off on your countryside obsessions. She shopped today for antiques in Perget and will join us when she’s done.”
Nicole Bertralle owned the inn where Carrie had rooms. Nicole inherited the inn when her father died ten years ago and she had refurbished the ten lackluster rooms with antiques she bought in neighboring villages and trips to the Marche aux Puces in Paris. Each year of her proprietorship saw a finer polish on things, an upgrading of quality. She found a talented woman chef for the small restaurant attached to the inn and customers now traveled the hour’s trip from Avignon just for lunch. Summer guests had a half pension from a special menu, dishes not often seen outside Paris. The Auberge de Gordes was getting good notice in the travel guides and Paris reviews. Vacant rooms were scarce this summer, but Nicole rescheduled several early reservations to give Carrie a full summer there.
Neil said, “It’s not that we don’t like her. We hate her.”
Sam joined in with, “When the two of you are talk in French and laugh, with that knowing look our way, why wouldn’t we be touchy?”
She said, “At least be civil for one of our last lunches together. Please?”
It was true that the two men did not care for Nicole, mostly because she seemed to siphon off the attention that Carrie had formerly reserved exclusively for them. They had been happy in the glow of Carrie’s sun and an eclipse by Nicole brought only a coolness and a darkness.
Carrie led them to a small wine bar next to the church and ordered them a pitcher of white wine. She took off her scarf, shook out her hair and poured a glass for each of them as she said, “Now, my brilliant idea about your future. Your joint futures, I should say.”
Sam said, “Good, I hope it involves money, because when we get to New York I will be down to five cents.
“Me, too,” Neil said.
“The idea is inspired, I think. It does involve money. I will take your sixty paintings back to London and organize an exhibit at Hetty’s gallery in Dover Street. You remember her. She owes me big-time for the dozen or so paintings my father bought there. When he stayed at Brown’s, which was often, I took him over to her gallery and guided him through the niceties of buying a painting. He bought several he did not like because of me.”
Sam said, “But why would she want to exhibit our paintings?”
“Your paintings are accomplished, particularly the later ones, and they will sell quickly, I am sure. The sales would give you both a nest egg for New York. Hetty Sloan is a dedicated traditionalist, but also down deep a true English shop-keeper and she likes anything so long as it sells. Then, you won’t need to wait tables in Tribeca or work in gallery back rooms to make ends meet.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Carrie,” Neil said.
“Of course, it is.”
Sam said, “I wonder about Hetty’s gallery, though. She specializes in nineteenth century work. Big bouquets and bowls of fruit. Thoroughbred horses in front of country houses. Long-toothed women in period dress, colors too strong for their English complexions. I swear on her sign it says right under her name: Paintings of the Deceased British Academicians from the nineteenth century.”
“That’s almost right,” Carrie said. “But your paintings of the South of France will give her a new look, something to attract the old pussies of both genders who stay at Brown’s Hotel. Contemporary landscapes are not that far afield. I know it will work. I am sure she will agree.”
“They are good, aren’t they,” Sam asked, more of a statement than a question.
“Absolutely. Let me call her tonight.”
Neil said, “It’s okay by me. Let’s do it.”
“Splendid. You won’t regret it,” she said.
He continued, “I do have something else to bring up to the two of you, as well. Since we are in fact done with our project and the summer isn’t over yet, why don’t we spend a few weeks somewhere on the coast? Sam can drive us in your car.”
“Our very own water nymph. Always wanting to go to the seashore,” Carrie said.
“It’s true, I confess. No summer seems right without a dip into the sea. The Mediterranean holds a fascination for me, its the very water that Odysseus, Tiberius and Madame Matisse all swam about in, if not together.”
Sam said, “Our ship home from Genoa isn’t until September so I’ll say yes to both propositions. It will have to be a very cheap place as I have only three hundred or so left. Do you think Hetty could send us a small advance?”
Carrie said, “Don’t push it, Sam. I’ll call her tonight.”
Nicole found them in the wine bar. She pulled up an extra chair, and they started to pour her a glass of wine. She put her hand over the glass. “I had a good morning in Perget. My old friend there has been raiding his family chateau again, his mother away in Paris for a month. Four eighteenth century rush seated chairs and a Regénce bureau plat. I’m starved for lunch. Allons.”
She led them next door to the café and expertly secured a table under the awning against the front wall, cool but fully open to street-side. The waiter was instantly there, sensing the no-nonsense power that Nicole exuded in public. She ordered, without consulting the other three, four of the daily special dejeuners for the all of them, raising her eyebrows for tacit approval. If Neil and Sam gave in, it was only on the surface, for a moment’s peaceful retreat.
Nicole was a dark-haired version of Carrie, slim and casually dressed in jeans, a black silk blouse and large straw hat. She was a few years older than Carrie, but her youthful demeanor gave her an air of a school-mate.
Carrie said, “We’ve much to celebrate. Neil and Sam’s sixty paintings are completed. An exhibit in London arranged, well, almost arranged. And we have just come up with a trip to the Riviera for a couple of weeks of sea-water. Will you join us for some swimming and sunning, Nicole?”
“No, no. It’s much too busy now in Gordes. Maybe in October.”
Sam said, “But you won’t have our glorious company in October, Nicole. Handsome American men with stunning bodies frolicking in the waves. It will make you insane with desire.”
“Ah, yes. But imagination must suffice.”
Carrie asked, “Where should we stay, Nicole? August will be crowded I know, and we are definitely on a budget.”
“I may have just the thing. My uncle in his will left me his summer house in Cabasson-sur-Mer. Not the Riviera, closer to Marseilles. It’s very simple fisherman’s house, but on the edge of town. Applewood tables, chairs that lean, dishes that don’t match. The Paris family that always rents it for August has cancelled. Most annoying. Perhaps you would like to rent it? It’s available starting tomorrow.”
“How much for two whole weeks?” Sam said.
“Five thousand francs.”
“Ouch. I was hoping for something around eight hundred francs.”
Nicole’s expression indicated her displeasure. “It is High Season for rents and my uncle did not leave it to me just for me to give it away.
