The Cure

By Sandra Freeman

Danielle “Dany” Divito fell deeply in love at first sight with the mysterious Anita da Silva when she walked into a bar in a small French village. After a year of pining escalated into a few nights of desperate passion, Dany lost Anita, who disappeared back to the United States and was later tragically murdered by her ex-husband.

Trying to recover from this devastating loss, Dany returns to France, retracing her steps as she lays memories of Anita to rest. Instead of a solo journey, though, Dany meets a very handsome, very rich young man who owns a private hotel called El Paradiso.

According to the proprietor Andy, El Paradiso is a retreat for those in confusion about themselves and their place in a society that imposes labels they reject. Andy carefully selects his guests; the one requirement is that they believe in love. Dany came back to France to forget a disastrous affair, but she is about to open her heart and mind to an experience she never expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728352053

Sandra Freeman

Sandra Freeman has written six previous novels, three of which are set in the south of France where she now lives with her partner, painter Faith O’Reilly. Sandra taught French and theatre studies at the University of Sussex for a number of years, during which time she worked with professional and amateur actors, writing, directing, and acting in her own plays.

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2020 Sandra Freeman. All rights reserved.

Cover Design is based on an original watercolour artwork by Faith O’Reilly

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/25/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5204-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5203-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5205-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906162

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

I give my heartfelt thanks to Lindsey Blake for her care, precision and expertise in typing and checking my book for anomalies and for sending off my materials. Without her help the book would never have happened. I am also immensely indebted to Paul Blake for saving me from computer catastrophe. He cleaned up the mess caused by internet invaders after they had blocked my laptop three times. My friend Dr. Zoe Playdon, a transgender expert and activist has provided me with a mine of useful information on a difficult, ever evolving subject. Thank you Zoe.

And thank you, as ever, to my partner, Faith O’Reilly has supported in this project from the beginning, listening to my ideas, giving me wise advice and delicious food to keep me going in moments of frustration.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER

1

Heartache, a disabling condition which wouldn’t go away and seemed to have no remedy. I had suffered from it in varying degrees for almost three years. At first it was a constant pain which calmed a little over time, as I recovered from the initial shock until I received another blow which sickened me once more. A lost love, the only true love of my life, disappeared as suddenly as she came, back home to the United States it was assumed, without trace until a friend of mine working in New Orleans emailed me a newspaper article. Anita da Silva, my beautiful, mysterious goddess had been murdered by her ex-husband.

I met Anita when she walked into the bar where I was working in a small French village. She floated in accompanied by an older man and a pack of dogs. She was stunning, exotic. It was more than love at first sight, it was Cupid’s arrow right in my heart. I had to have her she must be mine! But she was elusive, the older man was some kind of minder who controlled her. At last I had his permission and her consent for her to move into my little, rented cottage. Then disaster struck. Whilst I was working, she wandered into the street. It was the wrong place at the wrong time. A violent neighbour involved in a fight with his son, grabbed her as she passed, took her hostage in his home. She was rescued by the police, her minder took her away, right away for ever.

I had returned to Britain where I worked in a London bar until I was offered a job by an old friend Michaela, as an assistant in the real estate agency she was opening in Brighton. I became a house agent, did rather well, found a new girlfriend. I had a beautiful apartment in the big house that Michaela had inherited from an aunt. Michaela was a Wiccan, a white witch, so I learned something about magic. I made money, I had a good life, but the heartache was still there. There was a ghost to be laid, so I decided to take time off, to come back to where it had begun. My tolerant, understanding girlfriend Roz went along with my idea, although she wasn’t sure about it.

The village I had worked in, Les Fontaines, was very small and there was no hotel. Next to it was the thermal town of Villeneuve-les-Bains, a place I had largely ignored. I booked in a room in the Hôtel du Marché, got into my car and drove like a demon through the French countryside without stopping for a break. I was increasingly excited, super charged as I approached the south. By the time I checked into my room, I was trembling with nervous exhaustion. I had a shower, went down to have a beer and calm down.

