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She did not say that she’d fallen asleep wondering where Remy was and if he would come, or that she’d dreamed they’d made love out here by the pool.
“I never realized before that Château Serene was set on an area of Roman ruins,” Amy continued.
“Who told you that?”
“Etienne showed me.”
“Are you saying you want more money?”
Amy’s gaze drifted to Etienne’s stooped figure in camouflage trousers and a beige sweater. He was working among the vines where plump, purple grapes exploded in dark bunches. “The vineyards seem to be under capable management, too.”
“Only a fool would trust that foul-tempered old devil. The vineyards are certainly not as we would like them to be.”
“You seem extremely anxious to buy them.”
Keeping her gaze on Etienne, Amy brought her cup of espresso to her lips again.
“Name your price,” the comtesse said coldly.
“I need more time.”
“I don’t understand. You live in Hawaii. You have a shop. You need money. What could a girl like you possibly want with a château in France or a vineyard?”
Amy frowned. Annoyed, she said, “Do you always snoop so deeply into everybody’s affairs?”
“Why won’t you do the intelligent thing, the logical thing, and sell?”
“Maybe you should ask your son!” She remembered Remy in her bed and then her empty bed the next morning and the desolation that gnawed at her ever since.
There was an audible gasp. “What?” For the first time the comtesse seemed to be at a loss for words.
“Oh, did he forget to tell you? We met in London, I thought by chance. Until I saw the newspapers and figured out who he was. I don’t like being tricked or lied to. If you and he want to buy the vineyard as passionately as you say you do, then send him. If I decide to sell, I’ll discuss my terms with him. Only with him. Until then, goodbye.”
Maybe her voice had been calm, but she was shaking. It was a long time before she could relax enough to find delight in the stone walls and shutters that glowed in the warm, golden sunshine again.
Remy. Just thinking that he might come increased her trembling.
This was the exact spot where she’d first seen Remy after she’d overheard his father yell something on the order of “You want to know why I’ve always hated you? All right, I’ll tell you! Because you’re the bastard spawn of Sandro Montoya, that damn womanizing Grand Prix driver, whom God in his infinite mercy annihilated in Monaco six months before you were born! I should have divorced the comtesse then! If you want a father, dig up his corpse!”
Remy. Bastard. Bad boy Grand Prix driver. Heartbreaker. Womanizer. And the present comte. Not to mention her tender lover in London.
Who was he really?
Did he want Château Serene badly enough to come?
If so, would he agree to her terms?
Six
T wenty-four hours had passed without so much as a word from the comtesse or her agent. Or Remy.
Where was Remy?The late-afternoon sun with its dry heat was so intense the dogs and cats shared the same pools of shade beneath trees shrill with the songs of cicadas. Even with the shutters closed, the main living room felt oppressively hot to Amy. As she knelt over an album entitled My Life—It Was Fun While It Lasted and flipped through a carefully edited group of pictures that depicted the highlights of Aunt Tate’s glamorous life, perspiration beaded Amy’s nose and brow and glued her blouse to her rib cage.
The house was oppressive in other ways. Was that because emotions lingered in houses after a person died? Or were her own memories of happier days all that haunted her?
With a sad smile Amy turned the last page of the album. Every picture either flattered Aunt Tate, showed her decked out in some outrageous costume or standing beside a celebrity or the Matisse. Funny that her last husband, the comte, was the only husband she’d included in this pictorial record of her life.
Mountains of boxes, stuffed with all that was left of Aunt Tate, surrounded Amy. Some were taped shut and labeled; some gaped open. Amy felt guilty about having to tear up Aunt Tate’s house and sort through her personal things. Every time she put something in a box, she glanced over her shoulder, praying that Aunt Tate’s ghost wasn’t watching.
Life was short. With a start Amy realized she was thirty, which was half Aunt Tate’s age at her death. Aunt Tate had already divorced two husbands by the time she was thirty.
Amy stood and went to the shadowy wall where a sensational copy of Aunt Tate’s colorful Matisse hung. She flipped on the light that illuminated it, and the vivid colors came to life. The painting was of a small reclining nude. The comte had told Tate he’d fallen in love with her at first sight because she reminded him of his favorite possession. Tate, who’d been sunbathing topless on a secluded beach near Nice, had begged to know what he’d been talking about. He’d promised to tell her someday, and on their wedding day he’d presented the Matisse to her, saying she was the painting come to life, and that he was the luckiest man in the world. To thank him Tate hadn’t worn any clothes for a month.
