A Little R&R

by DeniseV

Mac and Rabb think they have three more long days of a conference to attend. Webb has other ideas. Some bad language...in Italian. Just a little ditty to show how much I loved my trip to Provence.

"Oh my God, I am so tired." Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie said as she slouched in the chair of the cozy Nicoise café, nursing her new favorite beverage, Orangina, as she spoke. "I can't believe it's only been two days."

"Tell me about it. Today was a killer. Who would have thought the French could pack all that information into their sessions?" Commander Harmon Rabb agreed, rubbing his aching neck and then taking another sip of wine. "The Germans, sure, but the French?"

"Harm," Mac warned, casing the place carefully with those big brown eyes. The nervous look around was in jest, of course, but it really would do no one any good if a commander in the United States Navy was overheard saying anything derogatory about either nation or its people at this delicate time in global relations.

"I can't believe there could be three more days of this," Mac continued.

"There aren't," the CIA's Clayton Webb said as he joined them at the table.

"What?" Harm and Mac replied simultaneously. Mac noticed the surprisingly casual dress adorning the CIA operative. It had been a while since she'd seen him wear anything other than his trademark three piece custom made suits. Save for his very casual attire during his recent convalescence, she had not seen him in an outfit like this since their time together in Paraguay, a time that held both the wonderful memories of the beginnings of a special bond between the two, and the horrible images of Webb almost dying at the hands of Sadik Fahd.

Their relationship had not moved beyond romantic dinners, hand holding and a stolen kiss before Mac saw the mistake that might be made and pulled the reins on the quickly developing relationship. Her reasons were good ones, she knew, and their friendship had not suffered because of her actions, despite the one-sided stalling of the romance.

"That's good," Webb said as he acknowledged the two military lawyers. "Is this a new act?"

"What did you just say Webb?" Harm asked, looking to Mac with anticipation.

"As it turns out, the review was only two days." The two officers continued to look at Clayton Webb as though he had grown a second head.

"Okay. It was only scheduled for two days." This additional piece of information did nothing to rid his cohorts of the perplexed look on their faces.

Webb looked at his friends with amusement, something he'd rarely had the chance to do over the years he'd worked with and been friends with the duo. He hoped his gambit paid off; he hoped he knew them as well as he thought he did.

"Clay, I'm tired. My eyes are blurry from looking at spreadsheets and charts and statistics, and I haven't had the benefit of wine." Mac eyed Harm accusingly.

Rabb looked to her ingenuously, his hand to his chest, eyebrows raised in childlike innocence. She'd admired his use of that look over the years to avoid suspicion. He had even fooled Chegwidden a few times with it.

"What's going on?" Mac continued with her demand. "Oh, in English, please? I know you like to show off your French, but my head's about ready to burst."

Webb looked at Mac with mild disappointment, and then turned to Rabb as he took his seat.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked Rabb as he poured himself a glass of the house red.

"Nothing's wrong with her," Mac snapped, slapping Webb's forearm just a little too hard.

"Ow!" Webb shot back.

"Nope. Nothing's wrong with her," Rabb chided, pouring himself another glass.

"Clay! If there's no more days of this thing, does that mean we can go home?" Mac seemed anxious to leave, but then she did not yet know of Webb's plan.

The scowl on Webb's face brought on by the Mac attack melted away as he prepared to give his partners the good news.

"You won't be spending the next few days in Nice. We're heading west."

"West?" Harm and Mac asked, again in unison. They smiled at each other as they noted the harmonious blending of their voices.

Webb shook his head. 'Always as one, these two' he thought to himself.

"My maternal great, great grandmother lived in a town called Villeneuve les Avignon, just across the Rhone from the walled city of Avignon in the western side of Provence. We're heading out that way for some R&R."

"R&R? I'm sure the Admiral will be happy to hear.." Rabb began, though was not allowed to finish.

"Actually Harm, he was. Thrilled in fact. All expenses paid trip for his two prized and overworked staff members - he couldn't say no."

"I'm sure that's true for Mac, Clay. There's no way Admiral Chegwidden would agree to this for me. I'm still on his list," Rabb reminded. It had been obvious since Rabb's return to the Falls Church headquarters that there would be much for the Navy commander to answer to before the Admiral would fully forget what he and his people had gone through due to the upheaval Rabb's resignation had caused.

To say that he had not been welcomed back to the fold with open arms was an understatement. Rabb had worked very hard these last months to earn back the trust and confidence of the entire staff. He had disappointed many and left them holding the bag, in many ways, when he left abruptly to search for Mac and Webb when they had gone missing in South America. The Admiral made it clear to all that this was not to be a welcome back for the prodigal son as a returning hero.

For Rabb, it had been anything but.

"It wasn't easy convincing him about you. I endured a fair amount of A.J.'s ire just suggesting it. But he came around. Eventually."

Rabb knew that 'fair amount' was probably an understatement. He knew what it was like to experience A.J. Chegwidden's ire. It was a good friend who would endure it for him, Rabb knew.

"What do you mean all expenses paid?" Mac asked suspiciously. "And what about my day in Saint Paul de Vence?"

"Just what I said. And you'll get your day in Saint Paul," Webb assured her. "You'll be staying at my family's place for a couple of nights, your return flights were already set. The rest is my gift - a chance for you to really experience Provence the way it should be experienced. You'll have a guide who speaks the language, knows the area and its history, and can point you to the best food in the region. Webb made a point of not mentioning the wine, though he understood from his time spent with Mac in recent months that it did not bother her to talk about it or watch others enjoying what she could not.

Sarah MacKenzie's strength of character had manifested itself in far more impressive ways before Clayton Webb's eyes. The fact that she was a recovering alcoholic meant little to him, other than the light-hearted- though-serious warnings she tossed his way if he ever started feeling sorry for her or refused to enjoy himself in any way because of her status on the wagon.

The bruise forming on his forearm from earlier was a reminder to heed those warnings.

"Who is this jewel of a guide?" Rabb joked.

"Me, but I know you knew that before you asked. I spent a lot of time here when I was growing up. My parents were, um, out of the country a lot when we visited here." It was said a little sadly, a sense of the price that was paid by a child due to those long separations evident, especially of a father who died too soon.

"You can't pay for this, Clay," Mac started.

"I can. I have. It's a done deal. We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes! I-I've got to freshen up, pack," Mac said with nervous anticipation.

"I guess that means we're a go. Both your bags have been packed, discretely I assure you. And Sarah," Webb said, taking her right hand and kissing it in the most gentlemanly of fashions, "You do not need to freshen up." He smiled and looked in her eyes intently as he released her hand.

"Oh brother," Harmon Rabb said.

"Shut up," Mac said as she smiled at Clay and accepted the sweet gesture. "Maybe you should take a hint flyboy."

********

"This car's kind of small Webb," Rabb complained. His long legs were squished up against the dashboard in the front passenger's seat; the seat was in the farthest position back that the Peugeot allowed.

"It's tight everywhere Harm. Stop complaining." Mac was faring no better in the back seat, forced to sit behind Webb as it afforded her long legs an extra inch or two of space.

"Can you two stop your bickering? We'll have a different car when we get to my family's place in Villeneuve."

"Hey, you were supposed to tell us a little more about Villeneuve les Avignon, and Avignon, too."

"Your pronunciation is beautiful, Sarah." Clay was truly impressed, his own impressive command of the language honed from years worth of summers spent by the side of the gardeners, household help and other people the Webb family enlisted to help maintain the grounds of the small city estate on the main street of the sixteenth century Provencale town.

"Thanks. I've picked up enough to get by. I'd like to practice some while we're here."

"Sure thing. I'll just stand by to get you out of any trouble," Clay said, eyes smiling as he saw Mac in the rearview mirror.

"Isn't that usually the other way around?" Harm smirked.

"Harm!" Mac admonished, noticing the change in Webb's bearing as they glimpsed one another again in the mirror.

"It's okay Sarah. He's right. You two have saved my hide more than once.."

Mac would not allow him to finish. "And you've done the same for us. We're not keeping score. At least I didn't think we were anymore." Her hand on his shoulder told Webb that she meant every word. The look she was giving Harmon Rabb said even more.

"And Harm, you should apologize. We're supposed to be relaxing and having fun. You don't seem to be relaxing much, and you're not making it any fun."

Rabb knew he'd stepped over the line. Even if he believed what he said, which he did not, it was certainly not the time or place for such a comment. The kindness and friendship that Clayton Webb was showing them, from making the secret arrangements with Chegwidden - which would have been a hard won battle on its own - to the offer of accommodations and the extensive generosity would certainly go a long way to paying back any thanks he and Mac were still owed.

But Mac was right: they were not keeping score. Their relationships had moved far beyond the convenient status of colleagues. The friendships they shared had been deepened by the difficulties they had endured together in their work and enriched by the deep trust they had jointly earned.

"I'm sorry, Clay. I'm an idiot," Rabb said in apology.

"Idioh. Quand en France, nous la prononçons 'idioh'."

"Je suis un idioh," Harm agreed.

"Très bien," Mac and Webb agreed. They all laughed as Webb continued driving along the A8 to western Provence.

"Avignon is beautiful. It was the home to several popes for over a century. The first of the buildings that make up the Palais des Pape was begun in 1309. The Cathedrale Notre-Dame dates back to the twelfth century. It's very old, very Gothic in much of the architecture. The Avignon Theatre Festival is held in July."

"And Villeneuve les Avignon?" Mac urged Clay to continue the brief history of the area.

"Villeneuve is small, quaint. It's much quieter than Avignon. It dates back to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The Fort Saint Andre dominates the landscape. It's a beautiful walled fort. They're doing some restoration on it right now. Inside the walls there's a great Italianate garden and the best views of Avignon around."

Webb continued the historical tour of the area as they approached the walled city of Avignon.

"Wow, this is impressive," Rabb said as they passed one of the many arched entrances to the city. "And the wall is completely intact?"

"Pretty much. Just a few stones missing here and there. The wall dates to the twelfth century, as does the Palais des Pape, and what's left of the Saint Benezet bridge," Webb offered as they continued their tour of the exterior along the avenue that paralleled the walled city to the left and the Rhone to the right.

"Oh my gosh, Clay! The Benezet bridge is le Pont d'Avignon, isn't it? Ooh, can we go sing and dance on it?"

