Matt and I laughed. “You’re in no danger, Jean-Michel,” I said. “What a wonderful meal, as always, of course.”
“Merci, madame.” He bowed and winked at me. “I heard you say you go to Avignon.”
“That’s right.”
“You cannot miss the restaurant of my good friend, Christian Étienne. He’s a maître cuisinier de France, a master chef, like me.”
“I’d be delighted to visit him, and bring your regards.”
“Merveilleux! And you must eat at his restaurant, too. He will make you something very special. If you like, I can call him and make a reservation for you. Just tell me which day you would like to go.”
“What a great idea, Jessica,” Matt put in. “Can’t get a better recommendation than that, can you? From one great chef to another.”
“You’re right,” I said. I pulled my datebook from my handbag and we consulted on which day would be good to visit his friend’s restaurant. “My cooking class in Avignon starts on a Wednesday. I’ll already be in town, so that would work well.”
“If you are cooking in the morning, it will include lunch,” he said. “I will make your reservation for eight o’clock. It’s a bit early, but ...”
“Eight o’clock it is,” I said, making a note and circling it.
“We French eat later than you Americans do. But by eight there should be a few people at the restaurant. Is a good time for you, n’est-ce pas?”
“Perfect.”
“I will call Christian tomorrow.” Jean-Michel looked down at our empty table and frowned. “I have interrupted your meal,” he said sorrowfully. “You must let me buy you dessert.” Our protestations that he’d already been helpful and that we were finished eating were ignored. He gestured to our waiter. “Alain! Les desserts, s’il vous plaît.”
Alain hurried to a sideboard and returned with a tray laden with a selection of pastries, tarts, creams, and cakes that promised to have me loosening my belt at least a notch. Jean-Michel looked over the tray and adjusted the angle of a walnut torte so we could see where a slice had been removed, revealing the layers of cake and cream. He patted Alain on the shoulder, excused himself, and turned to greet a party taking a table across from ours.
Matt eyed the tray and groaned, but succumbed to a macadamia-nut crème brûlée. I declined dessert, but knew I’d still get a taste of something sweet; Jean-Michel always had a few chocolate truffles brought to the table at the end of dinner.
Alain put Matt’s dish in front of him. “Café? Madame? Monsieur?”
“Oui! Deux,” Matt replied, holding up two fingers. “You want coffee, don’t you, Jessica?”
“Decaf, if you have it,” I said, looking up.
“Certainement, madame,” the waiter said.
“Well, I feel better now that I know you’ll have at least one evening out on the town, Jessica. That was very considerate of Jean-Michel.”
“It was. The trip is shaping up nicely. I’ll have my cooking classes, and now I have a special occasion to look forward to.”
“So you have a month on your own before Martine returns. What happens after that?”
“My leisurely vacation will end at that point. She’s already planned a full schedule of sight-seeing for us. By that time, I should be truly rested. It’ll be fun to see all the places listed in my guidebook, especially with someone who knows them so well.”
Over our coffees, Matt brought me up to date on business. He was off to Frankfurt, Germany, the next day to negotiate German rights on some books, including two of mine. Sales were going well. The publisher was already asking where the next mystery would take place. Not to worry, Matt assured me. When I returned home from France, there would be plenty of time to start thinking about that project.
Out on the street in front of L’Absinthe, Matt hailed a Yellow Cab for me. “Kennedy Airport,” he told the driver, who hefted my bag into the trunk. Matt held the door as I climbed into the taxi. “Have a great trip, Jessica. Get out and meet the people. Go dancing. Read a lot of books.”
“I have at least one of those items on my agenda,” I replied. “Thanks, Matt. This was a great bon voyage dinner. L’Absinthe was the perfect place to put me in the mood for France.”
