country auction, up in the hills of Provence to Orange, or even farther to Burgundy, where we once stayed the night in a grand converted château, living temporarily in the lap of luxury. It was so far removed from the daily chaos of our in-transition Hotel Riviera, it was like another world, and one where, to my surprise, I became another woman, throwing my cares and problems away and living just for the moment. We held hands, we kissed in shady bowers, and made love in a sumptuous feather bed.
I went to the local auctions and bid crazily on old stuff no one else seemed to want: the threadbare Oriental rugs, the out-of-fashion twenties marble-topped washstand; the crazy lampshades with the dangling bead fringes; and the gold lamé curtains from the thirties, swagged and tassled in purple, which to this day drape ourâ my âbed, looking like leftovers from a Fred and Ginger movie.
Sometimes, on those rare days we were together just before the opening of our hotel, weâd drive around and find an odd little sheep farm in the Sisteron hills where weâd spend the night tucked into a tiny room beneath the eaves, listening to the bleating of sheep outside our window and the splatter of rain on the tiled roof. Or weâd stop at a tiny hostellerie, just a couple of rooms over a little restaurant where we ate like kings and made love like bunny rabbits, as though this giddy world might never stop.
Did Patrick ever really love me, even then, when he was making love to me? Itâs a question destined to haunt me forever. I so want to believe he did, in his own way, which sadly in the end was not enough. And in the end my love was not enough either. I still care about where Patrick is, though, about whatâs happening to him, and who heâs with. In my heart I believe heâs with another woman, a younger, prettier, richer woman who can give him everything his material heart desires. Which, as I said before, doesnât make him a bad guyâjust a bad husband.
So, there we are; Iâve bared my untidy heart to youâwhatâs left of it anyway. For the past six months Iâve lived an independent life, running my little hotel, looking after my guests, cooking good food every night, and keeping myself busy so I donât have time to think about Patrick.
What Iâm really dreading is the winter, when my guests have gone back to their own worlds and Iâm here alone on my little peninsula, listening to the mistral blowing from the Siberian steppes, crashing through the Rhône valley, gathering speed until it finds my cottage, rattling the doors and windows, shrieking through the pines and toppling the heavy planters with a sound like cannon shots, making the silence inside even more lonely.
It will no longer be the season for cold rosé wine and instead Iâll light the apple wood in the grate, praying that the wind wonât blow the smoke back down the chimney. Iâll brew up the chamomile tea thatâs supposed to soothe my shattered nerves and maybe Iâll make some of those comforting toast soldiers and soft-boiled eggs that always remind me of my father and my childhood, because he would make them for me when I felt bad. Later, in bed, Scramble will snuggle into my neck, nibbling occasionally on my ear, and together weâll get through another long night.
Did I mention I wasnât looking forward to this? Did I mention how angry I am with Patrick? Did I mention I donât know what to do about his disappearance, where to look for him, or even who to ask to help? Well, hereâs the truth: the only good things to come out of this whole scenario are three facts. The first is that I still want to believe Patrick loved me, once upon a time. The second is Iâm no longer in love with him. And the third is that I still have my true âtrue loveâ: the Hotel Riviera.
Chapter 15
The noise of a car pulling into the gravel parking lot broke the
I went to the local auctions and bid crazily on old stuff no one else seemed to want: the threadbare Oriental rugs, the out-of-fashion twenties marble-topped washstand; the crazy lampshades with the dangling bead fringes; and the gold lamé curtains from the thirties, swagged and tassled in purple, which to this day drape ourâ my âbed, looking like leftovers from a Fred and Ginger movie.
Sometimes, on those rare days we were together just before the opening of our hotel, weâd drive around and find an odd little sheep farm in the Sisteron hills where weâd spend the night tucked into a tiny room beneath the eaves, listening to the bleating of sheep outside our window and the splatter of rain on the tiled roof. Or weâd stop at a tiny hostellerie, just a couple of rooms over a little restaurant where we ate like kings and made love like bunny rabbits, as though this giddy world might never stop.
Did Patrick ever really love me, even then, when he was making love to me? Itâs a question destined to haunt me forever. I so want to believe he did, in his own way, which sadly in the end was not enough. And in the end my love was not enough either. I still care about where Patrick is, though, about whatâs happening to him, and who heâs with. In my heart I believe heâs with another woman, a younger, prettier, richer woman who can give him everything his material heart desires. Which, as I said before, doesnât make him a bad guyâjust a bad husband.
So, there we are; Iâve bared my untidy heart to youâwhatâs left of it anyway. For the past six months Iâve lived an independent life, running my little hotel, looking after my guests, cooking good food every night, and keeping myself busy so I donât have time to think about Patrick.
What Iâm really dreading is the winter, when my guests have gone back to their own worlds and Iâm here alone on my little peninsula, listening to the mistral blowing from the Siberian steppes, crashing through the Rhône valley, gathering speed until it finds my cottage, rattling the doors and windows, shrieking through the pines and toppling the heavy planters with a sound like cannon shots, making the silence inside even more lonely.
It will no longer be the season for cold rosé wine and instead Iâll light the apple wood in the grate, praying that the wind wonât blow the smoke back down the chimney. Iâll brew up the chamomile tea thatâs supposed to soothe my shattered nerves and maybe Iâll make some of those comforting toast soldiers and soft-boiled eggs that always remind me of my father and my childhood, because he would make them for me when I felt bad. Later, in bed, Scramble will snuggle into my neck, nibbling occasionally on my ear, and together weâll get through another long night.
Did I mention I wasnât looking forward to this? Did I mention how angry I am with Patrick? Did I mention I donât know what to do about his disappearance, where to look for him, or even who to ask to help? Well, hereâs the truth: the only good things to come out of this whole scenario are three facts. The first is that I still want to believe Patrick loved me, once upon a time. The second is Iâm no longer in love with him. And the third is that I still have my true âtrue loveâ: the Hotel Riviera.
Chapter 15
The noise of a car pulling into the gravel parking lot broke the
Similar Books