It was five o’clock in the evening, late summer, still almost unbelievably hot outside the air-conditioned bar. At this hour most of the other customers were indulging themselves with ice-cream sundaes. A pretty, little waitress carrying a tray of peach melbas, winked at me as she passed, before setting them down in front of a couple of silver-haired women. I studied the menu out of curiosity, I wouldn’t be hungry for a few hours. The choice wasn’t particularly appealing. When I’d finished my beer, I wandered into the street to have a closer look at the town, to begin to sort exactly why I was here, what I might be hoping for.

In the central square was a park with seats facing pretty flowerbeds. On one side of the park was a casino, on another a theatre, on the third an impressive hotel and on the final side, the local town hall, flanked by an apartment building. There was a pleasing unity to the nineteenth century ensemble, except for the recently constructed apartments which were painted lurid orange.

I sat down in the shade of a plane tree. A crowd was gathering outside the theatre doors, which were open. On the terrace in front of the casino couples dressed as if for a night out, sipped what looked like cocktails. I looked at my watch – 8.15. If I wanted to eat, I should get back to the hotel. As I stood up, a young man came towards me, smiling.

Hello. Are you coming to the show?

He looked about fifteen years old, pure white hair, long but tied back, strangely pale, blue eyes, trim little body, he’d break hearts in a few years’ time. Perhaps he already had.

Hello. What show?

The operetta. It’s our opening night, ‘The Merry Widow’

Are you a singer?

No, I’m in the orchestra. I play the clarinet. If you haven’t booked, you’d better join the queue. I’ve heard there are only a few tickets left.

No problem for me, I’m going for dinner now.

What a shame, you’ll miss it. Can’t you miss dinner instead?

I could, I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted peace not excitement on my first night.

I’ll come tomorrow.

We won’t be performing the same one tomorrow.

Never mind. Good to meet you.

I started to walk away. He followed me.

Will you come to one of the others?

I don’t know.

We’re not amateurs. They are well-known singers.

Good.

He was still following me. I was irritated. I stopped, turned to look straight at him.

How old are you?

He pulled his peak cap down over his eyes.

Nineteen. This defensive tone indicated it was a question he was used to.

I’m studying music in Montpellier.

Why are you bothering to talk to me?

I was yet to learn that talking to strangers was the norm here. He was rather taken aback.

You look interesting. You’re not a curiste are you? Where are you from?

Good night young man.

If he was lonely, I wasn’t – yet.

Where are you staying?

I wanted to reply ‘None of your business’ but somehow that would have seemed too hurtful. His innocent anxiety intrigued me slightly.

In a hotel. Maybe see you around. Good night and good luck with the show!

I walked briskly away without looking back.

I chose an omelette for supper to see if it would be as good as mine. I have a friend who judges a restaurant on their soups, for me it’s omelettes. I had plenty of practice three years ago. I acquired such a reputation that practically everyone who came into the bar where I was working wanted me to cook one. Fortunately, we had a plentiful supply of local eggs. This version in front of me was too solid, cooked for too long. There was an Italian option on the menu which I would try tomorrow. Italian cooking was in my blood after all. I had been brought up in my Italian father’s restaurants in Edinburgh and in London where I helped in the kitchen from an early age. When my French mother died prematurely, my father imagined that he and I would become business partners – ‘Divito and Daughter’! That had not happened. I’d travelled the world instead, doing this and that, picking up other useful languages beside the Italian, French and English in which I was already perfectly fluent. I’d always needed to earn money, now I didn’t, for the time being. I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with becoming a member of the leisured class. I’d been on the fringes of wealthy society through our business, I’d even been invited for weekends. The rich seemed to spend a lot of time worrying how to increase their wealth.

I sighed, looked around the room. There was only one other diner left, seated like me at a table for one. Of indeterminate age, white hair pulled back in an impeccable chignon, wearing a simple black dress, no lace, no frills. She was the epitome of refinement. She smiled at me.

Hello. I’m about to have a nightcap. Since we are the only two left, would you like to join me?

Thank you very much. I accept with pleasure.

I moved across. She held out a hand.

Madeline de Castanet.

Her grasp was firmer than I had imagined.

Danielle Divito. Delighted to meet you.

Italian?

I hesitated.

European

When she raised her eyebrows I added,

Mixed-up British.

Ah, the poor British – in a quandary!

I did not, most definitely not, want to talk politics. I shrugged.

What will you have, Mademoiselle Divito?

Dany, please. Everyone calls me Dany.

I hesitated. Armagnac, please.

