And yet, if she didn’t, if she gave into her daughter this early, how did that bode for the rest of the day? Grace thought of all the excitement of the Thanksgiving Days of her girlhood. The wonderful aromas of foods cooking and baking, the anticipation of the big meal― so touted and mythologized for weeks in school via construction paper turkeys and silhouetted pilgrims―the family gathered, your best pinafore pressed and starched. She looked at her bad-tempered daughter and smiled.
“Well, okay,” Grace said. “We’ll just tuck lots of napkins around you, how’s that?”
The child scampered out of bed, flinging back her bedcovers to form a mountainous lump on the bed.
“I want pancakes!” she said, almost happily, pulling off her nightgown. Then she stopped and held it in her hands. “Where’s the puppy?” she asked, looking around as if it might be lurking somewhere within nipping range.
“Oh, he’s in Mommy and Daddy’s―”
“Well, I want to play with him. Bring him out.”
“Taylor, darling, you must say ‘please.’” Grace dropped her armful of dirty clothes into a nearby clothes hamper. “We’re going to Monsieur and Madame Dernier’s house for―”
“Please, bring me the puppy, Mommy.” Taylor dropped her nightgown on the floor at Grace’s feet and turned to rummage in one of the drawers of her antique French Country dresser.
“In a moment, Taylor,” Grace said, scooping up the discarded nightgown. “Now, you know the rules of behavior when you go visiting, right?”
“Mommy, I want my pink panties and they’re not here.”
“Taylor, what did I just tell you―?”
“Please, get me my pink panties.” Taylor turned and frowned at Grace. “Pleeeeease, Mommy? Pleeeeease! Nowwwwww!”
For someone who’s supposed to have perfect pitch, it was an amazingly awful sound, Grace thought, as she stood in her nude and howling daughter’s bedroom. As she listened to it and the sounds of Windsor’s never-ending shower, she felt a heavy sadness creep over her. It certainly looked to be the beginning of a Thanksgiving Day that all of them would long remember as a cherished family holiday.
The baker stood at Maggie’s front door, her cheeks flushed red with the cold. She wore a dark woolen cape and held a basket of small olive loaves, still steaming and fragrant through their cloth cover.
“You are Madame’s maman, n’est-ce pas?" she said to Elspeth as the front door swung open to her. "Je suis Madame Renoir. A friend.”
Elspeth, who wore dark lavender wool trousers and a heavy cotton cardigan in the same shade over a pink turtleneck, smiled at the rotund woman, who was enshrouded in dark blues and black.
“Veuillez, Madame," Elspeth said, in impeccable French as she invited the woman into the house. "Ma fille aimerait que vous veniez, je suis sûr.” I am sure my daughter would want you to come in.
The baker shook her head, taking one step backwards on the front step. "Ah, non! Je veux lui donner cet pain-la," she said, holding out the sweet smelling basket of bakery goods. “C’est un pain aux olives. Pour le dîner, comprenez-vous?"
Elspeth took the basket, entreating the woman once more to come in, but Madame Renoir refused.
“Merci, Madame,” Elspeth said, wrapping her arms around the large basket as the woman turned and trudged back the way she came. "Nous vous verrons ce soir, n’est-ce pas?" she called after the retreating figure. We will see you tonight, yes?
The stout little baker raised a chubby hand to wave an affirmative and then disappeared around the curve of the drive.
Elspeth carried the basket into the kitchen. There she found Maggie with every surface of the kitchen counters and stove tops occupied by bubbling pans, tightly lidded casserole pots, and large china bowls full of fresh, cooking vegetables.
“My goodness!” Elspeth said, looking around the steamy little room. “I’ve never seen white eggplant, before.”
“Who was that, Mother?” Maggie shoved aside a large jar of black olives swimming in olive oil. “Where am I supposed to put this?” she said, indicating a pan of turkey dressing.
“That was Madame Renoir.” Elspeth held up the large wicker basket. “She brought you some lovely olive bread.”
“Oh, that is so sweet. She’s really a dear.” Maggie tossed down her potholders and strode to the refrigerator.
“Can I help, darling?” Elspeth parked the basket on a wooden stool.
“No, no, it’s really all done,” Maggie said, taking out an opaque blue jar from the refrigerator and setting it next to a crock of fresh butter.
“Where is Laurent, do you know?” Maggie began peeling the potatoes for the Potatoes Anna. “Is he still in the basement with Dad?”
