Free Perfect Freedom by Gordon Merrick

comfortable house while we’re waiting. If the old devil doesn’t turn up in the next day or two, it’ll be quite a scramble getting the hut ready before the bad weather anyway.”
    â€œPoor darling. Is it dreadful being burdened with a woman? I’m sure you’d be perfectly happy pitching a tent on your land.”
    â€œWho’d keep me warm?”
    â€œI have my uses. It’s sweet of you to worry about a house for me. I must admit that Boldoni’s for the winter doesn’t appeal to me.”
    â€œWe’ll go looking tomorrow. Maybe that’ll break the Giraudon jinx.”
    â€œI’m sure it will.”
    â€œThe perfect wife. Are we ready for bed?”
    â€œVery much so.” Their eyes met and she glanced hastily away so that he wouldn’t see the craving that she was sure hers revealed. He could always melt her resistance when he set his mind to it. She wished she were smaller so that he could sweep her up in his arms and carry her off to their room.
    The next day, a notice from the local bank arrived informing Stuart that the money had been credited to his account and the Coslings spent a good many fruitless hours asking every likely source for houses to rent. Renting was a concept that had apparently not yet reached St. Tropez. Every habitable house was inhabited by its owner. Others were falling to ruin because families had been disrupted or died or drifted away. They found a few more places for sale but nothing to compare to the property Stuart regarded as already his.
    â€œThat settles it,” he said when they returned to Boldoni’s for a drink before dinner. “We’ve got to find the old man. We have no choice. I’ll give him two more weeks and then I’m going to the police. He might’ve dropped dead somewhere.”
    â€œWill you still have time to get the house ready before the bad weather?”
    â€œWith luck. Now that the money’s here, I can start ordering materials. Boldoni’s got that builder friend of his. We’ll be ready to go before the ink’s dry on the deed.”
    They continued to discuss the housing situation and didn’t pay much attention to Robbie when he joined them, wearing a look of angelic innocence. Helene had excluded him from the house-hunting on the grounds that it would be tiring and boring. In fact, she hadn’t wanted him to interfere. Stuart was inclined to invite his opinion of matters he knew nothing about, which was sweet and sometimes entertaining but often wasted a lot of time. She didn’t want finding a house to turn into a game.
    When Boldoni lumbered out of the kitchen to tell them that dinner was ready, Stuart questioned him further about M. Giraudon’s habits, trying to think of some angle he’d overlooked.
    â€œI wish you’d tell everybody we’re leaving if we don’t finish with this deal in two weeks,” Stuart said. “Maybe word will get to him.”
    â€œHe speaks to nobody. Perhaps you should be thankful that he’s disappeared. Has Maître Barbetin got the papers in order?”
    â€œWe saw him this afternoon. He’s still fussing about the confusion in the title I told you about. I said I didn’t care, for the hundredth time.”
    â€œYou may be right. Nobody wants land here. It’s not like farther along the coast. Giraudon won’t let you get away.”
    Property remained the topic of the evening. Confident that nobody would take much interest in anything he said, Robbie was emboldened during dinner to ask the question that had been on his mind most of the afternoon. “Daddy, doesn’t baiser mean ‘to kiss’?” he inquired.
    â€œSure,” Stuart answered with a smile.
    â€œIt doesn’t mean anything else, does it?”
    It did, but it seemed a bit soon to explain to Robbie about fucking. Perhaps Michel had already done so. On the chance that he had, Stuart elaborated