Rabb stared at her. "What are you, twelve?"

"You've never heard the song 'Sur le pont d'Avignon'?" Mac asked, not even attempting to hide her annoyance.

"No," Rabb replied. "Why should I?"

"Why do you know it, Sarah?" Webb asked.

"I-I don't know, really," she answered, slight puzzlement in her voice.

"And you expect me to have heard of something that you don't even know why you know about, uh, it. That didn't sound very lawyer like," Rabb finished with a frown.

Webb and Mac laughed. "Good thing your brain is faster than your lips in court," Mac chided.

"Lots of people in the States know about the song from high school French class," Webb offered helpfully.

"I didn't study French in high school. I took German."

"Ihr Partner spricht nicht die Sprache, oder?" Webb asked mischievously.

"Nein," Mac giggled.

"Gut."

"What's going on? Why are you two speaking German?" Rabb asked, feeling left out.

"At least you noticed we switched languages on you," Mac teased.

"Very funny."

"We switched because we can. And you better behave yourself or we'll use it to talk about you later," Mac warned, knowing that her partner understood French far better than he spoke it. German was a different story.

"I thought we were talking about dancing on a bridge," Rabb asked, trying to divert the subject away from him. Or German. At least if they spoke French he'd have a slim chance of understanding what was being said.

"That's where you know the song from, Sarah. Dance class. You were a ballerina!"

"Hah! A ballerina?" Rabb laughed. "Right."

"Hey!" Mac said indignantly, "I was a good dancer. My body had other ideas, but my heart was always sure I'd dance with Baryshnikov."

"I can just see you in a tutu." Rabb continued joshing his partner. Webb thought he was either very brave, very stupid, or merely blind.

"I bet you were adorable."

"Thanks, Clay."

They drove in silence for a brief while before Rabb said quietly, "Sorry Mac."

"Dieser wird Spaß sein," Webb said as Mac laughed behind him.

"This is going to be fun," Rabb said dejectedly.

Webb took them across the Rhone River, the sun making its way toward setting as they looked west along the river.

"There'll be a beautiful view of Avignon from the fortress at Villeneuve," Clay said as his passengers looked back across the river to the walled city and the Popes Palace.

"It's beautiful right now," Mac commented.

"It's a nice time of the day. We'll head over there tomorrow at about this time. We're having dinner there tonight, but we'll have missed the sunset. You'll have a chance to sing and dance sur le pont d'Avignon, Sarah."

"It's like a dream," she said, the little girl coming through in the face of the beautiful Marine colonel. "Will you sing and dance with me?"

"We'll see," Webb said, looking over and noticing that even Rabb had a smile on his face at that moment.

Webb parked the car in a small lot in town, just beside a shining black BMW sedan. "We're here. Grab your gear and follow me." They removed their luggage from the tiny trunk, Mac grabbing hers as she exited, her bag sharing the back seat in the cramped quarters.

"Wish we had that car today," Rabb said, admiring the dark beauty.

"We'll have her tomorrow," Webb countered.

"She's yours?" Harm asked, jealousy and admiration both evident in the question.

The spy smiled as he led them back up the single lane, one way street which was awash in assorted patisseries, boulangeries, cafés and restaurants as well as some private residences. Flowers bloomed all around, despite the early December date.

"This street is so different from when I was a kid. The number of cafés and restaurants has easily tripled. And now there's shops where there used to be private homes. "

"It's charming, Clay."

"Yeah, it still is," he admired as he stopped at an impressive wooden door. The outside of the building was very plain, a sandy, flat stucco on the outer walls, the windows framed by large and obviously very old wood.

"By the way, Clay. What's up with all the Santas hanging from ropes?"

Webb laughed. "In Provence, Pere Noel uses a rope, sometimes even a rope ladder, to go through the window to put the gifts under the tree."

"Really?" Rabb chuckled. "No fireplace?"

"Not everybody has a fireplace, Rabb."

"Good point. I see you don't have a Pere Noel hanging from your house."

"I haven't believed in Santa Claus for a long time now. Don't tell me you still do?"

Webb left it at that as he knocked on the door rather than letting himself in.

"I have a key, but Marie...." he started, unable to finish as his entire body was engulfed by a very excited French woman.

"Monsieur Clayton, bonsoir, mon cher," she began, kissing him on the left cheek, then the right, and then again on the left. "Comment allez vous? Il est si bon de vous voir. Vous semblez legere," she finished. Clay thought that Mac showed great restraint in not laughing at the comment.

"Bon soir, Marie. Comment ayez-vous ete?"

"Très bon. Les choses sont bien. Nous sommes tous prêts pour vous et vos invités." Marie stepped back and allowed the three entry into the living room. Mac noticed the more than servant affection between Clay and Marie, further evidenced by the extended warm clasp of their hands.

Webb leaned toward Mac, seeing that she had not missed the warmth in the welcome, and the touch. As Marie gave a typically French greeting to the handsome Navy man, Webb said, "Marie has been with us forever. She and Robert took care of the place when we weren't here. Robert died just last year." Mac could not miss the sadness the reminder held for the spy. "Their son Jean now comes to help with the garden and repairs, when needed. He's a horticulturalist near Nice."

Webb turned back to Marie. "Est-il Claude ici?"

"Oui, dans le jardin," Marie smiled broadly as she kissed Mac in greeting.

"Bon."

"Who's Claude?" Harm asked, having finished his inspection of the warmly inviting living room-dining room combination, the decor of the place far different from what they were used to seeing at either Webb's townhouse in Alexandria or the fomality of Porter Webb's home.

"You'll see. Let me show you to your rooms. You can get freshened up and settled. Then I'll give you a tour of the place."

They walked through the large living area, admiring the exposed stone and ancient timbers that spoke to the hundreds of years that the home had stood on Rue de la République. The simplicity of the exterior had been surprising for a Webb residence, but was more than made up for in the luxurious yet casual Provencale feel of the interior.

Webb grabbed Mac's bag from her and opened the door. It led to a center courtyard filled with herbs still lingering from the summer growing season. The area was tiered, with the white stone that was clearly typical of the surprisingly rocky region. They had seen much of this stone along their drive that day. The fruit and shade trees spoke of a summer ripe with the bounty of this region of France, once known primarily for its olive production and other agricultural delights, and only recently for the wine production so successfully begun in the Fifties.

"The grapes from the arbor are for eating. Mother purchased a vineyard years ago not far from the Pont du Gard, which we'll pass tomorrow on the way to the ruins." They ventured just beyond the already trimmed back arbor of vines - December was well beyond the growing season for grapes.

Oranges and lemons, however, still hung from trees at the far end of the courtyard.

"Everything's still so green here," Harm said, just before being brushed back by a multi-colored whirlwind.

"Claude! Bonjour, mon garçon priant. Comment ca va?" Clay knelt down next to the big black, white and gray dog and allowed the canine to give him a big kiss on the cheek.

"Ah, c'est Claude. Bonjour. Je suis Mac," Sarah MacKenzie greeted, kneeling as well to get a little of the affection being accorded her CIA friend. "I didn't know you had a dog, Clay."

"I didn't, not until Claude adopted me earlier this year. I came here to, well, I came here when I was well enough to travel." A brief, distant look overcame the operative. There had been a period of time, Mac remembered, when Clay had told her he would be gone for a while after being released from the hospital. This was obviously where he had come. Clayton Webb had recovered well enough from the injuries suffered while trying to capture Sadik Fahd to get back to work, but the look on Webb's face right then told her that he was still working through some of the leftover demons from that mission. She placed her hand warmly on his arm, encouraging him back to the present.

"Anyway, I spent some time getting my strength back walking the streets here, eventually managing longer hikes. One day, this dog appeared. He followed me from le fort Saint-Andre all the way back here. I realized as I got close to home that I had half a sandwich left in my pack. That explained why he was following me," Clay smiled, petting the dog behind both ears. "He wasn't starving or anything, but I didn't need it so I gave it to him. He didn't run off and eat it, though. He followed me, with this stupid baguette in his mouth. He looked ridiculous walking through the streets with that sandwich in his mouth. But he followed me home and from that day forward he was a fixture at my doorstep. Marie found out later that his master had died, so we adopted him."

"You asked Marie before if Claude was here," Harm said, giving the dog another round of petting around the ears, clearly a favorite spot for human hands. "Isn't he always?"

"No. Claude likes to roam. He was used to it, so Marie lets him do it. He always makes it back home." Webb picked up a stick and tossed it, the stones flying under Claude's paws as he tore after it.

They continued across the courtyard. "This green is nice, but it's deceptive, and nothing like the glories that spring and summer offer. It's really gorgeous then. There's a soothing quality to being here in the summer, enjoying a glass of lemonade from the harvest from that tree over there."

Mac and Harm looked at each other, knowing that this place had worked its miracle in making Clayton Webb whole again. The devastating torture that Webb had withstood at the hands of Sadik Fahd had nearly killed him. They were happy for their friend's recovery, but they also hoped one day to see Sadik brought to justice, not only for his terrorist acts and murderous ways, but also for the satisfaction of righting the awful wrongs done to a good man.

"We're here. This used to be the stables. Horses haven't been allowed in town for quite some time. Ours are at the vineyard. We had these converted about ten years ago to guest rooms, and quarters for Marie and Robert. Hers are at the far end. Come on in."

The entryway held a door straight ahead and a rustic stairway over to the left. Clay opened the door and said, "You can flip a coin over who's here and who goes up. They're about the same."

The room was large, comfortable and pretty, equipped with a king-sized bed, a sitting area, a kitchenette with a table and chairs and all the expected amenities of a small French kitchen. A sizeable bathroom could be seen through the door near the bedroom alcove. Once again, ancient exposed stone adorned the walls and timber beams traversed the ceiling. A jewel- toned green, red and gold checked bedspread matched perfectly with the red of the two club chairs that were angled invitingly for conversation in the sitting area.

Three of the windows held thick wooden shutters, currently opened to allow the last of the day's light into the charming bed chamber.

"This is just beautiful, Clay," Mac marveled appreciatively. "It's cozy and just lovely. Thank you so much," she added as she walked over and kissed Clay on the cheek.

"I guess mine's upstairs," Harm smiled as he grabbed his bag.