Chapter Two
The train to Avignon left Paris at a little after noon from the Gare de Leon, a huge open depot bustling with people. Porters pushed carts laden with luggage. Young people sprawled on the floor, lounging against backpacks while waiting for their trains. Mothers, with bags hanging from both shoulders, cautioned their children to stay close. Businesspeople, encumbered only by the weight of a briefcase, strode purposefully past the myriad cafés and food stalls where pigeons and sparrows fluttered down from the rafters to seek crumbs. I inhaled deeply and let go, my breath a soft cloud in the chilly station. Daylight flooded in from the glass roof but did little to warm the air, which felt several degrees colder than outside.
I rolled my case to the head of the platform and paused to punch my ticket in a machine, following the example of my fellow passengers. As a frequent flyer on promotional tours for my books, I’d gotten used to traveling light; I could manage well for a week, perhaps a few days more, with one small suitcase and a carry-on bag. But two months in Provence, not to mention stops in Paris at either end of the trip, required a bit more packing. Even the suitcase-on-wheels I now steered alongside the train would never hold all I’d want for two months. I’d sent ahead a duffel bag of belongings to Martine’s farmhouse; hopefully it would arrive before I did. My books, except for the one in my handbag, were in that duffel, along with boots and heavier clothes in the event the mistrals, the legendary fierce winds that whip down through the mountains and across the valleys of Provence, were blowing.
I showed the conductor my ticket. He waited while I climbed aboard, then lifted my heavy suitcase as if it weighed nothing and deposited it next to me. A small space for luggage was provided at one end of the car, and I maneuvered my awkward case into a gap between two bulging garment bags. Relieved of my burden, I heaved a grateful sigh and walked down the carpeted aisle.
The train was arranged with pairs of seats down one side of the car, and a row of singles down the other. Here and there, between facing seats, were small tables. Two long hinges allowed the sides of the top to be folded over, narrowing the table to make it easier to sit down. My seat was at one of these tables. I removed my coat, folded it carefully, slipped it into the lower of the two overhead racks, and took my place by the window. Across from me was a young woman, her overstuffed backpack propped on the seat beside her. I guessed her age to be seventeen or eighteen. She had unfolded the panel on her side of the table and was earnestly writing in a small notebook that I assumed was her journal. Her elbows were splayed across the table’s surface, her head resting on one arm. She had fine light brown hair pulled back into a ragged braid, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. When she looked up, I saw that her eyes were hazel and rimmed in red with faint shadows beneath them.
“Bonjour,” she said softly.
“Bonjour,” I replied with a smile, and asked her how she was: “Comment allez-vous?”
A spark of interest flickered in her tired eyes. “You’re American, too, aren’t you?” she said in English, sitting up straight.
I laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
She grinned. “Well, you speak French with an American accent. You don’t hold your mouth like the French people do, kind of pushed forward a little—at least that’s what I have to do to sound French—and they make ‘bonjour’ sound like ‘boojoo,’ real quick.” She pursed her lips to demonstrate. “And when you asked me how I was, you spoke very formally to me. Most adults don’t.”
“You’re very perceptive,” I said. “It sounds as if you’ve made quite a study of the language.”
She shrugged. “I’m almost fluent, but I still can’t read a newspaper very well.”
“How long have you been traveling in France?” I asked, folding down my side of th
e table and resting my book on it.
“How do you know I’m traveling?” she asked coyly. “Maybe I live here and I’m on my way to school.”
“Maybe you are,” I conceded. “But your backpack is a new American brand, and while that might not be unusual, it’s too large to be simply a school bag or a substitute for a handbag. It’s lumpy, but there aren’t any hard edges protruding, so it’s doubtful you’ve got schoolbooks in there. My guess is you’re carrying clothing, perhaps even a sleeping bag. Plus, you still have the airline tag tied to the handle.”
“You’re pretty perceptive yourself,” she said. “I’ve been here since August.” She closed her journal and zipped it into a small compartment in her backpack. “I took a course at the Sorbonne, which was okay, but I was really here to see Paris, and the city was dead in August. I hung around to see what happened when everyone came back from vacation. I’ve been here ever since.”