“I think so, dear.” Elspeth picked up a potato peeler and a large eye-pocked spud. “Your father’s really quite fascinated by Laurent’s wine-making. I guess it’s quite a set-up you have.”
“It’s temporary, Mother.” Maggie scraped furiously at the potato in her hand.
Elspeth studied her daughter. Maggie’s hair was caught back into a loose bun so that dark tendrils fell into her face, forcing her to repeatedly tuck them back. Her face was flushed and tense as she worked.
“Hosting a Thanksgiving Day dinner is quite an undertaking,” Elspeth ventured, knowing that the dinner preparations were not the cause of Maggie’s tension.
Maggie’s shoulders sagged as she peeled, the skins of the potatoes drifting in pale crescents onto yesterday’s Nice-Matin.
“I’m afraid he won’t want to come back home,” Maggie said.
“I know, darling.”
Maggie looked up at her mother. “It’s obvious he wants to stay, isn’t it?” she asked.
Elspeth smiled and shook her head. “I’m not sure Laurent knows what he wants to do just yet, Margaret.” Elspeth touched her daughter’s hand with her own. “I do know the two of you will come to an agreement together.”
“Yeah, right.” Maggie picked up another potato. “He’ll agree to stay and I’ll agree to either follow him or have my heart broken.”
“Sweetheart...”
Elspeth’s was interrupted by the noisy return of Laurent and John Newberry as they stomped up the narrow wooden kitchen staircase from the wine cave and stepped into the kitchen.
"Je suis ici," Laurent boomed out happily. I am here. He smacked his large hands together. “Everybody out of the kitchen!”
John Newberry came over and kissed his wife. “Elspeth, you have to see what Laurent’s doing down there. It’s fascinating. Really. He’s got Grenache, Rosé...all with his own label!” His light blue eyes lit up at the array of food in various stages of cooking. “Ma foi! Something smells wonderful!”
Elspeth laughed and put down her paring knife. “Where did you learn ma foi, for heaven’s sakes?” she asked.
“Laurent says it’s an adequate idiom for my generation.”
“Great, Dad,” Maggie said, smiling. “It’s like ‘groovy’ for eighty-year olds.”
John looked at Laurent, who was busy peering under pot lids. “I refuse to believe it,” he said. “I intend to use it all the time. What time’s dinner?”
“Honestly, darling.” Elspeth turned to Maggie. “I think I can help best by keeping your father out of the kitchen. We’ll go outside and see how Nicole is faring with Petit-Four.”
Laurent handed Elspeth a piece of goat cheese wrapped in a light pastry.
"Pour l’enfant," he said, returning to the stove. “They are always hungry, n’est-ce pas?"
After her parents had gone to the garden through the French doors, Maggie picked up her potato peeler again, this time keeping her eyes on Laurent, who had just swung open the heavy oven door to look at the turkey.
“You have basted her?” he asked, seemingly to the turkey.
“She has been recently basted, yes,” Maggie answered. The aroma of savory and marjoram filled the kitchen. “Dad liked your wine cellar, I take it.”
“Oh, Maggie,” Laurent said.
When he said her name he put the emphasis on the last syllable and then held it so that it came out Ma-GEE. “Your father is going to take orders for the club in Atlanta. Is that not formidable?"
Maggie stopped peeling. “Our wine, Domaine St-Buvard, will be served at the Cherokee Country Club in Atlanta?”
“Exactement." Laurent returned his attention to the stove. “This cranberries relish is a disgraceful food,” he said cheerfully, with his back to her. “It is absolutment nécessaire?"
“It’s traditional, yes. Did Dad say how many bottles the club would buy?”
Laurent waved a hand in the air as if to indicate that this was not a serious question. Whatever the club wanted would be fine.
“So, is this something they’re going to expect, you know, every year?”
Laurent cut a white aubergine in half and then sliced it lengthwise. Maggie waited.
“How is that possible?” he said finally, as he tossed a chopped onion, carrot and garlic in a hot skillet with a little olive oil. “Unless the new owners of Domaine St-Buvard are in agreement."
Maggie watched as he added vinegar and water to the skillet to make his vegetable marinade. The pan sizzled loudly.
Elspeth Newberry held her husband’s hand tightly and watched her granddaughter run ahead of them toward the vineyard. It was early afternoon and the late November sun was creating a checkerboard of purples, grays and oranges on the vineyards.
The stone pathway from Maggie and Laurent’s small garden was flanked by the skeletal bushes of blackberries, elderberry and nettles. The stones themselves were slippery with moss. The outlines of two bare fig trees stood on either side of the path as Elspeth and John entered the vineyard.
