The Hotel Riviera by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

matching row beneath, flanked by old shutters that have always been somehow askew, no matter how I’ve tried to fix them. Their green paint has weathered to a silvery patina, and each morning they’re thrown open to greet the sun, then closed again in the afternoon to keep out the heat.
    Although it’s the end of summer, vivid pink and purple bougainvillea still tumbles over the trellises flanking the doors, and the white-pointed petals of jasmine gleam in the darkness. The door stands open, as it always does until midnight, after which guests need to use their own keys, and on a chunk of pink granite set above those doors is carved the name Villa Riviera, and the year it was built, 1920.
    Walk up the low stone steps and into the hall and you’ll be met by the faint familiar scent of beeswax and lavender. Each piece of furniture, each lamp and rug, each object in this house has a history; a memory of where I had bought it; of how much I’d had to borrow; of who I had been with. All my good memories are here.
    I ran my hand over the round rosewood hall table that serves as the reception desk, its dents and chips camouflaged under layers of beeswax, rubbed to a hard sheen by Nadine. On the table is an old brass schoolbell, used to summon the patronne from the kitchen. A green and white chintz sofa stands alongside a red leather wing chair, studded with brass nailheads, and the bombé cabinet has the dull sheen of silver leaf, personally applied by me. Currently, it’s topped with a mixed bunch of lilies and marguerites, plonked hastily into a blue pottery jug by someone who obviously had little time to bother with fancy flower arrangements. A fake Louis-the-something love seat on spindly gilt legs is covered in traditional blue and yellow Provençal fabric found in the local market, and next to it a reed basket holds a pile of sweet apple logs.
    Now, walk through the arch from the hall and you’re in the salon, a big room fringed with those tall French windows leading onto the terrace and the gardens. This is the room with the oversized limestone fireplace that looks like one of my mismatched auction finds, but is in fact original to the house. This room is furnished with a pair of rather grand high-backed, tassled silk sofas, “rescued” from a decrepit château, as were the rugs, admittedly a bit threadbare and faded but still beautiful.
    Beyond the salon is the small dining room, used only in bad weather, when the mistral blows the sand from the beach and the leaves from the trees, wrecking my jasmine and wrenching the vines from the arbor, and rattling everyone’s nerves. It’s kind of cozy in there, though, with the lamps lit and the wind howling, a bit like a storm at sea.
    Anyhow, by the time you finally leave the terrace and the delights of a long, winey dinner, and climb the central staircase, you’ll be almost asleep. You’ll find six identically sized bedrooms, with an extra-large corner room anchoring each end of the hallway. Instead of numbers, I’ve named the rooms for famous French artistes and writers: there’s Piaf and Colette, who, by the way, once owned a house in Saint-Tropez and sold her makeup line in a little store there. There’s Proust, Dumas, Zola, and Mistral. I also named one for Brigitte Bardot, who famously lived just down the road from here. Plus Miss Nightingale’s room is named for Marie-Antoinette, because I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion the woman had been misquoted and then blamed for all the French royal family’s problems. Somewhat similar, Miss Nightingale had reminded me, to a recent princess’s own problems.
    Most of the rooms have balconies overlooking the leafy fig arbor and the terrace, with perfect views of the Mediterranean. If you want, you can lean from the windows and pick the ripe figs. When you bite into them, still hot from the sun, the sweet juices run down your chin.
    In some rooms, the