There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page A

her.
    â€œBertrand! Just look at you!” Caroline spoke to him in French. “You look as though you spent the night in a field.”
    â€œHmmm . . . I . . . I got lost . . .,” Bertrand improvised.
    â€œAnd what do you think your mother would say if she could see you now?”
    Bertrand stared at the floor, saying nothing. He knew his mother would hardly have noticed whether his shirt was clean or his shoes muddy. She would not have bothered even to question him about the cape and the binoculars. His mother lived her own life and Bertrand lived his. It was a fact that he had come to terms with long ago.
    Caroline felt sorry for the boy. His oversized shorts sagged, his big owlish glasses slipped down his nose and his hair was in bad need of a cut. Bertrand had been coming to the Hôtel des Rêves since he was a small child and the regular staff knew him well. They also knew that his mother had run off with her latest lover, a man she had met at the Casino in Monte Carlo,leaving Bertrand alone at the hotel. Madame Olivier had been gone four weeks now, and the maids were keeping an eye on Bertrand while the fatherly waiters made sure he ate a good dinner every night. Not that it made any difference to his weight, Bertrand remained giraffelike no matter how much he ate. His bony knees stuck out of his shorts like mastodon bones. But the sad fact remained that Bertrand was eleven years old and he was all alone in a hotel.
    â€œBetter go get cleaned up,” Caroline said again, giving him a forgiving smile.
    Bertrand turned quickly up the stairs and bounced off Little Laureen, who was heading down, toes pointed out, ballet-style, a fresh orange tutu fluffing with every move. Laureen’s princess tiara flew off and so did Bertrand’s glasses. Then he dropped his cape and the binoculars fell out and landed next to the tiara on the bottom step.
    The two stared at them. Then they looked at each other.
    â€œClumsy,” Laureen said.
    â€œOh . . .
Je-je-je m’excuse, mademoiselle . . .
” Bertrand’s nervous stutter was in full force.
    â€œWhy should I excuse you?”
    Laureen gave him her implacable china blue stare and Bertrand quickly looked away. The binoculars were in full view of anyone coming through the hall or walking down the stairs. Their lenses with the protective metal “lids” seemed to be looking back at him and he knew this strange girl in the ballet costume must have seen them.
    She had spoken in English and although Bertrand understood, he answered in French. “I-I . . . didn’t see you.” The stammer that seemed to happen whenever he was under stress was even more noticeable and he blushed.
    Laureen’s implacable gaze took in the binoculars, the big round glasses, the muddy sneakers, the baggy shorts, the knobby knees and the horrified pale blue eyes staring shortsightedly back at her. She looked again at the binoculars lying on that bottom step.
    â€œBertrand?” Caroline hurried over. “Oh, Bertrand, Laureen has come all the way from Texas.” Caroline seemed either not to see, or to be ignoring the binoculars. “I thought perhaps you would make good companions for each other.”
    â€œ
Je préfère . . .
” Laureen started in French, then got stuck. “I prefer my
own
company. Thank
you
,” she finished in English. Then she kicked thebinoculars daintily out of her way, picked up her tiara, perched it back on her head, tucked her hair behind her ears and continued to the door.
    â€œOh, by the way.” She turned to look at them. “Can either of you please tell me where I can get a taxi into St. Tropez? And where I can get some pancakes?”

 
11.
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    Mac left Sunny sleeping, one arm curled beneath her head and Tesoro curved in the crook of her knees. She had a lot of sleep to catch up on, while he, thanks to the effortless and fast trip in