One Night In Provence. Barbara Wallace

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       CHAPTER ONE

      Early August

      Is the place as gorgeous as it looked in the brochure? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Tell me it’s horrible.

      SUNSHINE WARMED JENNA’S face as she read her friend’s text. Setting down her champagne, she quickly snapped a photo, knowing the camera phone could never do justice to the Provençal sea of gold and lavender. Her phone dinged in response almost immediately.

      I hate you.

      Jenna snorted. She shouldn’t laugh. Poor Shirley was back in Nantucket with shingles instead of sitting here in the sunshine with her.

      She quickly typed a response.

      Would it make you feel better if I told you everyone looks like a swimsuit model? I’m the pastiest person here.

      That wasn’t exactly true. There were definitely some gorgeous people floating around, but there were plenty of pale tourists like Jenna as well. What was a little white lie, though, if thinking her best friend felt out of place made Shirley feel a little better?

      I’m not going to have nearly as much fun without you with me.

      That was true. Shirley was her wing person, both at the nursing home where they worked and off duty. In fact, it was Shirley who’d heard about the Merchant charity auction and convinced Jenna to bid on this Provençal vacation. Without her, Jenna wouldn’t be sitting on the terrace of a centuries-old French castle drinking champagne for breakfast.

      Better double down on your efforts, then. Otherwise, Beatrice will come back to haunt you. She expected you to have as much fun as possible.

      I plan to!

      No way was she risking the posthumous wrath of her favorite patient.

      Unfortunately, I’ve lost my translator.

      Shirley was the one who could speak French. An ex-boyfriend had given her an immersion software course one Christmas with the promise of a French vacation.

      Besides, there’s only so much trouble a person can get into by themselves.

      A trio of bouncing dots on her screen indicated that Shirley was typing a reply.

      Go find a sexy Frenchman to help you. I can think of plenty of trouble you can get into with one of those.

      Jenna laughed out loud, causing the couple at the next table to look over. She waved her phone at them to show she wasn’t some random crazy person before replying.

      R U kidding? With my luck it’ll be some poser.

      You think everyone is a poser.

      With good reason. Nantucket attracted them like a magnet. Thirty K millionaires, she and Shirley liked to call them. Guys with rented boats and empty bank accounts who spent their summer weekends pretending they were part of the beautiful people with the hopes of scoring with as many women as possible.

      The South of France isn’t the White Whale Tavern.

      It’s probably worse. I’d rather be haunted by Beatrice, thank you.

      Shirley responded by sending a GIF of a dancing ghost.

      If you do find a Frenchman, let me know. If I’m going to be covered in sores, I need some kind of vicarious thrill.

      Don’t hold your breath.

      I never do.

      After a few more exchanges, Shirley signed off to go back to sleep, it being early morning in New England. Jenna signaled the server for a second glass of champagne. Because when in France...

      On the other side of the terrace railing, the landscape rolled out like a sea of purple, green and yellow. A picture postcard come to life, only better.

      Ten days in a French castle at the height of lavender season. That’s how Merchant Hotels had described the dream package Jenna bid on at the auction. The accompanying brochures made the trip sound magical. Now that she was here, she realized the pictures didn’t begin to do the magic justice.

      She raised her glass in honor of the woman who’d made the trip possible. “Thanks for the adventure, Beatrice. I’ll make the most of it.”

      Lifting the glass just a bit higher, she snapped a picture and sent the shot to Shirley. Then she switched seats so she could get a photograph of her drinking with the fields behind her. If she was going to rub salt in Shirley’s wounds, then she might as well rub a lot of salt.

      Unfortunately, she was the only millennial alive who couldn’t shoot a decent selfie. She either looked like she was squinting at the sky or like she had two extra СКАЧАТЬ