Invitation to Provence Read Free

asked for her phone number, she gave it to him. There was a message waiting on her machine when she got home. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Please say you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
    Franny found him irresistible, like catnip—one sniff of him and she was crazy. Unfortunately, Marcus lived in Atlanta, where he was in property development, building new condos for singles. He came to L.A. twice a month, then he’d promised to make it over more often. And those first few months were heady. They made love all the time, or at least all the time he could spend with her. He sent her flowers and often called just to say goodnight. Lately, though, he’d been too busy to get out to L.A. so often and then he’d been distant, as though his mind were somewhere other than on her.
    Franny still wouldn’t face up to it, but in her heart she knew the writing was on the wall and she wondered whetherit was better just to finish it right now and save her pride. She realized Marcus was behaving badly and that she was stupid to take it, but he was like a bad habit she couldn’t shake. She kept hoping that she was wrong and that he really loved her.
    She was so caught up thinking about Marcus, she almost rear-ended the Honda Civic in front of her. This time her sigh came from her gut. The only thing certain in her life was that, as usual, she’d skipped lunch—no time—and she was starving. She only hoped Marcus wouldn’t be critical of her hearty appetite. And dammit, if he was, she would just tell him to get lost. Oops, she’d almost missed the turnoff. She quickly slid the Explorer across two lanes, eliciting a barrage of horn honking as she sped onto Channel Drive and made a jerky stop in front of Giorgio’s.
    Grabbing her beat-up brown bag and remembering too late that she’d meant to change it for something smaller and more stylish, she smoothed back her windblown hair, left the car with the valet, and went inside to meet her destiny.

 
    2
    T HE ITALIAN RESTAURANT was intimate and crowded, with a buzz of conversation and the clink of wineglasses and the pleasant aroma of pasta and sauces and women’s perfume.
    “Mr. Marks’s reservation,” Franny said to the smiling hostess.
    The girl checked her list. “Mr. Marks hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to wait for him at the table?”
    Franny said she would, squeezing past the close-packed tables to one in the corner. She ordered a glass of Chianti and sat looking around her. She didn’t come here often and she liked watching the smart people who treated this place as their neighborhood restaurant. She studied the young family at the next table. She thought enviously how perfect they were, so beautiful and happy with their two small sons and another baby obviously on the way. They were an example of everything young people were supposed to strive toward, while she … well,
she
was in limbo.
    She sipped her wine, studying the menu and thanking god that at least this time she wasn’t the one who was late. The hostess came toward her, escorting a lovely woman, tall and elegant in a black dress, dark hair pulled back, sleek as a cat.
    “Ms. Marten?” the woman said. Franny nodded, looking up at her with a puzzled smile. “I’m Clare Marks,” the woman said and a hot thrill of apprehension shot up Franny’s spine. “Marcus’s wife,” the woman added calmly. “He thought it was time we met.”
    Franny could feel the blood drain from her face. “His ex-wife,” she managed finally, not wanting to believe the truth.
    “His
wife,
Ms. Marten.” Their eyes met, Clare Marks’s brown and curious, Franny’s dark blue with shock.
    Bewildered, Franny thought, This can’t be happening to me. Just a couple of hours ago at work
she
had been the woman in charge, the strong one, the one with the comforting arm and the encouraging words. Now she was reduced to zero, at a loss for words. In an instant her love affair with Marcus was