The crew had bunk beds and footlockers in a room off the kitchen. The kitchen was the most modernized, with brushed aluminum cabinetry and a stove that was “gimballed” which meant that when the sea acted up and the boat tilted, the stove would maintain its balance, to prevent having the cooking food slosh over and scald the cook. I noted that everything was either mounted or anchored in some way, a constant reminder that you were on a boat which could pitch, roll, but hopefully not overturn. To me, these signs of the very changeable aspect of travel were a reminder of the impermanent nature of the voyage of life itself.
When we climbed back up to the main level, Laurent then let us scamper up a ladder-like stair to the smaller topmost “bridge deck,” which had a little sunbed area in the rear. In the center was a lifeboat (another reminder of life’s little emergencies). And at the fore was the boxlike “pilot house” where you steered the ship. Or, your captain did. I admired the lovely antique fittings such as the ship’s wheel, bell, compass, clock, and chronometers.
Finally, our tour was over. But I didn’t want to go. The whole thing felt like the ultimate dollhouse. I wanted to plunk right down in that cute furniture and have dinner on those adorable dishes, and then wash the cups in the tiny sink, like a little girl playing house. Then I wanted to tiptoe into the bedroom and pick out a book from the glassed-in bookcase, and turn on one of those quaint lamps and fling myself down on the grand bed in the master cabin, and read about historical expeditions while Jeremy mixed me a cocktail upstairs in the bar. There were even charming little curtains at the portholes.
While I was mentally playing house, Jeremy went over the listed details about the engine and all that necessary nuts-and-bolts stuff. He’d already gotten Denby, the expert who repaired high-end and vintage cars, to visit earlier with an engineer friend, to assess the boat’s engine. Denby’s report indicated that the engine had passed inspection with “flying colors.”
Laurent informed us that the captain and crew who had worked on this yacht for many years were still available and willing to continue working for the new owner. Apparently, the current owner was an elderly gentleman who was well-known and respected, and had taken part in annual boat races, so everybody knew it was a good boat. But the poor man was not in the best of health, so he had finally decided to part with it.
“Have you had many interested viewers?” Jeremy asked as casually as he could. Laurent said, suavely and carefully, “A bit. Yes. But not too many. Some think it old-fashioned, because they want only the big boats with all the modern conveniences, you know, radar, GPS, VHF, satellite TV, stereo system and DVD player.”
The fact that he was not afraid of discouraging a sale indicated to me that he was confident the boat would sell well. Jeremy waited till Laurent’s back was turned before he exchanged a significant look with me. We both still hoped that the lack of modern amenities would at least discourage a number of bidders who’d prefer a state-of-the-art boat. But to me, such conveniences could always be added to an antique boat, more easily than the reverse of trying to spruce up a modern boat with these impossible-to-get precious wood and fixtures.
I tried to play it cool as we said goodbye to Laurent, even when he smiled and wished us “Bon chance.” But the moment we were back in the car and Jeremy said, “Well? What do you think?” I couldn’t control my enthusiasm.
“It’s fabulous!” I squealed. “Jeremy, this is perfect for us! It’s just the right atmosphere for taking the summer off and carrying out our Plan.”
“Ah,” Jeremy said, “I was rather afraid you’d say so. Now all we have to do is win it.”
Chapter Nine
When we finally arrived at the villa in Antibes, we were hot and dusty from the road, and dying for a swim. Jeremy had already arranged for the pool to be filled, by a company that specialized in salt water without too many chemicals. So it was like seeing an oasis. The fountain in the front drive had also been filled, and it gurgled and splashed as if anticipating our arrival. The gravel drive had been raked by a gardener whose father had worked for Great-Aunt Penelope. The garage was refurbished and expanded now, to house two cars, and its roof was fixed at last. But it was empty because Denby, who’d recently returned from the Caribbean, was still working on restoring my vintage auto in his shop.
“Which side do you want to reserve for your car?” Jeremy asked as we pulled up.
