There's Something About St. Tropez (55 page)

“Before she can get her hands on it, you mean,” Billy said. He knew all about Bertrand's mother. Had he been in Texas, he would have set the child welfare services on her. No woman should be allowed to get away with what she'd done, abandoning her son, not even paying the hotel bill, which incidentally, he had taken care of himself.
And
telling her son he was not wanted. Billy's blood boiled at the thought.

Bertrand was no longer smiling though. He was thinking that, all too soon, Laureen and Billy would be leaving. And so would Mac and Sunny, and the rest of the little band he'd called the Riders on the Storm. He would be alone. Again. He wondered what he would do. He couldn't just stay here, at the hotel; in November they would close up for the winter months, opening again in the spring. And spring was an eternity away.

There was a sudden commotion and the dog lumbered to its feet. A young woman pushed her way past the waiters to their table. A photographer was with her.

“You must be the children who solved the Reynaud art theft,” she said, as the photographer snapped busily.

Mac grinned. “Upstaged again,” he said, just as the chef appeared with
a tray on which resided a pale, whitish andouille sausage, a brioche split in half, a pile of chopped scallions, a small pot of dark mustard and a compote of figs and raisins in a little glass bowl.

“
Alors, the pauvre Madame Alvarez's
‘hot dog,' ” the mustached chef said proudly.

Mac congratulated him on his new take on a traditional American theme and, leaving Billy to deal with “the local press,” carried the tray upstairs.

Sunny was exactly where he'd left her. Tesoro was still on her lap, Pirate's head still on her knee. The Cosmo was finished though.

Mac removed Tesoro, who grumbled and attempted a little nip. He placed the tray on Sunny's lap.

“
Voilà
,” he said, removing the dome with a flourish. “
Madame
's hot dog.”

“Jesus,” Sunny said, eyeing it warily.

Still, she ate that sausage in the brioche, smothered in mustard and scallions and fig and raisin relish. And enjoyed every last bite. Then she fell asleep in Mac's arms.

He was grateful the day was over.

 

81.

 

 

Lev was propping up the bar, something he seemed to do a lot of in his profession, only this time it was at the Moulin de Hubert. He was sipping a cold Perrier with lemon and keeping an eye on Belinda who, with a waitress's white apron over her jeans, flitted between tables delivering plates of Roger's nightly specials, the beef
daube
, as well as a
gigot
, roast lamb from the Alpilles hills that smelled wonderfully of rosemary and mint. Lev promised himself some of that later, when the rush had died down and the customers were drifting away into that warm clear Provençal night.

Looking at Belinda, simple in a T-shirt and jeans, unmade up, cropped blond hair gleaming, not a diamond in sight, he thought you'd never know she was married to a rich man.

Sara hurried light-footedly past him, five plates perfectly balanced, one in each hand, two up one arm, one up the other. Sara had obviously worked as a waitress before. He had to admit she looked cute, in white shorts, her now sun-bronzed but still skinny legs flashing beneath her big apron. She threw him a cheeky wink as she came back.

“You know something?” she said, hands on hips, taking him in from head to foot. “You look exactly like a security guard.”

“Is that right?”

“Know something else? That tune you're always whistling? It's by the Pogues. ‘Summer in Siam' it's called.”

“God, Sara, you're right. It's been driving me crazy.” Sara was not the kind of girl he would have expected to know a rarefied punk group like the Pogues.

“They were my favorite in college. I have every record they ever made,
as well as the ones by Shane MacGowan himself. I happen to think they're very romantic.”

It was not a word Lev would have applied to the raucous Irish group who could raise the roof and boost the beer level at any concert. Yet, when he thought about it, Sara was right. There were lovely melodies and gentle meaningful lyrics amongst their gritty streetwise Irish hearts. “Christmas in New York,” Lev remembered another favorite.

“The best.” They punched fists together and Sara went on her way. She turned at the kitchen door. “Hey, know what?” she said. “I'm having a
great
time.” There was a big smile on her face as she swung confidently through the door.

Nate took a seat next to Lev. He had a new look tonight, more casual, more “Provençal,” Lev decided with a grin. White shirt, jeans, flip-flops and a red cotton neckerchief tied at his throat. Nate's thick dark hair had grown longer and he had a tan from riding the bike as well as from the beach, yet despite it all, he still looked like the New York businessman abroad.

“Gotta try the lamb,” Nate said, downing a glass of red wine, then going behind the bar and helping himself to more. “It beats any I've ever had.”

“I'll get around to it.” Lev was on duty; as long as Belinda was there it was his job to keep watch. His phone rang. He checked and saw it was Mac.

“Okay,” he said, “what's up?”

He listened for a minute, then said, “You're kidding me.” His eyes met Nate's inquiring ones.

“But she's all right,” he said finally. “And the kids?”

He listened some more, then he said he would tell the others and get back to him.

“What?” Nate asked.

Lev looked at Belinda and Sara, running back and forth to the kitchen to speak to Roger. They were having a good time and for once not thinking of Jasper Lord.

“Later,” he told Nate. “When they've finished and we can all talk.”

It was almost midnight when they finally settled round the big table near the bar. Wine was poured and large plates of the rosemary lamb with mint sauce, tiny new potatoes and exquisite little sautéed bright orange and yellow squashes served. Everyone was hungry, chattering, happy. Lev hated to be the one to break the news.

