Sunset in St. Tropez by Danielle Steel Page A

the couch, and the curtains, and vacuumed everything in sight. She was choking from the dust as she did it, but things started to look a little better by the time she was fluffing up the cushions, and growling at the stains. She waxed the tables, used newspaper on the windows, as her grandmother had taught her, and cleaned absolutely every surface, and then she waxed the floors. The room did not look anything like the pictures, but it was looking better when the realtor and her “team” of minions arrived, looking hot and bored. They were all kids, the realtor had recruited them that morning to do whatever Pascale required.
    Pascale had another heated conversation with the realtor, who actually agreed to return half what they had paid, and Pascale knew that John would be pleased. But he'd be even more so, as would the others, if she could also get the house clean. And then she had an idea.
    She went upstairs to her suitcase and brought out a stack of brightly colored shawls she had brought with her. She tucked them in over the tired stained upholstery, and the room looked entirely different when she'd finished. The windows were clean, the drapes had been pulled back, all the cobwebs had disappeared, the floors shone like honey, and the brightly covered couches and chairs made the room look simple but festive. All it needed now were flowers and candles and some brighter lightbulbs.
    The cleaning team was hard at work in the kitchen, and Pascale had sent Agathe off to do the bathrooms, and scrub them until they shone, while Marius worked in the hot sun mowing the lawns. And when she checked on him, he wasn't pleased, but what he was doing made a huge difference. There were old broken lawn chairs emerging from the tall grasses, and two-legged wooden tables that had all but disintegrated, and she made him haul them all away.
    The weeds were slowly disappearing, and the wildflowers that had grown along the edges of the lawn had a certain charm.
    It was eight o"clock at night before they were all finished, and the realtor looked at Pascale in stupefaction. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't look like the pictures, but it was a hell of an improvement over what Pascale had found there the day before. The kitchen still looked somewhat depressing, and the stove was ancient, but at least everything was clean.
    Pascale was exhausted, she had been working for fourteen hours, but it was worth it. The others might be startled when they saw it, but at least they wouldn't run screaming out the door. The realtor had brought cheese and fruit and pâté, and Pascale had nibbled a little, but she had hardly eaten all day. All she wanted was to get it finished, and the realtor promised, when she left, to return with her workers the next day. And Marius would have to do more mowing. Agathe had clucked in sympathy all day, and if possible, she looked even wilder by the time she finished. The red bikini was sagging and drooping, the high-heeled sandals had vanished, and her hair looked as though she had stuck a finger in a socket, and mercifully, Pascale hadn't seen or heard the dogs all day.
    Pascale was sitting in the kitchen, staring into space in exhaustion, picking at the remains of the pate, when the phone rang and she started. And then grabbed it. It was John calling from the office, and he sounded happy and excited. They hadn't seen each other in six weeks, and he was delighted to be seeing her in two days.
    “Well, how is it? Is it terrific?” he asked, sounding enthusiastic, and she closed her eyes, trying to decide what to say.
    “It's a little different from the pictures,” she said, wondering what he'd say when he saw it. At least it was clean now, and it looked a lot better, but it was certainly no palace, and it bore very little resemblance to the elegant photographs they'd seen.
    “Is it better?” John asked, sounding elated, and Pascale laughed as she shook her head. She was so tired, she could barely think.
    “Not exactly.