“The left,” I said. He pulled his forest-green modern Dragonetta into the right slot. I pictured my cobalt blue old-timer snuggling up alongside his, and I giggled.
“It’s going to be so cute when mine’s ready,” I said. “His-and-her Dragonettas.”
“We’ll toot around town and honk our horns at each other,” Jeremy said, amused. “We’ll become the town eccentrics here, too.”
The villa itself lay beyond, standing in dignified, meditative quiet, waiting for us to put the key in the lock. Jeremy pushed open the front door and I listened to our footsteps echoing as we went back and forth, bringing in our suitcases and setting them down in the front foyer. From the main level, two curving staircases led to the open second-floor hallway above, which overlooked the circular foyer below where we were now standing. Straight ahead, a door under the stairs led to the main-floor drawing room. We went in.
“Hallo-ohh!” Jeremy exclaimed, and his voice bounced hollowly off the empty rooms. We knew, of course, that cousin Rollo had removed all the furniture from the villa, as he was entitled to do for his inheritance. This had been carefully supervised by our French lawyers. Still, there was something innately shocking about the empty, naked drawing room. The baby grand piano, the clock, sofa, chandelier—which had all been covered with dust-sheets, like friendly ghosts—had vanished. In the dining room, the big table and chairs were gone; so were the heavy drapes that once cloaked the French windows.
“Old Rollo even took the nails from the walls where the pictures were hanging,” Jeremy observed wryly, as we toured the villa. “If there were mousetraps lying about, I’d bet he took those, too.”
“With or without the dead mice?” I asked, deadpan. I’d never seen any mousetraps.
“You don’t want to know,” he replied.
A girl from town, Celeste, who’d worked for Aunt Pen right up to the day she died, had prepared the house for us this week, cleaning up the dust and cobwebs, airing it out, turning on the electric and water; and meeting the furniture guys, because I’d ordered new kitchen appliances (to replace the old ones that Rollo had unceremoniously yanked out) and a new bed for the master bedroom. There were repairs to make on this place, too, but we’d decided to wait until the townhouse in London was ready to be occupied before starting work here.
Meanwhile, the villa was habitable in the rooms that Celeste had cleared out for us: kitchen, master bedroom and bath, and the patio chairs and table outside where we would dine. (Rollo was only entitled to the indoor furnishings.)
“Look, Celeste put milk and bottled water in the refrigerator for us!” I said. “And a fresh baguette and a can of coffee in the pantry. And, a basket of fresh fruit with big purple plums, and green grapes, and cute little oranges,” I noted. “That was thoughtful of her.”
“Great. Let’s go for a swim,” Jeremy suggested. We bounded up the stairs like schoolkids turned loose on summer vacation, jumped into our bathing suits, and then clattered back down and outside for a swim in the pool that lay beyond the patio.
I greeted the terracotta pots all around the pool as if they were old friends. Some curious birds swooped dramatically overhead, diving and rising daringly, as if to inspect the new owners. I swam and swam and swam, admiring the way the dappled sunlight reflected in the pool; then I flipped over and inhaled the scent of jasmine which wafted with unexpected intensity when the wind shifted. Far off in the distance, I could hear a church bell singing its solemn bittersweet tune of time. At that moment, I felt intensely glad to be alive.
Floating there, released from gravity, I thought of Great-Aunt Penelope, who w
as my grandmother’s sister. I’d seen the photographs of her in her glorious youth, at elegant parties around the grand piano in this villa. Aunt Pen had never married, but she’d been a popular young hostess who spent many summers here before the second World War broke out. She’d fallen deeply in love with a man who died in that war—Jeremy’s Italian great-grandfather. But this little family secret had only recently come to light, because of the inheritance battle. It was why she left this villa to Jeremy, in a letter exhorting both of us to enjoy the good things in life.
