colombes is the same, still owned by the Jarré family who’ve run it for decades, and the simple menu hasn’t changed much in thirty years either. Alliers grocery shop under the arched arcade is still there, its fresh fruits and vegetables in wooden crates arranged tidily out front with hand-chalked price tickets. The fountain with the stone drinking trough drizzles lazily and a couple of dogs lounge in the shade next to the old men in berets, sitting on wooden benches, sticks clutched in their gnarled hands, watching their small world go by. The doors to the little peeling pink stucco church are open and a woman in a yellow summer dress climbs the worn steps carrying an armload of bright flowers. The village even smells the same, of coffee and roasting chicken, of crushed thyme and ripe melons and horses.

A long mellow-stone wall bordering the château grounds runs along the lane next to the square, from which small houses wind up the cobbled streets into the hot rocky hillsides. And stuck on top of the loftiest hill of all is Saint-Sylvestre,
a
village perché,
a mini fortress of old, its walls dug deep into the rock. Now it’s a haven for artists and the cultural tourists who come to its annual summer music festival in the former monastery, set among fields of lavender, and whose great bronze bell still tolls the passing of time.

Poplar trees line the lane that runs alongside the château’s grounds, their branches forming a tunnel of green overhead through which sunlight filters like scattered gold coins. The big pillars topped with carved stone griffins marking the château’s entrance are still there, their features worn from centuries of gusty mistral winds, and beyond them, through the big iron gates, is the long cypress-lined driveway that leads, straight as a die, to the Château des Roses Sauvages.

Tree-studded lawns sweep away to the left with a glimpse of the lake glittering silver in the sunlight, then the château comes into view, soft as an ancient fresco against its background of rocky hills, with the spiked ridges of purple mountains as a backdrop.

The house glows ochre-yellow in the evening sunlight, its tiled roof dipping and curving. Water spills musically from a fountain on the flowery terrace, and chestnut trees cast their welcome shade. Of course, in summer the big doors are always left open to catch the breeze, and also, once upon a time, to welcome visitors.