Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  Chapter Four

  1

  “No! I hate you! I won’t! No! No!” The child pulled herself to her full height of just over three feet and flung the opened medicine bottle at Windsor who, for some reason unknown to Grace, dodged it instead of catching it. Grace stood behind him and watched in dismay as the bottle fell to the floor and the murky pink liquid seeped into the original coral Isfahan rug beneath their feet.

  “You’re really good with kids, Win. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

  “Shut up!” he yelled, turning towards her. “Just shut the eff up.”

  “How wonderful.” Grace lit another cigarette―her third this morning―and it wasn’t yet eight. “He doesn’t swear around children,” she said to no one in particular. “He just alphabets them.”

  Windsor pushed past her to stand in front of Taylor who was oozing snot down the front of her face and wiping what she could on her clean, pressed school uniform.

  “Taylor, stop that!” he barked, knowing she would ignore him.

  The child began to sob, a whiny, aggressive sort of sobbing that tended to enrage its listeners rather than solicit their sympathy. “I don’t want it,” she sobbed, still clutching and smearing at her short little blue tablier.

  “Darling, it’s all right,” Grace said softly to the child.

  “Mommy, I don’t want the medicine.”

  “Yes, yes, Taylor. You don’t have to have it.”

  Windsor whirled on Grace. “What?” he exploded. “And what child care book is that out of?”

  “Look, Windsor, she―”

  “Is that the chapter that says wait until they’ve gone completely haywire before you give in because anything less and you won’t be respected by them? Thanks a lot, Grace...”

  “How can we give her medicine now? First, she’s a total mess―”

  “We can’t now because her mother has validated her insistence that she not have it. After all this,” Windsor waved both arms angrily around the room. “You caved in, Grace.”

  “I did, Windsor, I admit it.” Grace eyed her child with resignation and took another long drag off her cigarette. “Can we clean up the pink goo now?”

  “Touch that bottle and I’ll break your arm,” Windsor said, his body tensed toward her.

  Grace looked at him in frank astonishment. "What?" she said.

  “Mommy, I don’t want to go to school today. I want to stay home with you, Mommy.”

  Taylor edged away from her father and closer to her mother. Taylor’s long, golden mass of curls tumbled into her eyes and down her shoulders. Even at four years of age, the child was intensely vain about her hair, and could be found staring at her image in the mirror for hours, fluffing and tossing and winking at herself. Grace didn’t stop her― although she knew Windsor would have―because they were practically the only times the child wasn’t sneering or whining.

  “Taylor made the mess,” Windsor said, straightening his back and pointing a shaking finger at his first-born. “Taylor will clean it up.”

  “She’s four years―”

  “She can lick, can’t she?”

  “Honestly, Windsor, you’ve come unstrung.” Grace stabbed out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray and marched into the kitchen to get a sponge.

  “Don’t do this, Grace,” Windsor shouted after her.

  “Mommy,” Taylor whimpered, keeping an eye on her irate father.

  Grace returned to the room with a handful of paper towels and a soapy sponge. She looked straight at Windsor.

  “This rug is over ten thousand dollars,” she said to Windsor as she clapped the sponge into little Taylor’s unwilling hand. “But if making a point to a four-year old is more important than saving―”

  “It is,” Windsor said firmly, crossing his arms.

  “This is going to be more trouble than it’s worth, I promise you.” Grace knelt down and smiled at Taylor. “Go on, Taylor, darling. We clean up the messes we make―”

  “No! I don’t want to!” And with that the child pushed past her parents, ran through the globbing pink medicine and fled upstairs. Grace and Windsor could hear the loud bang of the child’s bedroom door slamming shut.

  Grace looked at the little sneaker tracks of pink that now ran the full length of the rug and onto the parquet flooring beyond it.

  “Well,” Grace said, slowly standing from her crouched position. “I’d say that went about as well as could be expected.”

  “The child’s totally out of control, Grace,” Windsor said.

  “I know.”

  “All the shrinks say there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s intelligent, well-adjusted... “

  “Just incredibly bad-tempered.” Grace looked up at him and smiled wanly.

  Windsor grabbed his hair with his hands and pulled. “God,” he said looking at the pink trail. “She’s such a little shit, you know?”

  They both laughed briefly and Grace walked over and put her arms around him. Instantly, he held her in a tight hug. Then, looking into her eyes, he smiled and touched her chin with his finger.

