It’s early morning on the Côte d’Azur and the May sky is a limpid pearly-pink, like the inside of an oyster shell. On my way to the kitchen I stopped to watch the sun drifting lazily above the horizon, touching the sea and treetops and tiled roofs with gold until the whole world glowed as it must have at the dawn of creation.
Lucky me, I thought, to get to see this every morning. Lucky me, heading for the early market again. Lucky me, with the Hotel Riviera back in business, already with six guests who’ll soon be stirring and looking for croissants and coffee to begin their leisurely day.
And lucky, oh so lucky me, to have slept the carefree night away in the arms of the man I love, the sexy, wonderful captain of the sloop Bad Dog, and now captain and owner of my heart. “You’re too much,” you might be saying, “you’re too romantic, too over the top.” Of course I am, but then I’ve never felt like this before. I’m head over dizzy heels in love, and this time he loves me too. Really loves me.
How do I know? Why, because Jack Farrar, the nomad, the roamer of the sea, the man’s man whose usual hangouts are the fishing ports of the world, told me so. And to prove it, he married me on New Year’s Day in the little nineteenth-century church of Saint Torpes, conveniently overlooking Saint-Tropez yacht harbor.
The locals have finally taken us to their French bosoms and many attended, including the firemen who saved the Hotel Riviera from the flames, and even a couple of the local gendarmes who came to show their support.
Jack looked so to-die-for handsome in a nautical dark blue blazer, his eyes linked reassuringly with mine, as I walked toward him like a woman in a dream. Bad Dog trotted down the aisle behind me wearing a scarlet bow tie that matched his master’s and minding his manners for once, though he did give a quick exploratory sniff to the priest’s shoes. Of course, Chocolate, my little love, had to be left at the hotel as we were not sure of her “wedding manners.” She had a special bowl of fresh fish to compensate her for missing the banquet.
I wore a vintage lace dress that I feel sure must have belonged to Rita Hayworth when she was married to Aly Khan, here on the Côte d’Azur all those years ago. It was glamorous and low-cut and ruched up the rear like old-time cinema curtains. Very sexy. Which, to tell the truth, is exactly the way I was feeling. I wore dangly pearl earrings and carried a bouquet of pinky-red roses, and as usual, my pointy red shoes were killing me.
A small retinue of children threw rose petals and waved banners as we left the church, laughing and greeting people, and I swear our happiness was contagious.
Afterward, we dined and drank champagne at a bistro in the Place des Lices, with Bad Dog sneaking every morsel he could from the plates. Jack wore a permanent smile and, clutching his hand, I fizzed like the champagne with delight. Everyone was laughing, the band played under the plane trees, and lovers kissed in the shadows.
Later, we sailed off in the old sloop for our three-day honeymoon, floating happily around the Mediterranean. Did I mention earlier that I hated boats? I’ve changed my mind. Making love rocked by the waves can do that for you.
Bad Dog went with us, of course. He goes everywhere with us. He sleeps at the foot of our bed and Chocolate sleeps on my pillow. (By the way, the gold lamé has been replaced with white linen.) At least, Bad Dog starts out at the foot of the bed and Chocolate at the top. Come morning, though, Bad Dog’s cute little black nose is usually propped on my chin. I open my eyes and find both he and Chocolate staring intently at me, willing me to wake up. I know Bad Dog wants me to take him to the market where he’ll find food. Like me, this dog is food obsessed, while Chocolate (also like me) wants love and attention.
Jack still has his boatbuilding business in Rhode Island which he visits regularly, but he’s put Carlos in charge there. Now he’s opening a local branch, and, of course, he still plans on doing those sunset cruises around the bay for our guests.
And as for me, the nester-in-chief, this time my “nest” is complete. I have a special person to love and to cherish, to laugh with, to make love with—and I have to say that making love with Jack Farrar makes my toes curl.
I sigh with happiness as I walk up the steps and along the terrace to the kitchen. Nadine gives me a welcoming good-morning grin. The new assistant, a replica of last year’s Marit, is rolling out the croissant dough and singing along to the radio, and as usual our new “youth of all work” is late. C’est la même vie, here at the Hotel Riviera. Everything’s the same.
After a quick cup of coffee and a consultation, I decide we’ll go for the spiny Mediterranean lobsters as our special tonight, with a mustardy aioli sauce, and a salad of mesclun greens topped with wild mushrooms and shavings of Parmesan in a light vinaigrette. Then the lamb from Sisteron, of course, and how about that lavender crème brûlée?
I snatch up my list, whistle for Bad Dog, and amble toward the car. The dog’s in it almost before I have the door open. He sits there panting, glancing impatiently at me, as though I’m holding him up from some important meeting. I’m not sure if it’s that, like his master, he can’t bear to leave my side, or simply the allure of those gleanings from the marketplace. The vendors all know him by now and most of them feed him. In fact, he’s getting quite portly. “Hmm, might be a diet for you, Bad Dog,” I say, just as Jack comes tearing around the corner, hitching up his shorts and waving madly at me.
“What’s up?” I ask, rolling down the window with that soppy madly-in-love smile on my face.
“Don’t ever leave without saying goodbye,” he says, snaking his arms around me through the open window and pressing my head against his chest.
His heart beats in my ear and I clutch him even closer. “But you were sleeping.”
“Then wake me up. Just don’t leave me. Ever.”
“I won’t,” I say, linking my eyes with his in a promise, as we disentwine ourselves.
I wave goodbye and chug up the lane in my trusty old Deux Chevaux, stopping at the junction with the road to admire our new “Welcome to the Hotel Riviera” sign, grinning as I read “Under New Management.” And, of course, as the sign promises, our welcome will always be bigger than our small but perfect hotel.
So, Jack and I, and, of course, Miss Nightingale, are looking forward to seeing you again, and to sharing those long summer days on the beach. We look forward to the sunset cruises and to perfect evenings dining on the flowery terrace, where the wine is cool and hopefully the men are hot, and the food is as delicious as I can make it, with, of course, the perfect brownie to top it off. Which, as always, will be made with love.
À bientôt, mes amis. Until then.