Sunset in St. Tropez Read Free

a lot more when I start to lose my hearing,” he said, setting his glass down on the coffee table, as the doorbell rang. It was nearly eight-thirty, a record in punctuality for the Donnallys, who typically would arrive late, and blame each other for it, each one insisting vehemently that it was the other's fault.
    And tonight was no different.
    Eric opened the door to them as Diana chatted with the Smiths, and a moment later, they could all hear Pascale and John.
    “I"m so sorry we"re late,” Pascale said in her still heavily accented English, although she had lived in New York for nearly thirty years, and spoke the language flawlessly. But she had never been able to shake her French accent, or tried to. She still preferred to speak French whenever possible, with people she met, sales personnel in stores, waiters, and several times a week on the phone with her mother. John claimed they spent hours on the phone. And for all twenty-five years of their marriage, John had steadfastly refused to learn French, although he caught key words here and there, and could say “Merde” with a fairly credible accent. “John absolutely refused to find a cab!” Pascale said in outraged disbelief as Eric took her coat with a familiar grin. He always loved their stories. “He forced me to take the bus here! Can you imagine? On New Year's Eve, in evening clothes!” She looked incensed as she brushed a lock of curly dark hair from her eyes, the rest was pulled back in a tight bun, just as she had worn it when she was dancing, only now the front was softer. And in spite of her forty-seven years, there was still something overwhelmingly sensual and exquisite about her. She was tiny and delicate and graceful, and her green eyes were blazing as she told her tale of woe to Eric.
    “I didn't refuse to take a cab – we couldn't find one!” John said, defending himself, as Pascale groaned at him.
    “Ahh!” she said, sparks darting from her eyes, as she glared at her husband. “Ridiculous! You just didn't want to pay the cab fare!” John was notoriously parsimonious among all those who knew him. But with the snow falling steadily, it was entirely possible, in this instance at least, that they hadn't been able to find a taxi. And for once John looked singularly undisturbed by his wife's attack, as they walked into the living room with Eric, to find the others.
    John was in excellent humor as he greeted their friends.
     
    “Sorry we"re late,” he said calmly. He was used to his wife's inflammatory outbursts, and generally undismayed by them. She was French, easily offended, and frequently outraged. John was, as a rule, a great deal calmer, at least at the outset. It took him just a little longer to respond and heat up. He was stocky and powerful, and had played ice hockey at Harvard. And he and Pascale made an interesting visual of contrasts, the one so delicate and petite, the other strong and broad-shouldered and powerful. Everyone had commented for years on how much they looked like Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. “Happy New Year, everyone,” John said, smiling broadly, as he accepted a flute of champagne from Diana, while Pascale kissed Eric on both cheeks, and then did the same to Anne and Robert, and a moment later Diana hugged her and told her how lovely she looked. Pascale always did. She had exquisite, exotic looks.
    “Alors, les copains,” she said, calling them the equivalent of “buddies,” “how was Christmas? Ours was awful,” she volunteered without stopping for breath. “John hated the suit I bought him, and he bought me a stove, can you imagine! A stove! Why not a lawn mower, or a truck!” She looked incensed as the others laughed, and her husband was quick to answer in his own defense.
    “I wouldn't buy you any kind of vehicle, Pascale, you"re a lousy driver!” But he said it, this time at least, with good humor.
    “I"m a much better driver than you are,” she said, sipping the champagne, “and you