  “We’re not trying to have a baby to replace Taylor, are we?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Grace nuzzled his neck. “It’s nothing like that. If anything, a baby brother or sister will probably settle her down a bit.”

  “You mean like teach her humility or something? Because I gotta tell you, I quake to imagine Taylor jealous.” He gently kissed his wife’s cheek and brushed his fingers against her perfect skin. “You had the last ultrasound yesterday, right? in Aix? How’d it look?”

  “All systems go. Two follicles ready to pop. One last shot tonight to spur ovulation.”

  “And when are we due to do the dirty deed, as it were?”

  They could hear the slow but insistent howl of their daughter from her bedroom upstairs. Grace pulled away from him and laughed. “God, do we know what we’re doing?”

  “Probably not.”

  A crashing sound came from the room upstairs directly above their heads.

  “Most assuredly not,” Grace said, sighing, as she moved away from her husband and bent to pick up the sponge that Taylor had dropped. Her head swam just a bit and she righted herself by touching the floor with a hand until the moment passed. Windsor began wadding up paper towels to sop up the worst of it.

  “Two follicles, huh?” he said, without looking up.

  She pointed the sponge at him. “Don’t even think about twins,” she said, and this time they didn’t laugh.

  2

  The grapes were nearly all picked now. One more morning should do it, and for that only half the usual pickers would show up. Today’s workers had departed an hour ago. Maggie stood in the late afternoon sun with Laurent and enjoyed the strong aroma of lavender and roasted chestnuts in the air. The paths between the vines were lightly stained with red where the too-ripe grapes had fallen and then been trodden.

  The Provence sky seemed higher and broader to Maggie than the Georgia or Florida skies she was used to. She had the sensation of standing on the edge of the world while the intense blueness of the sky reached down to the horizon.

  “Good harvest?” Maggie held Laurent’s hand as they walked. They’d taken to enjoying early evening walks around their house and the surrounding little wood. But because of the activity in the vineyard up to now, this was their first joint survey of the vines.

  Laurent nodded. “Not bad,” he said. "Pas mal." His eyes were also on the horizon as if calculating how many more hectares of land he might need to have an even bigger, more impressive harvest next year.

  “Hard part ahead, I guess,” she said, following his gaze.

  He looked down at her and smiled. “Best part, chérie,” he said.

  “It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” She dropped his hand and instead moved closer to him, snuggling under his arm as they walked. “That next year’s harvest is the best.”

  He kissed her on the top of her dark head.

  “But,
you know, Laurent, anything can go wrong. If the weather’s bad, or the mistral rips up vines or―”

  “Maggie, Maggie,” Laurent said. “You are not to be worrying.”

  “Because it’s just the experience, right? That’s what’s important. Not the results. Right?” She looked up at him and then out to the stark, blackened vine stakes as they dotted the slowly sloping hillside.

  “Bien sûr,” he said, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze with his hand.

  They walked in silence to the end of the field and then turned to see their farmhouse. It looked very impressive from this distance, Maggie thought. Big and sturdy and wistful somehow. She turned and surveyed the vineyard and wondered where the cypress tree had been that Laurent’s uncle had taken down.

  “You are ready for the dinner tonight?” Laurent asked as he knelt to handle yet another grapeless vine.

  Maggie nodded absently. Two evenings of entertainment in two nights would normally have been grounds for a serious disagreement between them. But she so enjoyed Connor and Grace that she wasn’t looking at the evening as a chance to impress anyone or show off Laurent’s cooking or even worry about whether her guests would see dust-elephants where she thought she had just dusted. Besides, she didn’t feel she knew Windsor very well and this would give her a chance to get better acquainted. Most pleasantly of all, Connor had said that, regretfully, the lovely Lydie would not be able to attend.

  “The Marceaus were a little tense last night, didn’t you think so?” Laurent was still squatting in the dust, examining the vine he held in his hand.

  Maggie watched him closely. She enjoyed seeing his pleasure in their new adventure, even if the whole thing did make her a little uneasy. He stood up and shook loose a Gitane from a compact blue package. He had long ago stopped offering her cigarettes, but habit must have made him feel like he ought to do something, so he always gave her a quick smile before lighting up.

  Maggie turned and looked back toward the house. “Laurent, does it feel creepy to you that a whole family died in our house?”

  Her lover sucked in the tobacco smoke and then exhaled before answering. He shook his head. “The story is that it happened on the...la terrasse..."

