The Life She Wanted: A Novel(67)

“Come in, you have perfect timing,” he said again in accented English. “My hands are oily, and I can’t get a grip on this eggplant.”

Pandora held the eggplant on the cutting board while he sliced it with the knife.

“Thank you, I would have wrestled with it for ages.”

“Why didn’t you wash your hands first?” Pandora wondered.

“I put the olive oil on my hands on purpose.” He reached for a wooden bowl. “It’s the best way to mix a salad. Butter lettuce and mesclun and eggplant. It’s going to be delicious.”

“You mix the salad with your hands?” she asked in astonishment.

The man laughed. Pandora guessed that he was about thirty. His teeth were white and straight, and he had a dimple on his cheek.

“You’re American,” he remarked. “In France, we use our hands when we cook. There’s no better way to dress the salad.”

“I’m looking for Suzanne,” Pandora explained. “I’m Pandora. My daughter and I are staying with her.”

“Maurice Flaubert.” He nodded. “I’m not related to the writer, though I’m a fan of his work. Have you read Madame Bovary? It’s one of my favorite books.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.” Pandora shook her head.

“Then I shall find you a copy,” Maurice said decidedly. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but it would only get oily.”

Pandora had never met anyone like him. Every word that came out of his mouth was somehow springy, like a slice of Esther’s sponge cake. He carried himself with an easy confidence that she assumed must have to do with being French.

“Is Suzanne here?” Pandora asked.

Maurice shook his head. “She’s at the tennis club. She trains harder than a horse before Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp’s. She leaves for the club at sunrise and only stops for a quick lunch and practices again until dinner. Then she stays up after everyone goes to bed. Don’t take a room facing the swimming pool, she splashes at night for hours.”

“Is there a maid or housekeeper? My daughter, Esme, is only one, and soon she’ll need her bottle and a nap.”

“Suzanne never keeps a housekeeper for long. The last one left because the guests kept multiplying,” he said with a grin. “We all pitch in. The others have gone to the beach, so I offered to prepare dinner. You can help; do you know how to bread a veal?”

Pandora felt like she didn’t have a choice. Sally and Esme were sitting happily in the garden for now. It would be rude to let Maurice do all the work since she was a guest too.

“You can show me,” she offered.

Maurice taught her how to coat veal cutlets with a mixture of egg whites and olive oil.

“The best part is the bread crumbs”—he gathered bread crumbs in his palm—“hot and golden, straight from the oven. Veal Milanese is one of my favorite dishes.”

“That sounds Italian, and we’re in France.” She frowned.

“Italy is only a few miles away; the Italian Alps are right behind us.”

Pandora had no idea they were so close to Italy.

He noticed her puzzled expression. “You’re in Europe now; you’ll learn the geography,” he said as he walked to the counter and picked up a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses and handed one to Pandora. “This is a petite rouge; the grapes are grown in the Italian Alps.”

Pandora hardly ever drank wine and never during the day. In Hyde Park she drank the cocktails Harley prepared when he arrived home or the champagne served at dinner parties and weddings.

“You drink wine during the day?” she asked, horrified.

Maurice took a sip and shrugged. “Wine is one of the greatest pleasures in life. Why would I put off drinking it until evening?”

Pandora set the glass on the counter. It would only give her a headache.

“Americans are so rigid.” Maurice took another sip. “Last month, we had a couple from Boston who dressed every night for dinner.”

“It’s good manners to dress for a dinner party,” Pandora said stiffly. “Do you always say such unkind things about Americans?”

Maurice wiped his hands on his apron. He eyed her appreciatively.

“You’re right, I apologize.” He nodded. “Since the war, the Riviera is full of rich Americans. They crowd the cafés and get angry at the waiter if their eggs take too long to arrive.”

He took her hand and led her to the window. Whitewashed villas with flowering gardens dotted the hills. Below them she could see the cobblestone streets and peaked roofs of the village.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me, when you’re looking at this, how could you be in a hurry?”

“You’re right, it’s beautiful,” she agreed. “I could stare at it for hours.”

“You see”—he turned her around triumphantly—“you’re already thinking like a European.” His eyes traveled over her blond hair held back by a clip, her traveling outfit of a pale blue blouse and pleated skirt. “You can shop for clothes in the village. By the end of the week, you’ll be as sophisticated as any French woman.” He paused, and his eyes returned to her face. “You already are as beautiful.”