You Turn

by Marion Croslydon

  “Your dad called me.”

  This statement genuinely surprises me. Father has refused any direct communication with my mother from the moment she’s filed for divorce. I’ve been the go-between for my parents since then. Lucky me.

  While I’m startled into silence, Mom forges on. “He told me Josh is in Paris.”

  “Mom—”

  “Ma Cherie, I’m enough of a screw-up to realize I’m the last person to give advice with regards to men, but please, please, don’t go after Josh. It won’t lead anywhere. Believe me when I say it, no good comes out of going after a man who doesn’t… who doesn’t love you in return.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with Josh, so you and Father can rest easy.”

  “Are you going somewhere with Charlie then?”

  “Nope.” I knock back my O.J. and put the glass on the island. The citrus taste clashes with the mint toothpaste and I wince. “I’ve got to fly.” My attempt at sounding nonchalant doesn’t sound remotely convincing.

  I swivel and I’m about to step back into the hallway when she cuts my escape short.

  “It’s Zach, isn’t it?” Her tone is blank and I sense that, in her eyes, the latter option is even more doomed than the Josh one.

  I turn my head sideways but refrain from facing her again. “Mom, I’ve hoped my whole life that someday we’d get close. I don’t want to spoil what we have now.” My voice breaks and I have to clear my throat. “But some things are mine. When I’m ready to share, and if you’re ready to listen then we can talk about it.”

  I manage to leave the kitchen and I’m half-way out of the front door when I hear the pitter-patter of my mom’s bare feet behind me.

  “Wait. Ma Cherie, wait.” She places her hand over mine on the doorknob and I breathe in the powdery scent of Chanel Number Five. “Je t’aime, Lenor.” She kisses my cheek and, before I can shake off my sheer surprise, she retreats up the stairs back to her apartment.

  I throw one last look at my current home. Still time to back off. Still time to think this one through. I shake my head again, shut the door behind me, cross la cour d’honneur, and step into the street. Ten yards away, parked beneath a street light, the Porsche waits for me. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. When I open the passenger door, the seat is already pushed forward so that I can easily place the bag on the back seat beside my trench coat.

  He flips the front seat back to the upright position and I lower myself into the car. Without a word, I fasten my seat belt and lower the window. I tilt my face sideways in search of the air outside—air that isn’t saturated with his scent. His clean and spicy scent. The knowledge of him makes my skin tingle in anticipation. But I don’t want to—shouldn’t—anticipate anything.

  “Let’s drive.”

  My body language—the way I rub my hands over my lap, or my high-pitched voice, or my twitching knees?—betrays how I really feel inside. Intimidated by him. His hand settles on my fingers and stops their jerky movements.

  “Remember what I said back at Le Duke?” I nod tightly back at him. “The next few days will be what you want them to be.”

  “But what do you want?” I asked that same question earlier when we vanished inside his office. After he suggested going away from Paris for a few days.

  “I want a chance to share with you who I am today.”

  “And we can’t share that in Paris?”

  His gaze flutters away towards the imposing gate to my family home. “No, we can’t. We need to step away, away from everything… everyone.” He squeezes my hand and now I can see that the slight upward curve at the corner of his mouth has returned, which makes my heart dance the rumba. “Plus, you look a bit pale. Some fresh air will do you good, although we both know you can’t get a proper tan.”

  I slap his forearm, but he ignores the nervous twitch of my mouth by turning on the engine. We have reached the Boulevard Saint-Germain, heading towards the Seine River when I finally manage to relax against the leather seat. The material squeaks when I shuffle to ease myself into a more comfortable position. The one I settle into is with my body turned sideways and Zach’s profile directly in front of my eyes.

  I yawn and don’t even bother covering my mouth. “You still don’t want to tell me where we’re going.”

  “Nope.” While keeping his eyes on the road, he extends his hand and his knuckles brush my cheekbone. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking my Duchess to a youth hostel.”

  “I’m not as high-maintenance as you think.” The muffled laugh he lets out says he has no illusions about my travelling standards.

  We move into an effortless silence and slowly my eyelids grow heavier and heavier. I try to fight the sleepiness but the regular streetlamps illuminating Zach’s face has a hypnotic effect on me. I let my mind find some rest and it more than finds rest, it totally shuts down and most of the journey is lost in a drowsy blur. I vaguely notice the purple rays of the rising sun, but the drive on the autoroute—the French Interstate—feels more like a smooth glide. I notice the car stopping after dawn at a petrol station. I notice the acrid smell of the coffee he brings back in a white Styrofoam cup. I notice the blue road signs that Zach keeps following. First Lyon, then Marseilles. We’re heading south.

  But I don’t put any more thought into our final destination. All I want is for the soft roar of the engine to keep lulling me into Zach-filled dreams, and my wake to be filled with real visions of Zach. If it’s up to me, we can drive all the way Down Under.