  “What do you mean, ‘story’?” Maggie touched one of the vines. It felt cool and hard. “Don’t you believe it happened? You think the whole town made it up and are handing it around as a sort of perverted tourism marketing approach?”

  “I believe that four people are being killed on our front steps...”

  “God, I wish you’d work on your tenses.”

  “...but hanging gypsies? A brave but fallen Resistance hero? And a whole town’s shame?” He smiled mischievously at Maggie. “It makes a very good story, though, no?”

  “Oh, what am I asking you for?” She grinned at him and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. “You don’t know the real story. Even Danielle Marceau said the Englishwoman was seen many times rendezvousing with the handsome and brave Patrick. She told me last night. During one of the few respites from grape lore and logic you and Eduard treated us to.”

  “Ah, yes, and I would trust Madame Marceau’s idea of the facts at any time.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, forget it, dearest darling one.” Maggie waved a hand at him. “I choose to believe it as it was told to me. Spooky, romantic, and tragic.”

  “As you wish.” Laurent took another long drag on his cigarette.

  By the time she arrived home after her run-in with Gaston, Maggie had decided that the man’s liberties were milder than she’d originally thought and certainly not worth upsetting Laurent. She watched him now, smoking and surveying his vineyards―as proud as if he’d pressed every seed into the dark, unyielding earth himself―and tried to envision what he was capable of doing if angered. His past life as a con artist had prompted more guile and lying than any actual physical brutality. And he’d given all that up when he met Maggie. For her part, she’d never known Laurent to be anything but tender and kind.

  Maggie shook the thoughts away, and grabbed his hand again, almost palming his cigarette as she did so. “Oops, sorry, I forgot you had that thing,” she said.

  Laurent took another long drag and then crushed the cigarette out on the ground with his shoe. He held her hand and they began the walk back to the house.

  “You don’t worry about a brush fire taking down all these lovely vines and nasty scrub?” Maggie asked.

  “It would not be that hard to do,” he admitted. “When the mistral shows itself, a little flame anywhere in the area could be very dangereux."

  “Mmmm. You know the people in the village think we are married.”

  “What is this to do with fires?”

  “Nothing. I’m changing the subject. I’ve sated myself on the subject of fires, okay? Now I want to talk about this. Okay?”

  “So, they think we are married. So?”

  “I’m not...I’m not doing anything to disabuse them of the notion, is all.”

  “‘Disabuse’?”

  “Laurent, I’m pretending I’m your wife.” There, it was said. She didn’t look at him but hurried on. “It seemed easier than...It’s what they want to hear and it seems like a harmless thing to―”

  “Maggie.” Laurent stopped walking and pulled Maggie around to face him. He stood, holding her shoulders and watching her. He sighed and looked over her shoulder to the row after row of spiny-topped grapevines, as they stretched up and around to the other side of his beautiful house.

  “Maggie,” he said again, this time speaking to the fields. “You are ma femme today as much as you ever can be. You understand?” He lifted her chin and looked directly into her clear blue eyes. “You are my wife. I believe it, I feel it. The town, pftt!” He made a gesture of disdain in the direction of St-Buvard. “I don’t care what they think. I only care what you think. Okay?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You want to marry?” he asked. “Then we will marry. Today! Maintenant!"

  She looked up at him and watched as a grin spread across his face.

  "Je t’aime, chérie," he said softly, then kissed her on the mouth. “When you are ready, Laurent is ready. D’accord?"

  Maggie nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck in a brief but serious hug. “Je t’aime you too,” she said.

  3

  November was probably too cool for dining al fresco, but Maggie had wanted to so much that she just heaped extra jackets and some blankets on surrounding outdoor tables next to their main dining table. Laurent, busy with his sauces and filets had left the setting of the stage to her. And she was enjoying it thoroughly.

  Back home in Atlanta, she would just set the table, plop down a floral centerpiece of some kind, and make sure the candles weren’t multi-colored waxy nubs. Not much of a stage for Laurent’s always delectable culinary creations.

  At Domaine St-Buvard, things were different.

  In a brick terraced alcove off the back of the house, Maggie had placed (with Laurent’s help) their large oaken dining table. The terrace was bordered by rockroses, plumbago, Bluebeard, Russian sage and wild rosemary. Two olive trees formed a canopy over the table, the fragrance of their long-gone fruit still lingering on their leaves. A row of apple trees kept guard over the less hardy olive trees, protecting them and the little garden terrace for many years from the fierce southern wind. Fringing the bricked terrace was a fragrant bed of lavender.

