Thirty minutes later, Chantal turns off the A9 and heads east toward Avignon. The luxury car whizzes by small villages with unpronounceable names, like Estézargues and Valliguière.
Chantal takes a sharp turn onto a narrow drive lined with towering plane trees.
“If you look ahead, you will soon catch your first glimpse of Château de Caumont.” Chantal waves to an elderly man carrying a basket laden with blackish-purple olives. “That is Monsieur Levant. He manages the olive harvest and the production of the Huile d’Olive de Caumont.”
“The château produces olive oil?”
“Oui,” Chantal proudly says. “We must produce olive oil to help offset the tremendous expense of maintaining such a grand historic estate.”
“What a clever idea.”
“It was my brother-in-law’s idea. He is a—” Chantal looks in the mirror at Fanny and says, “Comment pouvez-vous dire magicien?”
“Wizard.”
Chantal snaps her fingers.
“La! But of course!” Chantal smiles. “Weezard. My brother-in-law, he is a weezard with finances.”
I thought about my meager savings account and wonder if Chantal’s brother-in-law could use his wizardry to pad my coffers. I seriously doubt my unemployment checks will cover the cost of rent and my rampant chocolate addiction.
“Did you grow up in the château?”
“Non. The château has been in my husband’s family for over three hundred years. It was constructed in the thirteenth century but awarded to Francois de Caumont for his loyalty to Louis the fourteenth, the Sun King. It sits on the banks of the river Durance and is the loveliest estate in the south of France.”
The Mercedes emerges from the shade of the tree-lined road and onto a sunlit circular drive, rumbling over uneven stones. Château de Caumont is breathtaking. Breathtaking has got to be one of the most overused words in the English language, but in this case, it truly fits.
“Wow!”
Chantal pulls to a stop and turns to look at us. “C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”
Fanny and I nod. The medieval castle is truly magnificent. In the bright afternoon sunshine, the stone walls glow amber and the terracotta tile roof looks aflame.
“Although it was conceived as a fortified structure with thick stone walls, battlements, six towers, and a gatehouse, over the centuries Château de Caumont has been modified to function more as a baronial home.” Chantal’s cheeks flush. “Forgive me. I was an associate professor of architectural studies at Université Montpellier. Medieval structures are my passion.”
“Don’t apologize.” I like passionate people like Chantal. I dig their energy. “I would love to hear more about the château.”
“Really?”
“Bien sûr!”
“Perhaps after you have settled into your room, you would like a tour of the château?”
“Magnifique!”
Chantal opens the driver’s door and Fanny nudges me with her elbow.
“Look at you,” she whispers. “In France less than twenty four hours and already you’re speaking like a native.”
“Hardly,” I laugh. “However, if you’d like a coffee with milk, I’m your girl.”
Chapter 8
Les-bee Honest
I am retrieving my carry-on from the trunk of the Mercedes when a tall, handsome man with a bandaged foot hobbles out of the château.
“Bienvenue!” He leans in and kisses my right, left, and then right cheek again. “Welcome. You must be Madame Edwards. Welcome to Château de Caumont and zee beginning of a most remarkable adventure. I am Philippe de Caumont.”
Chantal’s husband speaks with a thick French accent and exudes a bonhomie that makes me almost forget I have come to France on my honeymoon without a groom.
“Merci, Monsieur.”
He looks over my shoulder at Fanny and his brow knits together in confusion.
“Euh, but zees is not Monsieur Edwards.” Philippe narrows his gaze on his wife. “Chantal, ce n'est pas Monsieur et Madame Edwards. Tu avais choisi les mauvais Américains!”
“Chut!” Chantal jabs her husband’s side. “Tais-toi!”
A confused Philippe rubs his side, looking from his wife to Fanny, and then at me. Finally, his eyes light up and he smiles.
“Ah! Vous êtes amantes? Lesbiennes, c’est ça?”
My comprehension of French might be woefully inadequate considering my love of the language, but I don’t need Fanny to translate Philippe’s questions. He thinks we are lesbian lovers.
“Oh my God, no!”
