by Allie Hayden
“I gathered that,” I said. Then I remembered my quest. “What I wondered is if you have a number or email for his father.”
Charlotte looked taken aback. “I do,” she said slowly. “But why do you want this?”
“Well, you see, I have a few connections—friends really—who are in the publishing business, and I wondered if I might help Mr. Wilde to get published and possibly to help him to reconcile with his father.”
“I think that is impossible,” said Charlotte. “Although I will send you his father’s email address. He will be attending the Cannes Film Festival next week.”
“That would be delightful, Charlotte.” I stood, feeling foolish again. I thought I detected a hint of jealousy from Charlotte. I decided not to pursue this line of questioning. Instead, I turned on my heel and left without another word.
Upstairs, in the evening, I decided to call my husband again. It was hopeless having this albatross around my neck. I was about to dial when I noticed that I had an email, and it had been there for a while.
It was from Bill. Momentarily, I was worried. This was surely some sort of explanation for why he had been aloof since I left, and I was not sure I wanted to know the answer.
I decided to leave it there for a little while, at least until I sorted out my own emotions. I had done my due diligence with Bill, and although it was his turn, I was not emotionally ready for any kind of rejection.
Instead, I opened the email from Charlotte, clicked on the address for Nathan Wilde, and began to compose an email. Before I was finished, I realized that I needed help, so I wrote another email to my friend in publishing, Amanda Hamilton. She had been a girlfriend to one of my friends from Julliard, and I’d maintained contact with her through all the years.
“Dear Amanda,” I wrote, “Long time no see. I have been going through a lot of life changes lately, and some of them have led me down a strange path, some of them good, others difficult. One of them had me cross paths with a young man who is a particular talent, and I wanted to alert you to him. His name is Darius Wilde, and he was a pretty successful writer a few years ago, but sort of fell off the conveyor belt when his rich father disinherited him, and he moved to Provence.
“Well, guess what? I’m in Provence, and I am staying at this bastide here in Le Castellet. He let me read some of this work, and it is brilliant. I know you are always on the lookout for brilliant young writers and so I wanted you to be the first to know about this guy. (It doesn’t hurt that he’s not hard on the eyes, either, in case you thought this was totally altruistic.)
“In any case, I really think you should read his work, and I will try to get him to send it to you, if you are open to it. I hope you are well, my dear, and I hope so much to see you soon.
Love, Cecil.”
Mission accomplished. I’ll just wait to see what she’ll say and what he wants. Before I had even completed the thought, Amanda wrote back.
“Send ASAP. I need a book, and I need it soon. This is amazing, the coincidence. Knopf is desperate for new talent. What’s he got?”
I was taken aback. “I’m not sure. I read some short stories, and they knocked my socks off. Let me talk to him.”
I leaped off the bed and ran down the stairs, noticing Charlotte’s look of alarm as I flew by. I hightailed it out the door to the cottage.
Chapter 16
(Cecilia)
Darius was sitting at his computer when he must’ve noticed the flash go by his window. From his lack of action, the insistent banging on his door might’ve convinced him it was probably Charlotte again. It was early evening, and he wasn’t expecting company. After a few moment of silence, he gingerly opened the door.
“Darius, I need to talk to you.” I said. He was suddenly confused about everything. Where was Charlotte? How had she not let me know that he was not to be disturbed? He would have to talk to her. “Cecilia, you look worried. Is everything okay?”
“Better than okay. Darius, your work is miraculous, and it needs to be read.”
He smiled. Then shook his head. “Alas, that is not to be. I am a solitary man, and I need my privacy. You don’t understand the level of bitterness my father is able to muster.”
I had nothing much to lose; I had gone as far as a person could go in changing their life, and this was one of those steps that would need to be done in order to pass muster. In fact, it was almost. It was an initiation into my new life.
I remembered the weird initiation ceremonies in Mozart’s The Magic Flute, a show I had always loved playing, and never, ever understood. It was like what Pamina had to go through to enter into whatever new reality awaited her. I bit my lip and turned to Darius.