  Maggie set the table with mismatched china, some of which she had found in the basement of old Uncle Nicolas (she was sure they were worth a fortune, probably the illicit booty of Nazi war criminals). Some she had picked up in town. She set stark white plates beside plates of dancing wildflowers and the faded blue plates of peasant dishware. She created a centerpiece of flowers with twisted grapevines through it. She liked the effect―soft flowers intertwined with the hard, wiry vines. She felt sure Connor would comment on it.

  The breeze that had played gently with her tableclot
h arrangements an hour earlier had turned suddenly more aggressive. A few napkins blew off the table onto the dark brick steps leading to the house. She heard the slam of the first set of car doors while she was trying to light the candles.

  Tossing the matches down, Maggie smoothed a hand down her long hair, cupping the ends where they reached her waist to give them some form, and went to greet her guests.

  Windsor stood by the fender of his black Mercedes, shifting wine bottles and lanterns in his hands as Connor helped Grace out of the car.

  “You brought light!” Maggie clapped her hands together as she emerged from the overgrown garden path that connected the back terrace with the front drive.

  “It’s mostly our wit that does that,” Connor said. “But, yes, sometimes our very presence can do it too.”

  “When Grace said we were eating al dente..." Windsor said, waving the two large lanterns in the air.

  “Windsor, that’s a term for spaghetti,” Grace laughed. “What you mean―-”

  “Look, whatever,” Windsor said to Maggie. “When Grace said we were eating outside in November, I knew we’d need these.”

  “You’re a godsend,” Maggie said. “All of you, come around back.” She took Grace’s hands in her own and the women kissed, once on both cheeks, and beamed happily at each other. “Where’s Taylor? I thought you were bringing Taylor?”

  Connor kissed Maggie on the cheek. Both his hands held bottles of wine. “That’s the sad part of tonight’s tale,” he said, smiling.

  “She stayed in Aix,” Grace said. “She wanted to.”

  “And we wanted her to,” Windsor added brightly, to general laugher.

  “Sometimes she gets so tired,” Grace said, “and the drive home is really exhausting for her and―”

  “Is this the way, then?” Windsor said, forging ahead, holding the unlit lanterns up and away from clinging reaches of the overgrown rose bushes that nearly blocked the garden path.

  “I love what you’ve not done with the place,” Connor said, bringing up the rear. “In fact, I agree that too much weeding, clipping, pruning and general tending just makes a place look, you know, natty. “ He gave a dramatic shudder.

  Laurent was standing by the table when they emerged from the gauntlet of shrubbery onto the terrace.

  “Bonsoir, Laurent!” the friends called out. Laurent smiled broadly and lifted a champagne glass and a bottle in their direction.

  “Oh, goody!” Grace dropped her purse in a chair, keeping her cashmere cardigan buttoned snugly to her chin. She picked up a champagne glass from the table and held it out to Laurent. “This is what I call a hello!”

  Windsor fiddled with the lanterns while Connor walked immediately to the centerpiece and clapped his hands together.

  “Yes. It’s wonderful!” he said, and Maggie felt her face flush with the warmth and delight of her new friends. We don’t have this many good friends back in Atlanta, she had told Laurent the night before. As usual, he hadn’t committed to an opinion one way or the other, but facts were facts. They rarely entertained back home, or if they did, the occasion was related to Maggie’s work and not for pleasure.

  Windsor’s efforts were finally rewarded by first one and then the other lantern sputtering to life, their brightness flooding the dining area. He adjusted the wicks and positioned the lamps at opposite ends of the large table. Laurent excused himself to check on his ratatouille, and Maggie bustled about making sure everyone was warm and comfy and had a full glass.

  Connor alternately teased her and praised her as she flitted about her hostess duties.

  “Will you just sit down?” He crossed his long legs in front of him, barring her from adjusting the tablecloth again. “You’re going to make me feel like I should go in and see if the big guy needs any help, and you wouldn’t want me to do that, would you? I’m so comfortable just sitting here.”

  Laurent appeared with a large blue china crock full of pâté. He thumped it down next to a baguette and a basket of sesame crackers on the little table in front of Grace and Windsor where they sat on a stone lover’s bench.

  “Voila,” he said, wiping his hands on a white kitchen towel hanging from his belt. "Pâté de grive."

