Provence - To Die For (2 page)

“She’s married to Rudy Edman; he teaches earth science in the high school. She’s been helping me brush up on my French, and vows that I’ll sound like a native by the time I get back.”

“You have hidden talents, Jessica. I didn’t know you could speak French that well.”

“I’m sure she was exaggerating, but I’ll find out soon. Anyway, Elise and her sister, Martine, were ‘army brats’—that’s what they call themselves. Their father was a major who met his wife in Paris. The family moved around a lot. When he was stationed in France, the girls got to travel all over the country with their mother. Martine said Provence was her favorite region. She always wanted to live there.”

“She’s American, then?”

“Yes, and half French. She speaks both languages fluently.”

“That’s great for you,” he said, grinning ruefully. “I took Spanish in high school, so I was no help at all when we visited Provence. Sue remembered enough French to figure out how to ask directions, but not enough to understand the answers. We got lost a lot. Fortunately for us, our hosts had a better grasp of English than we had of French.”

The wine steward returned with a bottle of chardonnay, and presented the label to Matt, who nodded his assent. We watched as he uncorked the wine and poured a small amount in Matt’s glass, carefully wiping off the lip of the bottle with an immaculate white linen towel. Matt, who was well versed in the customs of wine tasting, swirled the wine around in the glass, held it up to the light, took a sip, swished the liquid over his tongue, and finally swallowed.
“Bon!”
he pronounced. “Good!”

The wine steward filled my glass halfway, added more to Matt’s glass, and shoved the bottle into a bucket of ice on a stand next to our table. Matt and I raised our glasses and clinked. “To a wonderful stay in Provence,” he said. “I know you’ll love it.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

The waiter arrived with our dishes, and conversation temporarily ceased as we concentrated on the wonderful flavors. The snails were as good as I’d remembered them, and the lemony dressing on my salad was the perfect counterpoint to the butter and garlic of the classic dish.

“When do you head south?” Matt asked, pulling the wine from the ice without waiting for the steward.

“The day after tomorrow.” I covered my glass with my hand to keep him from filling it again. “I’m taking the noon train to Avignon. It’s only a little over three hours.”

“And how long will you be staying there?”

“About two months. I gave Martine’s address and phone number to Paulette last week,” I said, referring to Matt’s assistant. “So if you need to teach me, you can.”

“I’ll try not to do that. What good’s a vacation if you keep getting calls from the office?”

“I appreciate the thought,” I said, smiling. “Although I may get a yen to hear my native language after immersing myself in French for a while.”

“What about Martine? She speaks English.”

“Yes, but she won’t be there for the first month.”

“She won’t? Why not?”

“We’re swapping houses,” I said. “She’ll be settling into mine in Cabot Cove at the same time I move into hers in Provence.”

The waiter removed our plates, and returned shortly with a dome-topped cart containing a selection of cheeses.

“I’ve had enough for now,” I told Matt. “But you go ahead.”

He picked out a small, round white goat cheese, a creamy Brie, and a French cheese I didn’t know, a Cantal. The waiter cut wedges of the cheese, arranged them on a plate, garnished with some slices of pear, and set it in front of Matt with a flourish. He looked across at me, in case I’d changed my mind.

“Non, merci,”
I said.

The waiter smiled wistfully and pushed the cart away.

Matt picked up a piece of Brie with his fork. “How come Martine’s not staying with her sister and brother-in-law?” he asked, balancing a sliver of pear on top of the cheese.

“She told me that a month is too long to impose on them,” I replied. “But I think she also likes the idea of being able to get away and give them—and herself— some privacy. With Martine staying at my house, she can have a nice long visit without worrying about wearing out her welcome. And I get to live in a French farmhouse.”

“Yes, but it’s November,” Matt pointed out, frowning. “It’s not exactly tourist season. A lot of places will be closed. What are you going to do all by yourself? You don’t even drive.”