"Sarah, get settled. I'll show Harm to his room. I'll see you both back at the house, in about an hour?"

"Sure. How should I dress for dinner?"

"Nicely, but we're never very fancy here in the west of Provence," he smiled. "Oh, I almost forgot. There are some changes of clothes for each of you in your closets. I knew you wouldn't have been packed properly for the trip. Jusqu'a plus tard."

Mac stood watching as the two men left, feeling a little disconcerted that Webb knew her well enough that she would elect this room. She walked to the closet and opened the door. She grinned as she saw the two pairs of pants, two casual tees and two sweaters, all neatly arranged on hangers. A pair of hiking boots finished the outfits for their two extra days in Provence.

An hour and a half later they had finished the tour and were sitting before the fire with a drink, Mac trying a surprisingly tastey warmed, sparkling cider from the region, Webb and Harm enjoying the first of what would certainly be many glasses of fine regional French wine.

"Your place is beautiful, Clay," Harm said, feeling more than at home in the comfort of Webb's ancestral home.

"That's all Mother's doing. And Marie's. I simply get to reap the benefits."

"It's lovely. Please thank your mother for us." Mac looked lovely herself in the glow of the fire, Clay thought. He saw in Harmon Rabb's gaze upon her that they were in agreement on that.

"I will. Shall we go?" Clay stood and grabbed the keys from a massive, elaborately carved sideboard.

"You wanna drive her?" Clay offered the keys to Rabb.

"Are you kidding?" Rabb asked, eyes wide with the joy of a six year old with his first new bike, sans training wheels.

"Sure. But I'm giving you fair warning: driving in Avignon is, how shall I say, an experience."

"I'm all about new experiences," Harm acknowledged, grabbing the keys from Clay's hands before the offer was rescinded.

"Good," Clay added, winking mischievously at Mac. "I'll navigate from the back."

They returned to Avignon and entered the walled city.

"Turn right, just past this arch. This street will get progressively more narrow," Clay instructed from the back of the car.

"More narrow?" Mac laughed as Harm negotiated the street which was really not much more than an alley.

"Whoa! I can't get through there."

"Yes you can. Just take it slow. Oh, and you'll want to pull the sideview mirrors in with that button at the top of the door panel controls." Rabb continued, sure that he would clip the mirror on the passenger side as he slid beyond the tiny Renault parked along the sidewalk.

"Go to the third stop sign. We're going to go right, but you have to push the button to gain entrance." Rabb gave Webb an odd look in the rearview mirror upon hearing the instruction, but he kept moving in the direction indicated.

When they arrived at the third stop sign, they were greeted by an intercom and two metal posts blocking the street they were set to turn onto.

"Push the button and tell them 'Clayton Webb party for dinner'."

"In French?" Harm asked nervously.

"Just push the button," Mac instructed as she leaned slightly in front of the Navy commander. Harm did as he was told, and after the voice in the intercom greeted them, Mac said, "Partie de Clayton Webb pour le diner. "

"I could have done that," Rabb groused.

Webb and Mac laughed. "When the light changes to orange, drive on through."

"But those posts...." Rabb started.

"Descend into the ground. When the light is orange, it's safe to proceed."

"Well I'll be damned," Rabb said as he moved the car forward.

"La Mirande. Sounds elegant."

"It is, Sarah. But they're very friendly and very proud of their quality and service. There's no better compliment to these folks than seeing their patrons enjoy a good meal."

"Well I'm starving," Mac said.

"Shocking," Rabb volleyed.

"You won't be disappointed. It's one of the very best restaurants in the area. I figured we'd start your gastronomic exploration of Provence with guns blazing. Then we'll settle into things a bit more routine."

After some expert handling of the BMW to fit into an unbelievably tight parking spot, the trio made their way into the hotel restaurant.

"Monsieur Webb, bienvenue. Comment ca va?"

"Très bien, Martine. Et vous?" Again, Webb provided the traditional kiss to each cheek of the older blonde woman before them. "My friends Harmon Rabb and Sarah MacKenzie, this is Madame Martine Letellier, propriétaire et hôtesse extraordinaire."

"Oh stop, Clay," she said, tapping him fondly on the chest with her left hand as her right remained affectionately wrapped around his left arm. "He overstates, of course, his father's influence no doubt, a charming man he was, though I suspect that charm comes in handy in the Webb line of work."

Her English was flawless, the two military lawyers noted, her fondness for both the spy and the father clear.

"You would know, Martine."

"Tch, tch, enough of this. It's wonderful to meet some of Clay's friends. He was such a lonely boy growing up...."

"Martine," Clay warned.

"Okay, okay. I won't embarrass you any further. Henri, montrez nos invités a leur table. Bon appétit."

"Merci beaucoup," Harm said to Martine as they followed Webb.

None of the three missed Martine's admiration of the handsome Navy man.

"Good thing she doesn't know you fly, flyboy," Mac whispered jokingly. "She might not let you out that door." Rabb shook his head as he followed his laughing partner to their table.

"Bon soir, Monsieur Webb. Ce n'a pas été depuis longtemp votre dernière visite," Henri greeted cordially.

"No, il n'a pas. Vous savez l'amour de venant ici, Henri."

"Oui, monsieur. Il est bon de vous voir regarder si bon."

"Merci, Henri." Mac heard the exchange and noticed the bowed head of the CIA agent, the affection shown him by the people who knew him and cared about him obviously humbling to the man.

"Henri, il semble bon, mais il est trop maigre. Prenez soin de cela, s'il vous plait?"

Webb rolled his eyes, and Mac laughed again.

"Oui, madame," Henri replied, winking conspiratorially at Clayton Webb.

"What's going on?" Rabb asked, noticing the slight flush on Webb's face.

"Seems they all want to fatten up our secret agent," Mac answered helpfully.

"I can understand that," Rabb agreed.

"Do you ever feel all alone in the world?" Clay asked lightheartedly.

"It's just because they, and we, care about you Clay," Mac comforted, reaching her hand out and patting Webb's as it rested on the table. He turned his hand over and clasped hers warmly.

"I know," Clay finished, nodding his head slightly in understanding and acceptance of that friendship.

"You do love it here, don't you?" Mac asked, knowing the answer would be a complex one coming from a man as complicated as Clayton Webb.

"I never got why Mother always wanted to come here for vacation. We never went anywhere else. As a kid I always wanted to go other places, but we never did. Then as I was able to go experience the world on my own, I began to realize what it was that brought us back here year after year. We have the modern conveniences, of course, but a coffee and a baguette and a 'bonjour' shared with your neighbor on the way back from the patisserie does a whole lot to soothe the soul."

"Why isn't your mother here?"

"It's holiday season, Sarah. Mother is hosting her usual dozen soirees for various charities. She's a little annoyed that I'm not there to help her." Clayton Webb looked not the least upset by the scheduling conflict. "She doesn't even know I'm here, though I don't see how that information won't get out somehow."

"Make sure you thank her for lending you to us," Mac smiled.

"No, I don't think so. The less said about this to Mother the better."

"Afraid of your mother, Clay?" Harm jokingly asked.

"A little. Aren't you?" Clay returned deftly.

"Of your mother or mine?" Harm countered.

"Both."

"A little," Harm smiled back.

"Okay. Enough. Can we call it a tie in the wimp department and move on to another topic?" Mac whined, happy to call the contest a draw.

"Like what?" Harm and Clay queried. The three of them laughed.

"Like this menu. Did you see the 'Menu Degustation'? Oh my god! "

"Everything is wonderful here, Sarah. You can't go wrong. Rabb, if you need a translation just let me know. "

After long minutes reviewing the menu, the threesome had made their choices: Rabb decided on the holiday menu degustation, a seven course meal with special holiday offerings. Mac went with the regular menu degustation, and Webb chose the five course prix fixe menu.

Mac looked with some concern at her CIA friend. They had dated for some time following their return from Paraguay, and Webb's return from an extended stay in Provence over the summer. The intense feelings that they had shared during the difficult, life-altering time in South America had matured into an impending intimate relationship. They had gotten just so far in those intimacies when Mac decided they needed some time apart. She recognized that their relationship, starting as it did under such duress and uncertainty, might hamper the most important efforts underway to help Webb recover psychologically and emotionally from the torture he had suffered.

She had spent her own time 'debriefing', and talking to a psychiatrist had helped give her the insight and the courage she needed to slow things down with Clay. She was surprised to find that though he did not necessarily want to take things at a more deliberate pace, he did understand her point, and they both agreed that the time might not be right for taking the next step. They chose instead to nurture their friendship - a friendship that had already deepened beyond what they had ever expected it would due to a shared near fatal experience at the hands of a treacherous and vile enemy.

Mac had learned much during this time about Clayton Webb, and had seen the physical and psychological recovery from its inception, save the time spent in Provence. One thing that she noticed for sure tonight was that Marie and Madame Letellier were right - he was still too thin.

"Sarah?" Mac realized that she'd been thinking about all of this a bit too long for her two dinner companions.

"Sorry," she said, deciding at that moment to work on putting a little meat back on the bones of Clayton Webb. "I was daydreaming about Les Baux," she lied convincingly.

"You'll get an up close look at it tomorrow," Clay assured her as the waiter approached their table to take their dinner orders.

As the first courses came out, it became clear what an experience the meal would be. The initial course was preceded by a glass of champagne; Mac was served a glass of sparkling non-alcoholic wine from the Côte du Rhone.

"The French aren't really into non-alcoholic anything, as you can imagine," Clay started. "But the sommelier here has found some nice alternatives for you, Sarah. I hope they're to your liking."

"You didn't have to go to so much trouble. Really. This is delicious, though."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"The champagne is incredible," Rabb added.

"I love the first course here. This is the best champagne I've ever had; for my life and first born I cannot get Martine to tell me what it is."

"A girl needs her secrets, Clay," Mac said seductively.

"Smart lady," Rabb said. "Always keep them guessing. It's been the bane of my existence."

Mac had the fortitude, and the tact and good sense to let that one slide.

The successive courses were impressive, including a roasted pumpkin soup served in a lovely miniature pumpkin, braised pigeon appetizer, roasted pork, glazed salmon, fresh vegetables and more. Bread and red or white wine depending on the course flowed throughout.

