Free There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page A

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9.
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    In the room next to Belinda’s, Billy was arranging his new leather travel photo frames on the dresser. There were several pictures of Little Laureen of course, including one in her pink tutu, taken just a few weeks ago. And there was another earlier one on a chestnut-colored horse, bigger than a pony but not overly large, just enough for her short plump legs to manage.
    Billy had never forgotten that terrible scene in the movie
Gone With the Wind
, when the little girl was thrown from the horse and Clark Gable had carried her lifeless body back into the house. He had always made sure his own daughter was mounted on the safest beast in Texas.
    There was another photo of a younger, smiling Laureen in T-shirt and shorts perched on her mother’s knee with a happy-looking Billy in his ten-gallon hat behind them, holding on to the back of the big old rocker that had been in his family for six generations and was a permanent part of their porch furniture. From the photo you could see that it was a big porch, wide with strong rails around it, all painted white and with cushioned swing chairs and chaise lounges in the vivid flowery patterns that Betsy, Billy’s wife, had loved. Betsy had enjoyed color, that was for sure, and Billy had no doubt that was where Laureen had gotten her penchant for bright pinks and oranges. Little Laureen was definitely not a girl for white.
    Of course there was his favorite picture of Betsy, his much beloved wife. Laureen looked a lot like her mother; a quiet face, never quick to show emotion. The same china blue eyes and long brownish hair, streaked by the sun. To many folk Betsy must have seemed a quiet, plainish-looking woman, but to Billy, who knew her so well, she was beautiful.
    With Betsy gone Little Laureen was the most precious thing in Billy’s life. His enormous ranch; his homestead; the helicopter he flew to survey his land and for hopping into the nearest town for dinner; the Gulfstream V that he rarely used but was there if and when he needed it, like for instance for trips into Dallas for doctors and hospitals when Betsy had gotten sick, but also just for fun if she’d wanted to go to the coast for a change. Things like that. Anyhow, now all of it was for Laureen.
    One day Little Laureen would be no longer “little.” She would be a grown woman with a mind of her own—which by the way she already had. Meanwhile, it was Billy’s job to get her out of the post-traumatic stress state she had fallen into after her mother died of cancer, over a year ago. He had tried hard. Doctors had tried, psychiatrists, the whole damn works. And nothin’ doin’. Little Laureen was still into that funk and Billy was hoping against hope that this trip to France would bring her out of it once and for all.
    Billy stepped out onto his balcony and took a look around. He shook his head, marveling. The sea sparkled, blue as the sky only shinier, the air smelled of flowers and the sun shone. There was a swimming pool where Laureen could practice her dives, a tennis court if she cared to take lessons, and St. Tropez town was just down the road.
    Billy was kind of glad Chez La Violette had turned out to be a dud. Had it not, he and Little Laureen would never have met all these nice folk. And there was no doubt the company would be good for her. And maybe for him as well.
    Still, Little Laureen was on his mind as he walked across the corridor to her room to check on her.
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    Laureen was sitting on the bed in what was the smallest room she had ever seen. In fact the bed took up most of the space while her four suitcases took up the rest. She had to climb over the suitcases to get to the bathroom—which consisted of a tiny stall shower, a pedestal sink and a toilet—then climb back over the bed and the other suitcases to get onto the balcony.
    A single night table held a lamp with a flowery yellow shade, and there was a narrow wooden armoire