Almost as if reading my mind, Jeremy swam up to me and said, “I keep expecting Aunt Pen to pop her head out of one of those windows and call out to us. Absurd, isn’t it? We never came here as kids. Yet, I feel she’s watching over us.” He smiled. “I think I just heard her say, ‘Care for a cocktail?’ ”
So we jumped out, toweled dry, and unpacked the bottle of wine and the roasted chicken we’d picked up en route for our supper, together with the bread and fruit from the pantry. We ate at the cast-iron table on the patio, until mosquitoes hummed ominously. Then we went inside, upstairs . . . and finished our wine by candlelight.
The next day, we drove to the open-air markets for supplies. I loved the stalls where fishmongers and bakers and farmers and flower-growers and butchers and poulterers (because yes, in France you may actually have a separate butcher who deals only with birds and game), all proud, professional people who had been up with the morning dew—were ready to sell us the freshest food I’d ever seen in my life. Cheese still warm from being finished, vegetables and fruit so sweet and succulent I just wanted to pop them into my mouth like candy; and beans and nuts and coffee that were sitting in burlap sacks, and got weighed up for us and put into little sacks of our own; and heirloom flowers that actually smelled the way they’re supposed to.
“Jeremy,” I said jokingly, after tasting the cheese and buying three different kinds, “I have made a terrible mistake. I can’t stay here. I will spend my days only wanting to go from one meal to the next until I’ve eaten everything in sight, and I will get fat.”
“No, you won’t,” he said, “because for one thing, you burn up all the calories with that brain of yours that’s always collecting rare information about everything. And secondly, we’re going to bike and swim and dash about having the time of our lives. Look around you. Nobody’s fat.”
We carried everything back to the car. Jeremy announced, “And now, the wine.”
I glanced about. “Where? I don’t see a wine store,” I said.
“Not a shop!” Jeremy said scornfully. “We’re going direct to a couple of wineries. I already did the advance work, my dear girl. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Well. I only sipped a bit from each sample glass. Really. I never drank a full glass. And still. Suffice it to say, Jeremy got a good start on his wine cellar. Ruby reds, crisp clean whites, sparklers, aperitifs, dessert wines, and that l’eau de vie which is supposed to be the “water of life”—a clear, nearly colorless brandy that’s been spiffed up with essence of raspberries or cherries or blackberries.
“I’m just not sure I can stand it,” I mumbled as we drove home, my nostrils still sniffing the cool wet scent of the cellars we’d visited and the wines we’d tasted.
“Stand what?” Jeremy inquired.
I glanced at his elegant face, and then I looked away quickly, having one of those shy moments when merely experiencing his presence—his maleness and his sweetness—gave me a ridiculously simple thrill. Being in love—really in love—seems to be a remarkable combination of both excitement and yet a profound peacefulness.
“All this happiness and pleasure,” I replied, managing to sound as if I was just talking about the day, and not our lives and our destiny and the whole ball of wax.
Jeremy kissed me. “You’ll be surprised at how quickly we’ll get used to it,” he said.
Chapter Ten
And so, the big day dawned. There we were, seated in the front courtyard of that Art Deco hotel on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, patiently waiting for all the other stuff to be auctioned off before Liesl’s Dream came up. The suspense was nearly unbearable. The only way I could keep myself from was nearly unbearable. The only way I could keep myself from chewing on my handbag, was to watch the parade of people who arrived, ready to fling tons of money away on toys yet still feel virtuous because it was for a charity. (Actually, the owners of the items would retain a pretty decent profit from the sale.)
Everyone chatted and waved at one another as they took their seats under the white tent that occasionally flapped like a sailboat in the Mediterranean breeze. I was Jeremy’s expert on antiques and history, but he was my guide to High Society, explaining who all these people were. Turns out, the rich come in an assortment of sizes and shapes. The brazenly suntanned ones who arrived loaded down with enormous jewelry and heavy perfume were what Jeremy called The New Arrivals. These had made their money quite recently, through investment banking, steel and other industry, supermarket or clothing chains, even garbage collecting. No matter how old the guy was, the girl who accompanied him was younger—with exaggeratedly enormous breasts and a hard, doll-like painted face. But both seemed please to show off that they were with the other.
