The maître d’ was an old friend of Luc’s, who greeted him enthusiastically and kissed me on both cheeks. He led us to our usual spot, telling us that rumors about the success of last night’s dinner had already circulated throughout the food community in Cannes. Apparently the bad news about Lisette hadn’t traveled quite as quickly.
Luc was indeed well-known here. A waiter appeared instantly with a bottle of champagne and a menu for me as we made ourselves comfortable on the chairs. The royal blue umbrellas to our left and the bright pink ones to our right marked neighboring establishments, filling for the afternoon with locals, tourists, and visitors from the sleek yachts that jammed the colorful port.
The waiter filled our glasses and disappeared before we clinked them together. “Cheers, Alex. Ask me whatever you want and let’s get on with the day. Everything else here is perfect.”
“Tell me all you know about Lisette.”
“Darling, you’re more exasperating than Jacques Belgarde.” Luc pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and squared off to me. “I barely had anything to do with her. You know the long days and nights I spend in the restaurant, charming the guests. Well, trying to, anyway. She was upstairs in the office a few hours, two or three times a week. She always seemed down, like I told him. Her entire demeanor was off-putting to me, so I had no reason to engage her. I thought she was a druggie, too.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“Because I don’t know for sure. Why make it worse for her?”
“It can’t get any worse for her than it is. And you didn’t report that crime to the police.” I wondered whether Luc really had anything to hide from the tax authorities.
“Sip your drink. You’re here to relax and I don’t want all those bubbles to go to waste.”
“When we left the police station this morning and you went back to your office, did you talk to anyone else about Lisette?”
“I wanted to see how many reservations we had for lunch, to make sure all my VIP customers were well seated. I went back to take care of business before I took the afternoon off to attempt to seduce you,” he said, signaling the waiter to come back.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, yes. Okay? Yes, I called Brigitte to tell her about the girl. Is that a problem for you?”
“Of course not.”
“I called her because they had such a tremendous catfight when Brigitte accused Lisette of stealing from me. Everyone in town knew there was bad blood between them. I wanted to see if she’d heard from Lisette lately. I’d prefer Brigitte not be dragged into all this.”
“And did she know anything?”
“Nothing, Madame Prosecutor. Now, is this inquisition going to go on all afternoon, or can we order something to eat?”
“I apologize, Luc.”
“You don’t doubt that Jacques is going to show up at Le Relais tonight, do you? I promise you he won’t be able to resist. It will only cost me a good meal-a big one-with some serious wine, and you’ll know all the dirt he’s dug up by nine o’clock.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“You’re like everyone else who comes to Mougins after all. You see our precious hilltop from the highway and you think it’s Camelot. You believe it’s a magical medieval village where time stands still and only good things happen.”
Since our relationship began, my frequent jaunts to the south of France had become a form of escape for me. I didn’t delude myself about that. More than a decade of prosecuting the most heinous crimes in a city where violence flourished 24/7 made me especially susceptible to the nonurgent lifestyle that Luc so enjoyed.
When I was alone in New York, I tried to separate out how much of the pleasure and excitement of the relationship was my love for him and how much was the fairy-tale aura of life in this romantic enclave. Once I reached Mougins, it was a hopeless task to even contemplate making that decision.
“Now I know it’s like every place else in the world. That’s a good reality check for me,” I said, pulling the crewneck sweater over my head and realigning the straps of my bathing suit. There was no purpose to a menu when I was out with Luc. “What’s for lunch?”
The waiter stepped forward to take our order. “We’d each like to start with the salad of tartare de crabe et saumon. And then we’ll have grilled langouste to follow, okay?”
The spiny Mediterranean lobster was entirely different from its American cousin. I had a home on Martha’s Vineyard, where I’d first met Luc at the wedding of two of my best friends. I’d introduced him to all the culinary treasures of my little island in the Atlantic-clam chowder and fried clams from the Bite, lobster hauled in the same day and harpooned swordfish from Larsen’s Fish Market, lobster rolls and root beer at the Galley, grilled striped bass at the Chilmark Tavern, and mussels steamed in garlic and oil at the Beach Plum Inn-and Luc reciprocated with all the most delicious foods in the South of France.
“I’ll never be able to eat dinner,” I said, sipping the cool champagne as he reached over to pat my stomach.
“It’s my goal to fatten you up.”
“You’ve got a good shot at it this time. I don’t know how many laps I can do after a few glasses of champers.”
I put my head back on the cushioned pillow of the lounger. This was only Sunday, and I didn’t have to fly home for another week-enough time to put behind me the trial of the serial rapist I had just taken to a successful verdict, and before I needed to prep for the more difficult child abuse case I would prosecute in June.
“Laps? I’m thinking more like a late afternoon nap, Alex.” We had both stretched out on our lounge chairs, facing each other. Luc was tracing the outline of my shoulder with his fingers. “You need to make up your mind about Saturday night, you know. It has to be exactly as you like.”
April 30 was my birthday-thirty-eight this year-and we were going to celebrate it together in a week. “I told you, Luc, no party. Last night was enough of that.”
“The restaurant, then?”
“No. You’ll end up working the room with your fancy guests instead of sitting with me.”
“Have you picked another place? Another chef?” He slapped his hand across his chest and feigned disappointment. “How many stars?”
I laughed. “Do you remember my first time here? The first dinner we had together? Because that was my very favorite.”
“Of course I remember it. I brought out all the stars in the heavens for you. Well, I shall do that again, if the weather gods cooperate.”
On my first trip, I had taken the direct flight to Nice, arriving in mid-morning. We drove to Luc’s home in Mougins, spent a day reacquainting ourselves with each other, and at nine that evening, fully refreshed and lovingly restored, I came downstairs to find a lavish table set for two on the terrace. The pool had been surrounded with votive candles, Smokey Robinson serenaded me from within the house, and two waiters from the restaurant ferried back and forth with silver-domed servers holding one delicacy after another. The sky had never seemed so star-filled.
“That’s what I’d like it to be-just the two of us.”
“Then it’s settled.”
I kissed my fingertip and placed it against his lips. “And you’ll be in New York just ten days after I go back, right?”
“Everything’s in place, yes. The decorating is practically done and the equipment has arrived. Almost all the hires are complete.”
“An opening date?”
“Not so fast. We’ll have a month of tastings first. Dinners to which we invite friends, sort of try out the whole deal on them. The spring and summer months will be a sampling, a transition, while we’re going full bore over here. Then I’ll be ready for a real launch in the fall,” Luc said. “I hope you’ve been collecting names for me. I’ll need plenty of gourmand guinea pigs.”