“Purple, then silver from the olive trees, then the bright green grass and pebbled terrace, and finally—”
“The house.”
“Those skinny green trees,” Justin said, seeing Valère turn glum again. “Van Gogh was crazy about them.”
“Cypresses,” Valère said. “In Provence they are a symbol of welcome. But I’ve always seen them more as guardians, erect soldiers guarding a house. Although in my opinion the cypresses of La Bastide Blanche were doing a piss-poor job.”
Chapter Twenty
Aix-en-Provence,
Saturday, July 9, 2010
Marine held the door open as she waited for Charlotte to climb the four flights of stairs to their apartment. “Coucou, chérie,” she said when Charlotte got to the landing. She gave her goddaughter the bise.
“Coucou, Marine,” Charlotte replied, not even out of breath. She was thin, like Sylvie, but taller, and, like her mother, a natural athlete.
“I’m so lucky,” Marine said, closing the door after Charlotte. “That makes three visits we’ve had together this week.”
Charlotte sighed. “I’m sorry about that, Marine.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining!” Marine said, embarrassed that Charlotte had taken it the wrong way. But in truth both Marine and Verlaque wondered why Sylvie had needed to send Charlotte over so many times that week. Sylvie did have a busy professional and social life, but she was utterly dedicated to Charlotte, and one night out a week was usually her limit—that is, if Charlotte was at home in Aix and not with her grandparents in the Alps.
“Maman spent too much time in the bathroom again,” Charlotte said, flopping down on the sofa.
Marine sat down beside her and said, “So I guess she isn’t getting dressed up for a faculty meeting at the Beaux-Arts.” She realized that it was Saturday she had lost track of the days—and that Sylvie no doubt had a date.
Charlotte laughed. “No, I guess not! Whoever this guy is, he’d better be nice!”
“I’m sure he is,” Marine replied. “You know, sweetie, your maman has been a single woman for a long time, and she’s young. There might be a day when she finds a man to share her, and your, life with.”
“I know, I know,” Charlotte replied. “She’s already told me all that. Can we play cards now?”
Marine hugged her goddaughter—who smelled of the warm sun mixed with a tiny bit of little-girl sweat. She got out the Sept familles card set she kept in the console. “We’ll play one game,” Marine said, “and then after you beat me, you can help me prepare a salad to have with the dinner.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “When’s Antoine coming home?”
“He’ll be late. But my parents are coming over. They’re thrilled to see you again.” Marine leaned toward Charlotte and whispered, “My mother’s very smart and nice, but she’s not a very good cook, so I invited them here.”
Charlotte laughed. “What are we having?”
“Ceviche,” Marine replied, shuffling the cards.
“Huh? That’s not French.”
“Correct. It’s Mexican, or South American perhaps.” Marine began dealing, hoping that Charlotte wouldn’t ask any more questions about the meal.
“What’s in it?”
“Well,” Marine began. “I may as well be frank with you. Raw, cold fish that sort of cooks itself as it marinates in lime juice. I made it this morning and now it’s in the fridge. And there are red onions, olives, and avocados in it too.”
Charlotte lifted her right hand and brought it up to her throat. She made a gagging sound, and Marine fell back onto the sofa in a fit of laughter. “I also bought a package of gnocchi for you,” she said after her godchild recovered. She reached out to give Charlotte a squeeze. “I can make it with butter and Gruyère.”
Charlotte hugged Marine and thanked her, then, licking her lips, picked up her hand and deftly began arranging her cards.
It was the kind of restaurant Verlaque loved. One Michelin star—enough for it to have great food and fine service, but not three, which often meant stuffiness and ten-euro espressos at the end of the meal. The restaurant, part of a five-star hotel, was on a mountain road with views of olive orchards that spilled south all the way to far-off Grasse. He hesitated when asked if he would like to dine inside or out, until he saw that the terrace was set with sturdy yet delicate reproduction Louis XVI chairs and linen-covered tables. No plastic in sight. “Sur la terrasse, s’il vous plaît,” he said. “Et un verre de Fonseca Bin No. 27.”
He sat down and tried to enjoy the view, but his stomach was turning somersaults. Whether this was because of nervousness or excitement, he wasn’t sure. A waiter brought the port, a brilliant ruby red, and as Verlaque took his first sip—plums, chocolate, and berries all at once—he wondered why he didn’t drink it more often. He closed his eyes.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” a voice said.
He opened his eyes and quickly got up. “Salut,” he said.
“Hello, Antoine,” Chantal Sennat said, giving him the bise. “It’s been a long time.” She sat down, and a waiter appeared. “A glass of champagne, please,” she said. Looking at Verlaque, she added, “So you came, after all. I hope you remembered the dossier.”
“It’s in the car,” Verlaque replied.
“What made you change your mind?”
“Don’t be coy, Chantal. I thought it right that we see each other. We did spend two years of our lives together.”
“Which I’ve never regretted,” she said. A flute of champagne was placed in front of her and she made a toast. “To Daniel de Rudder, professeur extraordinaire.”
Verlaque smiled. “Cheers.”
The waiter reappeared with a rectangular-shaped plate that he placed between them. “Savory macarons compliments of the chef,” he said. “Enjoy.”
“You chose a nice out-of-the-way restaurant,” Chantal said after the waiter walked away.
“I don’t like Cannes.”
She smiled. “Neither do I. So did you find anything interesting in Agathe Barbier’s file?”
“Nothing much,” he said, lying. “I think Rudder’s old age has affected his judgment. Plus, he feels guilty about that case.”
“No
