I stood up and stretched. "How is it that we just ate an enormous meal that took three hours, and I don't want to even think about how much wine we had, but, I don't feel stuffed miserable, and I don't think I'm drunk, either."
He leaned against the porch railing and said, "That's because the portions for each course are very small. They pace the meals so your system can digest some of the food before you eat the next course. The wine was consumed over a long period of time. It is what you might call civilized dining as opposed the American way of eating which involves food that is too heavy, served in too large portions and eaten too quickly."
I stretched and said, "You know, I can't believe it because I would never think of going to bed on a full stomach at home, but I think I want to turn in before the wine wears off. It's been a long day and I got a lot of exercise. I'm pooped."
He said, "I'll come over here about 9:15 for coffee and we'll plan to leave by 9:30-ish." He paused as if he were going to say something else. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said in a voice that was only slightly above a whisper, "Good-night, Cherie, sweet dreams." He said it in French, with exactly the same accent and inflection my mother had said it every night of my life before she died. I turned away quickly in the hope he would not see the tears in my eyes. I don't think I quite made it.
4 - St-Saturnin-les-Apt
The next morning Luke appeared in the dining room at exactly 9:15. He may have been French by birth, but his punctuality was almost German. I was reading the newspaper and finishing my second or third cup of coffee. I poured him caf? au lait from the pots on the table while he helped himself to bread and fruit from the sideboard.
I tried not to look directly at him. He was wearing white pants and a very pale yellow shirt that was probably silk and more than likely cost more than my entire wardrobe. He was tan and looked very relaxed and at home. You remember those hideous wide collars on men's shirts back then? By today's standards I guess they were gross, but I thought he was the most glorious thing I'd ever seen. I tried not to think about it, but his attractiveness was difficult not to notice.
We chatted small-talk during breakfast. Luke had brought a map which he spread out on the table. We mapped out a route which took us directly to St. Saturnin-les-Apts. On the way back he suggested we make a detour to a winery he liked for a late lunch/early dinner. He looked up at Madame and said, "I will not be here for dinner. I shall feed Marianne a very late lunch so she may not need a full dinner tonight. Please make the necessary adjustment to her bill and add an appropriate gratuity to mine."
Madame nodded. I blushed and started to protest, but I saw Madame shake her head ever so slightly. I closed my eyes instead of nodding my head. She smiled a sort of half-smile. Luke looked from her to me and chuckled, "Whenever you two are finished with that noisy conversation, we can go."
Madame and I both blushed. She handed me a large picnic basket which was heavy enough to contain either a half case of wine or enough food to feed Luke and me for a week. Or both. Probably both.
When I walked out to the driveway, I looked around for the Aston Martin. Luke put his hand on the small of my back and steered me towards a black Mercedes. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. He made a face, "You bitched about how uncomfortable the Aston Martin was so I thought this would be better for a long trip."
"You have two luxury cars at a house you only use occasionally?"
He made a face. "Of course not. I don't keep a car here permanently. I rent cars while I'm here. I usually rent a German car because the roads are so narrow and twisting. I don't know what possessed me to get that Aston Martin. I guess I was showing off or something. I think you will find this much more comfortable. What do you drive at home?"
"Don't laugh."
"I won't."
"Yes you will."
"I promise."
I tried to glare at him, but I couldn't. He was too beautiful. I said, "I drive an eight year old Rambler American with 200,000 miles on it."
He laughed so hard, he almost ran off the road. "I didn't know there was an American car made that would go 200,000 miles."
"This one has, and it better plan on going another 200,000 miles because I sure as hell can't afford to replace it!"
He asked me what I did for a living and I told him the truth mainly because it didn't occur to me to lie about it until after the words were already out. He asked me to tell him about myself. I hesitated, but he seemed genuinely interested, and I guess driving along the road to my mother's home town seemed like a good time and place to think about my past. I told him what I knew about her and her background, which wasn't much. I said I always suspected that my mother's family was very poor and that she had been working in that bar in Marseilles looking for a ticket out of France. She found it in my dad.