“Have you been in Paris all this time?”
“A group of us from school went to Versailles once with our professor. That was cool, although I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a fussy place.” She pulled her braid around her shoulder and started playing with the wispy end. “And I took the train to Lyon with my boyfriend for a weekend. And once we went up to Rouen. But I really haven’t been anywhere else. There’s a big ex-pat community in Paris—you know, expatriates—and most of them speak English and they’re a lot of fun. So I hung out with them.”
I wondered why she wasn’t in school and how she supported herself all these months, but couldn’t raise such a personal question. Instead I asked, “Where are you going now?”
“Down to Marseilles for bouillabaisse. I figured it’s time I saw a little more of France before I have to go home.”
“Where are you from in the States?”
“Portland.”
“Maine or Oregon?”
She chuckled. “I forgot Maine has a Portland. I’m from Oregon.”
“Well, as it happens, I’m from Maine,” I said. “I’m not likely to forget about our Portland. I’m Jessica Fletcher, by the way.” I extended my hand across the table.
“Mallory Cartright,” she said, shaking my hand quickly, then busying herself with the rubber band on the end of her braid. “Where are you going?”
I told her about my house-swapping with Martine, and my plans to take cooking classes at the Hotel Melissande in Avignon a week from Wednesday. We chatted for a while longer, but her eyes became heavy and she yawned widely, patting a hand over her mouth. “Oh, excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude. I was awake a lot last night. I think the train is rocking me to sleep.”
“You look tired,” I said. “Why don’t you take a nap?”
“I wanted to see the French countryside,” she protested. But she had removed her glasses and was settling herself against her backpack in preparation for sleep. “Would you mind waking me in an hour?”
“Are you sure that’s long enough? It’s three hours to Avignon. I could wake you when I get off.”
“I’ll never sleep that long,” she said, snuggling into the canvas. “I put my ticket in the slot up there.” Her eyes indicated a piece of molding under the rack above, into which other passengers had tucked their tickets. When I looked back, her eyes were closed.
The countryside as we left Paris unraveled southward with mile after mile of flat plain, broken only by rows of trees marking off farmers’ fields. Hovering over the landscape, which had been scraped bare by harvesting machinery, were low gray clouds canceling any shadows that might have given the land definition. A few black-birds, scavenging for scraps of grain on the barren ground, jumped into the air at the blast of sound and current generated by the train, only to settle back to their repast when the threat went unrealized. I studied the view as the train sped past trees and fields and clumps of buildings that might have been villages. How different from the stands of tall evergreen forest that led down to the rocky shore of eastern Maine, and our coastal villages with Victorian houses crowded around the bays.
I flicked on the overhead light and opened my book. The train was remarkably quiet—it had none of the usual sounds I associate with rail travel—and the ride was smooth, altogether an impressive technological achievement by the French. But despite the perfect atmosphere for reading, the words on the page made no impression as my mind wandered to the past two days.
I’d gone straight to the airport following my dinner with Matt. The Air France overnight flight to Paris had been full, and I counted myself lucky that a month earlier I’d secured a seat in business class, after trading in a hefty chunk of my frequent-flyer miles for the upgrade. The staff was friendly and attentive, and the food surprisingly good, what little I’d tasted of it. I’ve never slept easily on a plane, but I managed to fit in a few catnaps, and felt almost refreshed by the flight’s early-morning arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport.
My travel agent had arranged for a car to pick me up, and I was grateful to see the hand-lettered board with MME. FLETCHER held up by a middle-aged man with a beard. He was neatly dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks, and his car was equally tidy, if smaller than most American models. On the ride into town, he switched on the windshield wipers, and bemoaned the timing of my trip in accented but clear English.
“You are here on business, yes?”
“Not at all,” I said cheerfully. “I’m on vacation. I’m going to Provence tomorrow.”
He scowled. “The weather there is no better than here, madame. You may as well stay in Paris, where at least there is entertainment.”