  “God, I love this stuff,” Grace said spooning into the dark spread with a small knife. “It looks great, Laurent.”

  Satisfied, Laurent disappeared back into the house.

  “The joys of owning your own French chef,” Maggie said, bringing a couple of small plates to Windsor and Grace. “What is it? It’s not foie gras?"

  “No, no, it’s better. You don’t know grive?" Windsor scooped up a dollop onto a cracker and poised it at Maggie’s mouth. “It’s thrush.”

  Maggie deposited the plates on the tablecloth with a thump. “Thrush?” she said incredulously.

  Connor ambled over with his own plate. “You guys eating songbirds again? Leave some for me. Tweet-tweet.”

  Grace laughed. “Don’t be a goose, Maggie. Oh!” She turned to Windsor and laughed again. “Am I drunk already? I just made a joke.”

  Windsor reclaimed his cracker. “How is it you don’t have a problem with goose liver, Maggie, but you do with thrush? Thrush is―”

  “Oh, it’s revolting!” Maggie said to hoots of laugher from the others.

  Laurent poked his head out of the French doors, a glass of champagne in his hand. “I see Maggie has sampled the pâté, n’est-ce pas?" This set them off even more.

  “Hilarious, y’all, just really―” Maggie said, smiling good-naturedly.

  “My God! It’s true!” Connor grabbed at his heart as if it had suddenly stopped. “She really does say ‘y’all’!”

  “Why did we invite these people here, Laurent?” Maggie turned to Laurent still standing in the doorway.

  He smiled. “They have not had enough champagne is the problem,” he said.

  “God, I love a Frenchman’s answer to everything, you know?” Connor got up to get the champagne bottle from the table and refilled everyone’s glass. “The answer―no matter what the question―is almost always ‘more champagne.’ A charming country, really.”

  Laurent joined them on the terrace. “Maggie thinks so,” he said, allowing Connor to fill his glass. “She enjoys the charm of the people of St-Buvard so much, she calls them peasants.“

  “No!” Connor whirled on Maggie, a grin across his face.

  “Is that wrong?” Maggie looked at Windsor and Grace. “Oh, dear. Is saying villagers better?”

  Connor nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like: ‘the villagers tracked the monster to the river...’”

  Everyone laughed.

  “All right, all right, I get the point...” Maggie said, grinning.

  Connor took a sip of his champagne and winked at Laurent. “Hey, Maggie, I’m not sure, but I think I know now why making friends in town has been a little slow for you...”

  “Ha ha, très funny.”

  Laurent put his arm around Maggie and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. Maggie was wearing an oversized blue silk blouse cinched at the waist over black linen slacks. Her hair draped down her back with a section of curls caught up in a silver barrette.

  “Oh, not to tease poor Maggie,” Laurent said. “She is being wonderful. Her French is much improved, do you not think so?”

  Connor settled himself on the arm of an old wooden deck chair. “Say something, Maggie,” he urged.

  “Buzz-ay off-ay,” she replied sweetly.

  “No, come on, Maggie,” Connor wheedled. “We’re your friends and we’re just trying to help you.”

  “Parles! Parles!" Windsor and Grace began to chant. Speak! Speak! Connor joined in.

  Maggie turned to Laurent. “Thank you, darling. A very much lot, okay? Don’t you have sauces to burn in la cuisine?"

  "Il n’est pas trop diffiçile!" Connor said, polishing off his wine and eyeing the bottle again.

  “Yeah, well if I had a pot of money that let me do nothing but study French
all day long, I guess my French would be pretty good too―”

  “It’s true,” Connor said, his eyes crinkled in a grin. “And that’s just what I do all day long too.”

  Again, everyone laughed.

  “You know, Connor,” Maggie said, “speaking of what you do? I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Shoot, O Curious One.”

  “No, in the kitchen.” She smiled at him with challenge and mischief in her eyes. “Laurent, is there something we can do for you in there? Toss the salad? Put pickles on a plate?”

  Laurent looked at his watch and seemed to be calculating the timing of his courses. “I suppose if you promised not to touch anything. That would be a help,” he said.

  Maggie ushered Connor through the French doors and into the living room.

  “Wow,” he said, looking around the huge room. “Square dancing next time? Or is shuffleboard your game?”

  “I know,” she said, still prodding him onward. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”

  Connor sighed and allowed himself to be directed. “That’s what all the girls say,” he said, as he walked through the living room to the warm glow of the kitchen.