Mac noticed that Clay had cut back on the bread and wine early, had only tasted a little during the cheese course and declined the dessert, though it was included in the prix fixe menu.

As goodnight kisses were exchanged between Martine and the Webb party, Rabb pulled the keys out of his pocket, his tall frame listing to the right as he dug deep into his pocket to retrieve them. Webb walked past him quickly and grabbed for the keys, making quick work of relieving the slightly tipsy aviator. Webb walked backwards as he addressed Rabb.

"You've had a little too much to drink to drive my car back."

"Works for me." Rabb was far too relaxed to worry about anything. Webb was happy to see it. His friend was a lot like he was: they both needed to get better at relaxing. This trip would be a hopeful good start in that direction.

Mac was happy to see both men enjoying themselves and each other's company. She understood that she was partly to blame for the tension between the two over the course of the summer. Her long held, unrequited love for Harmon Rabb had a new light shone on it in South America. Harm's behavior there, and their talks, plus the new Webb factor, had all worked to confuse her more than she already was. She had not been prepared for the intensity of Harm's interest, finally, and she found that the timing could not have been worse: her heart had already made room for Clayton Webb to find a place in it.

How this would play out in the end she did not know. What she knew was that she had friendships with these two men that she cherished. She hated the thought of jeopardizing that. She hoped that their time here continued to be filled with happy, easy moments such as this.

********

The next morning found them up and out of the city by nine o'clock, a very lazy start for all three of these driven professionals. Coffee, pastries from the corner patisserie and orange juice had kick started them and they were now driving quickly in the direction of the Pont du Gard, Rabb once again behind the wheel.

"Just up on the right is the road we would take to the vineyard. There's not much activity going on there right now. Plus, if you've seen one winery.."

"I noticed they cut back the vines pretty severely," Rabb commented as he took the curves along the back country roads at more than the surprisingly high posted speed of ninety kilometers per hour.

"Yeah. It's supposed to encourage the consistent growth of the leaves and the grapes. There's a ratio of the the correct number of leaves per shoot to allow a cluster of grapes to grow to their fullest. To get the right amount of sunlight to the grape you need to control the leaf growth. It's quite a science."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"I don't really, Sarah. I pick things up pretty fast, but Mother's the real expert. I know more about what I like in a wine than about the process."

"Look! Way in the distance. That's the Pont du Gard, right?"

"Yep. You're taking the next left, Harm."

"The street signs here have been great. All these roundabouts are so well marked it'd be almost impossible to get lost here," Mac said as she enjoyed the countryside views.

"I can think of worse things than getting lost in the south of France," Rabb said as he made the turn toward the Roman aqueduct.

They parked and exited the car. "They have a film and a museum here, but the star of the show is really the structure itself," Clay said as they headed toward the path leading to the Roman ruin.

"Lead on," Rabb said as he trailed behind his two cohorts.

They walked the trail along the River Gard, which had been recently re- landscaped with assorted native Provencale flora, including various herbs that gave off a refreshing aroma, and reminded both Rabb and Mac that a Provencale lunch was in the offing after this excursion. They had also discussed that the trip to Les Baux would be put off until the next day, the attempt to fit that trip in with an early evening stroll in Avignon combining to make the south of France experience far too rushed and seeming more like a vacation than the cultural experience Webb wanted to show his guests.

"That is amazing. Harm, did you know that this aqueduct went on for thirty miles?" Mac was reading the English language brochure she had picked up from the interpretive center just past the parking lot. "This span was started somewhere between 40 and 60 B.C."

"It's something else. The engineering prowess is unbelievable. You said there's no mortar at all, Clay?"

"That's right. At that time the Romans didn't use it. Two thousand years later, it's obvious they didn't need to."

"The three levels of arches - it's really quite beautiful. And it's been standing here for over two thousand years."

"It's one of the most beautiful Roman ruins around. Do you see the reflection in the river? All three levels of the arches in a mirror image in the still green water."

"It's very peaceful. The surrounding landscape is beautiful. There really isn't anything that takes away from the grandeur - there's no modern vistas to mar the feeling that this is exactly how it has always looked." Rabb was clearly impressed with the monument before him. For a man who had embraced technology and its ability to take him to soaring heights in the most impressive of the Navy's aircraft, he seemed genuinely humbled by this amazing engineering feat before him.

"We'll see the Roman ruins of Glanum tomorrow on our way to Les Baux. They're not as well preserved, but they tell an impressive story of life in Roman times. It's a far different feel from what you see here."

"Clay, you're so lucky to have been able to experience these things when you were younger. I know you probably got jaded by it a little, coming here every summer."

"No, Sarah. Never jaded. I never once felt that I wasn't lucky as a kid for the chance to see these things. I just always felt there was stuff out there that I was missing. Now I've experienced both and I know how lucky I really am."

They walked from one side of the river to the other, strolling along the riverbank, catching the sun filtering through the arches. They walked up to the area where the bridge would have joined the old section of the aqueduct that traveled over land and eventually would have made its way underground, as much of the aqueduct was subterranean.

"Should we head out for lunch?" Clay asked.

"I could stay here forever," Mac said sadly. "I guess we had to go sometime," she smiled as she turned to take one last look at the magificent Pont du Gard.

********

Following a leisurely lunch of crepes and salad at a nearby restaurant, they all returned to Webb's house in Villeneuve les Avignon. All three took advantage of the down time for a quick rest, and by four in the afternoon were ready to head over to Avignon for the evening.

They headed straight to the Saint Benezet Bridge, more famously known as the Pont d'Avignon.

"Will you sing it with me?" Mac asked Clay. Webb looked at Rabb.

"Don't look at me. I can't help you out of this one," he laughed as he knew Webb would be unable to say no to Mac when she asked like that. He felt for the guy - Rabb had been in his shoes more than once in the eight years he had known Sarah MacKenzie. He knew there was no hope for the spook on this night: Mac had him just where she wanted him.

"Okay, but I only remember the beginning," Clay warned.

"Me, too. And you'll dance at the end?"

Rabb laughed. "Better you than me, Monsieur Webb," he snorted as he stepped back to watch the show.

"Okay. On three? One, two, three":

Sur le pont d'Avignon L'on y danse, l'on y danse Sur le pont d'Avignon L'on y danse tous en rond.

As they finished the song, Webb took Mac in his arms and then twirled her once, then twice, and then finished with a flourish as he dipped her fancifully, the years of ballroom dancing with his mother showing in the ease of his movements. Rabb noted how well the two seemed to fit - as a dance couple. He looked away quickly, not comfortable with the view.

Webb pulled Mac back to a standing position and received a huge, affectionate hug from the Marine colonel.

"Clay, thank you so much. That was great."

"C'etait mon plaisir, ma chere," he returned.

"Merci, monsieur." Clay leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss on the lips.

"Sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have...."

"No, Clay. It's okay."

Rather than think too much about what he'd just witnessed, Rabb asked, "Where to next?"

"The Marché de Noël, in front of the Opera house and the hôtel de ville."

"That's the city hall," Mac said as she joined Harm and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "How'd we sound, by the way?"

"Steve and Edie've got nothing on you two."

"Thanks. I think."

They walked slowly to the marche, drinking in the sunset over the Rhone and the beauty of the walled city all lit up at night. Though it was still early December, the city seemed packed with people ready to celebrate Christmas early.

A beautiful carousel took center stage in the town square, and for the holiday season quaint log cabin kiosks had been set up for vendors to market their goods for holiday shoppers. Webb watched the crepes being made as Rabb waited for Mac to finish shopping for soaps, something else that Provence was known for.

All three admired the beautiful Provencale linens, the cheese stands, the chocolatiere and other vendors, including the non-stop displays of santons, the Provencale dolls made of clay and handpainted, used in nativities as well as displays of village scenes.

After enjoying the carnival atmosphere of the marche, the three were ready to head back to Villeneuve for a quiet, though definitely not seven course dinner.

"Tonight we'll be eating at La Maison, a little family restaurant a short walk from the house. It's my favorite restaurant. They have about six tables. The food is very good, substantial portions, and very Provencale. The house wine is from our vineyard."

The meal was far less of a production number on this evening, a four-course affair with just the house red throughout the evening.

Webb was again greeted with great affection, this time by the owner. The chef, the co-owner with his wife, outdid himself with the appetizers and entrees, and made a point to come out and greet Webb and his guests.

The cheese course was heavily goat cheese inspired, and the desserts were heavenly, and shared between the three, as all three looked too irresistible not to try.

As the evening wound down, and Mac, Rabb and Webb were enjoying their coffee, they heard a quiet bark from a nearby table.

"Oh my gosh, there's a dog over at that table. I didn't even know," Mac smiled as she eyed the adorable Yorkshire Terrier.

"That's Bijou. He's a regular here. You did know that dogs are allowed in most restaurants in France?"

"Of course I did, Clay. I just didn't know Bijou was over there. He's so small."

"And quiet," Rabb added.

"Yeah, well, it's past Bijou's bedtime. He always barks when it's time to go. I wonder if it's the smell of the coffee," Webb wondered as he finished his own espresso, "or just a really good internal clock."

The threesome strolled leisurely back to the house, winding their way through the cobblestoned alley that housed the arched entrance to the monastery, and then entered the back gate into Webb's Villeneuve garden. As they walked through the doorway, sensor lights came on that dramatically lit the gardens and tiered pathways throughout.

"This is a really nice place you've got here, Clay," Rabb said, admiring the lighting of the assorted fruit trees in the private courtyard.

"Mother worked with Robert on the plantings years ago. Even in a small area like this, you can force microclimates. That's what the walls are about. It's why we can have lemon and orange trees in one area, grapes in another, and that olive tree over there, along with the vegetable and herb gardens all within such close proximity."

"And you have so much room still. The paths and benches scattered about. It's really so beautiful," Mac said, walking up to Clay and putting her hand through his arm in friendship. "No wonder you recovered so well coming here."

Clay grasped Mac's hand fondly, no words needed to express his agreement with the sentiment, and his pleasure in allowing his friends the chance to experience the peace and beauty of his home in Villeneuve les Avignon.

********

The next morning started a bit earlier, with a petite dejeuner at a street- side restaurant in the center of St. Remy, and then a stop at a peculiar mix of attractions along the way to Les Baux.

