Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Sisters in Arms
Looking around Cheryl’s driveway, studying the faces she had known for so many years, Jackie thought about life and its many mysteries. So much had changed, so many miles had been traveled and yet, once again with Cheryl and Doris, Jackie could have been standing anywhere in time. High school, college, the marriage years . . . they all blended together. It was nice to feel that familiarity and have the knowledge that there were two people in the world who, no matter what, would always be her family.
“I missed you girls,” Jackie said. “I’m glad to be back.”
Cheryl let out a breath, putting her hand to her head. “After I got hit, Stan asked me who to call and I realized . . . you’re my only friends. My real friends, I mean.”
“Well, we all certainly hit the jackpot,” Jackie chirped, adjusting her bag. She was beaming inside. “Momma Jackie’s in town,” she said, glancing once again at the SUV. “I’m taking care of you now.”
For a moment, the three friends stood silent. They might be a triangle of broken hearts, broken heads, and—Jackie glanced back at the rental car—broken dreams, but at least they were together.
“Je t’aime,” she said. “I love you guys. Let’s go.”
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Ellingsen.
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ellingsen, Cynthia.
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-51754-3
1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Businesswomen—Fiction. 3. Restaurateurs—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.L43785W48 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010051952
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Ryan, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had a ball writing this novel—thank you so much to the amazing team that helped to make it happen. Wendy McCurdy, you are my hero. I am eternally grateful for your kindness, insight, and clever editing. Katherine Pelz, thank you for your amazing support. You show me how it’s done. Stephen Barr, you know how much I love your e-mails. And Jon Cassir, just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, you came along. You are absolutely brilliant in every way.
Finally, where would The Whole Package be without Dan Lazar at Writer’s House? Dan, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support, expertise, and incredible humor. I am so honored to work with you. With each and every note, you’ve dragged me kicking and screaming toward being a better writer. You’re a rock star.
Huge thanks to my fabulous friends and to my wonderful Whole Package of a husband, Ryan. Mom, thank you for a lifetime of enthusiasm and can-do spirit. Carolyn, thank you for teaching me to read when I was way too young. And, Dad, everywhere I look, you’re still there. I love you all madly.
Love demands infinitely less than friendship.
—GEORGE JEAN NATHAN
Chapter One
FRENCH IS A SEXY LANGUAGE. EXCEPT, OF COURSE, IF YOU ARE standing in line at a French café and the French you hear is a nasal, drawn-out, “Fat American.” Unnecessary, especially if you are simply trying to buy a chocolate croissant to dip into the first cappuccino of the day.
Jackie—and yes, she still preferred to be called Jackie and not Jacqueline, even though she was closing in on forty instead of the throat of the snickering girl behind her—whirled around.
“Did you just call me fat?”
A French girl stared back at her. The girl had the audacity to cock her head. A yes.
Jackie was stunned. Okay, fine—and a little hurt. Such a judgment was the last thing she expected in this cheerful neighborhood café with its brightly painted walls, kitschy produce art, and erratically placed wildflowers. Even the French sayings on the wall, written in such careful, scrolling script, were meant to inspire good cheer, not snappy little insults.
&
nbsp; “Well, I am not fat!” Jackie said. And this was not in French, because after two years in the country she spoke French perfectly, and proving it was no longer important. “I am sexy.”
A mustached host had been writing out specials on a blackboard with squeaking chalk. At this, he paused and took a look. Jackie ran her palms over her curvy hips and considered giving a slight shimmy. The man gave a nod in agreement and went back to the specials.
The French girl sniffed. She was dressed in all black, a total cliché. She was holding a sniveling, trendy dog. Its shaky face was framed by a bejeweled collar and its droopy eyes stared, along with everyone else in the cinnamon-scented café.
“Perhaps you should order something to eat,” Jackie said, pointedly eyeing the girl’s bony frame. “You’re probably just suffering from low blood sugar.”
“Casse-toi.”
