There's Something About St. Tropez (24 page)

Nate raised his brows, remembering Mac's question to Belinda about the husband's art collection. “I see now where you're going.”

“You think there's a connection with Jasper?” Belinda was surprised.

“Hey, right now, all I'm going on is gut feelings. I have no idea who's involved, or how. All I know is a young man is dead and Monsieur François Reynaud, the man whose artworks were stolen feels responsible, and I want to help him.”

Laureen wasn't listening. Her quick sidelong glance took in the new woman, Renée from reception, walking toward Bertrand's table. She said something, then Bertrand got up quickly and followed her from the room. Laureen wondered what was going on.

A delicious aroma heralded the arrival of two waiters. Belinda checked out Laureen's spaghetti. “We call that spag bol where I come from,” she said. “It's a staple in every English girl's diet, probably because it's cheap and the only thing any of us can cook. But yours looks wonderful.”

“Would you like some?”

Belinda laughed and said no thanks, but Laureen's eyes were already back on Bertrand. He was walking into the dining room, head down, big hands dangling at his sides, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Something had happened
.

She wanted desperately to go to Bertrand, ask him what was wrong, but for the moment she could not escape. She had to sit there, moving the now-unwanted spaghetti round her plate with her fork, waiting for a reprieve.

Eventually, it came. They had finished eating and were sitting back, relaxed, pouring more wine, talking, talking, talking. All grown-ups ever did was
talk
. She said urgently, “Daddy, may I be excused?”

Billy looked at her, surprised. “Why? Where are you going?”

“I'm going to see my friend.”

“Aah, Bertrand Olivier.” Billy had remembered his name. “Okay, honeybunch. Just don't get lost en route, right?”

“Oh, Dad
deee
.” Little Laureen's groan followed her as she half-ran from the courtyard and into the dining room.

Bertrand was sitting at his lonely table, staring down at his plate. Though he was normally pale, now his face had a transparent, almost alabaster cast to it as though all the blood had been drained from him. He did not even glance up when Laureen scraped a chair noisily across the tiles. The two sat side by side, not looking at each other, not speaking, yet lines of communication ran between them like electricity.

“Something bad's happened.” Laureen wasn't prying, if Bertrand did not want to talk about it, that was okay, she simply wanted him to know that she understood.

Bertrand did not answer and they sat on in silence. He had not touched his roast lamb with the special
pommes Anna
, a crispy, buttery cake of potatoes, usually a favorite.

Laureen snitched a piece of potato from his plate.

“Maman just telephoned.” Bertrand's voice was dead.

Laureen nodded and casually ate another piece of potato, as if what he was saying meant nothing to her, though she was guessing this meant Bertrand's mother was returning. Still, she did not ask, unwilling to break the invisible rules between them, like dark alleys they never crossed. Bertrand kept his emotions private and so did she.

Bertrand pushed back his chair. Hitching up his shorts, he said, in French, “I'm leaving.”

Laureen jumped up. She followed him as he marched, head down, arms swinging stiff like a soldier, as though he was keeping himself together with a great physical effort.

“But Bertrand, what about our rendezvous?” She was whispering, afraid the other diners might hear. But Bertrand marched on.

He stopped at last by the glass front doors and turned to look at her. The ribbon of her ballet slipper had come undone and she went down on one knee, tying it quickly, looking anxiously up at him.

“Maman got married,” he said, in an ice-cold voice that Laureen knew meant trouble. “I'm going to the beach.”

He turned abruptly and stalked off. Laureen stood on the steps watching as he disappeared into the blue darkness. She wanted to go after him but knew she must not. Scared, she walked back to the courtyard where the adults were still sitting, talking and drinking wine, unaware that for Bertrand, like Chicken Little, the sky had just fallen down.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Her father put his arm around her shoulders, and gave her an affectionate squeeze. Then Sunny put Tesoro on her lap and asked if she would look after the dog while she went to powder her nose. Sara and Belinda went with her and Laureen sat with the Chihuahua pressed so hard to her chest she knew it must be able to feel her heart pounding. Bertrand was in trouble and she didn't know what to do.

Presently the women came back, hair combed, lipstick freshened, talking about shoes, of all things. Why, Laureen wondered, did women always talk about shoes? All she needed were her ballet slippers and her flip-flops. Oh, and her cowboy boots.

Those boots had been specially made for her by a famous man in Laredo, Texas, and were of the softest leather in a pale golden color with pointy toes
and almost-heels, and with a place for spurs, though of course she would never use spurs on a horse. Nor would she wear those boots for riding. They were copies of her mother's own. They were special. In fact the boots were upstairs sitting side by side in the bottom of the armoire where she had placed them when she'd unpacked and now she had a sudden urge to feel them on her feet, to feel at home and not far away in this strange new country.

She glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch, bought on a trip to Disneyland a few years ago because she'd liked the red strap and the fact that Mickey's yellow-gloved hands moved to point out the hours and the minutes. Shocked, she saw it was already eleven-thirty. Dinner started so late here in France and went on simply forever. Now Belinda and Sunny were eating dessert, perfumy wild strawberries that they said were called
fraises des bois
, with dollops of cream on top. Sunny asked if Laureen would like some but she shook her head and said no thank you and anyhow she was tired and was going to bed.

She put Tesoro carefully back on Sunny's lap. For a second their eyes met, then, shockingly, Sunny touched her lips to Laureen's brow in a kiss. Laureen flinched, eyes squinched as though she had been shot.
No one kissed her, except her father. No one else. Absolutely no one
.