The first site was visible just off the road, about one mile south of St. Remy: the ancient site of Glanum.

"Wow, look at these," Rabb admired, the Triumphal Arch, which indicated the entry road to Glanum, a beautiful and imposing structure, standing next to a tri-leveled monument.

Webb parked the car and they walked down the tiered hill to the two monuments.

"The arch was built during the early Roman empire, around 10 or 20 A.D. It linked Glanum by way of the Via Domitia to Italy."

"Look at the carved reliefs on the arch. They're amazing," Mac said as she backed up to get a wider view of the artwork adorning the ancient arch.

"This arch is believed to be the primary influence for many of the arches, and lots of doorways built in the twelfth century."

"This mausoleum is something else, too."

"It might even be older than the arch, Harm," Mac added, her bedtime reading having helped her to get familiar with some of the other ancient artifacts to be found in this area of Provence, other than the one that Mac perceived to be the greatest, Les Baux.

"It's incredible how well preserved these are." Rabb was taking his second walk around the mausoleum as he met up with Webb and Mac in between the two great monuments.

"This particular mausoleum is considered the best preserved of the Roman world. The bas reliefs on the podium and the second level are spectacular, aren't they?" Rabb looked at Webb, wondering how much of his knowledge of the long and glorious history of the area dated back to a lonely youth spent traveling the roads of Provence with the Webb help due to his parents' busy and secretive lives.

"And they've unearthed more of Glanum across the street?" Mac asked.

"If we have time on the way back we'll go check it out."

They continued on to Les Baux through zigzagging roads amid the impressive rock formations of the Alpilles. Once past the rocky drive, the road up toward the rock formation that was actually Les Baux took them through the vineyards and olive orchards that marked the landscape so typical of Provence.

It was a beautiful drive.

"Harm, look at this." Mac was excited. She had read so much about Les Baux, a place that had fascinated her since she had first heard of it in a college European history course. They strolled first through the medieval section of the city, now populated with upscale art shops and museums, gift shops, restaurants and cafés for the tourist crowd in order to get to the prize, the old or' "dead" city of Les Baux. This section of the city, carved into and on top of a six hundred foot rock, was the regional center from the ninth to the fifteenth century.

"Louis the XIII was a little paranoid and he razed Les Baux in 1632. They're pretty dramatic ruins, though," Webb commented as the Mistral wind kicked up on the rocky apex that so markedly resembled a lunar landscape.

"There's some Roman ruins here, right?" Clay looked at Harm incredulously.

"Hey, I can read," Rabb said defensively.

"You're right. Some burial tombs and monoliths date back to Roman times."

"And troglodyte dwellings. Look!" Mac was sitting on a rock inside the remains of a troglodyte dwelling - she had tossed her jacket on one of the built-in shelves that marked the stone houses - making herself at home. The example showed numerous similar built-ins in the rock, as well as holes drilled in the walls and ceilings where wooden beams had been placed to hang other everyday items used by the cave dwellers.

The self-guided walk through the ruins was enhanced by the audio commentary on the hand held units included in the entrance fee. The three separated occasionally during their walk to experience different sections of the historical tour, and different vistas, regrouping regularly to discuss what they had seen and experienced.

"At one point six thousand people lived here. Can you imagine what life must have been like?" Mac wondered aloud.

"Can you imagine carting all the food, water and supplies needed to sustain all those lives? It's quite a hike up here," Rabb answered.

"There's a reason why slavery lasted as long as it did in a 'civilized' world," Webb added. Rabb shook his head in agreement.

Webb and Rabb were still in thoughtful reflection of the marvel that Les Baux must have been when Mac said, "Hey, how about a lunch break?"

"You're hungry?" Webb asked, disbelief on his face.

"I could eat," she replied, smiling.

"Dinner's pretty far off if we eat as late as we did last night. We better feed it." The two men looked at Mac, and then each other, shaking their heads. How did she eat so much and still look like that?

Mac shrugged her shoulders, not the least concerned that her two traveling partners seemed so perplexed by her eating habits.

Webb chuckled. "We're not eating that late tonight. We're having dinner at home tonight. I'm cooking."

"You're cooking?" Rabb asked.

"Yes. You have a problem with that?"

"He doesn't," Mac interrupted. "I'm sure it'll be great. But I'm hungry now!"

"Okay, okay. Let's find a place to eat before the poor thing dies of starvation," Rabb laughed as he took Mac and pushed her up the steep, cobbled street.

After a quick lunch and one last look around Les Baux, they left the city built into the rock and stopped on their return at the Glanum site.

"Remember I mentioned that there was something else that this location is famous for?" Webb started as they crossed the street to gain entrance to Glanum. "The sanitarium that Vincent van Gogh committed himself to after he cut his ear is right up there." Webb pointed to the left, where up a slope and beyond a grove of olive trees, a series of buildings could be seen.

"Some of his most famous paintings were done while he lived in the south of France," Mac said. She was a lover of art, especially the post- Impressionists and twentieth century art, and had been especially excited to be spending some of the weekend exploring the Fondation Maeght outside of Saint Paul de Vence.

"That's right, Sarah. He was incredibly prolific during his time in Arles and here in St. Remy. It's said that he had invited Paul Gauguin to stay with him in Arles - he had hoped to establish an artists colony there. But a series of arguments escalated out of control, and after one last fight, he took off part of his ear."

"Artists can sometimes feel too deeply. You'd think that the release of that on the canvas would keep that kind of thing from happening, but somehow there's a lot of sad endings to some of the greatest artists we've ever known." Again Webb was somewhat caught off guard by the Navy man's insight.

Harmon Rabb realized his two companions were staring at him.

"My life isn't all jets and the law. Give me some credit," Rabb continued. "I'm a big fan of van Gogh. I can't believe we're here." He smiled shyly as he left Webb and Mac looking shocked. He led the way up the path.

"As we walk along here, you'll see they've placed posters of some of the paintings he did while in the hospital here. You can look out over the same views that he held for his inspiration."

They stopped along the path, Webb translating the signs with the description of the van Gogh piece and its setting.

"A lot of the landscape has changed. You can see back there, beyond the olive grove up on the hill, the ruins of Glanum. That wasn't excavated until 1921 and well after van Gogh's death."

"It looks like the olive trees have been maintained, though," Rabb noticed. He wondered if that had been due to the influence of van Gogh's time there. He was aware that the artist had only sold one painting during his lifetime, but it seemed his influence on the region had been far reaching. Standing among the olive trees and the mountain views within this valley, Rabb felt he understood why so many artists found inspiration in the south of France.

It was sad to think, however, that the despair of one man could not be soothed by the land in which so many others who joined him, and followed after his death, found worth and beauty. He wasn't that up on art or artists, but he wondered of the great artists who he knew spent time here - Cezanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Chagall, Picasso - how many of these and other great artists had succumbed in the same way?

"Harm," Clay called. He shook himself from his sad wonderings and joined Webb. "This is my favorite spot here. Look," Webb pointed, up toward the distant mountain. "Do you see the two holes in the mountain, toward the right of the jagged peak?"

Mac and Harm looked, seeing the barely visible openings that Clay had described. "Now come look at this." They stepped over to view the Vincent van Gogh rendering of the vista. This time the view, save for the Glanum entrance at the foothills of the mountain today, had not changed in over one hundred years.

"You can see this original, and several others from his stay here in St. Remy, at the Whitney Museum in New York." Webb allowed his friends some time to soak in the view, and then all three moved toward the Glanum entrance.

"Uh oh, this doesn't look good," Webb said as they stopped at the gated entrance. "It's closed. They shut down for long periods - this is still a live archeological site. Bad timing. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it Clay. This was great," Harm said as they headed back to the parking lot. "The ruins will be there for the next time." He smiled as he walked with the operative, Mac taking the spot between them.

"So you think you might come back?" Webb queried, fishing for the keys in his jacket pocket.

"I'll definitely come back, though I'm feeling a little spoiled having such a good tour guide."

"Learn some French and you won't need one. You already know how to handle the roads," Webb joked as they neared the car. "You want to handle the drive back?" he asked, offering the keys again to Rabb.

"What, don't I get a chance to drive your pretty car?" Mac asked.

"No," Rabb and Webb answered in tandem, Rabb grabbing the keys quickly before Mac had a chance to get near them.

"Well, I am deeply offended," she replied lightheartedly.

"No you're not. You never offer to drive. Ever. You're not missing a thing."

Mac looked at Harm, only slightly annoyed that he ruined her aborted tantrum, but still highly annoyed with Clay for not offering the keys to her. She knew it wasn't a sexist thing with him - he was just not that way, certainly not the way Harm often was. It was probably a control thing with the spy - something they would have to address should they begin dating again.

********

"I hate to admit it, Clay - you really can cook," Harm said as he finished soaking up the remaining sauce on his plate with yet another piece of bread. "I would never have thought."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Harm. I think. We'll have some cheese next, a French tradition, and then we'll experience some of Marie's baking prowess. She's created a variation of a tart tatin - it's got the apples, but it also has strawberries, lingonberries and raspberries."

"Can we skip the cheese and go straight for the dessert?" Mac requested.

"You can skip the cheese, but I know you won't," Webb grinned as he brought the cheese and more bread to the table."

"I'm going to be in the gym for two solid weeks working all of this off," Rabb happily admitted, starting in on one of the cheeses.

They worked their way through the assortment, Webb having judged just the right amount for the three of them.

"This one was delicious. What was it?" Mac was savoring the last bite of the soft cheese that carried such an interesting flavor.

"It's called Muster. It's not goat, as so much of the cheese from this region is. It's cow. And it has a nice, soft rind - edible, like brie. It's my favorite," Webb noted after the brief cheese discourse.

"The goat cheese was good, too," Rabb said, enjoying one more glass of the 'house' wine.

"Sit back and relax. Enjoy the fire. Digest a bit. I'm going to go start the coffee. It's American, if that's okay."

"I'd love a cup of American coffee," Rabb readily admitted, realizing that it was one of the very few things that he missed from home during this week in France.

"I definitely miss my Starbucks," Mac laughed. "French coffee is something I could get used to, but getting it take out would be great."

"I think there's a Starsbucks in Geneva. Do you wanna take a ride?" They all laughed at Webb's clever retort as the CIA agent left for the kitchen for the coffee and dessert.

