warm feel of Neil’s hand on her shoulder or the brush of his cheek against her face was what she really wanted, but Neil was not as quick to touch. She thought how amused the Gods must be with the three of them, how omnipresent the Olympians seemed to be here in their home waters. She loved Neil, Neil loved Sam and Sam loved her. It was summer dance only the Old Ones could have arranged, gleeful at the sharp corners of the triangle, corners that could smart when brushed against.
The silence was broken by the sound of a car coming to a stop on the gravel above the bluff. An older woman in a red blouse and white slacks, and large-brimmed straw hat of matching red, got out of the car and started uneasily down the uneven steps. Carrie wondered if the woman would fall off the steps, but she made it, racing down the last steps to the bottom with arms outstretched for balance. She walked directly towards them. Neil and Sam were asleep as she approached.
“May I share your beach umbrella?” she whispered to Carrie.
“Yes, of course.”
The woman sat down gracefully in the umbrella’s shade and took off the large hat. Her hair was a well-tended blonde, once natural but now with salon assistance, pulled back into a sizeable chignon. Not a single golden strand escaped this fashionable stricture. In the red straw bag that matched her hat, she found a cigarette, lit it and inserted it expertly into a tortoise-shell holder.
“I’m Margaret, Neil’s mother.”
Carrie said, “What a surprise. How did you find us?”
“The young girl at the café thought you would be down here, after I gave her a large tip. Also, your friend Nicole provided me with excellent directions out of Gordes. I like her, by the way. A stylish, smart woman.”
“Yes, of course.”
“My son has been avoiding me, so I’ve rather taken matters in hand, come over to France to settle things. A woman needs the mind of a spy, especially a mother.”
“I’d better wake him.”
Neil, hearing their conversation, awoke on his own, turned over slowly and when he saw his mother, jolted upright.
“Margaret, good god.” He stood up, brushed the sand off his chest and leaned down to kiss her on the offered cheek.
“The strength of mother-love has no bounds.” She drew a long puff on her cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Margaret. Events pressed in, and we got too busy to answer your call. I was going to telephone when we got back to Gordes.” But he knew her sudden appearance was not just about his avoidance of returned telephone calls. Something else loomed.
“It couldn’t wait that long, my dear.”
“So, what is it?”
“Now that I’ve found you, I’m going to make you wait until tonight. Nicole told me that you made a joke of my urgency, as if ‘trés important’ had no meaning. Mother doesn’t like being made fun of. I assume that is Sam sleeping over there and you must be Carrie.” Carrie nodded.
Neil asked, “Is it about Dad? Is he okay?”
“No, he’s fine. I’ll buy dinner for the three of you at my hotel tonight, the Eden Roc down the coast. Come at eight.” She got up and walked slowly back up to the car. With a screech of gravel, she was off down the road.
Carrie looked at Neil expectantly. “What do you think has happened?”
“Margaret has a keen sense of the dramatic. It could be anything, even something insignificant, but I have a feeling it’s something significant.”
The calm pattern of their day had been shattered. Much as they hoped to mend it, after a desultory swim they gave in and went to the cottage to get ready for the dinner at Eden Roc.
The hotel was ten miles to the east on a long promontory, a faux Moroccan village of white-washed domes, cottages, palm trees and a staff with curled-toe shoes. Pulling into the long entrance drive, they allowed a turbaned footman to park the car, while they crossed the large lobby to the bar. Neil could hear Margaret’s laugh across the lobby, above the sounds of the jazz group.
She sat on one of the stools at the bar, talking to the barman and a stranger on the stool next to her. She waved to the three and motioned them to take a far table in the otherwise empty lounge. Her conversation with the two men continued for a few minutes, and then she joined them.
“Let’s get all your drink orders,” she said. The barman obliged.
“Margaret, you look fantastic, as usual,” Neil said.
“Thank you, dear. A little pulling up, only.”
“So, I can’t wait. What is so important you’ve come all the way to France?”
“I have a letter here. It’s from your Uncle Lionel. I’ll let you read it and then the two of your must also read it.” She handed Neil a sealed envelope.
“By way of explanation to Carrie and Sam. Lionel is my older brother. He is the owner and headmaster of a School of Art in Santa Fe. Also my favorite family member. There are interesting troubles at the school and I’m here on his behalf.”
Neil opened the envelope and it read:
Dear Nephew:
Circumstances require me to ask an enormous favor, to humble myself deeply and ask that you come immediately to my rescue. The Monmouth clan has always clustered together in time of danger and we must circle now, all Scotland ablaze with kilts akimbo and swords sharpened.
Events have conspired to produce good fortune for Lionel Monmouth School of Art, not, I must add, without results. Two of my former students, a Mr. Brendt Basse-Noir and a Miss Martha Noggidge, were interviewed this January by The New York Times, featuring their meteoric rise in the New York world of art. Each now earns a handsome sum annually from their endeavors. They were good, but not excellent students of my school.
You are ahead of me here, I know. They gave the Monmouth School and me, personally, credit for their spectacular rise, giving my small enterprise the dazzling light of notoriety. Instead of the usual half a dozen applications for new students this spring, I have received over fifty for the fall term. Alas, most of the applicants seem qualified, having completed their undergraduate time with honors.
With some expansions and revisions, I might be able to accommodate forty new students for the term starting this September. We are refurbishing the old studios here, finding accommodation in the town for most of them. You’ll remember Miss Louisa Marriner, my aide-de-camp, who is rallying everybody together for this onslaught.
This is where you and Sam come into the scenario. With both of you holding Masters of Arts Cum Laude from the Royal Academy, you are well qualified by any measure to teach art in an American school. I implore both of you to come to Santa Fe for a year, at salaries of $32,000 and teach at the Monmouth School. It would vastly aid your beleagured uncle and you would be young stars in my firmament. We will discuss details after you have indicated your assent to Margaret, who has graciously agreed to hand deliver this and record your reponse. .
I well know that both of you consider Santa Fe
