There's Something About St. Tropez (59 page)

 

Sunny looked up from the letter. Mac was watching her. “You must read it for yourself,” she said, handing the pages to him.

She walked out onto the balcony and stood, with the breeze stirring her hair, looking out at the same view Violette had seen the evening she wrote her final letter. She clasped her arms round her shoulders, chilled.

When Mac finally came out to join her, he held her against him.

“What do you think she did?” Sunny asked, sadly.

“Maybe it's better not to ask what, or how. At least now we know why.”

“She sounds so lovely, Mac, so real, so honest, so brave and vulnerable.”

“She does,” he agreed. “And now I think we should do what she would have wanted. We read the message she hoped some final person would find and understand. Now we should let it go, tear it into tiny pieces and scatter it to the wind.”

“Violette would have wanted that, wouldn't she?” Sunny said.

 

88.

 

 

They were to meet the Misfits later, for the Grand Farewell Dinner thrown by François Reynaud, at Tétou in Golfe Juan. Sunny wore her favorite dress, a creamy silk splashed with gaudy red, pink and purple flowers, a low V back and front, cinched at the waist with a belt that ended in a beaded tassel. Purple high suede sandals, a tiny cream clutch that held the Dior Rouge lipstick, as well as the fifty-dollar bill she'd carried around for years in case of emergency—after all, a girl never knew when she might need a cab—a quick brush of her long hair, and she was ready.

Mac thought she looked beautiful, his golden girl, despite the two black eyes. But before the party, they had work to complete.

They drove to the place where a narrow azure creek ran inland from the sea, just beyond the villa. There was no sandy cove here, just the aquamarine sea, paler where the water rippled over the shallows. Somehow, Sunny knew this where Violette would have found final peace.

She took off her sandals and holding hands, she and Mac walked down the path. They stood, looking down at the water. Then, silk skirts bunched in one hand, Sunny waded into the sea.

She tore the confession into tiny pieces until nothing was left of the writing, then let the pieces flutter into that blue water to become like Violette, a part of the elements again.

“It's good now, isn't it?” she asked, looking back at Mac.

“It's good, baby,” he agreed gently.

As they drove back they passed the villa where Sunny had arrived, alone,
only a couple weeks ago, for a luxury vacation that had turned into mayhem and mystery. The place still drew her.

“I have to look, just one more time,” she said.

Mac got out and opened the gates. They creaked now and wobbled on their big iron hinges. Together, they walked up the gravel drive, stopping to look at the ragged chamomile lawn, the empty neglected pool, the poplars whose leaves seemed to tinkle in the breeze. Crickets buzzed in the bougainvillea, and quite suddenly a small snake wiggled fast across the flagstone terrace.

Sunny shivered, remembering what happened to Eve. She felt no need to go inside, though. It was over.

The wrought-iron table and two chairs were still on the terrace outside Violette's boudoir, and the green shutters had been left unlatched. One of them swung, very gently, to and fro. The evening sun gleamed on the dusty window.

Was that the scent of violets in the air? And was that a pale shadow at the window?

Perhaps the scent was simply the jasmine, after all. Perhaps the faint gray shadow was merely dust motes, reflecting from the sun. Perhaps, perhaps . . .

“Goodbye, Violette,” Sunny whispered. “I cared. Truly I did.”

Then she walked back to join Mac. He closed the gates of Chez La Violette behind them for the last time, and they drove back to their Hotel of Dreams.

 

89.

 

 

Reynaud's yacht, the
Bellissima
, was large enough to cause quite a sensation when it put in at St. Tropez and sent its tender, complete with two striped-T-shirted crew, to pick them up with all their luggage.

The yacht was too large to berth in the port and lay offshore, gleaming in the setting sun, a private cruise ship that Reynaud often called “home.” It was to take them across the bay to Golfe Juan and Chez Tétou, the famous fish restaurant Reynaud had chosen for their Grand Farewell Dinner.

All except Mac and Sunny were leaving the following morning. Tonight would be a time of celebration and of sadness at leaving new friends who would now become old friends. And of leaving Bertrand behind.

The women had dressed for the occasion; Sara in her Cavalli and the green wedge heels; Belinda in her red silk jersey wrap dress, though there was no risk of bullets tonight; and Sunny in her flower-splashed ivory silk with the tasseled belt. Little Laureen, of course, was in a tutu, an orange one this time because, she said, she was a bit nervous about going out to sea and wanted to make sure, in case of any trouble, that she would be spotted. No one needed to ask by whom.

She had brought along her wand and sat glued to Bertrand's side in the tender, letting the spray wash her hair, newly cut by Belinda so that it hung prettily to her shoulders with the princess tiara glittering on top. She wore the cowboy boots too, and was wiggling her hot toes because it was a warm evening despite the sea breeze. Of course she knew now to take the boots off on the boat.

“I'm glad Belinda's going to Texas with you,” Bertrand said, over the buzz of the tender's motor.

Laureen nodded. “I'm glad she's coming too. She promised to cut my hair again, when it needs it. Besides, I think my dad's in love with her.”

Bertrand looked worried, he knew how Laureen felt about her mother's memory. “Is that good?” he asked.