Jackie’s jaw dropped. Drawing herself up to her full height of five three (five six with her three-inch pumps), Jackie said, “If you want to live off of cigarettes and red wine and ignore the delicacies your country has to offer, you go right ahead. But I would rather get chased out of Le Bon Marché by a firing squad than strut around in a body that looks like it was stolen from an eight-year-old boy.”
The French girl gasped.
“I am going to embrace my sensuality,” Jackie said. “I am going to improve upon it. And,” she stood a bit taller, “it is gonna happen with a chocolate croissant.”
There was silence in the café for a moment. Even the hiss of the cappuccino machine stilled. Then a gray-haired lady in the corner clapped. Just like in the movies. One by one, the little tables with their fashionably angular, well-dressed guests joined in until the majority of the café cheered with a passion not unlike the drunken crowds spilling out of the Stade de France after a futbol match.
Jackie rewarded them all with a sugary smile and a toss of her blond, Goldie Hawn–inspired hair. She flipped back around to the counter to pay for her treat.
“But, madame . . .” The cashier practically whispered. “We have no chocolate croissant today.”
The skinny kid at the cash register was pale. Jackie had come to loathe pale men. France did not have enough sun. She leaned forward, showing cleavage soft as the dough of an unbaked roll. “Then how about a hot chocolate . . .”
“. . . And a tartlette?”
The kid was trying. “Are you American?” she asked.
“British.”
Jackie considered his pallor. Yes, he was. “Thanks, honey,” she said, rewarding him with a smile. “That sounds nice.”
The cashier handed over a rich cup of steaming hot chocolate. It warmed Jackie’s hands through her black leather gloves, the ones with the pink hearts in the center.
“No charge,” the pale kid assured her. His grin was thousand-watt.
Jackie hesitated, caught up.
Ever since her husband had died two years ago, there had been arm-prickling moments when she felt Robert was still present, popping up in the strangest places. Not as a phantasm or anything like that. After all, Robert had been much too vain to channel through, for example, the body of this kid. Much more his style was that Frenchman in the corner with the perfectly coordinated scarf and beret, or maybe that sultry redhead nibbling at her macaron. No, Jackie just saw his memory in other people. There was a certain sparkle Robert had that drew her in from the very start, that day at the Taste of Chicago festival, so many years ago. Granted, that sparkle might have been the diamond nestled in his Cartier watch . . . but Jackie wasn’t one to dwell on trifles.
“You are so beautiful,” the cashier said now, staring at her.
The French patrons began to stir. Characteristically abrupt in their enthusiasm, a cloud of impatience was settling over the line behind her. There was a definitive clicking of umbrella tips against the tile floor, keeping time like the second hand of a clock. Euros jangled, rubbed together in restless palms.
“I could be your mother,” Jackie told him. With a wink, she laid a few extra euros on the counter. “Go buy your girlfriend something nice.”
Smiling at the anorexic French girl on her way out, Jackie made a point of banging that door with the bells. They jingled as she left the café. The sound reminded her of the holidays more than those white lights always hanging from the trees along the block.
Jackie breathed in the crisp air and looked around in delight. The French bustled in and out of brightly colored doors, carrying paper-wrapped parcels, bottles of wine, and boulangerie-bought pastries. A small farmer’s market flourished on the corner, practically spilling its wares out into the narrow streets. The fresh fruits and vegetables were plump and plentiful for the old ladies, who, with their sensible black shoes and string bags, came every day to paw through stacks of potatoes, onions, carrots, and parsley, speaking loudly to each other in heavily accented French.
“Pédaler dans la choucroute,” Jackie liked to mutter when she walked by, as though she were in on their conversation. The French phrase made her laugh. Literally, it meant “to pedal in the sauerkraut,” but pédaler dans la choucroute really meant getting nowhere fast. It was the perfect description for these old ladies on the hunt. After all, they were going to do the same thing the next day and the next day and the next . . .
As Jackie walked by a sidewalk café, a group of women drinking garnet-colored wine lifted their glasses and cheered as a pretty French girl dashed over to them. With perfect grace, the girl kissed her friends and then placed herself in the center with a ceremonious flop. They all started speaking at once and Jackie put her hand to her chest. Scenes like these made her miss her best friends, Cheryl and Doris, so much that she almost wanted to cry.
