There's Something About St. Tropez (15 page)

“Nate!” Billy yelled to him and heads turned to stare. “Over here, Nate.” Billy walked over to meet him. “Come join us for lunch. We're about to try a bottle of that South of France rosé everybody talks about.”

“I tried it yesterday. I can recommend it.” Nate took off his helmet and goggles and put on his horn-rimmed glasses.

Belinda thought that now his top half looked like a New York businessman on holiday and his bottom half like a competitor in the Tour de France.

“Hey,” she said, that mischievous grin flashing again. “Why not join us, Nate? Then we can talk about everybody else.”

“There's nobody else to talk about, we're all here,” Sara said. Then realizing who was missing, “Oh, but Billy, where is Little Laureen?”

“My girl decided she didn't want to come to the beach. I got the whole darn works ready for her.” He waved a hand at the golden sand beyond the restaurant where tiny waves lapped at the shore and tanned bodies reclined on beach mattresses, attended by young men in white shorts, who brought them drinks and set up lunch so they never even had to move.

“But my baby doesn't want to be here. She wants to stay in her room. Or down in the lounge, watching French cartoons, or maybe doing a jigsaw puzzle and hoping, I believe, to take that little Chihuahua for a walk. I asked, ‘Laureen, will you be okay on your own?' And she said, ‘
Daddeee
,' the way she always does when she gets pissed off at her father. So I made her promise not to leave the grounds and not to go swimming in the pool alone. And not to go down to the beach either, not without me along.” Billy shrugged. “What more can a daddy do, I ask ya?”

“Not much,” Belinda agreed. “Besides, you need a little grown-up time, on your own. And Laureen needs a little downtime from you, Big Daddy.”

Billy managed a grin but his thoughts were still on Laureen. Pulling himself
together, he said, “So what d'ya say, Nate? A couple of bottles of that nice rosé to start?”

“Why not,” Nate agreed, as the waiter came to show them to a table at the edge of the beach, where the waves plopped softly and the sun tickled its way through the mesquite trees.

Belinda, who knew what was what around here, ordered the crudités platter for them all. When it came it proved to be an entire perfect cauliflower with whole tiny carrots and red peppers and little tomatoes and cucumbers; in fact all kinds of superfresh veggies, picked that very morning.

Nate, sophisticated New Yorker that he was, had expected to see the vegetables already cut into strips and florets, but at Cinquante-cinq you broke off bits of the crisp cauliflower yourself then dunked them in the freshly made aioli mayonnaise. And you spread your still-warm bread with butter so good that when it hit the crust it melted into a sweet creaminess.

The cold Minuty rosé slid down almost too easily and even Sara was on her second glass before she realized it. A further bottle was ordered, along with striped sea bass grilled to perfection and with a subtle perfume of fennel about it.

“You know what?” Sara said, and Nate noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. “We're all having fun,” she said surprised.

“Thanks to Chez La Violette,” Billy said.

Belinda raised her glass in a toast. “To Madame Lariot, without whom we might never have met.”

“To Madame Lariot,” they echoed, pleased with themselves.

 

Two hours or so later, Belinda gathered up her bag and Sara. Heading for the beach, she declared, “I always feel good about closing a joint. Come on. We've gotta sleep off that wine.”

Belinda took off her caftan but kept on her top. Sara kept everything on. The four sat in a silent row on their mattresses, staring out at the sea, marveling at its different hues, from cobalt to turquoise, from sky to aquamarine to crystal.

“I wonder.” Nate broke the silence. “How Sunny and Mac are getting on in Paris.”

 

19.

 

 

Paris on a still June night was everything Sunny had imagined. The trees were in bloom, the Eiffel Tower glittered in the distance and the cafés were crowded. Unfortunately Mac had said there was no time to be wasted and she'd barely had a minute to check into the Ritz and check out the room, all swagged yellow silk and Louis-the-something furniture, plus check out the famous Bar Hemingway.

