"Hold on a sec," he said into his cell phone as I hovered nearby. "You Lara, by any chance?" I nodded. "Hey, how ya doin'?" he asked, giving me one of those overly hearty handshakes that set your rings digging painfully into your fingers. "Call you back in a sec," he said to the phone.
"Glad you could join us, Mr. Reynolds," I said.
"Hey, call me Rick. I'm glad, too. Touch and go, let me tell you. Didn't know if I could make it right up until the last minute. Market's pretty hot, right now. But a guy's gotta take a break every now and then. You know what they say, all work and no play. Hope I don't get called back, though. I assume I'll be in cell phone range at all times? This thing is digital, of course. The satellite will find me just about anywhere, I should think."
"Maybe not always," I said, feeling sorry for the busy satellite whose job it was to keep an ear out for Rick. "But you know, I expect there'll be regular phones just about everywhere."
"Have to do," he said. "I promised I'd check in regularly. In fact, we'll have to talk some more later. Still got a couple of calls to make before we leave. Got to find out how the Nikkei did, get a few deals ready for tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Lara." he said, turning back to his phone.
If I was supposed to be impressed by this notion of Richard Reynolds' indispensability, I confess I wasn't. Indeed, when it came right down to it, if I had money to invest, which I don't--I have only one investment, and it's called a store--I already knew Rick was the last person I'd have look after it for me.
But at least, all were accounted for, except for one couple meeting us at Taberda.
"I think they're calling our flight, Rick," I said, gesturing toward the gate. I'd leave it to Susie to find out all there was to know about Rick Reynolds.
"I find a hatpin is very effective in warding off unwelcome advances," Susie was saying to Catherine as I caught up to them in the boarding line. "I always have one with me when I travel," she added, pointing to a rather lethal-looking pin in her felt chapeau. The pin was about four inches long, with a large fake ruby gemstone at one end and an unprotected point at the other. I wondered if they'd let her on the plane with it.
"I'd have said a Swiss Army knife would be better," Marlene said. "I have one."
"A gun works best of all," Jimmy said, turning to look back at the two women. "But Betty here made me leave mine at home." He gave his wife a baleful glance.
"Have a chocolate," Ben said from behind me. This is going to be quite the trip, I thought, helping myself to a large chunk of candy.
T ABERDA IS A GLORIOUS little town built on the top and down the sides of a cliff high above Tunisia's Gulf of Hammamet. It is a sun-drenched cluster of brilliant white houses, domes, and minarets, accented with a distinctive blue, with terraces cascading down the sides of the hill to a tiny harbor and fishing port, and farther along, a small but very pretty beach. Originally a Berber village, it was now the haunt of wealthy Tunisians and travelers who eschewed the more crowded and popular tourist zones that lay to the south and north of it.
I had first crossed the threshold of the Auberge du Palmier twenty years earlier as a new bride. I fell in love instantly: the gentle rattle of the palm tree in the courtyard, the intense blue of the shutters and doors against the stark white of the walls, the smooth feel of the marble beneath one's feet, tumbling vines set against glowing tilework, and from somewhere, the scent of oranges and jasmine. I'd loved it then, and, despite everything that had transpired in the intervening years, I loved it now. Better still, I could see the magic working on my weary little band of travelers, who were as enchanted as I was.
"My, isn't this nice!" Susie sighed.
"Perfect," Aziza agreed.
"It's very good to see you again, Madame Swain," said Mohammed, the concierge, taking my carry-on bag. I winced. Mohammed had insisted on calling me Mme. Swain when I came here with Clive, despite my protestations that my name was still McClintoch, and I didn't think anything would change him now. He looked older, his face a little more weathered, and he stooped a little, too, but his friendly smile was the same. He was probably past it, as concierges go, but it said something about the nature of the place that the management had kept him on. I found, despite all my misgivings about revisiting the place, I was pleased to see him, the Swain name notwithstanding, and more than that, delighted to be there.
The auberge was built as a family home in the 1930's by the father of the current innkeepers, a Frenchman who'd come to North Africa to make his fortune, and stayed because he loved it. The house had been his passion, a folly of sorts, a magnificent home, a villa or a palace really, on which he'd lavished his attention, and much of his cash. He'd lost the place in the troubles in the late 1950's and early 1960's, when the country was agitating for independence from French rule. Like most of his compatriots, he'd fled with his wife and daughters, Sylvie and Chantal, to France. But Tunisia had been in their blood, and Sylvie and Chantal had returned to Taberda a few years later, now to run the hotel for the current owner, a charming man by the name of Khelifa Dridi.
Like most houses in Taberda, the inn showed a virtually blank wall to the street, dazzling white walls broken only by large solid wood gates in the traditional keyhole shape, decorated with metal studs, and painted a glorious blue that mirrored the sky and sea, and the cascading branches of bougainvillea in purple and pink. Once inside the gates, it was a different story. The house was on the outskirts of Taberda, about two-thirds of the way up the hill, and had a wonderful view back to the town's terraces to one side, and the Mediterranean on the other. The gardens were truly lovely, with palms and orange trees, and a profusion of flowers, hibiscus in yellow and scarlet; pink, lilac, and white oleander, and a small, but pretty swimming pool.
The large double entrance doors opened into a two-story space, the second floor supported by white marble columns which created a gallery on either side of the entrance. The upper portions of the columns and the arches between them were so delicately and intricately carved that it was almost impossible to believe they were marble. The walls in this area were sheathed in an incredible rose marble, and the floors were marble, too, covered at regular intervals with beautiful carpets. The most wonderful feature of all was the carved wood ceiling, painted dark red and gold.
To the right of the entranceway was a sitting room, which doubled as a tearoom and bar, with several couches, all covered with kilims, tapestry-woven rugs, or throws. There were niches in all the windows, filled with benches and pillows, and to one side a chessboard was set up. At the back, in a spacious alcove under the overhang of the floor above, was an eating area. Farther along was the so-called music room, with lovely light streaming through the windows, and a little library and reading area.
To the left, past the stairs to the second floor and through large doors, was a courtyard open to the sky. In it was the palm tree after which the auberge was named.
The hotel was to be our base during the stay in Tunisia, a pleasant refuge from which we'd head out every day to see the sights--Tunis and Carthage to the north, Sousse, farther south, and later, the Roman ruins on the edge of the desert, and then into the desert itself. Despite its size as a family home, as hotels go it was small, intimate. Our group had, in fact, pretty much taken over the whole inn, and in recognition of that fact, Sylvie, Chantal, and Sylvie's daughter Elyse were waiting for us when we arrived.
"Mesdames, messieurs, bienvenue a` l'Auberge du Palmier," Sylvie said.