"He seems really happy here, doesn't he?" Mac asked.

"He does," Harm answered, watching Mac in the glow of the fireplace. "Are you in love with him?"

Mac was taken aback by the surprising and very personal nature of the question. Not that they hadn't discussed the topic in the past. Though their friendship had been repaired by time, hard work, and a little intervention from Clayton Webb since those painful conversations in Ciudad dal Este, there had been no further discussions regarding her feelings for Webb, or for Harm since that time. Harm decided that keeping his distance had worked, and he had said nothing as Mac and Clay grew closer. Even after Mac had put the brakes on her and Webb's burgeoning romance, Rabb still stayed away. His distance had nearly cost him the friendship of the two people whose company he currently enjoyed.

'What was his interest now?' Sarah thought, eyeing him carefully in the dim light of the fire.

Knowing the answer to the question would have helped her greatly at that moment. But she didn't have that answer. But she had an answer.

"I love him." She did not wait for Harm's reaction. "I love you, too." She looked Harm in the eye, not shying away from the directness of the question, or any perceived incompleteness to her response.

"Good answer, Mac. But it doesn't really address the intent of the question."

"Is that right, counsellor? What exactly is...." she stopped. Mac looked toward the fire momentarily, and then turned back to her partner.

"I don't want to do this. I want this time to be memorable for good times, fun, enjoying the company of two people who mean a great deal to me. I don't want to remember it as another time on foreign soil where we argued the merits of Webb or any other person in my love life. Do you understand?"

Rabb understood the request. And even if he didn't, he knew it would be wrong to not comply with the request. The evasiveness of the answer left him wondering, still. And maybe a little hopeful? He wasn't sure of that. He wasn't sure that he had the right to feel hopeful.

Rabb knew that his own inaction regarding his feelings for Mac had allowed Webb the chance to get close to her, closer than Rabb had managed in eight years of knowing her and working with her. Wasn't Webb's ability to open up to Mac and allow himself to be honest with his feelings toward her far more honorable, and better for Mac, than his years of pining, and saying and doing nothing about it?

To be fair, he wasn't much up for that conversation this night either. And their renewed friendship, between all three of them, had clouded the issue far beyond any easy reasoning.

Their eye contact still holding firm, Rabb said, "I do. I'll drop it. For now."

Mac smiled at him, the thank you silent yet communicated loud and clear.

********

"Why are we taking your car back to Nice?" Rabb asked as he steered the car east on the back road out of Avignon.

"Because I didn't want to hear your complaints for two more days," Webb replied, navigating from the front passenger seat.

"You're a wise man, Agent Webb," Mac offered from the back.

"But it's a rental."

"Observant, Rabb. No wonder the Admiral keeps you around. Marie's son Jean will take it back. He'll pick this up for me at the Nice-Côte d'Azur airport and enjoy it until he goes back to Villeneuve les Avignon to see Marie the next time."

"Lucky guy," Rabb envied.

"Not really. He usually drives a Z3."

"I guess it pays to be a horticulturist in Provence."

"I guess," Rabb agreed with Mac.

"Where are we heading so early in the morning?" Rabb asked as he zoomed around a sharp curve on the country road.

"Enjoying yourself?" Webb asked wryly.

"A little." Harm tossed Webb a huge smile as he continued driving at about one hundred twenty kilometers per hour along the narrow, winding back road.

"We're heading to the morning market at Isle sur la Sorgue. You'll love it. It's mostly fruit, vegetable, Provencale foods like olives and tapenades, fish, linens and clothing. Tomorrow the antiques dealers come out. It's a great place to experience regular French life."

"And French women?" Rabb asked.

"I wouldn't know," Webb replied. Rabb raised an eye to the spy, the answer conveniently noncommital with Mac so near.

Mac, for her part, ignored the boys while she took in the look of the town and its market.

"This is charming, Clay. Aw, look at that dog." A large, white dog romped along the bridge ahead of them, intent on getting his master's attention, while his master had his own ideas: he was deeply involved in drinking his coffee and conversing with his two neighboring vendors.

The sights and smells of the market were wonderful: colorful arrays of fruit and vegetable stands, dozens of different olive mixes and tapenades, kiosks with breads, cheeses, dried meats and salamis of unending variety, fish, candy, and even a few wine tasting stations. Shops selling the traditional ceramics, pottery and linens of the region added more color and a distinctive French feel.

This was clearly no ordinary market. But Isle sur La Sorgue was no ordinary town. A small medieval town, it was built atop five branches of the Sorgue River, the streams and canals, huge, ancient overhanging trees and an occasional waterwheel adding to the beauty and charm of the town.

And not only the vendors and customers used the market as a chance to catch up. The dogs seemed to look at it as a social event as well, several of them running through the legs of the shoppers, stopping briefly to sniff, and then mark a spot in a nearby alley. After frolicking a while, each dog ventured back to its owner, the vendors all confident in their pets inclination to not stray too far afield.

All three seemed mesmerized and relaxed by their walk through the market. Mac purchased her own French market basket; she had noticed that the natives all had one of the woven carry-alls to store their morning purchases as they made their way through each stand, picking up their fresh fruit, vegetables, bread and other staples for the day.

"This market goes on every morning?" Rabb was in awe over the effort of setting all of this up on a daily basis.

"Every morning through the summer, which is a long season here in Provence. Looks like they're doing it for the Christmas season, too. And of course Sunday is different - they add the antiques. They do have supermarkets here, but they're small in comparison to ours. Daily life here, especially in these smaller towns, still revolves around the daily trip to the market, whether it's open air like this or the supermarche."

The three friends were quiet for sometime, each thinking about living such a simple life. How different their lives back in D.C. were from what they had seen and experienced in the south of France, though even a touch of this lifestyle still took place in the big cities. The corner patisserie was a staple of French life in Paris as well; a loaf of bread in France held a very different meaning than a loaf of bread in the States.

They headed back to the car and came across the big white dog from earlier. It stood before Clayton Webb unmoving - challenge written in its bearing - expecting something. The two stood, Clay and the dog, daring one another, it seemed. Then Webb knelt down and the dog melted into his chest, working the spy better than Harm had seen any person ever manage. Webb pulled the big head up and the friendly white giant gave the tough CIA man a small though damp lick on the forehead.

Clay rose, not wanting to block the pedestrian flow for too long. A final pat on the head and the agent led the way beyond the market.

"Clay, I didn't know you liked dogs so much," Mac said, surprise and approval both coming through in the comment. She was starting to miss Jingo a little more with every dog they encountered.

"I didn't know I did either. Until Claude. We never had dogs. We were a horse family through and through."

"They obviously like you. Can't imagine what they see in you," Rabb joked.

"Dogs are pretty sensitive, Harm. They recognize kindred spirits," Mac observed.

"So what are you saying, Sarah? I'm a lot like a dog?"

"You are Clay, in a lot of ways. Dogs like that one. And Claude. And Jingo. Strong, loving, loyal. Stubborn and determined when they see something they want."

"Sounds like you," Rabb said to Sarah MacKenzie.

"Look in a mirror, Commander. Only you can add 'to a fault' behind the stubborn and determined." Mac saw the look on Rabb's face and continued. "Harm, you are very dog-like, but you let that Saint Bernard protective thing take over, sometimes too much. You should try being more like the Clay dog. Try being a little more self-effacing when you're in the wrong."

Rabb and Webb looked at each other, Harm completely at a loss as to how to respond to that.

"I think we both got slammed there a little," Webb said as they entered the car for the ride to Nice.

"That's just the overly sensitive Lab in each of you," Mac laughed as she tossed her new market basket into the back seat before jumping in herself.

"Let's change the subject," Webb pleaded.

"Good idea," Rabb agreed.

"If we get back to Nice and the sun is out, how about a quick detour up the coast to Menton?"

"Where's Menton?" Rabb asked, happily ensconced once again behind the wheel of the BMW.

"Up the coast?" Mac teased. "I think you must be a hound dog mix. What was it the vet said about Jake? He was a Coonhound mix my uncle had. He's like a GQ model: beautiful on the outside but not a whole lot going on up here," Mac finished, reaching into the front and tapping on the side of Rabb's head.

Webb laughed lightly. "Menton is the last town on the Mediterranean coast before entering Italy."

"That sounds like a great idea, don't you think Jake," Mac laughed as she patted Rabb's shoulder and settled back for the ride east.

********

"This is so pretty."

"It has a nice old resort town feel to it," Rabb agreed.

"That's exactly what it is. And it's been lucky to have avoided the build- up that so many of these towns on the Côte d'Azur have not even tried to control."

"Nice is nice, no pun intended," Rabb added with a smile, "but it really is built up. Cannes seems to have gone similarly out of control."

"There's good things about each," Webb noted, "but I like it here. You can see old town Menton up on the cliff, the mountains behind it, the newer hotels up along the shore all tastefully done, which you can't say for Nice. Plus the docks are on one of the prettiest coves on the coast."

It was a quaint view, there was no doubt. The lemon and orange trees enhanced the town's charm - they dotted the landscape in parks, along the walk toward the far entrance to old town Menton, and along the tiered staircase that led to the church undergoing restoration. There were lemon trees in the small gardens outside the apartments opposite the pier. There were even lemon trees at the intersections in Menton.

"I can't believe there are actually lemons left on these trees. You'd think people would pick them clean, they're so out in the open and accessible," Mac wondered as she looked at the fruit so tantalizing close to her. The temptation to reach out and pull one off was overwhelming.

"Ces citronniers sont sauvages. Ils ne sont pas bons pour manger. Ces citrons sont employés la plupart du temps pour garnissent."

Clayton Webb froze. The voice, the accent all too familiar to the spy. He turned and saw a man, about sixty years old, in a wool coat with a newspaper folded under his left arm. The face was very Russian and matched the voice that he never thought he would hear again.

"Boris Malakov," Webb said as he caught the man's eye.

"Ah, ha, ha, ha! Clayton Webb. Comment ca va?"

"I'm fine. You're looking well," Webb observed as he approached the man and shook his hand warmly. The pair quickly pulled away from Rabb and Mac, their conversation now in Russian, muted so that the two military lawyers could not hear.

"Spy?" Mac asked, looking toward the conversation at the far side of the square. Her ability to speak Russian would do her no good at this distance.