“Eet is no problem. I like zee lesbians.”
Chantal groans and presses a hand to her face.
A pair of poodles bound out of the château and toward us, their tongues lulling and their manicured tails wagging.
Philippe holds his hand up and the poodles skid to a stop.
“Impressive.”
“Do not let zem fool you. Zey belong to my brother and zey are wicked creatures.” Philippe fluffs their heads. “Dumas. Maupassant. Asseyez-vous!”
The poodles sit.
“What did you just call them?”
“Dumas and Maupassant.”
“You named your dogs after writers?”
“My brother named zem. He is a professeur de littérature.” Philippe looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “You know Dumas and Maupassant?”
I nod. “Alexandre Dumas and Guy de Maupassant are two of my favorite authors.”
“Vivia est une écrivaine,” Fanny says.
Philippe’s smile stretches across his face. “A writer? But that is marvelous! Perhaps we should begin again, Mademoiselle? My name is Philippe. You are?”
“Bonjour, Philippe,” I hold out my hand and Philippe shakes it. “Je suis Vivia Grant et elle est mon amie, Stéphanie Moreau.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Caumont,” Fanny says.
“Philippe, s’il vous plaît.”
“Philippe.”
Chantal steps up. “Monsieur Edwards could not make it, so Mademoiselle Grant has invited Mademoiselle Moreau to join her.”
“I am sorry for the change in plans. I hope it won’t create too much of an inconvenience?”
“Bah!” Philippe waves his hand. “I should be apologizing to you. I will not be able to guide you on zee tour because of my accident tragique.” Wincing, Philippe gestures to his bandaged foot.
“That looks painful.”
“I will survive, Mademoiselle.” Philippe pauses and emits a dramatic, tortured sigh. “I am only sorry my accident tragique has rendered me useless.”
Chantal snorts. “Accident tragique!”
“Do not be cruel, chérie. Can you not see I am suffering?”
Chantal raises a brow.
Curiosity and fear prod me to interject. “Did you hurt your foot on a bike tour? Did someone crash into you?”
“Ha!” Chantal chortles. “Nothing quite so dramatic, mon amie.”
Philippe flushes red.
“My valiant husband was wounded while attempting to uncork a bottle of Calvados.”
“Ungrateful woman! You do not appreciate zee sacrifices I make for your health and happiness.” Philippe sniffs. “Eet was a very heavy bottle.”
Fanny and I laugh at Philippe and Chantal’s lighthearted repartee. They’re obviously in love with each other. I think of Nathan. Did we ever exchange witty, playful banter? I don’t think so.
Philippe pretends to ignore his wife.
“Mademoiselles, I am afraid my wound has taken me out of commission. However, I am placing you in capable hands. Jean-Luc is a superior guide and rider.”
“Ah yes, the inimitable Jean-Luc, bike riding phenom and leader of flabby American maggots.”
Did I just say that out loud? Judging from Fanny’s wide-eyed expression that would be a resounding oui.
I want to slap my hand over my mouth. Ugly confession: I turn wick
ed sarcastic when I am anxious.
Chantal’s brow furrows. Fortunately, Fanny intervenes, firing off in rapid French. I can’t follow her, but I imagine she is telling the perplexed couple to disregard anything I say, that I am suffering from a form of Tourette’s induced by extreme duress.
Chantal and Philippe look at me, their lips turning down in sympathetic frowns. Score one for Fanny. My brilliant best friend somehow managed to shift the focus from sarcasm to sorrow. I have developed this working theory: the French are genetically predisposed to feel sympathy for jilted women. Heloise and Abelard. Napoleon and Josephine. There’s definitely a precedent.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Philippe interrupts my thoughts with a jaunty salute. “I must go to zee cellar and select zee wine for tonight’s meal.”
“Bon Courage, mon amour!” Chantal taunts. “Beware those treacherous bottles.”
Philippe hobbles off, muttering something about the brutality of love, Dumas and Maupassant prancing at his heels.