The sky was a periwinkle blue with scattered streaks of white cirrus clouds. Elspeth touched the tips of the spiky cannes de Provence as they walked. She could see more olive trees bordering the vineyard, and wondered if they marked the end of Laurent’s land.
“She’s afraid he won’t want to go when the time comes next year,” Elspeth said to her husband. Her eyes watched the small, straight back of Nicole as she tossed a stick to Petit-Four and tried to get the animal to chase it. Nicole dashed between the rows of staked, snaking, bare vines and her laughter lifted and fell between the rows like a musical scale.
John frowned and looked at the vineyard. “She’s probably justified,” he said. “I’ve never seen the man happier.”
“So, you’ll think he’ll want to stay?”
John smiled and waved at Nicole when she turned around to check on them. “Oh, that’s a given.” His eyes scanned the landscape of naked vines. “I mean, look around. The place looks as tidy as a living room. He patrols this whole area, inspects the vines, prunes them―and what grapes he and Maggie don’t sell he bottles himself and sells directly from the château. You saw the Vente Direct sign out front.” John shook his head. “No, whether he stays or not is another question, but wanting to...he wants to now.”
“I hate to see them go through this.” Elspeth stopped and they both turned to look at the stone farmhouse behind them. It perched, large and gray, on its gently sloping knoll. They resumed their walk. Nicole was now frolicking fifty yards ahead of them.
“Maggie said she has a cherry tree somewhere around here,” Elspeth said. She put a hand up to tug on the ends of the silk scarf around her thick, auburn hair. She could smell the wood smoke of small bonfires from neighboring vineyards. Maggie had told her that vinestocks were sometimes used as fuel for cook stoves. The scent of the smoke was pungent and sweet in the cold air.
“And she’s got rose bushes in the garden, I see,” John said.
“Not much of a reason to stay, John.”
“There’s always Laurent, my darling. He might be a good enough reason.”
John put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Let’s not fret until it’s necessary, shall we?” he said. “Meanwhile, they’re living in the south of France, practically in a château. That’s an experience Maggie will always cherish. Not much to pity her for just yet, is there?”
Elspeth kissed her husband on the cheek. “You’re right,” she said. “And it’s Thanksgiving Day. Time to count blessings, not project problems.”
“Exactly. Who all is coming, do you know?” John scanned the horizon until he caught sight of his granddaughter once more. Her dark, bobbed hair looked so French and, for a brief moment, so foreign, to him.
“Well, their neighbors, the Marceaus,” Elspeth said. “And some American friends, I think.”
“Now, the Marceaus...they’re the ones who want to buy the place, right?”
“I really don’t know, John.”
“What about the other fellow? Laurent said he was unmarried and he is also interested in Laurent’s property.”
“Maggie did say one other fellow, a neighbor, was invited to dinner but wouldn’t be able to come until the dégustation later.”
“That should be a party.” John grinned and tucked his free hand into his corduroy pants pockets. It was getting colder.
“What is a dégustation anyway?” Elspeth asked, waving a hand at Nicole to indicate she wanted her to start heading back toward the house. “She should be wearing her jacket over her sweater.”
“Well, I think, in this case, it’s a first tasting of Laurent’s wine,” John said “He invites some of the townspeople to his house for it and that honors them and they all sit around and drink up his wine.”
“Sounds delightful,” Elspeth laughed and cuddled closer to him. “It’s gotten cold, hasn’t it?”
“Mamie! Mamie!" Nicole called to them from the middle of the vineyard. They couldn’t see her now. They both began to walk quickly in the direction of the child’s voice.
Elspeth called to Nicole as she walked. “Time to come back now, darling! Can you see her, John? She’s dropped down behind the bushes or something.”
They could hear the high-pitched yapping of Petit-Four and they began to run. Elspeth found herself hoping she wouldn’t trip over one of the vine stocks, hoping the panic she thought she detected in Nicole’s voice was just the rising wind playing tricks on her ears.
Suddenly, they heard Nicole scream.
Murder à la Carte. Copyright 2011 by Susan Kiernan-Lewis. All rights reserved.
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About the Author
Susan Kiernan-Lewis lives in Ponte Vedra, Florida, and writes mysteries, dystopian thrillers, and romantic suspense. Like many authors, Susan depends on reviews and word of mouth referrals of her readers. If you enjoyed Murder in the South of France, please consider leaving a review saying so on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com or Goodreads.com.
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Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 39