“Oh, I think I can manage,” I said, already envisioning morning excursions to the market for fresh vegetables, brisk afternoon walks, and curling up by the fire with a pile of books I’d been meaning to read. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to go away and relax. When I travel for business, well, that’s business. At home—you know how it is—there are always chores to be done, correspondence to write, errands to run, and people to see—and that doesn’t even count work. But in Provence there’s no pressure, no computer or fax machine; everything is quiet and uncomplicated. I’m looking forward to the solitude, living a simpler life, reading and resting, cooking for myself, and enjoying the occasional day shopping in Avignon or visiting a museum. It’s quite a cosmopolitan city, I understand.”

“You’ll go stir-crazy in a week,” Matt predicted as he speared the Cantal. “You’re a social person, Jessica. You’ll be bored with no one to talk to.”

“I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself,” I said. “But in any case, I won’t be entirely alone.”

“Aha! What haven’t you told me?”

“Nothing shocking, I assure you,” I said. “I’m planning to take cooking classes in Avignon.”

“Cooking? I thought you were already a pretty good cook.” He gathered the remaining crumbs of goat cheese with the back of his fork. “Your homemade baked beans and clam chowder never last long around my house. And that blueberry crumb cake you sent last Christmas was the best.” His eyes became dreamy as he remembered the crumb cake, the cheese forgotten as the waiter removed his plate.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “Like most cooks, I guess, the dishes I know how to make, I make very well. But I don’t know much about French cooking. Provence is renowned for its cuisine. Lucky for me, cooking classes are available year-round. I’ve already signed up for one course.”

“Are you going into competition with me?” said a male voice other than Matt’s.

It was Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, the chef and owner of L’Absinthe, who’d been stopping at each table to greet his customers. He wore his kitchen uniform of white jacket and dark pants, but was without his toque, the tall white hat that’s the symbol of his trade.

Matt and I laughed. “You’re in no danger, Jean-Michel,” I said. “What a wonderful meal, as always, of course.”

“Merci, madame.”
He bowed and winked at me. “I heard you say you go to Avignon.”

“That’s right.”

“You cannot miss the restaurant of my good friend, Christian Étienne. He’s a
maître cuisinier de France,
a master chef, like me.”

“I’d be delighted to visit him, and bring your regards.”

“Merveilleux!
And you must eat at his restaurant, too. He will make you something very special. If you like, I can call him and make a reservation for you. Just tell me which day you would like to go.”

“What a great idea, Jessica,” Matt put in. “Can’t get a better recommendation than that, can you? From one great chef to another.”

“You’re right,” I said. I pulled my datebook from my handbag and we consulted on which day would be good to visit his friend’s restaurant. “My cooking class in Avignon starts on a Wednesday. I’ll already be in town, so that would work well.”

“If you are cooking in the morning, it will include lunch,” he said. “I will make your reservation for eight o’clock. It’s a bit early, but ...”

“Eight o’clock it is,” I said, making a note and circling it.

“We French eat later than you Americans do. But by eight there should be a few people at the restaurant. Is a good time for you,
n’est-ce pas?”

“Perfect.”

“I will call Christian tomorrow.” Jean-Michel looked down at our empty table and frowned. “I have interrupted your meal,” he said sorrowfully. “You must let me buy you dessert.” Our protestations that he’d already been helpful and that we were finished eating were ignored. He gestured to our waiter. “Alain!
Les desserts, s’il vous plaît.”

Alain hurried to a sideboard and returned with a tray laden with a selection of pastries, tarts, creams, and cakes that promised to have me loosening my belt at least a notch. Jean-Michel looked over the tray and adjusted the angle of a walnut torte so we could see where a slice had been removed, revealing the layers of cake and cream. He patted Alain on the shoulder, excused himself, and turned to greet a party taking a table across from ours.

Matt eyed the tray and groaned, but succumbed to a macadamia-nut crème brûlée. I declined dessert, but knew I’d still get a taste of something sweet; Jean-Michel always had a few chocolate truffles brought to the table at the end of dinner.

Alain put Matt’s dish in front of him.
“Café? Madame? Monsieur?”

“Oui! Deux,”
Matt replied, holding up two fingers. “You want coffee, don’t you, Jessica?”

