Provence - To Die For Read Online Free PDF

white, and was wearing a toque. Probably in his fifties, he was ruggedly handsome; lines like curved spokes reached across his high cheekbones from startling sky blue eyes topped by black brows, and deep grooves bracketed his thin-lipped mouth. He appeared very fit, built like a boxer, broad across the chest and solid, with heavily muscled forearms extending from his rolled-up sleeves. A pair of reading glasses hung from a gold chain around his neck. The sides of his head were shaved, the stubble more gray than black.
    “Madame Fletcher,” said Claire, “this is Chef Bertrand.” Her face was getting pink again, and I wondered if this was the man under discussion earlier, the one who’d been accused of being unfaithful. He was old enough to be her father.
    “Enchanté, madame,” he said, smiling broadly, taking my hand in both of his and bowing slightly. “I shall be delighted to have such a lovely student in my classes—and such a famous one. You are the American mystery writer?”
    “Yes. I write mysteries.” I was astonished that he knew my name.
    “Ah, I see from your eyes that I surprise you. But even here in southern France, we have heard of J. B. Fletcher. But I must confess, I thought J. B. Fletcher was a man. I did not know he would be such a beautiful woman.”
    His eyes peered deeply into mine as if I were the only person present. Claire stood quietly watching. I thought to myself that she wouldn’t be the only woman to blush today. Chef Bertrand certainly was a flatterer.
    “Alas, if you look for adventure in Provence, you must go to Marseilles. C’est une ville notoire —how do you say?—a notorious city. Here in Avignon, we are peaceful and calm.”
    “I’m not looking for adventure,” I said crisply, “just a nice relaxing vacation.”
    “That you can find here,” he said, giving my hand a final pat, then releasing it. “Is this your first trip to France?”
    “I’ve been to Paris several times, and years ago, when my husband was alive, we came to the south of France, but not in this part of Provence.”
    He made a tsk ing noise with his tongue. “It is very beautiful here,” he said, “but perhaps not so much at this time of the year. We must have you come back when the sun shines and the lavender is in bloom. Isn’t that so, Claire?” He smiled sweetly at her.
    “Oui, Emil,” she said, returning his smile.
    “I would like that,” I said, “but I’m sure I’ll enjoy this visit as well.”
    “Absolument! Provence, c’est merveilleuse tout le temps.” He looked perplexed. “How does one say this in English?”
    “Provence is marvelous all the time,” Claire translated.
    “Qui! Vraiment. Truly. And we shall make sure this visit is wonderful for you. Have you taken cooking courses before?”
    “Not for a very long time,” I replied, laughing, and thinking that my high school home economics classes probably wouldn’t qualify.
    “In that case, I am honored you have chosen to attend my class,” he said, closing his eyes and putting his hand over his heart.
    I had a feeling that he would have been “honored” whatever my answer had been. He was very charming, in the manner French men have historically been credited with, confident, flirtatious, attentive, and sure of his attractiveness. This couldn’t be the same man Claire had described as sensitive and sad.
    “Guy, come out here. Vite!” he called into the open office door.
    A bespectacled man in his mid-thirties, also wearing kitchen whites, emerged frowning from the back room. He was tall and very thin, and his movements were awkward, like those of a teenager who hasn’t become accustomed to his changing body. Catching sight of me, he put on a pleasant expression. “Bonjour, madame.”
    “Bonjour.”
    “This is Guy Lavande, sous chef in my restaurant and for my cooking courses,” Chef Bertrand said. “He also speaks very good English. N’est-ce pas, Guy? Isn’t that so?”
    “Oui, c’est ca,” Guy