“Not even a quick glass of champagne?” she asked plaintively.

“There's no such thing as a ‘quick' glass of champagne,” Mac said. “At least give yourself time to enjoy it.”

“I will if you will?” she said, but her hopes were dashed when Mac asked the doorman for a taxi, which came far too promptly.

And now Mac wasn't even looking at her, nor at Paris, which was flying past the taxi window like a dream sequence in a movie. He was on the phone with Roddy, his assistant, in Malibu.

Roddy was on the deck at Mac's Malibu house. He said to Mac, “You wouldn't believe how great it is out here today.”

“Yeah. I would.”

“Only ten in the morning,” Roddy went on, “and already seventy-five degrees. The surfers are out there riding the waves and no doubt wishing they were bigger, and by the way your windows need washing again.”

Mac sighed. At the beach, the windows always needed washing. Roddy was in his thirties, slim, compactly built, bleached blond and gay. And he could talk the hind leg off a donkey. “Get on with it, Roddy,” he said.

He could sense the grin on Roddy's face as he said, “Just wanted to make you jealous . . .”

“Did you forget? I'm in Paris?”

“That's
why
I wanted to make you jealous. Hey, next time you head off to Europe you'll need your assistant. Right?”

“For God's sake, tell me what's up.”

“What's up is Mr. Krendler is rich. As in
really
rich. The address I gave you is in one of the best
quartiers
of Paris, the Champs de Mars. Full, so I've heard of BCBGs—”

“What the hell are BCBTs and why do they matter to me?”

“
Bon Chic Bon Ton
, or in other words, rich well-brought-up yuppies with ancient family credentials.”

“And Krendler?”

“A mystery. Big house but rarely seen out in public, except for visits to the opera. He's by way of being a fan, and also a big contributor to their fund-raising, though he never attends their functions. Nor does he accept kudos for his good work.”

“Hmm.” Mac didn't like the sound of that. “Then he's either a born-again angel or he's hiding something.”

“Like what?” Roddy said.

“That's what I'm about to find out. I'll call you later.”

Mac rang off. He glanced at Sunny, who was staring eagerly out of the window. She had lived in Paris for a short while, years ago, and now it was all coming back to her. Her face was alight with pleasure, and Mac's heart melted all over again, as it had a thousand times since he'd met her.

“There's this little place I've heard of,” he said, taking her hand. “Le Comptoir du Relais in St. Germain. It's
the
hot dinner spot and not easy to get into, but I had the concierge get us a reservation.”

“Clever boy.” Sunny snuggled her head into his shoulder.

The cab was pulling up in front of a tall imposing house overlooking a leafy square.

“Posh,” Sunny said, admiring the slate blue mansard roof with its protruding top-floor windows shading what she told Mac no doubt had once been the servants' attics.

“And maybe still are,” she added thoughtfully as he rang the bell. The door was opened promptly by a manservant in an immaculate white jacket and white gloves. Mac thought that even in the grander bits of Malibu you'd be hard-pressed to find menservants in white gloves.

“Mr. Reilly and Ms. Alvarez for Mr. Krendler,” he said. “He's expecting us.”

“Certainly, sir. Would you please come this way.”

They followed the English butler through a lofty hall whose grand onyx staircase curved four stories upward to a trompe l'oeil ceiling with painted cherubs in a cloud-wisped blue sky.

“A bit over the top,” Mac muttered. “Couldn't fancy that over our bed in Malibu.”

Sunny was thrilled to hear him refer to his bed as “our bed.” Hope sprang eternal.

The butler led them into a salon of gilded splendor. The walls were paneled in what the French called
boiserie
, a painted wood, in this case, an icy shade of pale green picked out in gold. Sunny remembered that the walls of Violette's boudoir were similarly paneled. It must be a French thing. And she would bet those huge chandeliers were Baccarat. The furniture looked flimsy and uncomfortable, in the period of Louis XVl, and heavy dark green silk curtains almost covered the windows leaving the big room in a kind of twilight.

