The Marseille Caper Read Online Free PDF Page B

of being in France was enough to lift her spirits—no doubt helped by the thousands of miles of separation from the insurance business. If Olivier hadn’t been sitting inches away, he would have suggested an idea he’d been keeping to himself for some time: a divided life, with summers in Provence and winters in L.A. Maybe he’d bring it up when the moment was right.
    “You know,” he said, “you’re fluent in Spanish. You’d pick up French very fast.”
    Elena gave him a sideways look. “Is this leading somewhere?”
    Sam smiled, but didn’t answer. Ever since their last explosive breakup and reconciliation, each of them had been careful to avoid talking about the future. Although Elena spent most nights with Sam at the Chateau Marmont, she still kept her apartment, her job, and her independence. At the moment this suited her, but for how much longer?
    “Well, you know me, Sam. Always open to an interesting offer.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, then realized that the fluttering was in vain, as she was wearing Hollywood-size sunglasses.
    Sam fished in his pocket for his phone. “Do you want to say hello to your favorite journalist? I thought we might have dinner with him tonight.”
    Philippe Davin had been one of the most pleasant surprises of Sam’s previous trip to Marseille. A senior journalist for La Provence , the self-styled bible of Provençal news, Philippe had taken Sam under his well-informed wing in exchange for exclusive rights to any story that might develop. Better still, hehad acted as driver of the getaway vehicle—an elderly plumber’s van—when Sam had removed the wine from Reboul’s cellar. To complete the assignment, Philippe had gone to Los Angeles to interview the legal owner of those bottles, Danny Roth, and it was then that he had met Elena.
    To Sam’s relief, the two of them had taken to one another instantly. Philippe scampered around Elena like a large, undisciplined puppy, calling her La Bomba Latina and keeping her amused with extravagant compliments and some woefully bad attempts at Spanish. In return, she was happy to give him what she called L.A. 101, a basic guide to the city’s habits and diversions, and she found plenty to enjoy in his reactions. He loved the Lakers game they went to, but was completely bewildered by American football. Puzzled by the unnaturally placid behavior of Los Angeles drivers, stunned by the prices of modest wooden houses in Malibu, appreciative of the seemingly endless parade of young blondes, impressed by Californian wines, amazed at the agility of superannuated surfers—he was fascinated by it all. He suffered only two disappointments: there was no sign of former governor Schwarzenegger on Muscle Beach, and a visit to Starbucks passed without seeing anyone draw a gun. But otherwise the trip had been a great success, and he had made Elena promise to come to Marseille so that he could return the favor.
    “Philippe? It’s Sam. I’m here in town for a few days.” He winced, and held the phone away from his ear to lessen the volume of Philippe’s enthusiastic response.
    “Listen—I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. How about dinner tonight? Great. You choose somewhere and I’llcall you back later. Meanwhile, I have one of your admirers here.”
    He passed the phone to Elena. There was a second explosion of joy from Philippe, followed by heated expressions of devotion that brought a blush to Elena’s cheek. “Philippe,” she said at last, cutting him off, “you are so bad. See you tonight. Can’t wait.”
    They were dropping down toward Cassis now, passing some of the fastidiously maintained vineyards that produced the white wine considered by the gourmets of Marseille to be the only proper accompaniment for a bouillabaisse . Needless to say, the Marseillais had their own highly exaggerated account of how the wines of Cassis came into being, as Olivier explained.
    In effect, so the story went, the vineyards were