The Corsican Caper Read Free Page A

accommodateany but the most modest boats. Without doubt, the best place to appreciate the miniature but highly picturesque view is the terrace at Chez Jeannot, and Elena settled into her seat with a little sigh of satisfaction. “This is cute,” she said. “Maybe you were right after all.”
    “Sorry about that. I won’t let it happen again.” Before Elena had a chance to roll her eyes—her standard response to Sam’s attempts at sarcasm—he had buried himself in the wine list. “Let’s see: a vivacious little
rosé
? Or perhaps a crisp and beautifully balanced white, with just a hint of impertinence, from the vineyards of Cassis?”
    Over the years, Elena had become used to Sam having
bon viveur
moments as soon as he set foot in France. It was part of the travel experience. “Do you think they have French fries to go with the mussels?”
    “
Pommes frites
, sweetheart,
pommes frites.
”
    “Sam, you’re behaving like a dictionary. Don’t be a pain.”
    “A pain? I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, and my feet hurt, but otherwise I’m the soul of charm and good humor. Now, what’s it to be? Pink or white?”
    When the
rosé
arrived, Sam raised his glass to Elena. “To our vacation. How does it feel to be back here again?”
    Elena took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Good. No—better than good. It’s lovely. I’ve missed Provence. I know how much you like it, too.” She took off her sunglasses and leaned forward, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “How about getting a littleplace here? You know, just for the summer. Somewhere to keep your espadrilles.”
    Sam raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t miss summer in L.A., when the smog is at its most beautiful?”
    “I guess I’d survive. Sam, I’m serious.”
    “OK, that’s settled.” He smiled at Elena’s startled reaction, and raised his glass again. “That was easy. As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest the same thing. I could learn to play
boules
. And you could learn to cook.”
    Before Elena could think of a suitably crushing reply, the
moules farcies
arrived, the mussels cooked with herbs, garlic, and, according to the waiter,
beaucoup d’amour;
the
frites
fried twice to make them crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. To accompany the food there was an excited but inconclusive discussion about property in Provence: the merits and drawbacks of the coast versus the country, a village house in the Luberon or an apartment in Marseille. Over coffee, it was agreed that they would contact a couple of real estate agents to help them look around. When the bill came, Elena insisted on paying. She planned to frame the check as a souvenir of the day they had made their decision.
    When they returned to Le Pharo at the beginning of the evening, it was to find Reboul still fuming. He had received a visit, he told them, from someone he described as a used-car salesman masquerading as a Vicomte, who had said that he had found an extremely rich buyer for Le Pharo: a man, he had said, with the deepest of deep pockets. It’s not for sale,said Reboul. Not for fifty million euros? Don’t you understand, said Reboul, it’s not for sale. Aha, said the Vicomte, but it is well known that there is a price for everything. It is possible that I could persuade my client to dig even deeper into his pockets.
    “And that’s when I showed him out,” said Reboul. “There’s a price for everything, is there?
Quel culot!
What a nerve!”
    “Well,” said Sam, “I guess that’s one real estate agent we can knock off the list.”
    Reboul paused, corkscrew in hand. “What do you mean?”
    “We decided at lunch. We’d like to try and buy a little place over here.”
    Reboul’s face lit up. “Really? How wonderful. Now that really does deserve a drink.” He put the corkscrew to work on a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet. “This is the best news I’ve had in weeks. Where do you want to be? What can I do to