"He's got spy written all over him, Mac. Looks like he was one of the good guys, though."

Webb and his Russian counterpart walked toward them.

"Boris Malakov, Lt. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie and Commander Harmon Rabb of the Judge Advocate General Corps. Boris and I have worked together a number of times." Mac and Rabb shared a knowing look.

"Yes. Mr. Webb has helped me out more than once."

"It was a two way street, Boris." Webb turned to Mac and Rabb. "The last time he helped me out, he managed to piss off Putin."

"Enough to be exiled, unofficially," he leaned in, whispering conspiratorially with a twinkle in his eye. "So I am in retirement here."

"Tough gig," Rabb chuckled.

"Yes, it's a beautiful place. A little cold today."

"I guess that's a matter of perspective," Rabb laughed. "It's about thirty degrees back home. I'll take fifty over thirty any day."

"So what kind of troubles has Clayton gotten you two involved in?" The Russian slapped Webb firmly on the back as he asked.

"No need to get into that. We're on a time schedule here."

"No we're not, Clay," Mac started.

"Yes we are, Colonel." Webb's eyes were piercing. Mac got the hint.

"It was nice meeting you," Mac said to the retired spy. "Enjoy your retirement."

"I am, my dear. My Natalie will be waiting lunch on me, so I will take my leave." Malakov leaned in close to the Marine lawyer. "He looks a little thin, yes?"

"He's fine. I'm sure he would appreciate your concern, though. Thank you."

"You are a lovely lady. It makes me feel good that my friend has someone like you to look out for him." The spy took Mac's hand and kissed it. "Au revoir, ma chère."

They watched as Boris Malakov made his way back to his wife and his retirement on the French Riviera.

"What'd he say to you?" Webb asked Mac as they walked through the narrow, cobbled and steep streets of the old city.

"Nothing. Can we find a place to eat?"

Webb laughed and shook his head.

"Come on, Clay. Let's feed the monster."

"Don't tell me you're not hungry, Harm. You either Clay. It's two o'clock."

"Hey. I'm not fighting the monster. I've been trained," Webb joked, just barely avoiding the punch that Mac had aimed at his shoulder. "There's a bunch of cafés on the main pedestrian street."

They made themselves comfortable at an outdoor table and all ordered crepes. Though it was only fifty degrees, the sun warmed them enough to stay outside and enjoy the people watching, and smoke-free dining.

"You'll be on your own tonight. I've got to meet with the chief of station in Nice."

"That's okay, Clay. You've been great as a guide. But I think we'll just take it easy tonight. Stroll around Saint Paul de Vence, get dinner, then turn in early."

"Sounds good to me," Rabb said as he perused one of Mac's guidebooks. "Turned into a nice day after all that drizzle."

"And the downpour on the highway," Mac added. "Though if it's going to rain, it's best that it happen on a travel day."

"There's a chance of rain again tomorrow. If it doesn't, we can take the walk up to the Fondation Maeght. There's a nice view of Saint Paul de Vence from the walk, perched up on the hill. If it rains, we'll take the car to the museum, and then head over to Vence. Sarah, you said something about wanting to see the Matisse chapel?"

"If we could. And maybe we can find the cathedral in old town with the Chagall mosaic."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Webb said as he took a sip of the hard cider they had ordered. The conversation was interrupted by a loud revving noise coming up the slight hill on the pedestrian street.

"What the hell," Rabb said as the motorcycle sped past. Just moments later, a piercing yelp was heard, and Webb stood up quickly to get a look at what was going on.

"Did he hit a dog?" Mac asked worriedly. "He did, didn't he?"

"Clay," Rabb called, but Clayton Webb was already headed over to the scene, his mobile phone to his ear. Angry shouting could be heard up the hill - several people were yelling, an argument threatening to turn far worse.

Rabb stood to follow Webb, not sure what the agent's intent was. Mac looked on, the fracas taking place just yards from where they had been sitting and enjoying the lazy afternoon.

"Avete colpito il mio cane, asino!"

"Non. È spaventato appena." The biker insisted that he'd only scared the dog.

"Ciò è una via pedonale qui. Che cosa cozza sta facendo?"

"Che te ne frega, puttana!"

"Nonla denomini quello! Se la denominate ancora che...."

"E che cosa?"

The challenger stood close to the biker, about to pull a punch.

"Tengalo! Manteniamo il nostro freddo qui."

The biker laughed at the American's attempt to translate the colloquialism. "Ma che cazzo sei?" the biker asked, the heat of the moment threatening to escalate to a minor riot. There appeared to be a small mob growing, ready to defend the shaking terrier and its owners against the lone biker. Though Webb knew the biker was in the wrong, his immediate concern was keeping the situation from getting out of control.

The dog's owners continued yelling, the girl finally reaching out to slap the biker. Rabb walked over and asked her to calm down. She didn't understand and began shouting at the Navy lawyer.

Webb looked over and realized that the girl was so agitated that she did not recognize Rabb as someone who was trying to help, and was ready to strike out at him, too, in her frustration and anger.

"Calma giù, signorina. La polizia è sul senso."

The biker heard the comment about the police. "Vaffanculo," he yelled at Webb as he kicked his leg out hard at the operative, his hard boot making contact with Webb's left thigh. Webb fell towards the girl and her dog, Mac catching him before he took them all to the ground.

Rabb took two long strides as the biker failed to kick-start his motorcycle on the first attempt, and hauled him off by his collar. He threw the guy to the ground just as the police showed up. The crowd cheered, not just for the arrival of local law enforcement but for the two Americans who had helped subdue the threatening man.

As two policemen worked to keep the suspect in line up against a wall, another officer came to take the three Americans' names and local contact numbers in case they were needed later. They returned to their table, Webb rubbing at his leg along the way.

"See what happens when you go around defending a dog's honor, Clay?" Rabb laughed.

"Huh. I think I learned my lesson."

"Probably not," Mac disagreed as she smiled at the two heroes of the hour.

A while later, the girl, her companion and her dog made their way over.

"Grazie, signore. Luci sembra giusto. Penso che sia stata spaventata di qualche cosa."

"Felice di aiutare, signorina." Webb petted the dog, now shivering, but safe in the girl's arms.

"Siete giusti?" her companion asked.

"Sono bene." Webb smiled, thinking that he must have said that in at least four languages in the last three days.

"Li ha colpiti abbastanza duro," the girl said, concern written on her face.

"Sono benissimo. Realmente. Grazie."

"Grazie, signore. Forse la polizia farà qualcosa questo volta. La maggior parte della gente non avrebbe ottenuto implicata."

"E non avrebbero denominato nella polizia per un cane," her friend said.

"Spero che facciano qualcosa, anche," Webb said, more than ready to put the incident behind him.

"Grazie ancora una volta." She leaned over the rail and kissed Webb, first on the right cheek, and then the left. She and her companion and her dog went on down the street, headed toward the Mediterranean.

"Why didn't I get a thank you kiss?" Rabb asked

"First on the beach," Mac cracked.

"Very funny, Marine."

********

The next morning found Webb waiting for the military duo in the hotel restaurant.

"How'd you sleep?" Clay asked.

"Like a baby."

"Ditto," Rabb answered, admiring the view of the surrounding hills from the Hotel des Remparts in the perched town of Saint Paul de Vence. The mist floated over the valley as the sun in the distance prepared to join them for the day.

"Don't let it fool you, Harm. It was raining pretty steady my whole ride up here."

"That's okay. That means no hiking to get to the museum."

"Are you sure you want that?"

Webb looked first to Mac, and then to Harm, not understanding Mac's question.

"Harm seems to have developed a love affair with cheese. And wine."

Webb laughed.

"I always had a love affair with wine, Mac."

"You do have to watch yourself here. It's easy to get hooked." She turned to Webb. "How's your leg this morning?"

Clay shrugged and said, "Sore. I'll live."

They enjoyed a breakfast of baguettes and butter, croissants and jam, along with coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice. They decided on a leisurely day, getting in what they could on their last day in Provence.

"Where'd you stay last night?" Mac asked as they got into the car.

"I was in Nice with Jean and his family."

"You took care of your business with your CIA pal?"

"I did. George Decker and I go back a ways. I helped him get transferred here from Rome."

"Nice friend," Mac said.

"Well, I owed him one." Webb was suddenly quiet, and recognition came to Rabb quickly. George Decker. The name had sounded familiar. Now he remembered. George Decker had been CIA Chief of Station in Rome during Tim Fawkes' captivity, and had assisted Webb and Admiral Chegwidden in their successful effort to free him. Webb had killed someone in the process, the first time in his career that he had been forced to take a life. It had been a difficult time for Rabb's spy friend.

The Navy man knew that Webb was currently dealing with more troubles where Tim Fawkes was concerned: the operative's friend and mentor had been diagnosed with an inoperable tumor over the summer. This had been a painful and trying year for Clayton Webb. Rabb was glad to see that the time spent in Provence had seemed to soothe some of that pain.

They approached the entry to the Fondation Maeght.

"Harm, why don't you go and get our tickets?" Rabb looked at Mac like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I'll have to ask in French." Mac and Webb laughed.

"Yes you will. Look at the sign. Tell me what we need."

Rabb studied the sign and said, "Entrée pour trois personnes et un billet de photographie."

"Très bon, sauterelle," Mac smiled. "Three people and one photography ticket." Mac had picked up a disposable camera for the tour of the museum.

They entered the museum grounds, immediately taken with the layout of the lawn approaching the door to the modern building. The sculpture along the way included works by Giacometti, Miro and Alexander Calder. Mac looked to the right.

"That must be the chapel. We need to hit it on the way out."

The chapel had been built in memory of the son of the museum's founders, who had died at a young age of leukemia. It was a small chapel with a stained glass window by Georges Braque.

The museum displayed some of the great works of many twentieth century masters: Pierre Bonnard, Jean Miro, Wassily Kandinsky, Jean Arp, in generous quantities. The number and quality of works by Alberto Giacometti was impressive. Georges Braque was also well represented, with many of the sculptures outside in the lovingly maintained outdoor galleries.

After enjoying the indoor treasures, the threesome walked out the back to the first of many courtyards of sculpture. This one included three alone by Giacometti, the tall, thin works a strange though appropriate contrast to the bold, full sculptures of Braque alongside them.