  I finally stretch and check the clock on the dashboard. Seven a.m. For an early morning in September, the light feels already fierce and is enough to make me blink. There’s no need to ask Zach about our whereabouts. The clues are all around me. Out of the right window, I can make out the distant azure of the Mediterranean and the rest of the arid landscape is made up of tall shrubs.

  “La Provence?” I ask. My throat is dry from the overnight drive and my question emerges with a croak.

  Zach hands me a small bottle of mineral water. I’ve drunk all mine and the roof of my mouth feels like sand paper so I welcome the cool feeling of the drink.

  “It’s the last leg of our journey. Another twenty minutes or so, and we’ll be there.”

  “Where there?”

  All I get back is an enigmatic smile, then a more enigmatic answer. “My own little corner of paradise.”

  “Wherever that is, there’d better be a bathroom available because I’m in a dire need of a shower.” Referring to my body odor hardly qualifies as a turn-on. I bite my lower lip.

  “Don’t worry, Lenor, you don’t smell too bad.”

  I feign a distant look through my window, but I can’t help being captivated by the coastal road. I let my gaze fall down the cliff into the sea below.

  “It’s pretty steep.” Yes, I have that precious gift of stating the obvious.

  We soon turn away from the sea onto a graveled road. A sign indicates la calanque de Semara is a half mile off. Never heard of the place. The drive becomes a rougher experience with potholes all over the road and I fear for the well-being of Zach’s shiny Porsche. Through the sparse pine trees bordering the rugged route, I can see the outline of a wild expanse of hills. The harshness of the landscape seduces me and I feel the tinge of disappointment when the road reaches a dead-end.

  Zach turns off the engine. His hands return to where they were at the very beginning of our journey in Paris: tightly gripped around the steering wheel. Is he scared of me backing away at the last minute? Because I’ve absolutely no intention of going anywhere but where he wants us to be.

  “Here we are.” He’s good at stating the obvious too.

  “Your little corner of paradise?”

  He answers with a tense nod and I swing the door open. Halfway out I challenge him, “Come on, we’ve not driven across France just to keep our butts stuck to a car seat.”

  In an instant I’m sucked into the surroundings. A clean scent drifts into my lungs, soothing the tiredness of
the journey, slowing down my heartbeat with each step I take away from the car. I look around me. Streaks of pale violet flowers crown the gray-green ivy that ran across the wall, the base of which is engulfed with lavender. The wall surrounding the lavender continues further around a two-story house made of light ochre stones.

  The house stands on top of a small hill. The three sides in view each open onto a terrace, two of which house welcoming round tables protected from the sun by thick vines that hang from the walls of the house. Each window is framed by shutters, their color matching the lavender in the garden.

  From behind me, I hear Zach closing the trunk and the measured pace of his steps over the gravel path. When he joins me, he drops our bags unceremoniously on the floor. Now, I tend to be protective of my Vuitton Speedy Bag, but at that very moment, I can’t care less.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “If this is paradise, then death has become a whole lot less scary.”

  “Remember the place I mentioned when you slept at my place? The little guest house I escape to. Well, this is it.”

  He’s taken me to his secret place. Pride makes me stand a bit taller.

  “Zachary! C’est si bon de te voir, mon vieux.” A man—with an obvious preference for pasta rather than salad—is marching towards us. He wears a short beard and his eyes shine with a hazelnut sparkle. I like him right away.

  Before long, he’s taken Zach in his arms with a manly hug and backslapping. Zach lets him do it and I even see him doing some back slapping of his own. Finally, the men remember I’m standing right next to them.

  “Lenor, this is Jean-Claude,” Zach introduces the man in French. “He and his wife have given me a home in Provence.”

  “Hopefully it won’t be long before you find your own,” Jean-Claude chimes in, while he gives me a less virile version of his hug. “My wife was so ecstatic when Zach told her he was bringing a lady at last.”

  I’m now positively beaming. Clara hasn’t graduated to a stay à la maison en Provence.

  “Lenor is my oldest friend,” Zach volunteers. “We grew up together.”

  Jean-Claude looks back and forth between Zach and me, then rewards me with a wink. “Bien-sûr. Bien-sûr.” Of course. “Come on, les amis,” he grabs our bags from the ground, “Let’s get you settled in.”

  I follow the Frenchman up the stone steps leading to the central terrace with Zach’s hand on the small of my back. Inside, the house is more spacious than I thought and has an unexpected view. The back opens through wall-to-wall sliding doors onto a balcony. There stand three round tables in the shade. I stop paying attention to Jean-Claude’s booming voice and sidle away. When I reach the railing that borders the balcony, a salty breeze meshes with the messy wisps of my hair.

  I carefully lean forward to get a glimpse of what lays at the foot of the cliff.