Chantal shows us to our room, a grand chamber in the west tower with a sweeping view of the river valley. Although it is a warm June day, a small fire crackles in the fireplace. Silken curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor around an ornately carved bed. Rose petals arranged to resemble a still life cover a bedside table. A plate of plump strawberries sits beside a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.
“Are you pleased?”
Pleased? I don’t think so. I want to burst into tears. My logical fiancé created a storybook setting for our honeymoon. We were supposed to be here together, sipping champagne, nibbling strawberries, and making love in that sexy bed. Instead, my compulsion to appear virginal has ruined everything. I wish I had never lied. Better yet, I wish I had never met Travis Trunnell.
Chantal hurries over to the table, seizing the champagne and pouring it into the flutes. She hands us each a flute of bubbly.
“Vivia, I know we just met, but will you allow me to make a toast?”
I nod.
“My brother-in-law likes to say, ‘Every story has an end, but in life, every end is a new beginning.’ So let us toast to your new beginning, Vivia.”
Fanny raises her glass. “Salut!”
I stare at the bubbles streaming inside my glass. I should feel buoyed, hopeful, but the truth is, I have never been comfortable with endings. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I want the story to continue even after Emma gets her Mr. Knightley. Without looking, I feel Fanny and Chantal staring at me, so I raise my glass.
“Salut.”
Chantal waits for us to finish our champagne.
“You are the last members of the group to arrive.” She takes the empty flute from my hand and places it on the table. “You will have an opportunity to become acquainted with your fellow bikers tonight. We gather in the great hall at seven for aperitifs. In the meantime, please make yourself at home. Perhaps you would like to take a nap, stroll along the path beside the river, or swim in the pool.”
“Merci beaucoup, Chantal.”
I want to tell Chantal that I appreciate her toast as much as her hospitality, but the lump in my throat makes it difficult to speak. Instead, I help her gather the empty flutes and champagne bucket and carry them to the door.
“Will you be joining us on the bike tour?”
Chantal chuckles.
“Mon Dieu, non!” She looks over my shoulder at Fanny. “Comment puis-je dire ‘la haine’ en anglais?”
“Hate.” Fanny answers.
“Ah, oui.” Chantal looks at me. “I hate riding the bikes.”
“Me too.”
We laugh and the painful lump in my throat dissolves.
“I will call my friend at Air France and check on your bags. Is there anything I can get you? Toothbrush? Nightgown?”
“Thanks, but I packed my toiletries in my carryon.”
“If her bags don’t arrive tonight, she will need something to wear for tomorrow’s ride,” Fanny says.
Damn Fanny and her athletic eagerness.
“I could always stay back at the château and join the group after my bags arrive.”
“Oh no,” Chantal protests. “You don’t want to miss Gordes.”
I don’t know what Gordes is, but it sounds alarmingly like gorge. Gorge, as in yawning crevasse located alongside mountain roads. I hear Jean-Luc barking at me in his drill instructor voice, telling me to ride-ride-ride.“It’s only an unfathomable abyss waiting. Stop your whining, maggot!”
Chantal promises to return with appropriate riding gear and closes the door behind her. I turn to glare at my traitorous best friend.
“Thanks a lot.”
“What did I do?”
“Do you always have to be so freaking…organized?”
Fanny whistles. “Wow! Someone’s getting cranky.”
“I am not cranky.” I cross my arms over my chest but resist the urge to stick out my tongue. “I just didn’t need you butting your nose in, reminding Chantal I needed riding gear.”
“You can’t ride a bike in cigarette pants and ballet flats.”
“Why not? Audrey Hepburn did.”
“You are not Audrey Hepburn, chérie.”
Fanny grabs her cosmetic kit and heads to the bathroom. A minute later, I hear the shower turn on.
I shouldn’t have snapped at Fanny, but my fear of dying in a bicycle accident is growing to epic proportions. Hearing about the wonder that is Jean-Luc is not helping either. Frankly, I am skeptical about this Jean-Luc. What kind of man can drop everything to lead a bike tour? Doesn’t he have a real job?
Chapter 9
Texas Sized Balls
If only Nathan were here. He would look at me with his serious blue eyes and all my fears would melt away.
Nathan.
