Part 12 (1/2)

At the end of an empty, narrow street that seems to have been ignored by scattered tourists, the sound of sizzling meat and the nutty scent of b.u.t.ter just turning brown beckons them: a tiny restaurant, Chez Philippe.

”This is it!” Cheryl shouts. ”This is the restaurant in the guide.”

A menu in French and English is taped on the open door. Lena takes pictures while Cheryl scours the two pages. A smiling man with a menu in each hand rushes to the door.

”Bonjour, mesdames. Lunch for two or four?”

Cheryl holds up two fingers. ”But, how did you know we speak English?”

”I'd like to tell you it's your shoes or clothes, cherie, because they are tres chic. tres chic.” The man looks into Cheryl's eyes. ”But I heard you talking. And women as beautiful as you are hard to ignore.”

”Your English is perfect.” Cheryl returns his straightforward look.

”I'm from Upstate New York. I'm Philip-Philippe.” He exaggerates the French p.r.o.nunciation-Phil-leep-and c.o.c.ks his head at a table for two in the corner of the nearly full restaurant. ”This is my restaurant.”

”California.” Cheryl extends her hand. ”The land of suns.h.i.+ne and loose women.”

Lena slaps Cheryl's arm lightly. ”I'm Lena. She's Cheryl.”

In between seating new diners and busing dishes, Philip- host, sometime chef and sommelier-returns to their table to chat with the two women as if they are long-lost friends.

”I hardly ever have a chance to talk to anyone from California. We get a lot of people from New York and the East Coast, but not as many from the West Coast.” He sips wine from the gla.s.s he leaves on their table. Philip is beefy. His clothes are loose and fas.h.i.+onable in a 1920s movie kind of way that makes him attractive though his face is not. His dark brown hair and blue eyes follow Cheryl's while he summarizes his story: he has lived in Vence for almost ten years, and he used to run the restaurant for profit, but since 9/11 there have been fewer American tourists; although business is getting better because he's had some publicity. Now he runs the restaurant for fun and earns his living as an English language teacher at a nearby elementary school.

”He is so so s.e.xy.” Cheryl nudges Lena as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. ”I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me.” s.e.xy.” Cheryl nudges Lena as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. ”I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me.”

Lena rolls her eyes in a way that has now become habit and reminds her of Camille and even Kendrick whenever they disapproved of something she did or said.

”Join in the fun.” Cheryl pulls out a gold compact and checks her lipstick. Cheryl only wears red lipstick, preferring to draw attention to her heart-shaped lips; her skin is smooth save for a noticeable scar above her right eye-a leftover from chicken pox; her cheeks bear the slightest tinge of her natural blush that flares when she's angry or excited.

Cheryl motions to Philip. Leaning into his side, she points to her lunch selection and smiles. ”Are you open for dinner, too?”

Philip shoos away the only waiter in the restaurant. ”If you like our food, you must come back for dinner. I sing and play the piano, and there's a wonderful cafe around the corner that stays open very late.”

Lena shrugs and picks at her sweater and pants. ”I'm not sure about the roads at night. And... we're not really dressed for dinner.”

”But you both look fabulous, and my house specialty is on the menu tonight- a pork that will melt in your mouth,” Philip says, grinning at Cheryl. ”You think about it, and let me know.”

Cheryl winks. ”Perhaps you can invite a friend in honor of our first time in Vence.”

”Mais oui!” Philip holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes as if those actions will help with his answer. ”I think I can arrange something.”

A very blond and rather hunched-over man in the corner snaps at Philip. ”Garcon,” the man calls out, confusing the soft French C C with the hard American with the hard American K K. Philip turns toward the women and makes a face behind his stack of menus. ”Duty calls.”

”He's being friendly,” Cheryl says as Philip walks away. ”Besides, if the white boy wants to treat us, what have we got to lose?”

”Nnnnnnn...” Lena's tongue rests against the roof of her mouth so that the N N for ”no” buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. ”Why not?” for ”no” buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. ”Why not?”

”That's my girl. Remember, we're here to have fun.”

”As long as your fun fun doesn't interfere with my plan.” doesn't interfere with my plan.”

”This is is the plan.” the plan.”