Then there were the Celebs, so easy to spot because of the flash-bulbs popping around them; they usually paused obligingly to allow photographers to snap them, and fans to admire them. Politicians also got photographed, but they were less relaxed about it than the Celebs, because they were always grabbing someone’s hand to shake, to drag them into a photo op. I recognized a few TV, Hollywood and Internet moguls from their pictures in the newspapers; and Jeremy pointed out a couple of high-flying celebrity lawyers who made an outrageous living defending wealthy clients who, as he put it, “will keep trying to overthrow the governments of smaller countries.” There was one guy whom Jeremy had seen on TV but couldn’t identify until I recognized the fellow as a Big Lottery Winner from the States. He was the only one in this crowd who looked baffled instead of purposeful.
With the bang of the first gavel, my heart revved up and I watched alertly as each item was auctioned off. I tried to guess which bidders might come up against us for the yacht, but it was impossible to tell. One by one the items were sold off: first, an assortment of framed paintings of English country houses and landscapes, French châteaus, huntsmen on horseback, and dogs. Funnily enough, the more popular dog portraits went for more money than some of the higher-quality portraits of humans. Several fairly good pieces of small furniture came next. Then a few oddball items, like a first-prize trophy in a bear-hunting contest, which was a loving-cup studded with meteorite fragments, who knows why. And then some vintage jewelry.
As the bidding heated up, I began to notice what sore losers certain rich people can be. Some of them actually cursed aloud as they left, or threw their catalogs in the garbage bin on the way out, like people who’d bet on a bad horse at the races. I guess they were accustomed to getting what they want, whereas regular folks are so familiar with disappointment that they take it more philosophically. But think about it. When was the last time you actually heard a multimillionaire say, “Oh well, you win some, you lose some”? Practically never.
I was just getting lulled to a peculiar suspended state of passivity that bore a small resemblance to sleepy relaxation, as the auctioneer was saying, “We will proceed with Lots Number 18 through 27, a collection of fine antique musical instruments and memorabilia which were graciously donated by . . .”
And then, a strange thing happened, a quirk of fate that led to many others.
He stopped, having been interrupted by a young woman in a pale green suit and a pale green headband, who had come hurrying over to him and now whispered in his ear. He frowned, and leaned toward her to urgently ask her something; she listened alertly, but she shook her head.
Then both of them turned to the audience with the identical false smiles of people who don’t want you to notice that there’s a
problem. The auctioneer said briskly, “Very sorry, but there has been a slight mix-up with the tagging of Lots 18 through 27, so they will be delayed.”
A murmur of surprise arose, but he quenched it quickly and firmly, saying, “So, we will move on to . . . Lot Number 28.” This meant that the yacht would now be auctioned much earlier than originally planned. I gulped, and glanced at Jeremy. He was ready.
“Lot Number 28,” the auctioneer repeated with more firmness. I heard Jeremy let out his breath in a puff of anticipation. Already, my toes were curling and my fingers were crossed. “Liesl’s Dream . . .” the auctioneer intoned, and then he said each word as if were worth its weight in gold: “a-classic-1920s-motor-yacht.”
He paused for effect. “Let’s begin the bidding at 300,000 euros, shall we?” he said crisply. I didn’t see who bid on it, but immediately the auctioneer lifted his eyebrow, nodded and said, “I have 300,000 euros on the telephone.”
Nuts, I thought. The phones were always a bit mysterious, and it wasn’t uncommon to have anonymous bidders, holed up in their chalet in Geneva or somewhere, who could fling money from afar at something they wanted badly.
“Three-fifty!” said a very blowsy woman in a pink-striped chiffon blouse and orange pants. She had dyed blonde hair pouffed up in a high beehive, and twinkly blue eye shadow. Her arms were loaded with gold bracelets that made a tinkly sound when she waved her hand to bid, like the rattle of loose change.
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