“Now you listen to me, and you listen good: I am not here to make you accept life as it was; I am here to help you change, to shake off the lethargy and turn you into a new man. And before you say another word,” I added, noticing that he was readying himself to speak, “I will not take ‘no’ for an answer. Give me your writing in electronic form. Send it to me by email; I have a friend who is desperate for a book, and I told her you are a genius.” Again he tried to open his mouth, but I stepped forward, and put my index finger on his lips shushing him.
“I’m sorry to be so forceful, and to be perfectly honest, I haven’t the foggiest idea where this is all coming from, but I have a few things I need to say to get them off my chest. Will you hear me out? I’m afraid this is all going to come crashing down around my ears if I stop before I have said everything I have on my mind.”
Darius nodded, totally dumbfounded.
“Today, something very meaningful has happened to me, and it is something that has never happened to me before: a man—you—treated me like something precious, like something worthy of love, like someone worthy of the greatest experiences in the world. I can’t even begin to tell you how meaningful it all has been to me.
“I really and truly mean that. It was a lot more than a roll in the hay for me—it was something so profound that I was left breathless. My husband is a good man, a strong Midwesterner, but he is no romantic. He is also finished, and I think that is obvious. I need to move forward with my life, with my career, with the passion I have expressed in my music for many years. And today, for the first time, I expressed it through physical intimacy. I didn’t recognize it until I read your story of the cellist in the woods. You know the one I mean?”
He nodded.
“Well, I now know—I mean, I don’t want to put thoughts or words into your mouth, but I want to do it like that forever. I mean, I don’t know if I am in love with you, but I definitely am in lust with you.” I blushed at this. “Please believe me, Darius—I need this. So badly.”
Darius smiled. He nodded again.
“And so, I want to be the help to you that you have been to me. Do you understand? This is not temporary insanity—well, maybe it is, but I don’t think it is—it is a sincere feeling that I can show you and that I know you can show me. Now tell me this, Darius, are you willing to walk this crazy road with me?”
“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he said, laughing. I was dumbfounded. I paused.
“Jesus Christ!” I said while staggering. “So, I am asking for you to take me to dinner; take me to dinner, take me forever. Take me as a woman needs to be taken. Will you do this for me?”
“Yes, Cecilia, I will.”
“Then it’s settled. I’m going. Pick me up in one hour. Make that reservation if you can.”
“It was never canceled,” he said laughing.
And with that, I left. Darius sent me the files for his great novel, the coming of age story of the young man in Denver who discovered the meaning of life in the most unlikely way possible—through the love of a woman, a powerful and amazing married woman who showed him that love is not only a physical thing, not only an emotional thing, not only a spiritual thing, but the wedding of all three.
He had written me an email that came along with the story, telling of the stor
y of him writing it in a fury last year when he was in the depths of despair. He’d worked on it every day for more than a year. It was perfect, and, he thought, a lost and unreadable gem.
Through the window of the bastide, I watched the light in Darius’ cottage go out and I watched still until the light leading to the shower turned on. Through the window of the bathroom, I could make out minor details. He undressed, revealing his bare chest and stepped into the shower.
I decided that perhaps I should busy myself, drawing my attention to the pen and paper on my bed. I traced out the innotation of musical notes within my sheet music. And when that couldn’t hold my attention, I decided I would go get ready myself.
In exactly one hour, Thierry, the cab driver who had brought me to him was standing at the door of the bastide, looking peculiarly different..
I came down the stairs dressed in a beautiful cobalt floor-length gown with a deep decolletage, and a pair of stunning Manolo Blahnik Celsus heels that accentuated my shapely legs. It made me look like a dream as I swept toward Darius. He could not contain his joy and smiled broadly. I stopped inches from him, looked him up and down, and laughed.