What a good choice. I’ll have the same.

She tilted her head back slightly and a waiter appeared.

Two Armagnacs please, Robert.

She stared unashamedly at me, so I stared back. Her face was unlined, she had high cheekbones, slightly deep-set amber eyes, a strong aquiline nose, full lips and a pale, almost pearly skin.

So, what do you make of me then?

Fortunately, the waiter arrived with the drinks before I could answer. What should I say?

I took a moment to think.

You are very beautiful.

She smiled. Her teeth were good too.

And I like your earrings. They match your skin.

My matter of fact tone made her laugh.

The word attractive isn’t in your description. That’s the first word I would have used about you.

My goodness, provocative or what? I hadn’t been here for twenty-four hours and I had been approached, propositioned even, by a schoolboy and a woman who might be twice my age. I wasn’t used to this anymore. Since being with Roz, I’d been almost monogamous. We had a somewhat cosy domestic life. Too cosy. I wasn’t ready for a one-night stand though, if that was on offer.

Thank you. In fact, I’m not feeling at my best tonight, I’m tired after driving a long way. I need a good night’s sleep.

My dear, I’m not asking you to come to bed with me!

I blushed. I didn’t mean ….

Yes, you did. Don’t worry, I would have done exactly that ten years ago, maybe even five. Now I’m here to behave myself, I think about my body differently. I’m a curiste. I’m doing the cure. You are not, I take it? You get up, sit down, walk with such ease. You see my stick? I carry it in case of problems with my arthritic joints.

I was mortified.

I’m sorry.

You needn’t be, I’m not too bad yet. I’ll be a lot better after three weeks of the water here, so my doctor in Paris assured me. Who knows? If you are still here, we might have a good time together. Will you still be here?

I don’t know.

Why are you here anyway if you aren’t doing the cure? Almost everyone else is.

I don’t know why. I spent time in the next village. I needed a holiday and couldn’t think where else to go.

An unbelievable explanation if ever there was one. I hastily changed the subject.

You’re Parisian then?

No, but I’ve lived in Paris for a long time. I was a dancer. What do you do?

Nothing.

That can’t be true. Keep your secrets. You haven’t given much away. Here everyone tells you everything about themselves and expects the same from you. It’s considered most impolite to be stand-offish. If you don’t want to relate your life story you can always make something up. How about making something up for me?

Invent a different self? I’d have to think about that.

She stood up, moving stiffly and took up her stick.

I hope we see a lot more of each other. Goodnight.

CHAPTER

2

I slept badly. The hotel room was pleasant, discreetly air-conditioned, relatively quiet. I finally got up after tossing and turning to start the first day of my quest. The street outside was real enough when I finally emerged after a late breakfast. It was market day, so the road had been closed to traffic. Already the bars were busy as shoppers met to chat over coffee. I heard several languages spoken besides French, different accents. A few familiar faces, locals from Les Fontaines, short, stocky Mediterranean figures who greeted each other loudly, shaking hands, kissing. I picked my way between the stalls laden with melons, peaches, tomatoes of every colour, courgettes of all sizes, shiny black aubergines. I breathed in the smell of cooked chicken with roast potatoes, suckling pig and seafood from plates of paella. Oysters and white wine were being served at a make-shift bistro. Beyond the food, racks of clothes swung in a gentle breeze, mainly women’s, extravagantly feminine gauzy creations in pure white or deep colours splashed with brilliant flowers. As I was examining a rail of more sober denim shorts, wondering if I should buy, I was startled to hear my name.

Dany?

I turned to face a young couple pushing a pram from which two babies stared at me curiously.

Dany! It is you! How are you? How have you been?

Jean and Edith! Two good, intimate friends who had supported me, helped me through difficult times. I had forgotten them. Jean held onto the pram whilst Edith hugged me, then they changed places. I was tearful.

I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch.

No need. We thought we might bump into you again one day!

It was Jean who spoke.

As you see, our life has taken a different turn.

This was Edith.

Meet Suzie and Sara.

She touched each in turn.

Identical, but we know the difference.

The twins were still gazing at me. What were they thinking? Did babies think? I had met very few.

You look well. Quite recovered.

No, not quite, I thought. Better than the last time they’d seen me though, when I was only half alive.

Where are you staying? Will you be here long?