With Fanny in the shower, I flop on the bed, close the curtains around me, and power on my beloved iPhone. I know Nathan felt my psychic vibes. He will send a message begging my forgiveness.
I stare at the glowing apple icon and wonder if my frequent e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter checks are becoming an unhealthy compulsion. The quiet is shattered by a wailing guitar riff and Ronnie Radke singing the chorus of “Pick Up the Phone.”
I click the mute button, stare at the bathroom door, and mentally prepare a defensive argument for my shameful behavior. Fanny is already upset with me for making frequent e-mail/text checks. She also doesn’t get my slight crush on Ronnie Radke, the heavily tattooed, eyeliner wearing lead singer of Falling in Reverse, with his slightly-effeminate facial features and razored hair, you might not get it either. Here’s the best explanation I can come up with: When I saw him strut across the stage at Slim’s in his black skinny jeans, I experienced lust at first sight. I have a secret penchant for bad boys. Ironic, isn’t it? Nathan, the Armani suit-wearing trust fund baby, is the complete opposite of a bad boy, and yet he is the one who broke my heart.
The bathroom door remains closed. Sounds of water splashing help to slow my adrenaline fueled rapid pulse.
First, I check my e-mails. I scroll through my messages, and a sharp pain stabs my heart when none of the messages are from Nathan.
Next, I check my texts. Nothing from Nathan, but Mum has texted me eleven times since my departure from San Francisco. Most of them are harmless inquiries of the “How are you holding up, luv?” variety. The final text, though, is classic Mum.
Text from Camilla Grant:
Vivia. It’s your mum. Anna Johnson dropped off a casserole. She offered condolences and asked if you were gay. Is there something you want to tell me? Say hello to Fanny.
What in the hell is happening? Why do people keep asking if I am gay? Am I emitting some kind of lesbian vibe? Just because my wedding plans exploded like a Mentos dropped into a soda bottle and I am on my honeymoon with my best friend doesn’t mean I am gay. Seriously!
The balloon of hope inside me deflates. No e-mail or text from Nathan. Even though he hates Face
book, thinks it’s a “brain-drain for vapid, attention-hungry people,” I open the app and look at my wall. No posts from Nathan. I check my messages, but there’s only one and it’s from Travis Trunnell.
Facebook Message from Travis Trunnell:
Forget Nate. If you were mine, I would never let you go. I would fly over to France and pull you into my arms. We would drag the mattress from the bed, sleep on the balcony under the starry night, and make the neighbors jealous…
Oh. My. God. Who says things like that? Seriously? Who? The Texan with the bull-sized balls, that’s who. Several sarcastic retorts pop into my brain, but I don’t reply. The truth is, my heart is racing and I am hot all over. Travis’s unexpected reappearance in my life has been unsettling and kind of sexy.
Shit! Did I really just think that? What about Nathan? Sweet, reliable, steady, perfect-on-paper Nathan? Guilt stabs my heart. I am an awful faithless fiancée. Maybe I should swear off all men. Maybe I should give the lesbian thing further thought.
The shower turns off so I hurriedly open my Twitter app. The first Travelocity Ring photo has been retweeted 67 times and I have 312 new followers. WTH?
Tweet from Alexis:
My friend @PerpetuallyViv was dumped by her fiancé. Is she sitting at home weeping? NO! #LostFianceKeptRing #HoneymooningSolo #WomanScorned
Retweets from random new followers:
@GirlPower Go girl! #HooneymooningSolo? Now that’s #badass
@HungryInHolland When my ex broke up with me, I lost 23 lbs. #ExBoyfriendProblems #Bonus
@BourgeoisPrincess Your ex is a peasant. Prince Charming is still out there. #KeepHoping
What if @BourgeoisPrincess is wrong? What if Nathan was my Prince Charming and my stupid lie ruined our Happily Ever After? What if we get only one chance at True Love and if we blow it we are condemned to a life of longing and regret? I imagine sitting across the breakfast table from a flabby balding man, while a flock of runny-nosed children flap around us. Tears spill out of the corners of my eyes and slide into my hair.
Faking It Page 6