“Good night, Little Laureen,” Sunny said, puzzled by her reaction. “Sleep well.”

Laureen walked stiff-legged back to her father. “I'll be sleeping by the time you go to bed, Daddy,” she said. Like Bertrand she was holding her emotions together.

“Whatever you say, baby. But hey, I'll walk you back to your room, make sure everything's okay.”

Telling the others he would be back, Billy took Laureen's hand and they threaded their way through the tables of late diners, who smiled as they watched the cowboy father and his odd, plump tutued little girl go by. It was late, they told each other indulgently, and the child was tired, probably had an exhausting day, swimming and running around in the sun . . .

But Billy knew better. “You okay, little sweetheart?” he asked, unlocking Laureen's door and switching on the lamp. “You're not getting sick or anything?”

“I'm just tired, that's all.”

Laureen sat on the end of her bed and Billy came to kiss her good night. “Sleep well, my baby,” he said tenderly. “Tomorrow is another day, and tell you what, you can choose exactly what you want to do. Parasailing, Jet Ski, the pirate boat, a visit to Monte Carlo to look at the yachts. You name it, kid.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He stopped at the door to look back at her, and suddenly glad for his reassuring, overbearing, presence, Laureen said softly, “I love you, Daddy.”

“And I love you too, baby.” And with a good-night wave, Billy was gone.

 

32.

 

 

Laureen took off the ballet slippers and pulled on the cowboy boots. She stood in front of the long mirror stuck inside the armoire door, turning this way and that, admiring them. She checked her watch again: 11:45. She climbed over the suitcases and the bed to get to the window and peeked down into the courtyard. They were still there, sitting around the table, talking, talking, talking. It was risky but if she were quick she could run down the stairs and slip out the door without them seeing her.

Climbing back over the suitcases, she opened the door and checked the corridor. Empty. She turned to look at her wand, lying on the bed. The silver star on top glittered in the lamplight and she hesitated. If Bertrand needed her help it would come in handy; but if they went exploring it would only be a nuisance, and anyway she was afraid she might lose it. No, no wand.

All the doors were closed on the corridor and the yellow cotton window curtains bellied in the breeze. At the bottom of the stairs she flattened herself against the wall, checking to see if anyone was watching. She was in luck. No one was around.

It was a moonless night but low lights were built into the side of the path, to the place where it met the beach. After that all was darkness.

She ran down the path and stood for a second, checking. Phosphorescence glimmered on the sea and languorous little waves hit the shore, sliding back with a slow shushing sound.
Cigales
, the Mediterranean crickets, chirruped in the umbrella pines and a breeze rustled through the long grasses at the edge of the small dunes, bringing with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine. The Beach Bar was closed and shuttered and no one was around.

It was hard to walk on sand in the cowboy boots and now she wished she'd put on flip-flops. She was half-afraid Bertrand wouldn't be there, that he'd gone somewhere else to be alone. But he was.

He glanced up when he heard her.

“Hi,” she said, flopping down next to him.

Bertrand propped himself on one elbow, looking at her. His blond hair and white face gave him a ghostly look and his thick glasses hid his eyes. He spoke slowly, as though he'd been thinking about it for a long time. “My mother got married today, to the Italian. She told me she has three stepchildren now, two girls and a boy, my age. She said they don't have room for me.”

Laureen's eyes widened; she was looking at a tragedy she understood.

“Maman said I'm ‘difficult.' Her exact words. She said I can't come and live with them, and I'm to go to boarding school and finish my education. When I'm eighteen, then they will think about what to do with me.”

Angry, Laureen sat up straight.
“Bitch.”
She spat out the bad word. It came to her out of the blue, she'd probably heard the cowhands use it.

“
Cow
,” Bertrand agreed, though Laureen thought
vache
sounded nicer in French.

She hardly dared ask what he intended to do, so she just sat there, looking at him, lying on his back again, staring at the sky as though hoping a great spaceship might come down and scoop him up and solve his problems all in one go.

“Bertrand, what shall we do?” she asked, automatically including herself in his life.

“Maman said I should stay here for the next few weeks. I should tell the hotel manager she will pay the bill as soon as she has a chance. He'll understand how it is, she told me, her getting married so suddenly, all the excitement.”

“Not excitement for you.” Laureen lay back too, watching the star-studded sky again, listening to the waves. “We'll just have to find the robbers then you can have the five hundred thousand euros and do whatever you want to do. You won't even need to ask her permission.”

“Correct,” Bertrand said solemnly. The two fell silent. Then, “I can't go spying tonight,” he said.

“That's okay.”

“Want to come and see my lair?”

“Where is it?”

“On a hill, not too far from here.”

“Okay.”

It seemed to Laureen to take a long time to get to Bertrand's lair, but even though her feet hurt in the pointy cowboy boots, it was worth it.

Bertrand had not brought his cape but they sat together on the sparse grass, propped against the rock that arched protectively over them. “Almost like a cave,” Laureen said, half-expecting to see the stolen works of art, but there were only the curious lizards, woken from their rest, who came out to inspect them, then slithered quickly away.

The sea glimmered below and the stars glittered above but unlike the old saying, nothing in the heavens was right with
their
world. They were simply a pair of children, whose feeling of abandonment had caught up to them.

Tears streamed from under Bertrand's glasses as he cried silently. Laureen's own tears joined in, sliding down her face like hot rain, hurting and healing at the same time.

The first hint of gray lifted the sky when the two finally made for home. Laureen stumbled on the rocky outcrop in her boots and Bertrand took her hand.