In a hotel. Not long.

We’re off tomorrow to stay with my mother for a while, then on to Edith’s mother who will come back with us. We need a little help with these two.

He leaned down towards his daughters.

They seem to be fascinated by you, Dany!

Perhaps they can see my aura.

I was half joking. Jean looked up.

Perhaps. He paused. Have you been to Les Fontaines?

Not yet. Has it changed?

When Bernard sold the bar, it became a vegan restaurant which does rather well.

We have to go, we have so much to do, but it really is great to see you!

Edith hugged me again.

Enjoy your holiday! Au-revoir!

Au-revoir! Jean smiled, the twins blinked.

I watched them hurry away. I needed a strong coffee.

Settled at a table under a canopy of wisteria, I reflected on what I’d just heard. A vegan restaurant! How tastes were changing, even in carnivorous France! Stop the exploitation of animals! Save the planet! These two messages resonated across the globe. Driving here I had seen the occasional placard Save the farmers! Kill a vegan! Vicious retaliation to the animal rights extremists who had attacked small producers. I read the menu. Plenty of meat. The only vegetarian option was fish, if that can be considered vegetarian, apart from the usual omelettes which vegans wouldn’t eat. What about ratatouille, cooked with good olive oil, with rice or grains of some sort? Perhaps that was the kind of food the new owners of the Bar des Amis in Les Fontaines were serving. And salads? My imagination began to work. I should check it out. I was an old hand at making delicious meatless salads. Stop it Dany, I told myself firmly. You aren’t here to work. You’ve been there, done that. You’re here ….. Back to the problem of why I was here. It wasn’t supposed to be, it couldn’t be, any kind of replay.

Are you here for the cure?

I supposed it was going to be the usual opening gambit, like ‘haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

May I sit here? he continued, without waiting for a reply.

I could hardly refuse since there were two empty seats beside me. He was tall, muscular, good looking. He smiled disarmingly. Any normal woman would have been delighted by his overture. I, on the contrary, was annoyed.

Are you here for the cure? he repeated slowly, as if I might not be able to understand French. If that’s what he thought, I might play that game. I frowned, as if puzzled.

Do you speak French?

A little I replied, with a heavy English accent.

He smiled even more broadly.

Ah! You’re English! I wouldn’t have guessed.

There was something about his accent. Could he be Scottish? He held out his hand.

Hello. André MacBay.

I shook his hand briefly as if this would not be a prelude to an intimate friendship.

Daniella Divito.

Would I have to introduce myself every time I sat down, every time I paused in the street?

Pleased to meet you André. Sorry, I have to go. I stood up.

You haven’t finished your coffee. Don’t run away, I’m harmless!

The implications were so insulting. Me! Run away? From a beautiful woman, maybe, from a handsome man, never! I sat down.

I’m not here for the cure and I was hoping to be alone.

A waiter approached. My companion ordered a whisky, raised his eyebrows to me. I shook my head.

I really do have an appointment to keep, Mr MacBay, I’m not running away.

Oh hi! How wonderful to see you again! the baby clarinettist found the last empty chair at my table. Our language turned to French.

You know Dany? the Scottish Adonis looked surprised.

Yes, well, not exactly. We met yesterday evening before the operetta.

You went to the operetta, Dany?

Obviously, there would be no further formality.

Wasn’t it terrific?

I don’t know. I had dinner instead.

The appearance of the anonymous young man had in no way improved my mood. If this is where he hung out, I would avoid it in future, he was already becoming attached. I had no use for lost boys; Andy could take care of him. Perhaps he already had. There was a familiarity between them. They were both looking at the menu.

Bon appetit, Messieurs. They hadn’t noticed me getting to my feet.

You’re not going to eat with us Dany? Please do. It’s their special couscous today.

Léandre will be most disappointed if you don’t stay! said Andy who looked amused at the boy’s insistence. Léandre! What an old-fashioned name!

I’ve told you not to call me that. Léo, I’m Léo!

OK Léo. Au revoir.

My lunch was a tuna fish sandwich from the baker’s. I ate it in the garden behind one of the hotels. If anyone came near me, I walked away. Seeing Edith and Jean with their twins had been rather a shock. I’d never imagined them with children. They were so excited and happy to be four instead of just two. A family!