“Decaf, if you have it,” I said, looking up.

“Certainement, madame,”
the waiter said.

“Well, I feel better now that I know you’ll have at least one evening out on the town, Jessica. That was very considerate of Jean-Michel.”

“It was. The trip is shaping up nicely. I’ll have my cooking classes, and now I have a special occasion to look forward to.”

“So you have a month on your own before Martine returns. What happens after that?”

“My leisurely vacation will end at that point. She’s already planned a full schedule of sight-seeing for us. By that time, I should be truly rested. It’ll be fun to see all the places listed in my guidebook, especially with someone who knows them so well.”

Over our coffees, Matt brought me up to date on business. He was off to Frankfurt, Germany, the next day to negotiate German rights on some books, including two of mine. Sales were going well. The publisher was already asking where the next mystery would take place. Not to worry, Matt assured me. When I returned home from France, there would be plenty of time to start thinking about that project.

Out on the street in front of L’Absinthe, Matt hailed a Yellow Cab for me. “Kennedy Airport,” he told the driver, who hefted my bag into the trunk. Matt held the door as I climbed into the taxi. “Have a great trip, Jessica. Get out and meet the people. Go dancing. Read a lot of books.”

“I have at least one of those items on my agenda,” I replied. “Thanks, Matt. This was a great bon voyage dinner. L’Absinthe was the perfect place to put me in the mood for France.”

The train to Avignon left Paris at a little after noon from the Gare de Leon, a huge open depot bustling with people. Porters pushed carts laden with luggage. Young people sprawled on the floor, lounging against backpacks while waiting for their trains. Mothers, with bags hanging from both shoulders, cautioned their children to stay close. Businesspeople, encumbered only by the weight of a briefcase, strode purposefully past the myriad cafés and food stalls where pigeons and sparrows fluttered down from the rafters to seek crumbs. I inhaled deeply and let go, my breath a soft cloud in the chilly station. Daylight flooded in from the glass roof but did little to warm the air, which felt several degrees colder than outside.

I rolled my case to the head of the platform and paused to punch my ticket in a machine, following the example of my fellow passengers. As a frequent flyer on promotional tours for my books, I’d gotten used to traveling light; I could manage well for a week, perhaps a few days more, with one small suitcase and a carry-on bag. But two months in Provence, not to mention stops in Paris at either end of the trip, required a bit more packing. Even the suitcase-on-wheels I now steered alongside the train would never hold all I’d want for two months. I’d sent ahead a duffel bag of belongings to Martine’s farmhouse; hopefully it would arrive before I did. My books, except for the one in my handbag, were in that duffel, along with boots and heavier clothes in the event the mistrals, the legendary fierce winds that whip down through the mountains and across the valleys of Provence, were blowing.

I showed the conductor my ticket. He waited while I climbed aboard, then lifted my heavy suitcase as if it weighed nothing and deposited it next to me. A small space for luggage was provided at one end of the car, and I maneuvered my awkward case into a gap between two bulging garment bags. Relieved of my burden, I heaved a grateful sigh and walked down the carpeted aisle.

The train was arranged with pairs of seats down one side of the car, and a row of singles down the other. Here and there, between facing seats, were small tables. Two long hinges allowed the sides of the top to be folded over, narrowing the table to make it easier to sit down. My seat was at one of these tables. I removed my coat, folded it carefully, slipped it into the lower of the two overhead racks, and took my place by the window. Across from me was a young woman, her overstuffed backpack propped on the seat beside her. I guessed her age to be seventeen or eighteen. She had unfolded the panel on her side of the table and was earnestly writing in a small notebook that I assumed was her journal. Her elbows were splayed across the table’s surface, her head resting on one arm. She had fine light brown hair pulled back into a ragged braid, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. When she looked up, I saw that her eyes were hazel and rimmed in red with faint shadows beneath them.

“Bonjour,”
she said softly.

“Bonjour,”
I replied with a smile, and asked her how she was:
“Comment allez-vous?”

A spark of interest flickered in her tired eyes. “You’re American, too, aren’t you?” she said in English, sitting up straight.