He was dressed in a dark black suit, and the shirt he chose was a beautiful Brooks Brothers button-down shirt in a classic white. He put a Windsor knot into a pale green silk tie. He had a matching pocket square. He slipped on his Ermenegildo Zegna black box calf Maurizio Oxford shoes.
“I had no idea I was getting this amazing package,” I said, grasping his arm, and allowing him to lead me to the waiting car.
Darius, for his part, was unable to speak. So many things had happened so suddenly that he was utterly lost for words. This man of so many words, so terribly lost for a single syllable. He just smiled like a fool all the way to the restaurant as Thierry tried out his English on me.
“Madam, you is look so beauty this night. I never see so beauty a thing.”
“Why thank you, Thierry,” I blushed, “Your English is very good.” Somehow, my words were not that convincing.
“Oh, madame, you is too niceness,” he said with great feeling. This conversation continued unabated for several minutes until the restaurant appeared out of the gloom.
Chapter 17
(Cecilia)
The first thing that caught my eye was the cheeky sign—a red-painted man with his hands to his nose in a gesture that appeared to be some saucy sign language. The restaurant was brightly lit and joyful. Le Pied de Nez.
It was shortly after nine, and I was starving, although only a few of the tables were occupied, and some of the wait staff was still eating dinner. As they saw Darius enter, they all quickly cleared their spots and rushed to help him.
The maitre d’hotel arose and greeted Darius. I was entranced when Darius replied. Whatever he said clearly impressed the maitre d’, and we were ushered to a private room in the back of the restaurant.
Without ordering a thing, small plates began to appear, paired with wines I could not identify. First was a plate of cold cuts that was described as “Charcuterie Corse artisanale de montagne, porc élevé sous les châtaigneraies de Cozzano1.”
“This wine is a Beaujolais-Villages Combe aux Jacques, Louis Jadot, ‘82, I believe,” said Darius. “These cold cuts are from Corsica, which is just beyond the horizon,” explained Darius, matter-of-factly. “And so, it is sort of the holiday destination for those who live here. And it is fairly exotic too.”
“This food is simply heavenly!” I proclaimed, grasping Darius’ strong hand. As I took his hand, a waiter came and scooped up the plate, unfinished, and placed a bowl filled with mussels. “Moules gratinées au beurre provençal et aux amandes2,” he announced with a certain amount of joy.
“This wine is a Domaine Philippe & Vincent Jaboulet Hermitage Blanc; it’s a Roussanne from around here, and these mussels are a Provençale specialty,” explained Darius. The butter sauce was the most erotic food I’d ever tasted. Each mussel was drenched in butter, and it slid down my throat like something akin to an edible orgasm. Sipping the wine, it all felt like my dreams were becoming liquid.
“My God, this is incredible,” I exclaimed. Before I had time to catch my breath, the plate was taken away and replaced with “Soupe de poissons de rôche, pêchés pas trop loin, croûtons et parmesan3,” a sort of bouillabaisse. Somehow, I knew this was the local dish. The wine glass was taken, half-drunk, and replaced with another.
“This is a rosé wine,” explained Darius. “This region is famous for its rosés, and Domaine Philippe & Vincent Jaboulet Hermitage Blanc, 2016 is the best I know.”
While I was not a huge fan of fish, this was one of the most delightful dishes. I had a plate of crusty baguette torn into pieces that was absolutely perfect for dipping. Darius also relished this bouillabaisse, and the smiles on each of our faces made the joy palpable. I looked deep into Darius’ eyes, smiling like a fool, and knowing with each bite that I had finally found my happy place.
“I can’t even imagine what could follow this,” I said, standing and looking out the window at the dark and beautiful rolling hills. But within minutes, another dish appeared. “Risotto de queue de bœuf, jeunes courgettes et truffes d'été4,” the waiter announced with aplomb. I did not even wait for him to disappear before I dug my spoon into the viscous rice dish, tasting for the first time the elusive truffle, harvested by truffle-sniffing pigs. “Can you imagine the work that went into this?” I wondered. Darius simply took a spoonful and gasped. “It is stunning!” he remarked.
