Free The Hotel Riviera by Elizabeth Adler Page A

could stick a key in and peel back the top. It wasn’t even a real car, it was a flatbed and just right for my early-morning marketing activities, though not for much else. Still, it had seemed the perfect vehicle when Patrick and I were just starting out, the two of us getting into this “dream” hotel on the cheap.
    Look how much money we’ll save, I remember saying oh so naïvely, when I’d discovered the car parked on a cobbled street in Ramatuelle with an À Vendre sign stuck on its windshield. And if you disregarded the monthly bills from the mechanic I was almost right. What I hadn’t factored into the keeping-the-costs-down equation was Patrick. Sure, I could have the sardine can if I wanted. Meanwhile, he’d bought himself the first of a series of supercars. I’m only now beginning to suspect how dumb I was. And still am. Probably.
    Anyhow, the one place I’m not a dummy is in my kitchen. There, I know I’m in control. Marit, who was in before me, raised a floury hand in a greeting, told me that coffee was already brewed, and went back to arranging her croissant dough in neatly folded semicircles.
    The smell of baking rolls and freshly ground coffee raised my spirits a notch and I sat at the long table under the windows with my notebook. With an effort, I shoved all the bad news about Patrick to the back of my mind, reserving him for quiet moments at the end of the day when I would be alone and free to pace the floors, free to agonize over his fate, free to be myself. Right now I had a business to run, guests to take care of. Today, they would be my salvation.
    It was Saturday and market day in Saint-Tropez. There was sure to be good fish, fresh as it came. I’d also look for tiny golden beets and buy roulades of cheese made from the milk of Madame Auric’s special herd of white goats, and which seemed to me to have a creamier flavor than any other. I’d slice the beets and the cheese and some sweet tomatoes, stack them in a line like a little train in a pool of creamy basil dressing on a bed of arugula with perhaps, if I were lucky, slices of bright orange persimmon, and if not then kumquats or golden plums.
    I’d be sure to get crevettes too, the large ones called bouquet, and hopefully, I’d find Saint-Pierre, the delicate flat white fish that was heaven simply grilled or sautéed, served with a green sauce made from fresh herbs and lemon.
    Anyhow, my specials were in my head if not yet in hand, plus whatever else I could find that was interesting. Not a difficult task in Saint-Tropez market on a September morning, I can assure you.
    Glancing up I saw Jean-Paul’s head float past the open window. His eyes were closed and he looked half-asleep. I heard the crash as his bike hit the rosemary hedge, sending a waft of Provence into the kitchen. With a muttered “merde,” he kicked the bike into place against the wall, then sauntered back past my window. The bead curtain rustled behind him and he stood, dusting himself off, looking sleepily at Marit and me. “Bonjour, Madame Laforêt, bonjour, Marit.”
    â€œBonjour, Jean-Paul,” we replied, eyeing each other and wondering where he’d been all night because he surely looked the worse for wear. I sighed; he was young and carefree and living in Saint-Tropez. I was grateful that at least he’d shown up.
    I said, “Okay, Jean-Paul. First get into the shower, then some clean clothes, then set up the breakfast tables, there’ll be guests wanting coffee before you know it.” He stared blankly back at me. “Well, go on, ” I said irritably in very bad French. “ Et dépêche-toi, if you know what’s good for you,” I added.
    Hands stuck in his pockets, Jean-Paul moved sleepily toward the bathroom behind the kitchen.
    I slugged down the rest of my coffee, told Marit to see that our youth-of-all-work got his act—and the breakfast