Read Online Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page A

shower for five minutes before walking across the stone floor, dripping and naked, to look at his view. The long turquoise rectangle of the pool was empty, but along one side, positioned to catch the late afternoon sun, he could see a row of his fellow guests, oiled and motionless on their
chaises longues
. Middle-aged, leathery men, plump with good living; younger, leaner women, wearing pool jewelry and very little else; no children, no noise, no signs of life. He turned away from the window.
    A cream-colored envelope was propped against a bowl of hibiscus on the table next to his bed. He dried hishands and opened it: an invitation to dinner with the Denoyers, complete with directions and a small map to facilitate the journey from the clubhouse to their cottage, through four hundred exquisitely clipped yards of jungle. He toweled himself off and emptied the contents of his bag onto the bed. Was Denoyer the kind of man who wore a white tuxedo when dining in the tropics? Did he expect his guests to do the same? Andre picked a white linen shirt and a pair of khakis from the tangle of clothes, hung them up in the bathroom, and turned on the shower to steam away the ravages that travel had wrought.
    The front boy at the clubhouse entrance who tried to persuade Andre into a golf cart so that he could be driven to the Denoyers’ cottage blinked in surprise when his offer was declined. Nobody
walked
. Not at Cooper Cay; not at night. And what a night it was: warm black velvet, a sickle of moon, the wink and glitter of stars, a faint, salty breeze coming off the sea, the coarse tropical grass dense and springy underfoot, an invisible orchestra of insects whirring and chirping away in the shrubbery—Andre felt a moment of particular well-being and had to admit that perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for the Caribbean in winter.
    The house—which Denoyer had promoted from a common cottage by naming it
La Maison Blanche
—was, like its neighbors, imposing and immaculate, as was the dignified butler who opened the front door. Andre was escorted down a wide central hallway and out onto a terrace that ran the length of the house. From the terrace, a lighted pathway led past a swimming pool and througha grove of palms to a dock. Beyond that, darkness, and the lap and whisper of water.
    â€œMonsieur Kelly!
Bonsoir, bonsoir
. Welcome to Cooper Cay.” Denoyer’s feet made no sound as he came across the coral flagstones of the terrace. He was dressed informally, Andre was pleased to see, in slacks, short-sleeved shirt, and espadrilles, the only sign of affluence a bulky gold watch—of the useful kind that is waterproof to a depth of five hundred feet—on one tanned wrist. His skin shone with health and sun, a warm smile softening his lined but still good-looking face.
    He led Andre over to a group of rattan chairs arranged around a low glass table. “You remember my wife, Catherine?”
    â€œOf course.” Andre shook a slender, jeweled hand. Madame Denoyer was an older version of her daughter, elegant in a simple shift of pale-blue silk, blonde hair pulled back in a chignon, several generations of good breeding evident in her fine-boned, slightly haughty face. A graceful inclination of her head. “Do sit down, Monsieur Kelly. What will you drink?”
    The butler brought wine. “Pernand-Vergelesses,” said Denoyer. “I hope you like it.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “We’ve never been able to get on with the Californian whites. Too old to change our tastes, I’m afraid.” He raised his glass. “It’s very good of you to come.” As he sipped his wine, his eyes went to the envelope that Andre had put on the table, then they flicked away, as if it held no more interest for him than a package of cigarettes.
    Andre smiled. “I was in the neighborhood anyway.” He turned to Madame Denoyer. “I hope your daughter’s