There was a long period in which the waiters knew better than to enter. This was the cue needed to help us two physicalize our adoration towards each other. Darius took my chin and kissed me hard on the lips, giving me goosebumps.
“Please let this never end,” I said as I kissed him back, tenderly and forcefully. He grasped me around the waist and laid me down on the banquette, giving himself to me with all the passion he had pent up for so many years.
There was something about this meal that did what only the French could do—provide a physical manifestation of joy, a way to show the awe they each had for the other.
“It can’t end,” I said, and he understood that there would be only happiness in our future if we could make a few things work.
After a long period, we sat there quietly admiring one another, holding hands and bathing in the miracle that was unfolding around us. Then the waiter appeared once again with a plate. “Et finalement, madame et monsieur, ‘Brownie au chocolat bio de Sao Tomé, crème légère5,’” he said proudly, placing two small glasses of port beside the plate, and disappearing.
“I honestly don’t know if I can have that dessert,” I said, looking overwhelmed. “It is all so delicious, and it seems to match our mood perfectly. Don’t you think?”
“That was the idea,” said Darius, smiling and taking my hand again. I sipped the port and felt the ambrosia slide down my throat. Something about the taste of the sweet liquid made me come back to reality.
“Darius,” I said quietly.
“What is it, my love?” he said tenderly.
I swallowed and smiled; this was a phrase I hadn’t heard in many years. “I just want to be clear about my intentions, and I want you to be clear too. Everything is so sudden, but I have been neglected by my husband for many years. Something about the last few days has left me both breathless and intoxicated with wonder.
“I talked to Charlotte about you, and she assures me that our interactions are not the norm for you, and that made me feel better. But I also want to be honest with you. I never do this. In fact, in all the years I have been married, I have never cheated on Bill, and so I need you to know that I am no cheater and not a fling seeker. I don’t know or understand what has happened, but my feelings are sincere and honest, and if you are playing a game, then let’s say that it has been really fun and agree to part ways now.”
“Cecilia, believe me when I tell you this. I’ve been a solitary man for many years. I have not sought out a woman’s
company, and I never dreamed that this would happen when you first contacted me. That's not to say that I'm not overjoyed; I love spending time with you, and I want everything to work out between us. I would never play games with you.”
I heard his words, and my heart melted. I’d yearned to hear this kind of talk from Bill, had tried many times to make our marriage romantic, but Bill was a practical man, and never gave me what I needed. “I do believe you, Darius. I just can’t believe this dream is coming true.”
“It does pose a problem though,” said Darius. “Your relationship with Bill is not finished, and I believe we need closure before we can continue. How do you feel?”
“I couldn't agree more,” I said. In a matter of minutes, while we nursed our espressos, Thierry appeared with the car, and we were on our way back to the bastide. The dark night swirled by us, mirroring my confusion. I never prayed for myself, but this time I quietly uttered a short plea underneath my breath. “Please, God, let this work out.” Darius smiled in the dark car.
Chapter 18
(Cecilia)
In my room, I was smiling in spite of myself. And as happy as I was that evening, there was something unfinished about the night; that thing was…my marriage. I picked up my phone to call Bill, knowing it was eight in the morning in Minneapolis, when I noticed a blinking message. With some trepidation, I pushed the button to my voice mail and listened, knowing it was Bill. I hoped it was not about where his steak was.
It wasn’t. “Cess, this is Bill, your husband. I need to talk to you. [Pause.] Aw heck, Cess, I just gotta come right out and say it. I have been untrue. I’ve been seeing Gert. You know, our neighbor down the block who lost her husband last year? Well, we’ve been going around together, and I know you are ready to check out and so I wanted to let you know that we are on the same page. Me and Gert are an item and I want…no, I need to come clean and just let it all air out. What do you say, Cess? Give me a ring when you get a sec. Over and out.”