  “God, do you ever let up?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Once in the kitchen, Maggie reached for another bottle of champagne and handed it to Connor.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s all this about you getting a local girl pregnant?”

  “God! What is the man cooking?” Connor held the champagne bottle tightly between two thumbs to force the cork out while he craned his neck to see inside the unlidded pots bubbling away on the stove. “It smells like heaven on a plate. Like ambrosia from the gods, like―”

  “Yes, yes, very tasty. Now, seriously, Connor, I know we don’t know each other very―”

  “Don’t know each other?” The champagne bottle made a muted pop as he eased the cork out of it. Maggie held out two champagne glasses. “We’re fellow Americans, right?” he said. “We’re both from the eastern seaboard, right?”

  “Okay, well, then, what is all this about―”

  “God, Grace cannot keep her mouth shut, you know? I love her to death but the woman must broadcast.” He poured both their glasses and looked at her.

  “Well, you know, Connor, it was Lydie that really started the beans slipping out of the jar.”

  He set the champagne bottle down and sighed. Both he and Maggie could hear the sounds of more laughter coming from the terrace. Maggie wondered who was being witty.

  “It was just one of those things, you know?”

  “Babette, you mean?”

  Connor took a long drink and then nodded. “She’s cute as a button, have you seen her?”

  “Connor, you said yourself. This sort of thing just isn’t on in a town of this size, out here in the hinterlands.”

  “I know, I know.” He wiped a pearl of condensation from his glass. “I feel bad about it.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Jesus, Maggie, you’re not suggesting I marry the girl?”

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Maggie said truthfully. She regarded Connor carefully. “Have you talked to her?” she asked.

  “I’ve offered her money, I’ve offered to take her to Aix to have an abortion, I’ve...I’ve even offered to talk to her father, although, I thought that was above and beyond.”

  “You’d rather pay her off.”

  “And I feel bad about that!” Connor held up his hands, his champagne glass held in one. “But what can I do? I mean, she’s a nice girl and all and I feel like a rat, okay? Putting her in this spot. But what can I do?"

  Maggie frowned. “You have a responsibility, Connor.”

  “I very much care about this. I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I care about my actions,” he said. “And about what you and Laurent think of me.”

  “We like you,” she said.

  “I’m glad. I like you guys, too.” He grinned and reached for the champagne bottle. She declined, indicating her full glass.

  “What’s really awful,” Connor said, “is Grace knowing about this, what with what’s happening with her and Windsor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought she might have told you. She adores you.”

  “I think she’s wonderful, too.”

  “Well, about me getting Babette pregnant and all when she and Win are trying everything they can to get pregnant.”

  Maggie stood watching him.

  “She hadn’t said anything to you?” Connor asked.

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Yeah, it’s kinda tough.” Connor leaned against the counter and sighed. “I got my information from Windsor, not Grace. It’s been really hard on both of them.”

  “Do they know what the problem is?”

  “I guess all the tests say that there is no problem. She’s normal, he’s normal...”

  “And they can obviously produce children, right? I mean, there’s Taylor.”

  “One would assume. Listen, if you’ve finished grilling me about the fair Babette…?” He motioned toward the terrace with his champagne glass and smiled winningly. “Only, muss up your hair a little, will you? It’s my reputation, you see...”

  “Get outta here.” Maggie pushed past him good-naturedly and led the way back to the group outside.

  “Laurent won’t mind,” Connor protested. “He’s French. He expects this sort of thing to go on in his own kitchen.”

  “What has gone on in my kitchen? You touched nothing?” Laurent said as he met them in the living room on his way back into the kitchen. He wagged a big finger at the both of them.

  “Oh, Laurent, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, patting his arm as she walked on through. “We just added a wee bit of Worcestershire sauce to the roue. We both agreed it’s much improved.”

  “And I doctored up those little puff-ball things you had sittin’ there,” Connor added happily. “You’d left the grape jelly out, big guy. Easy mistake to make.”

  Laurent rolled his eyes at them both and turned back toward the kitchen as Maggie and Connor rejoined Grace and Windsor on the terrace. Once outside, Connor immediately went over to Grace and nestled beside her.

  “Have a nice little chat, did you?” Grace said, eyeing them both curiously.

  “Maggie wanted to make sure I wasn’t a total cretin by getting the baker girl pregnant,” Connor said, poking a finger into the empty pâté crock.

