It was impossible not to be affected by the extraordinary peace and beauty of the surroundings, the total absence of human sounds, the enormously long views. To the north, he could see Mont Ventoux, the blinding white gravel on its crest looking like a permanent snowcap; to the south, the massive bulk of Mont Sainte-Victoire; and far beyond that, the silvery glint of the Mediterranean. Christie joined him, and they stood for a few moments without speaking, listening to the breeze.
“Roussel comes up here when he’s hunting. He told me he’s often seen eagles,” said Max. “Wonderful, isn’t it? London seems a million miles away.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“ London?” He thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not a bit. Odd, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how much I liked it here. Before, when I used to come out, I never really wanted to leave, and it’s the same now. It feels like home.” He grinned at her. “And I used to think I was a city boy.”
They found a spot where they could sit side by side looking south, their backs against a sun-warmed rock, and Max opened the wine and poured it into paper cups while Christie made primitive sandwiches. “So,” she said, passing him half a baguette bulging with slices of sausage, “are you going to stay?”
“I hope so. I don’t know that I’ll be able to, but I’d love to. It suits me down here-the lack of pressure, the little details of ordinary life, the chance to spend so much of the year out of doors; I even like the French-well, you know that…” He shrugged, contemplating the huge sandwich that he was holding with both hands. “We’ll see. How about you?”
Christie took her time to reply, and when she did there was an almost apologetic tone to her voice. “I’m not ready for that yet. There’s too much of the world I haven’t seen. You won’t believe this, but until a couple of years ago, I was one of the ninety percent of the American population that doesn’t have a passport. You know? We travel, but we stay at home. And I guess we miss a lot. London, Paris, Prague, Venice, Florence -you name it, I haven’t been there. I’d really like to see as much as I can while I’m over here.” She took a mouthful of wine and stared into her paper cup. “So I guess I’ll be moving along pretty soon.”
Half-dreading the answer, Max asked the question that had been on his mind almost from the moment Christie arrived. “So what do you think we should do about the house?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot. I guess you have too.” She put up a hand to stop Max from replying. “First of all, I didn’t come here for a house; I already have my mother’s old house, and that’s now worth about ten times what she paid for it. No, I came because I wanted to get away for a bit after breaking up with Bob-and, you know, to see if I had a long-lost dad. But I’m not ready to settle down yet, and certainly not in France.” She saw Max begin to smile. “I mean, it’s great, but it’s not for me. Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. In any case, your uncle wanted you to have the house. So you know what?” She raised her paper cup in a toast. “It’s all yours.” It was her turn to smile at the look on Max’s face. “Actually, it’s just a way of getting out of spending good money on that creep of a lawyer with his waggling eyebrows and his dirty mind. I mean, the nerve of the guy.”
Max cast his mind back to that afternoon in Aix-it seemed so long ago now-when they had been to see the lawyer, and the remark that had outraged Christie. Something about romance. “Don’t be too hard on him. The French always think that sex conquers all. Look at Madame Passepartout-she’s been trying to get us into the same bedroom from the moment you arrived, and it wasn’t to cut down on the laundry.” He fished a startled grasshopper out of his wine with his finger before taking another mouthful. “They don’t mean to be offensive, but it’s like a national sport. It’s in their genes.”
“Like crazy driving and weird plumbing.”
“Exactly. But listen-you should think about the house. It’s a big decision.”
“Max? Don’t push your luck. Remember what happened the last time you argued with me?” Christie yawned and stretched out on her back, resting her head on the canvas bag that had held their lunch, and Max looked out across the haze of afternoon heat toward the sea.
“I hope you like old Charlie,” he said. “He’s been such a good friend to me. If we can work out something with this wine that Roussel’s been making on the side, he’d love it. Chateau Charlie. I can see him now, gargling away and coming out with all that overblown language-promising, promising, do I detect a soupçon of autumn leaves, of pencil lead, of truffle, of toasted apricots? You haven’t really got anything against Englishmen, I know. It’s just me. Charlie’s different. You’ll like him.”
But there was no reply. The sun, the wine, and the fresh air had done their work. Christie was fast asleep.
Max contemplated his future, suddenly much more rosy, and felt his spirits lift. In the space of a few days, he had inherited a house-now, thanks to Christie, free of any uncertainties about ownership-and a vineyard producing good wine. Good enough, at any rate, to attract the interest of Nathalie Auzet and her partners in crime, and possibly good enough to pay the costs of running the property. Liking Roussel as he did, he was glad that the old scoundrel knew nothing about the wine once it had left his cave.
Or appeared to know nothing.
He heard a very faint, almost equine snuffle at his side. Christie had changed position and was now curled up, with an ant making its way across the smooth honey-colored skin of her cheek. Very softly, he brushed the ant away and looked down at her sleeping face with a mixture of gratitude and, somewhat to his surprise, faint stirrings of affection. She’d been a good sport in a strange and difficult situation. He might even miss her.
Sixteen
“I borrowed this from an acquaintance in the village who is très anglophile,” said Madame Passepartout, who was showing Max the wonders she had achieved in what was to be Charlie’s bedroom. “It will make your friend feel instantly at home. Regard the dogs.” She pointed to the bedside table.
There, next to the decanter of cognac and a small vase of freesias, was a framed photograph, in full color, of a smiling Queen Elizabeth. She was perched on a couch, possibly in her private sitting room at Windsor, with an entourage of Corgis spread out on the carpet like a living fan at her feet.
Max considered the photograph, feeling sure that Charlie would think he’d gone mad. “Such attention to detail, madame,” he said. “My friend will undoubtedly be ravished.”
It was the morning of Charlie’s arrival, and Max had spent the past quarter of an hour dutifully admiring the bedroom’s high state of polish and perfection. He had to admit that Madame Passepartout had done wonders: the down-at-the-heel cushions and the maroon curtains with their rather sinister blotches had been flogged until not a speck of dust remained on them, every hard surface had been buffed and made to shine, the tiled floor rejuvenated with an application of water and linseed oil and elbow grease. A small rug had been placed by the side of the bed to protect Charlie’s delicate feet from direct contact with the floor. And there was the royal portrait. What more could a guest want?
Madame Passepartout interrupted Max’s flow of praise with an upraised finger. “Does he like to dance, your friend?”
Max had seen Charlie in action on the dance floor dozens of times. His feet seldom moved beyond a shuffle, but his hands were always busy; a form of slow-motion body search. Curiously, the girls never seemed to mind. “Yes,” said Max, “although he prefers music that is not too fast. It’s his arthritis.”