Free Invitation to Provence by Elizabeth Adler

Château des Roses Sauvages. And that her sons would return to her.

 
    12
    J ULIETTE LABOURDE had just spent an entirely satisfactory day shopping and lunching when she returned home to find the invitation in her mail.
    Juliette lived alone on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, in a large, colorful apartment crammed with old family bibelots and a flurry of blond Pomeranians. She was the kind of large woman who was built to last, and though she was Rafaella’s age, time had not been so kind, although admittedly she had not started out gorgeous. But, oh, she’d been popular. All the men had adored her. Like Rafaella, she had that sparkle that brought life and excitement with her, and that she definitelyhad not lost. Her hair was still a flaming red, her eye shadow blue, and her mouth a glossy pink. With a flowery caftan hiding her bulk, she looked like a grandmother from hell en route to a Hawaiian vacation, but her smile and her warmth made you forget about all that in the space of a minute and just want to be with her.
    When Juliette saw the large, square cream envelope with the French stamps and Rafaella’s familiar writing, she gave a little cry of recognition, dropped her bags, and ripped it open immediately. She scanned the invitation, her head to one side, one hand clutched excitedly to her throat.
“Ma chère amie,”
it began.
     
    Too many years have passed since we saw each other, too many lifetimes have disappeared into the past, too much water has flowed under too many bridges. We, who were once so close, lost touch, I retreating to my solitude here at the château, and you flitting around the world with your darling army officer husband, God rest his soula more decent man never lived. (Of course I’m referring to Rufus, not to husband number one who, like my own, is better off nameless!)
    You lived in so many places while I just stayed here, running my winery efficiently because, as you remember, it was always my passion (or one of them, the other being the Lover of course), and drowning my sorrows in a nightly glass of champagne with Haigh. (You’ll be glad, no doubt, to know he is still here, still interfering in my life, still my friendperhaps my only friend now unless I can still count you in that number? Ah, but I forget, there are two others. You remember Jake, the Lover’sson? He spent a year here at the château in happier times. I love him stillcertainly more than I do my own two sons who departed years ago. You will recall that story of coursehow could you forget? Felix under a cloud of suspicion for murder, and Alain after having been caught robbing the winery until he almost bankrupted us. Just so you know, I have never heard from either one since Felix walked out and Alain was thrown out. I often wonder, Juliette, Was I wrong in the way I brought them up? Too indulgent? Too loving? Was I wrong not to believe either of themthough I tried hardwhen they pleaded innocent? Perhaps I will never know the answer to that. Or maybe I will, since I am asking them to put the past behind us and inviting them here to the reunion in the hope that we can forgive each other and begin all over again.
    Who else have I invited to this grand reunion? you must be asking yourself. Alas, there are not many left. There’s a young American woman, descended from my father’s brother, Paul, who ran off to America after a great falling out. The row was over who would marry Maritéemy father got her and so she became my mother, but it was really about who got control of the winery. Again my father won. Paul never returned. He married someone else, had a son, and that son had a daughter named Franny Marten. Then there’s Jake, of course, because in my heart he’s always been like a son to me. And then there’s you, my dearest Juliette, because after all these years, you too remain in my heart.
    Call me a sentimental old woman (and much as I hate to admit it, we are getting old), but I want to makepeace with what is left of