There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler

pastures at home where the horses grazed.
    â€œDaddy,” she said. “Don’t the French have pillows?”
    Billy checked the bed then said, “Let’s find out, shall we?”
    He called reception and asked Caroline Cavalaire the same question. Laureen could hear her laugh over the phone.
    â€œ
Oui, bien sûr.
Of course we do. The ‘sausage’ on the bed is called a bolster. In the daytime we keep the pillows in the armoire, and that’s where you will find them.”
    â€œMerci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Cavalaire,”
Billy said. And sure enough, there were the pillows, stashed in the armoire.
    â€œStrange folk, these French,” he said to Little Laureen, arranging them on the bed for her.
    â€œMaybe,” Laureen said.
    When he had gone, she went to the window. Her balcony was so tiny there wasn’t even room for a chair and only enough space for one person to stand.
    Holding back the yellow curtains, she gazed down at the happy scene, catching snippets of French conversation. Watching. Listening. Longing. And crying silently.
    Â 
    It had taken Nate exactly five minutes to unpack his duffel and stow his possessions, which consisted of two pairs of surfer-style bathing shorts in aHawaiian print of dark blue with red hibiscus; half a dozen plain white Hanes T-shirts; two pairs of khaki shorts and one pair of J. Crew chinos with a bright yellow woven belt bought on impulse in the same store. There was a crumpled pale blue Brooks Brothers seersucker jacket, plus a French bicycle racer’s outfit in snug yellow and black Lycra. A small leather duffel held his shaving kit and toiletries and he had not packed even so much as one pair of socks. Sandals and barefoot were Nate’s aim and he intended to stick with that. He kind of missed the privacy of Chez La Violette, though.
    Out on his small balcony he looked down onto the pretty courtyard where people were already drifting in for lunch. Ancient-looking waiters, who he thought had probably worked here all their lives, were busy carrying ice buckets on stands with bottles of that famous rosé wine he’d heard so much about. He couldn’t wait to try it.
    A quick shower, then in khaki shorts and a T-shirt he ran down the steps to join them. He chose a corner table where he could watch the action—couples of various ages, cool in summer pastels, all talking softly in that attractive French language. He decided on a lobster risotto then, suddenly famished, began devouring the basket of olive bread, slathering it with sweet Normandy butter. The waiter showed him the bottle of local rosé wine he’d ordered, so chilly that drops had formed on it and ran down into the surrounding napkin.
    â€œFrom grapes grown just down the road,
monsieur
,” the waiter told him.
    Pleased, Nate thought all that was missing from the picture was Sunny Alvarez. He’d only met her less than twenty-four hours ago, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He thought with Sunny beside him, life at this moment would have been perfect.
    Taking his first approving sip of local St. Tropez rosé, iced and crisp and with a nice tang to it, he happened to glance up at the windows overlooking the courtyard. For a second he saw Little Laureen standing there. Then suddenly she was gone.
    There had been something about her though, her stillness, her solitude, that was disturbing. He wondered uneasily what she was up to.

 
10.
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    Bertrand skittered into the Hôtel des Rêves, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The oilskin cape was wrapped tightly around his binoculars, hidden from view under his arm. His blue shirt was grass-stained, his shaggy blond hair was a bird’s nest, and his sneakers were black with mud. Casting a nervous glance round the entrance hall, he made for the stairs.
    â€œBertrand?”
    Caroline Cavalaire’s voice stopped him in midstride. He turned reluctantly to face