Aware of Nate's eyes on him, he waited till they'd finished eating and were sitting back, sipping wine, sighing with pleasure.

“Okay, so I have some news,” he said.

They listened in silence while he told the story of what had happened at Chez La Violette.

“Oh my God,” Belinda cried. “Sunny could have been killed. And those poor children.”

“Men are beasts!” Sara exclaimed, earning a wry smile from Nate. “I mean, sometimes they are,” she added. “Like Krendler and Valenti.”

“We can't just sit here and talk about it,” Belinda said. “We have to go back, see everything's all right . . . I need to give Sunny a hug.”

“And those kids,” Sara added.

Lev noticed Sara looked pale under her tan and knew she was frightened. Violence was a long way from her calm routine life. The worst that had ever happened to her was that she had picked a dud boyfriend.

“I know what you're thinking,” Sara said suddenly to him. “You think all that's ever happened to me was picking a dud boyfriend.”

Lev stared at her, astonished.

“It's true,” she said. “But I love Sunny. I love those kids. I love you, Belinda, and you, Nate.” She looked at Lev. “Even you. And now Malcolm and Roger.”

The chef sat back. He glanced worriedly at Malcolm, not quite sure he understood what was going on.

“I've come a long way,” Sara said, “and I'm not going to let my friends down now. I have to go and see they're okay.”

Lev checked the time. He said, “At least let's wait till morning.” He knew there was no dissuading them but hoped that in daylight they might listen to reason. He wanted to keep Belinda here, under lock and key if possible, at least until Jasper Lord was taken care of.

“We'll set off at dawn,” Belinda said.

Nate groaned. “Again?”

“We must see they are all right,” Sara said stubbornly. “Then we'll come back.”

There was no controlling them, Lev had to go along with it. “It's still dangerous,” he warned. “The husband can return any time.”

“Not now he's been kicked out of the country,” Belinda said confidently.

Lev sighed. Didn't she understand there were no borders in Europe? Jasper Lord could enter by car from anywhere and be back in St. Tropez the same time they were. What Lev would bet on though, was that this time he would not use the red helicopter.

Despite her worry, Sara hated to leave. And so, she'd bet, did Nate. She'd noticed the bunch of giant sunflowers in the red vase on the stone window ledge. Only a man in love would do a thing like that, a man in love with a place.

She and Belinda were installed in the top-floor master bedroom. Below them, in the yellow room, was Nate, and below that, on the sofa in the living room was Lev.

Looking out of the bedroom window when they finally got back from the Moulin, Sara thought she had never seen such a dense darkness. No lights anywhere, just ink black countryside, sleeping, like the residents of the village. The silence, the very peacefulness, awoke a yearning in her and she knew she wanted to stay. She would talk to Malcolm and Roger later about becoming their permanent waitress. She told herself that after all, everyone had to start at the bottom, and besides she had enjoyed herself tonight, chatting with the customers, who hadn't grumbled, even when they'd been a bit slow getting food to the table.

Belinda was propped up in the black leather bed, still in her T-shirt, staring blankly in front of her. Sara thought she looked exhausted. How could she not, with a mad husband chasing her, ready to kill? He would never find her here though.

The window looked like a black canvas against the exposed stone wall. “A Rothko,” Belinda decided. “And then when there's a full moon, it'll be a different artist. Imagine that, Sara, Nate gets to have a different painting every night.”

They looked at each other, still not voicing what was uppermost on their minds. “Jesus, Sara,” Belinda said shakily at last. “They might have been killed.”

“They might,” Sara agreed. “But they were not, and now we have to go back and tell them we love them.”

“Kiss them better,” Belinda said.

Sara eyed her critically. “You look as though you need some kissing better yourself. You need to get away from the husband permanently.”

Belinda shrugged. “How to do it, that's the question.”

“Divorce.” Sara was practical.

Belinda laughed. “And here speaks the girl who less than two weeks ago walked out on the boyfriend. And what happened? He came looking for her. You and I have a lot in common, Sara, or at least, the same taste in men.”

“I know.” Sara did understand how difficult it was. “But I'm afraid for you,” she said simply.

Belinda's sparkly blue eyes no longer sparkled as she said, “I'm scared too, Sara.”

 

82.

 

 

“We're going the back way,” Lev said, guiding the big Bentley out of the village very early the next morning. “Through a gorge, very scenic. Kind of a shortcut.”

“A gorge? Does that mean like a twisty canyon road?” Belinda asked nervously.

“Kinda medium twisty.” Lev didn't want to tell them he wanted to keep as far away as possible from the main routes just in case the husband was on the prowl. Of course eventually they would have to link up with the A8-E80, before cutting down the one and only road to St. Tropez. The same road where Sara had almost been hijacked. He was well aware it could happen again, and also aware it might happen anywhere. Jasper Lord was a high-powered mobster, he had money and pressure to spare. He would find his wife if it was the last thing he did, and Lev was now quite certain that if he did, it would also be the last thing Belinda did.

In the backseat Sara was pouring coffee from a thermos, slopping it over the sides of the paper cups as Lev took the curves.