  “And did he convince you?” Grace asked brightly, turning in Maggie’s direction.

  “Well, yes, actually he did,” Maggie said, as she settled down on a small stone bench opposite the three. “And I agree, a small wedding service will be best under the circumstances. Nothing too noisy that might call too much attention to―”

  “You’re kidding.” Grace’s mouth fell open. Maggie struggled to keep her own face serious.

  “Windsor, take this woman home,” Connor said, jabbing Windsor on the shoulder. “She’s hopelessly drunk.”

  “You are kidding,” Grace said, her face falling into a sheepish grin.

  “She’s kidding,” Connor said, smiling. “So listen, what’s happening on the dinner front?” He leaned over and snaked a cigarette from a pack that Grace had placed beside her on the bench. “Je suis starving, you-all.”

  “You are a man of many appetites,” Windsor said cryptically.

  “God, Windsor, you sounded just like Peter Lorre from Casablanca when you said that.” Connor lit his cigarette and twisted in his seat to look at Windsor. “And Grace said you had no talents.” He took a quick drag off his stolen cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air over everyone’s heads.

  “You’re feeling your Cheerios tonight, aren’t you?” Grace smiled at Connor but Maggie noticed something a little cool under the smile.

  “We’re all hungry,” Maggie said as she hopped up. “Let me see how close we are to the first course.” Windsor stood up
to refill everyone’s wine glasses as Maggie went to join Laurent in the kitchen.

  She stood at the open door of the kitchen and watched her lover’s broad back as he worked deftly at the range. Quickly, he ladled up ratatouille into five small blue ramekins, then turned and saw Maggie watching him.

  “Bon," he said. “You can bring out the first bowls.”

  “Can I bring in the first kiss first?” she said stepping up to him, careful not to entangle with any whisks, spoons or other kitchen apparatus he might be connected to. She noticed the single bead of sweat marking a line down his brow as he leaned over to kiss her fully on the mouth.

  The French, she thought with amusement, as he pulled away to resume his preparations. They don’t do anything half way when it comes to cooking or kissing.

  “We didn’t really put grape jelly in the d’agneau en croûte, “ she said as she carefully lifted the tray of steaming bowls.

  Laurent looked up from the bottle of Côtes du Rhône he was in the process of opening. “Je sais, chérie, " he said. I know. “Connor is a funny man, no?”

  “Pretty funny,” she said, watching his face closely.

  “But there is something not very funny under the joke, n’est-ce pas?" Laurent brought the cork out and held it up like an ill-shapen tooth extracted by a proud dentist. “Monsieur MacKenzie has, I think, a not very funny secret or two.” He turned his back on her to attend a bubbling pot. “Vas y, Maggie,” he said over his shoulder. “The stew is served hot tonight. Veuillez, vite, vite!"

  Maggie turned and hurried across the polished wooden floor of the living room to the glowing lights and laughter of the terrace. As she walked, she could hear Grace’s laugh, high and musical, floating in from among the hollyhocks and towering apple trees.

  “You’re kidding? You can afford a whole, complete house in Westwood? As in Westwood, Los Angeles? That’s where your other house is in the States?” Maggie pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and stood up over the table searching for a potholder.

  “Well, we’re rich,” Windsor said drunkenly.

  “Oh, Win, shut up.” Grace gave him a playful slap. “We are not rich.”

  “We are, too.” He looked sleepily up at Maggie who used the potholder to cover the heated handle on the espresso pot and was pouring their coffees.

  Dinner had taken a relaxing three hours to consume, punctuated with laughter and conversation that grew fuzzier yet somehow more interesting as the wine continued to pour. “At least, then, we’re really, really, really, really...” He looked at Grace with a dull, glazed expression “...comfortable.”

  “You certainly are, that’s clear,” Connor said sarcastically, regarding his friend’s inebriated state just as Windsor’s elbow refused to hold up his chin, which collapsed into the remnants of his créme brulée.

  “Oh, Windsor!” Grace said in dismay. “You’re making a mess.” She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were unhappy and tired. “I’m sorry, Maggie. We’d probably better call it a night.”

  “That’s okay,” Maggie said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I guess it’s getting late anyway.”

  “It’s only eleven o’clock!” Connor protested.

  Laurent was sitting back in his chair, his arm draped gracefully over the back of Maggie’s chair. He smoked and watched Connor.