She threw him a soulful glance. “Of course it is. There's only one thing I would like more.” She gripped her wand tighter, looking at its magic star.

Bertrand didn't need to ask what that was; he knew Little Laureen wanted him to go back to the ranch with her as much as he did, but the woman who called herself his “mother” was fighting against that in court.

“Here we are,” the sailor in the navy-striped T-shirt called out as they bumped alongside the big yacht's steps.

Reynaud was waiting at the top to greet them. They were to spend the night on the yacht as his guests before flying home the next day.

The cabins were sumptuous, all nautical blue and white like Reynaud's Villa les Ambassadeurs, but with none of that ostentatious—and phony—paneling, like on Valenti's sailboat. Cocktails and lemonade were served on the afterdeck while the big boat cut through the water like a well-honed knife.

Billy was discreetly not holding Belinda's hand, though he would have liked to. She was barefoot, leaning against the deck rail, alone. He caught her glance and they smiled, one of those private smiles that meant something to each of them. He only wished he knew exactly what. Love had come back into Billy's life and he was afraid he would lose it again.

Sitting next to Nate, Sara nibbled caviar for the first time in her life and said out loud how marvelous it was.

“I like that things are a first for you,” Nate said. “Most of the women I know act as though they've been weaned on caviar.”

“I'm making the most of it before I become a waitress again.”

“You serious about it?”

She met his eyes. “Maybe,” she said with a grin.

Nate surely hoped she was. He was beginning to think his new house wouldn't be the same without her presence. And besides, she looked so cute tonight, a wispy waif in a smooth new Sassoon-type bob with a long fringe that finally allowed him to see her face properly. Again this was courtesy of Belinda, who was quite a magician with the scissors. She had also trimmed Nate's own hair into what was practically a buzz cut only with longer bits on
top. He looked like a new man, except for the pale blue Brooks Brothers seersucker jacket of course. He was still a man in transition.

Sara caught Lev's eye. He gave her a wink and a wry smile. Sara sighed as she looked away. She hoped he would keep in touch, but she doubted it.

“Here we are,” François Reynaud called as the big boat cut its engines and slid closer to shore. The small town of Vallauris gleamed in the low hills behind Golfe Juan, and Reynaud told them Picasso had once had a studio there, and there were now several museums devoted to his art.

The restaurant, Chez Tétou, had started life in the nineteen-twenties as a tiny beach shack owned by a local fisherman. Its reputation had grown over the years, though in essence it was still that same little beach shack, only larger now and nicely painted in white with black trim, casually elegant in its own simple way. It was comfortable, with big windows opening onto the sand and the sea, and it served the freshest fish in town. People came from all over the world for Tétou's famous bouillabaisse.

It was still run by the family of that original fisherman, and François Reynaud was greeted like an old friend. A long table had been reserved for them near the windows, and icy bottles of their favorite rosé wine, the Château Minuty L'Observatoire were poured.

Sara had never had bouillabaisse before, and neither had Billy, or Mac. “I guess we ought to try it,” Sara said, game for anything.

“We should try it too,” Bertrand said to Laureen.

She looked doubtful. “What about spaghetti?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “They don't make that here.”

Her eyes were huge with dismay. “What about french fries?”

He shook his head.

Laureen sat back, subdued. “Okay then, I'll have the bouillabaisse,” she said bravely. She wasn't quite sure what it was but the name sounded fishy. Only Sunny ordered the sole meunière.

Laureen wasn't hungry. She was thinking that she had to leave Bertrand behind the next morning. Her eyes met his. She wanted to hold his hand but decided against it in case the others were looking, afraid they might laugh.

The next table was being served their bouillabaisse. Laureen looked at the fishy soup and swallowed hard again. She took another gulp of water.

“Bertrand,” she whispered.

“
Oui?
”

“I don't think I can do bouillabaisse.”

His already alabaster face looked pale under his granny glasses and shock of hair. “Neither can I,” he whispered back.

Belinda caught it and ordered lobsters for them. “And I noticed there's strawberry and raspberry tarte for dessert,” she said.

Reynaud tapped his wineglass with a fork to get their attention.

“Messieurs, mesdames.”
He smiled at them. “Or may I now call you simply ‘friends'? It has been my great good fortune to meet you, here in the South of France, in one of the most delightful places on this earth, St. Tropez. It was not always easy, but through disaster, has come joy. Especially for me, because now I am in the unusual position of having children in my life.” He put a hand on Bertrand's thin shoulder. “Even though a French boy like Bertrand doesn't care for bouillabaisse,” he added with a laugh. “Still, what counts, is that we are able to share this wonderful evening together before you each go your separate ways, though I am certain we shall meet again.

“I have one piece of news for you.” He took a paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and held it up for them to see.

“This is official permission for Bertrand Olivier to travel to the USA under the guardianship of Billy Bashford. A passport will be issued tomorrow morning—although we will need a photograph of course.”

Billy got up and went and stood behind Bertrand's chair. He gripped the boy's shoulders, too filled with emotion to speak. Leaving Bertrand behind would have left him with another crack in his already broken heart and now he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead he looked at his daughter.

Laureen was certainly not crying. She was holding tight on to Bertrand's hand and beaming. Billy didn't remember when he'd last seen his little girl look so happy.