I told him about my marriage and divorce and about the wonderful Greek family who all but adopted me. He asked me if I planned to visit them while I was in Europe, and I told him that I was afraid to try to travel to a country where I didn't speak the language.
He laughed and said, "People almost everywhere speak English."
"I know. I also know that people almost everywhere loathe Americans for being so rude as to expect everyone to accommodate us."
"Spoken like a daughter of a Frenchwoman."
"You disagree?"
"Hell, no. Recall, I'm one hundred percent pure Frog, myself. Born in France, even. I heard that line from both my parents, all my life."
"I've told you my story. I'd love to hear yours."
"You mean you don't already know everything there is to know about me?"
"How would I know that?"
"Don't you read the gossip columns?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I don't. And even if I did, I'm almost positive the person I would encounter in those stories would bear almost no resemblance to the person I've spend the last day and a half with."
He was quiet for a long time. "You would probably be right about that. You mean you really don't know my story at all?"
"I know that you have a bit of a reputation as a lady's man. A person would probably have to live in a submarine not to know that. I know you have won some awards for your acting. I remember a few years ago you did a movie in South Carolina and there was a lot of fuss over that. I didn't pay attention to the details. I think that was the year Kris stopped communicating with us altogether and Christa and I were kind of a mess at the time.
"I may be na?ve, sheltered and not exactly up on the celebrity gossip, but I'm not stupid. I assume that the studios manufacture most of that gossip stuff. Whatever your public story is, I'm pretty sure the real story is different. I'd love to hear it, that is, if you're willing to share it with me."
He nodded. "I rarely talk about myself, largely for the reason you mentioned. I sort of lose track of whatever the publicity department has me up to at any given time, so I just keep my mouth shut, smile at the cameras and flirt with every woman who looks at me." He steered around some rocks on the road. I could feel the power and responsiveness of the car even from the passenger's side. For a moment I found myself wanting to get behind the wheel. He changed the subject, "But, today is about you. You will visit your mother's grave and wander around her home town. You should focus on that. Later over dinner, we can talk about me if you're still interested. How about that?"
I nodded, but could not speak because I wanted to cry. First of all, I had momentarily forgotten I was getting close to my mother's home town ... and her resting place.
Secondly, I was somewhat sad to think how divorced his public life was from his real person. I thought that must be a very hard thing to live with. But then, I flipped burgers at the Woolworth's for $3.50 an hour. He made millions. I guess I could afford the luxury of a totally transparent life. Or, he was compensated for not having one. Or something....
We pulled up in front of a caf? in St. Saturnin-les-Apts a little before noon. Luke stopped the car and turned to me. He didn'
t touch me physically, but it felt as though he somehow wrapped me in some kind of psychic full body hug. He said softly, "I am going to sit in that caf? and drink coffee until you are ready. Take all the time you need. I have plenty to read, and if I feel like talking to someone, I can kill time talking to the owner. Maybe I'll find out some stuff about your family. Don't even think about me. We don't have to leave here until perhaps 5:00 at the latest, although if you want to stop for an early supper we should leave by 3:00."
I put my hand on his chest (and immediately wished I had not done so) and said, "Thank you so much. I want to just walk around for a while. I have a general idea where Maman is buried, but I'm not exactly sure."
He looked at me oddly and asked, "Isn't she buried in the church yard?"
I shook my head. "No. I had her cremated. I didn't know Catholics weren't supposed to be cremated. The priest wouldn't bury her in the grave yard. Supposedly somebody in her family intervened and they buried her outside the cemetery. There's supposed to be a spot under a tree, with a bench and a lilac bush. I should be able to find it if I start at the church and work my way out. If I can't find it, I'll ask someone. The cousin who helped with the burial died a couple of years ago, but it's a small village. Somebody will know."
He patted my hand and reached across in front of me to open the door. He said, "I'll be here if you need me." He smelled of soap