  “Can’t we put him to bed somewhere?” Connor asked, looking at Maggie and raising his eyebrows. “Maybe? Or, hell, we could throw him in the backseat of the car...? Gracie?”

  “Don’t call me that, Connor, “ she said testily. “And I’m not throwing him in the backseat―”

  “Grace, if you want,” Maggie said, “he could take a little rest on the couch. It’s just in the living room...”

  “What a novel place to hide a couch.” Connor jumped up to catch Windsor under the arms in order to maneuver him into the other room. Maggie realized with surprise that, for no good reason that she could think of, she had been a little annoyed with Connor all night.

  “Laurent, can you help, please?” she asked.

  “I’ll take one side, Laurent,” Connor said. Maggie was struck by the fact that this was the first time she had ever heard Connor call Laurent by his name. They carried Windsor into the house. Grace watched with concern until the doors shut behind them. She sighed and lit up another cigarette. Laurent and Connor, after settling poor Windsor down on the couch, retired to the kitchen for Calvados. Maggie felt some relief and wondered why.

  “Don’t worry about him, Grace,” she said, smiling.

  Grace waved away a wisp of blue smoke and Maggie’s concern.

  “I’m not, I’m not,” she said. “He never does this sort of thing. Really.”

  Maggie pulled her chair closer to Grace’s and picked up a lighted cigarette from the ashtray.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?” Grace asked, frowning.

  “No, and I wish Laurent wouldn’t either.” Maggie held up the cigarette between two fingers and waved it as if she were about to bring it to her lips. “It can look sort of romantic though. When you do it, for example.”

  “I hate the things,” Grace said, looking at her own cigarette. “I’m incapable of quitting, though. I am sorry about tonight, Maggie.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Maggie looked at her with surprise. “Nothing happened.” she asked. “Windsor fell asleep...”

  “He got drunk.”

  “Sometimes Laurent does that,” Maggie lied.

  “I cannot imagine that.” Grace turned her glance briefly in the direction of the kitchen. “Monsieur Self-control? Not possible.”

  “Oh, he has his moments, believe me.” Maggie put down the cigarette. “You think Laurent is pretty flat, I guess, huh? Sort of, nonemotional?”

  “You could say that!” Grace laughed and touched Maggie’s arm. “But he’s gorgeous, Maggie, and that accent of his positively makes me damp, I am serious! Don’t you dare tell him I said that!”

  They both laughed. Grace’s annoyance with Windsor seemed to dissipate, the tension easing out of the moment like air escaping from a balloon.

  “Windsor and I are trying to get pregnant again,” Grace said, and sucked hard on her cigarette.

  “A sister or brother for Taylor?” Maggie asked cheerfully, not wanting to give away the game of already knowing.

  “Did you know Taylor plays the piano?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “No, I mean, she plays―like a miniature Mozart. She’s got a gift. God knows she didn’t get it from me or Win.” Grace stared out across the blackness that was Laurent’s vineyard. “She’s a brilliant musician and no one’s really sure how it happened.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.” Grace shook herself out of her dreamy stare and smiled at Maggie. “Still a little pain in the butt too much of the time. But brilliant.”

  “So, you’re going for the rest of the orchestra, huh?”

  “We have gone through nearly three years of infertility, Maggie.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”

  “I know it’s sometimes hard to conceive when you want to,” she said, pulling her demitasse toward her and pointing to the espresso pot.

  Grace shook her head. She crushed out her cigarette and shook the last one out of her pack. She twisted the empty package before lighting up.

  “What it means is a lot of tests and shots and drugs and trips to the doctor. It means wanting to kill yourself every time your period rolls around and, instead of morning sickness, you’re in bed with cramps again. It means having sex with your husband on a schedule―not when you feel like it. It means crying every time you see a pregnant woman or a little baby. And panicking instead of celebrating every birthday and not taking vacations because you’re afraid to miss a cycle of treatment.”

  Grace took a big breath and Maggie could see her hand was shaking. “Anyway,” she said, loo
king up at Maggie and smiling, “today’s the day, you know?”

  “‘The day’?”

  “I ovulated today. It’s my window of opportunity. Lucky me, n’est-ce pas?"

  “Oh.” And Windsor is passed out drunk on the couch in my living room. “Oh, Grace,” Maggie said, “is the window really that small?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Grace said bitterly, watching the glowing ember on the tip of her cigarette.