The Matisse museum in Vence is a short trek from the center of the old city. Lena and Cheryl take the orange trolley across a small bridge to the building where Matisse completed the colorful stained gla.s.s windows for the Chapelle du Rosaire and the Dominican sisters of Vence. As the trolley approaches the front of the whitewashed chapel, the last of a queue of men and women load into two large vans topped with bicycle racks and luggage. Once they're all inside, a hand sticks out and pulls the van door shut, then the van pulls away from the curb.

”I swear those people are black.” Cheryl waves at the van frantically. ”It would be great to make a connection and really have the chance to party.”

”Just 'cause they're black doesn't mean they want to party. Or include us. Or, that they're American. This isn't Oakland.” Two days in the south of France and, except for Cheryl and the backs of a couple of tall brothers Lena thought she spotted turning a corner in Vence, these are the only people of color she's seen. Or thinks she's seen.

”You never know.”

The inside of the tiny chapel is stark white and simple: Matisse's stained gla.s.s windows and angled, wooden pews.

”Matisse worked on these windows from around 1948 to 1952. He wanted to convey an easing of the spirit. These windows represent the tree of life.” A priest clothed in a white, floor-length ca.s.sock holds a finger to his lips as Cheryl describes Matisse's work. Late afternoon light s.h.i.+nes through the windows and casts yellow, aquamarine blue, and bottle green rays onto the floor.

”You know so much!”

”Art is, after all, what I do.” Cheryl points out a lesser sketch of the windows as they walk through the hall to the small gift counter. ”He's my favorite. I love all of his work. There's more in Nice. That museum's larger.”

The hallway walls are lined with draft sketches of different portions of the windows: a flower here, a winding vine there, repeated from one frame to the next to show the artist's thought process and practice.

”I wonder if Philip likes art.” Cheryl dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. ”Oh, who cares. We'll have a good time tonight.”

Lena concentrates on Matisse's sketches. ”It says here that Matisse was searching for one-dimensional movement in this series. What does that mean?”

”You understand exactly what it means, Lena. Don't change the subject, and stop frowning.” Cheryl shakes a finger at Lena. ”You act like I'm forcing you to pose naked in the town square. You're rusty at the dating game, so just follow my lead.”

”If I do that I'll be in bed with a stranger before the night is over.”

”And, the problem with that is?” Cheryl pinches Lena's cheek lightly and grins. Postcards line the small gla.s.s-topped counter. Lena selects postcards for Lulu, Bobbie, Camille, Kendrick, and Candace, and steps out onto the terrace of the chapel. Camille would love the art and history here; Kendrick would love the winding roads. From the terrace, old Vence is like a postcard: spires and turrets peak above slanted slate roofs clearly outlined against the darkening sky. Lena points her camera at the city and the valley below; she hopes that she has captured the setting sun's rose-tinted cast, hopes that her tingling stomach will calm down or, better yet, that Philip has changed his mind and never wants to see the two of them again.

The restaurant is crowded. Votive candles are everywhere: on the tables, in the windowsills, and on the beam that rests a foot below the low ceiling. Candlelight intensifies the ebony wood. Each table is covered with a soft beige tablecloth and napkins folded into triangle points.

Philip's face brightens when Cheryl and Lena walk through the door. He sits very erect at a small upright piano in the middle of the room where tables were arranged during lunch. The wide lapels of his old-fas.h.i.+oned tuxedo s.h.i.+ne in the candlelight. He croons a lazy French song, somewhere between ballad and jazz, in a raspy alto.

”Bonsoir, mesdames,” he sings, and all heads in the crowded restaurant turn with his. ”Mesdames et messieurs, je vous presente mes nouvelles amies de Californie.” He introduces Lena and Cheryl as if they are celebrities.

”Oh, the one on the left looks just like Diana Ross.” An elderly white woman with a distinctive Texas tw.a.n.g points at Cheryl and asks if they are singers, too. ”Would you sing 'Stop, in the Name of Love'? I love that song.”

Lena and Cheryl roll their eyes at one another. ”And that that is how you can tell is how you can tell they're they're Americans,” Lena mutters. ”We don't sing-” Americans,” Lena mutters. ”We don't sing-”

”But if you hum a few bars, I'm sure we'll catch on.” Cheryl finishes.

Philip sings his own rendition, a muddled blend of French and English, before he joins Cheryl and Lena at their table near the piano. ”Tonight you beautiful ladies will have a salad of baby b.u.t.ter lettuce, pork tenderloin sauteed in a reduced red wine sauce et bien sur, fromage et bien sur, fromage-that's cheese to the two of you-for dessert.”