“
Monsieur, madame
, please take a seat.” The butler did not even crack a welcoming smile. “Monsieur Krendler will be with you shortly. Meanwhile may I offer you some refreshment? Tea, coffee, something to drink?”

“Tea would be wonderful,” Sunny said, deciding on an impulse to test him, see how long it would take Mr. Superior English Butler to get her a cup of tea.

“And
monsieur
?”

Mac shook his head. “Nothing thanks.”

Sunny perched on the very edge of a stiff pale green brocade sofa. In her little black dress and sexy red heels with her long glossy hair pulled into a sleek chignon, back straight, knees properly together, she was trying to live up to her surroundings.

Mac said, “You look like a Victorian schoolmarm.”

“And this room is like an opera set.”

Silver-framed photographs were dotted on a black concert grand piano. Sunny recognized Maria Callas with a pout in her eyes and on her large mouth. “To Joel Krendler, with gratitude,” Callas had signed it. Of course there was Pavarotti and others Sunny didn't know, but who no doubt were famous because it didn't look as though Mr. Krendler knew anybody in the opera world who was not famous. Oddly, a life-size bronze of a greyhound stood in front of the ornate green-marble fireplace, above which was a grim oil painting of a murdered stag in what looked like the Scottish Highlands.

There was a tap on the door and a white-uniformed maid entered
bearing a galleried silver tray complete with a delicate Limoges tea service: paper-thin pale green cup, matching teapot, creamer and sugar bowl. A tiny fleur-de-lys silver spoon tinkled prettily against the china as she set the tray in front of Sunny.

“
Madame
,” she said, poker-faced.

Sunny said thank you and watched her walk quickly away.

“Nobody smiles around here,” she whispered to Mac.

“Perhaps because they're afraid of their employer.”

“Still, full marks for service,” Sunny added. “That took exactly four minutes.”

Mac looked at his watch. “And Mr. Krendler has now kept us waiting exactly nine minutes.”

In fact Mr. Krendler kept them waiting exactly twenty-five minutes before the tall double doors were flung open by the butler.

Mac concealed his surprise. Krendler was in a wheelchair. No wonder he rarely went to functions and was almost never seen out and about.

Krendler was sixtyish, a handsome bull of a man who even in his wheelchair emanated that sense of power that meant nothing was closed to him. Mac knew this was a man who could have—and probably had—anything he ever wanted. Immaculate in a navy pin-striped suit, white shirt and dark green tie, he had still a touch of the athlete about him, and with his lion's mane of silver hair, his pale skin, piercing dark eyes, prominent nose and cold stare, he could have easily taken on the role of Don José, the brutal soldier in the opera
Carmen
.

Krendler ignored Sunny, sitting with her cup of tea on the pale green sofa and looking in fact, with her black hair and luminous amber eyes, as though she could have played the role of Carmen opposite him.

Instead he looked at Mac. “Mr. Reilly.”

He spoke in a low voice with a slightly sibilant accent. He was not French, Mac decided at once.

“May I introduce Ms. Alvarez.” Mac was not allowing Krendler to get away with such discourtesy.

Krendler inclined his head slightly toward her, but his eyes remained on Mac.

“I've watched your TV shows,” he said. “We get them here, in France, you know. I found them very entertaining. Very astute. I think you are a clever man, Mr. Reilly.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mac said. “But anyway, the show is meant to be entertainment.”

Krendler nodded. “I understand what is meant by ‘entertainment,' though personally I'm more interested in the arts.”

Sunny took a sip of her tea. The spoon rattled in the silence and she hastily put it back on the tray. She'd bet nobody in this house ever disturbed the master.

Krendler's full attention was on Mac and she took the opportunity to have a closer look at him. There was something odd about him, though it was hard to tell exactly what in the semidarkened room. She peered closer. Could it be? She glanced at Mac, wondering if he had noticed.