“Paris is a lovely city,” I said noncommittally. I wasn’t going to allow his grumpiness to affect me.
“You Americans come to Paris in all seasons. For the spring and the summer, I can understand. The fall, maybe, too. But now? It’s almost winter. It is strange,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I don’t complain. It’s good for business. I am driving many, many of your countrymen to hotels each day. But look.” He swept his arm in front of the windshield as the wipers methodically cleared the spatters of rain from two small wedges of glass. “When I go on holiday, I go where it’s warm and there’s sun.” He thumped the steering wheel, punctuating what he obviously considered his more sensible attitude on places to vacation.
“I don’t mind the weather,” I said. “There are plenty of inviting indoor activities. I’ll probably go to a museum.”
He shook his head as if unable to fathom the peculiarities of these visitors. He was correct about the numbers of Americans in Paris, however. My hotel, the Pont Royal, was full, and the accents around me in the lobby and at breakfast the next morning were mostly American. The cordial English-speaking staff may have had a lot to do with the hotel’s popularity, as, I’m sure, did the wonderful views over the rooftops of Paris from the long windows on the top floors. I’d thrown open the French doors in my room and stepped up onto the small balcony that overlooked the intersection of Rue de Montalembert and Rue du Bac. The sun had punched holes in the clouds and lit up patches of blue sky over the Eiffel Tower, away to my left, and Montmartre, at some distance on my right. I decided a museum visit would have to be put off. Better to take advantage of the partial sunshine, and spend my one day strolling the city.
I stopped at the front desk for a map, and admired the oval lobby and the slice of warm, wood-paneled bar I could glimpse through its curtained portal. The Pont Royal had once been a legendary Left Bank gathering place for well-known authors. Crowding into its bar and signing its guest list were such famous names as the French writers Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir. Aldous Huxley, Arthur Miller, and Truman Capote visited, as did T. S. Eliot, James Baldwin, Oscar Wilde, and Gabriel García Márquez. In the lobby, the faces of some of those regulars could be seen peering down from their portraits at the current guests, perhaps less celebrated but equally enthusiastic recipients of the hotel’s hospitality.
The hotel was located in the heart of Saint-G
ermain-des-Prés, a section of the city named after a famous church, and home to the narrow, winding streets and outdoor cafés that evoke the image of Paris around the world. I’d left my suitcase packed, removing only those items I’d need for the night, slipped a small umbrella into my raincoat pocket, and stepped out into the crisp, fresh air. The rain had washed the empty streets clean, and many other people had responded to the break in the weather as I had, spilling outside and tilting their faces to the sun. I walked, map in hand, all over the neighborhood, window-shopping in the elegant boutiques of world-famous designers, sampling the heady scents on offer in the parfumeries, and admiring the antique stores filled with furniture and objets d’art centuries older than what was usually available at home. Finally, jet lag caught up to me. I found a vacant chair at a sidewalk café on a street closed to traffic, sipped a strong café au lait, and watched the parade of tourists and natives examining the wares of an outdoor market
The train entered the station at Lyon, and I looked up from my musings. Mallory was sleeping soundly; her face in repose was soft and very young. I revised my guess at her age downward. Seventeen at most, I thought, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. I leaned across the table and tapped her shoulder.
“Mallory, you wanted to be awakened in an hour,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s a bit after that. We’re already at Lyon.”
She mumbled something and snuggled into her backpack.
“Mallory, shall I wake you at Avignon?”
She smiled slightly and nodded, and was asleep once more.
I opened my book, and was surprised when, in a short time, the conductor announced Avignon as the next stop. This time my efforts to rouse the teenager were more successful. She sat up, eyes still bleary, and smiled.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your sleep,” I said, “but you did say you wanted me to wake you.”
She rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms over her head, cocking her head first to one side and then the other. “I’m up now,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. I hope I didn’t give you a hard time. I’m a sound sleeper.”
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