"The setting here is beautiful," Harm said, his admiration for modern art not as keen as his Marine partner's, though much of what he'd seen on this day he did like.

"This is a Braque mural on the bottom of this pond. It's so pretty," Mac said, happily snapping photos of the outdoor sculpture.

A few final minutes at the chapel, and the steel fountain just beyond, the water rippling serenely from it's moving parts, were the final stops on their tour of the great museum of the French Riviera.

"All museums should be like this one. It's seems small and intimate, even though we saw lots of artwork in the last hour and a half. It's an amazing collection, but the settings of the pieces - that was really great. More museums should emulate what they've been able to do here."

Mac and Webb just smiled as the commander went on about their visit, wondering what alien species had come and taken over Rabb's body.

Webb pointed the car to Vence. The ride around the rim of the small mountain provided one of the most dramatic views of Saint Paul de Vence, the perched city where Rabb and Mac were staying during this final leg of their Provence journey.

The view took Mac's breath away.

"That is beautiful," Rabb said, echoing Mac's feelings.

"Don't look, Clay," Mac warned, the tight curves and lack of any railing along the precarious edge making her more nervous than expected.

"I've seen it before, Colonel," Webb assured. Mac smiled at the use of her title, and at the silliness of her fear.

Vence turned out to be a revelation, the charming old city engulfed in a vibrant, modern French town. Once they had strolled through the newer section, with its very American looking window displays in the department stores, pharmacies and five and dimes, they approached the arched entryway heralding the old town.

Walking through the arch was like taking a step back several hundred years. The charm was undeniable: shops on lower levels with apartments above, window boxes still overflowing with flowers in early December, laundry blowing in the afternoon breeze. This was far different from the more tourist-laden Saint Paul de Vence: Vence was a town you would actually want to live in.

Mac stopped in what Rabb figured was the sixth or seventh linen shop since their Provence adventure began.

"You're running out of time," he kidded.

"I know. I wanted to get something for Harriet and Bud, but I can't decide which pattern."

"Go with vivid," Webb suggested. "They can get a tablecloth to match the style of their dining room anywhere back home. They can't find a true Provencale original. At least not easily."

Mac smiled at the friendly hint and spent some time deciding as Rabb and Webb waited out in the square. The sun warmed a small section of the square, which is where the two men bided their time.

"How are you feeling Clay? Really." Clayton Webb looked up at the statue adorning the small cathedral before him.

"I'm good. My leg's a little sore."

Rabb smiled. He hadn't expected full disclosure from his friend, and he wasn't disappointed. Despite how much their friendship had developed, Clayton Webb was still a man of many secrets. It was in his training - it was in his blood.

"Really, Harm. I'm fine. I have occasional trouble with my hand."

"And your head?"

"In better shape than yours." The sarcastic, witty though evasive reply told the Navy commander that the CIA agent was still working on that part of his recovery, and was making good progress.

Rabb put his hand on Webb's shoulder.

"Just a reminder, if you ever need to talk.." He was interrupted by the return of his partner.

"I made a decision." She pulled the edge of the tablecloth out of the bag.

"It's great, Mac. Harriet's gonna love it."

"Before we head to lunch," Webb said as he gave Mac a knowing glance, "we should check out this cathedral. I think this is where the Chagall mosaic is."

They walked through the large wooden doors into the smallest cathedral in France. The mosaic was not hard to find, nestled to the left of the nave, the white background striking against the darkness provided by the rest of the church.

The mosaic showed the sun shining over the baby Jesus as he lay below what appeared to be an orange tree, the Virgin Mary standing nearby. In the distance was the sea - a beautiful, typically Provencale rendering of the story of Jesus' birth. And the vivid colors were typically Marc Chagall.

They left the cathedral and enjoyed lunch at a nearby corner café, and then made one more stop before heading back to Saint Paul de Vence.

"Oh my, this is just gorgeous. Look at the reflection of the windows on the wall."

The Matisse chapel was beautiful, the blue tiled roof impossible to miss along the winding road heading up the mountain from the town of Vence.

The outside of the chapel barely hinted at the glories within. The interior was a stark white, though it rarely ever seemed entirely white to the many visitors due to the reflections of yellow, blue and green from the large stained glass windows that adorned entire walls of the chapel. The colors often combined to create more colors that reflected off of the white tiled walls. The building and all of its furnishings, even down to the vestments and the candlesticks, were designed by the aging Henri Matisse.

Webb seemed enthralled, Mac noticed, by the peaceful beauty, the simplicity of the space combining with the beauty of the windows and the moving artwork to provide a warmth and comforting feel to her CIA friend. She had noticed a change in Clay, a gradual one, since he had finished his regimen of therapy following the devastating time in South America. It was hard to describe: not a softening of the man, but more an opening of his heart.

Clayton Webb was obviously a cultured man. He had been raised well, Harvard educated, and his home in Alexandria was proof of his refined taste and varied talents: a cellist, a pianist, a horseman, an Olympian. He had enjoyed the luxury of wealth and the good things in life.

What had changed, of late, was that he now seemed to hold a deeper appreciation of those good things, and for the simple things that he may have taken for granted in the past. Allowing Harmon Rabb back in his life was an indication of Clay's change of perspective. Certainly life was too short to cheat oneself of a good friendship.

Mac would not wish what happened to Clay in the Chaco Boreal on anyone, but she felt thankful that what he went through had led to such a positive change in the man before her.

They headed back to Saint Paul de Vence for some leisurely window-shopping. They quickly realized that midday was the wrong time of day to stroll through the medieval perched village, the many upscale shops having lured large numbers of tourists.

"Let's try something else," Webb suggested, the mobs of shoppers clearly getting on his nerves.

"If it means getting away from these crowds, I'm in," Rabb hoped.

"You two should go back and take a rest, get your packing done. We can meet up again at about seventeen thirty. We'll have just enough light to tour the cemetery.."

"We can check out Chagall's gravesite," Mac interrupted.

"Right. The Maeght family, from the Fondation, is also buried there. Then we can walk through the village to the other side, then walk into town for an early, leisurely final dinner."

Mac looked sad at the thought. Clay put his hand on her arm and rubbed it affectionately.

"It's okay, Sarah. We can always come back. Provence isn't going anywhere."

"There's no guarantee there, considering the French," Rabb said, hinting at the recent difficult relations between the European power and the United States.

None of them disagreed much with the sentiment, the threat of terrorism everywhere did not guarantee a safe future anywhere in the world. They all agreed, though, that it should be a discussion for a different time and place.

"That's all I'm saying," Rabb smiled.

"I'm proud of you, Harm," Mac kidded.

********

"This was a great trip, Clay. Thanks."

"It's been a pleasure. I was happy to do it. I've enjoyed your company, Harm. Surprise, surprise."

"Oh will you two stop it? I'd like to make a toast." Rabb and Webb held up their wine glasses as Mac lifted her glass of Orangina. "To friends and good times." It was a toast they all willingly drank to.

Webb looked up and was surprised to see a familiar face zooming through the casual dining room. He was about to call to him, when the man caught a glimpse of the American and said from across the room, "It cannot be." He quickly relieved himself of the tray of beverages for another table and made his way to theirs.

Webb stood and was enveloped in a warm, friendly hug by the Frenchman, the requisite European greeting of a kiss on either cheek exchanged between the two. They spoke briefly in French to one another, the muted tones indecipherable to Webb's dining companions.

"Harm, Sarah, this is Jacques, an old friend. Jacques Pascal, my friends Harmon Rabb and Sarah MacKenzie. Apparently, Jacques is now the owner of this fine establishment."

"We saw you running around yesterday." Rabb and Mac had found the casual dining place on a walk they had taken the previous evening while Webb was doing company business in Nice.

"We have been surprisingly busy, and we are one person short. We run a tight ship as it is."

"Jacques was the chef at one of my favorite restaurants back in the States."

"I worked in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. Who would have thought that such intrigue would go on in so nice of a place," Jacques laughed, the French accent distinct but not the least troublesome due to his clear command of English.

"Jacques helped me on a case, once. I enlisted his help when he was the chef at The Lark."

"Well, since you're here, Jacques, maybe you could help us. Our waiter, who doesn't speak English as well as you, couldn't help us with one of the translations on the specials board. Could you tell us what this is?"

"Clay, you couldn't help with this?" Jacques kidded his friend.

"No, this one escapes me," Webb smiled.

"Well, Marcel used to describe it as 'Bambi'. Marcel doesn't work here anymore. It's venison, of course."

"Of course," Mac and Webb laughed together.

"We've already ordered. We were just curious," Rabb added.

"So you were here last night. I'm sorry I missed you."

"Like I said, you were a whirlwind last night."

"As I am tonight. I hope you enjoy your time here. Clay, great to see you. Have the pates avec des truffes. And lots of bread. I think you could use some meat on those bones." The CIA agent shook his head as Jacques patted him on the back and hurried back to the job at hand.

"Another spy?" Rabb asked.

"Retired. What exactly am I doing wrong?"

The table was quiet. After what Clayton Webb had been through, there was no reason for him to get back into the espionage business. He had paid his dues. He had family money - he did not need to work. Despite his comment about retirement, everyone at the table knew that he was kidding, that Webb's commitment to serving his country was as profound as ever.

The meal was leisurely, casual. Occasionally a huge Boxer, his deep brown coloring and equally brown eyes combining for quite a commanding presence, visited them. His parents sat at the table next to them, their daughter leaving her seat to draw the big guy back to his place with them whenever he ventured too far away.

The entrees complete, the course of goat cheese in olive oil and pesto devoured, and dessert well under way, the three chatted about the times they'd shared over the years, both good and bad. Their friendship had withstood a terrible trauma this year, but as they sat in the restaurant and enjoyed this time together, they all saw that the season was bringing them to good times: they were definitely due for a turn at peace, health and happiness.

Their waiter Marc brought the bill and the credit card back, Mac having insisted on paying for this evening's final meal in Provence. The waiter placed the folder with the credit card and the receipt in front of Webb. Webb nonchalantly pushed the folder in front of Sarah MacKenzie.

Marc, seeing the exchange, paused just briefly and said, "This is very good for you, monsieurs."

Yes, it was very good indeed.

Fin