“But you are in Par-eeh, darling,” she tried saying out loud. “Who needs Schaumburg, Illinois?”
Jackie passed by a wine bar filled with French patrons, all shouting gaily to one another. A man by the window was smoking, drawing from his cigarette as if he were kissing a lover. Noticing her, the man gave a little nod and Jackie nodded back but kept walking. Smoking was something she no longer indulged in. Of course, this rule did seem slightly perverse in a country where smoking was practically the national pastime but Jackie was not willing to risk death for something so silly.
Back in the day, Jackie had started smoking only because Cheryl had made her. Cheryl had stolen pack after pack from her older brothers but refused to gasp and choke on them alone. So, Cheryl and Jackie would sneak out behind the high school, giggling and puffing and feeling very adult. By college, Jackie was the one who had ended up as an Official Smoker.
“It’s the tortured artist in me,” she’d kid Robert, whenever he eyed her Virginia Slims with distaste.
Robert finally got her to stop with that impromptu trip to Vegas, gently pushing her toward the roulette table. “Now this time,” Robert had said at the very end of the game, when she was left holding only one chip, “pretend every spot on the board, except the number you pick, is lung cancer. Just try and win.”
Clapping and cheering, Jackie dropped her last chip on number seven, the number of years she’d been smoking. The little ball bounced around the helm, carelessly deciding her fate. When the ball landed on fifteen and the table runner swept Jackie’s last chip from the table, Robert said, “Hmm. Not great odds . . .” and Jackie had mashed out her cigarette for the last time.
“Thank you for that, my darling,” Jackie said now. Her voice echoed down the cobblestone streets and she stomped her feet a little, just to hear her shoes clickety-clack on the walk.
Turning the corner, Jackie saw her building loom into sight and she smiled. It was so very French; too bare yet too ornate. The skeleton could have been a jail, all redbrick and intimidation, but it managed to find its beauty in the details. Those whimsical stained-glass windows, the way those copper pieces hung like tassels from the roof gutters, and, of course, those wrought-iron balconies lined with ivy at every twist and turn . . .
Letting herself into the
lobby, Jackie enjoyed the high ceilings and bright murals as she clickety-clacked her way to her mailbox. After turning the tiny gold key in the lock, she pulled out bills and another piece of airmail from the lawyer who was handling Robert’s estate. The sight of the weathered envelope made her stomach turn. Jackie had hoped that by ignoring these letters she could make them go away. Clearly, that wasn’t going to be the case.
Once upstairs, Jackie made a point of jiggling her key loudly in the lock. Hopefully, it would be enough warning for Christian. It was. By the time she had made her way into the main room, the Chinese partition had been pulled across his work area.
Christian had purchased the screen at some rummage sale, and it depended on Jackie’s mood whether the red serpent chased by golden scrolls was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen or the most disturbing. Either way, the rip in the lower corner gave her a view into his workspace but Jackie didn’t look. The rustling and soft moans told her everything she didn’t want to know. To her friends, she excused the philandering of her young boyfriend with his very own argument: “But he’s an artiste.”
An artiste with brooding Italian eyes that kept her hooked. That and cherry red lips coupled with cheekbones higher than any woman’s. And his body hair—you would think, gross, who wants to think about hair in any form, but Jackie wanted a rhinestone T-shirt to share it with the world: CHRISTIAN’S HAIR IS SPUN SILK! Not pubish, like American men’s.
Finishing the last nibble of her pastry, Jackie tossed its waxy paper bag into the trash and eyed the envelope from the lawyer. She imagined chubby little George with his chubby little fingers painstakingly sealing it. Typically, a successful lawyer would leave such tasks to his assistant but George liked to joke that licking an envelope addressed to her helped him pretend he was brave enough to send her a love letter. Jackie had thrown back her head and laughed loud and long at that one. George was such a shameless flirt.
The Whole Package Page 1