  “La calanque de Semara.” From behind me, Zach repeats the name I’ve seen earlier on the side by the road.

  Calanques are tiny coves nestled along the coast from Marseille to Cassis. Below me, the crystal-clear water of the Mediterranean contrasts with the bright white rocks covering the narrow beach.

  I take a deep breath of pure happiness and let a smile relax and curl my lips. Paris can be in another universe, or rather, la calanque de Semara fills its own universe, a lavender-scented one.

  Behind me, Jean-Claude keeps updating Zach on life at la Calanque, the high summer season, his planned trip later this morning to le Marche de l’Estaque in Marseille. The man’s accent is strong and typically Provencal, each syllable shining like the midday sun. But soon Jean-Claude announces he’s taking our bags up to our bedrooms. I think he makes a joke about the use of the plural. The silence left by his departure is filled with the gentle sound of the waves softly lapping at the beach below. They play a symphony with the chirps of the cicadas.

  Zach joins me and his hands circle the railing right next to mine. Our elbows brush each other and the contact sends a delicious tingle down to my toes.

  “I thought you might want to refresh yourself before having breakfast.”

  I tilt my head forward and tease him, “So I do stink?”

  “Mademoiselle Carrington, to me you will always smell of roses.”

  I giggle. Yes, I feel positively light-headed. “What’s the plan for today?”

  “It depends on you. We can take the car and do some sightseeing. Or we can go for the lazy option: swimming, sunbathing, eating fantastic food, and drinking far too much wine for this warm weather.”

  And making love well into the night? No anticipation. At all. “Let’s stay here. You need to recuperate after the long drive.” I deliver this with an absolutely straight face.

  Jean-Claude is back with the news that our rooms—again a cheeky grin—are ready. Zach takes hold of my hand and leads me through the main room, then up the stairs with its well-polished banister. The first floor opens onto a landing with four doors, spread equally on each side of the corridor. Zach chooses the first on the right, steps aside, and I enter.

  “They’re normally fully-booked at this time of the year. But, luckily, it’s mid-week so they had two rooms available. They’re all pretty basic. I mean, it’s not a swanky Four Seasons or anything like that.”

  “It’s perfect.” I circle the small room, with its white-washed walls, dark wood furniture and the cutest four-poster bed… if a little on the small side. I let the tip of my fingers caress the delicately-embroidered linen that covers the thick mattress.

  When I look up, I find Zach’s gaze upon me. The fire in it makes me swallow hard.

  “My room is right opposite,” he says. “Let’s meet downstairs for breakfast in a few minutes.”

  I swallow hard again. “Okay.” That was no more than a whisper.

  His hand is already on the doorknob when he stops and gives me a quick glance. “Lenor?”

  “Yes.” Same whispering going on again.

  “Thanks––I mean, thanks for following me here. It––you––” Zachary Murdoch is stumbling for what he wants to say. “It makes me happy.”

  “It makes me happy too.”

  But what I really mean is: You make me happy.

  Chapter 19

  Goddammit, this is painful. The sharp stones prick the soles of my feet and torture my toes.

  “Ouch!” I squeak, while trying to find my balance, my arms forming a cross with my upper-body. “This is when I wish we were on a sandy beach in The Bahamas.”

  Zach is already half-immersed in the sea. The upside of wobbling along the cobbled beach is that I can’t pay too much attention to his lean body, to the way his sinewy shoulder muscles gently bulge underneath his tanned skin or how his khaki swimming shorts molds his butt. Details, details…

  “I offered to carry you, Duchess.”

  “I can make it on my own. No biggie.” If he touches me, I’ll spontaneously combust.

  I have to make it to the water sooner rather than later, as the midday sun has just discovered that I only have a tiny bikini on for protection. Another minute of exposure and I’ll start sizzling. Of course, if I had gone straight into the sea instead of taking a prolonged morning nap in the hammock after eating my weight of croissants for breakfast, the transition may be less traumatic.

  Zach has a lot of fun watching me make my way over those damned pebbles. “I can go and get the plastic shoes Jean-Claude was talking about if you like.”

  My eyes shoot in his direction. “No need to. Really.” Under no circumstances, will I wear those ugly rubbery sandals. I will rather the sharp stones puncture my feet.

  “Whatever suits you.” He shrugs and dives smoothly into the water without so much as a splash.

  When his head pops out of the sea again, he’s a good ten yards farther away. In the meantime, I’ve managed to stumble into the water up to my knees. I lean forward and plunge in my fingers, drawing invisible circles and all sorts of shapes in the surface of the sea. I cup my hands and fill them wit
h water. I splash it on my face, repeat the movement over other parts of my body, my neck, chest and stomach. A bit over-the-top—I concede—since it’s the Mediterranean Sea not the St. Lawrence River.

  “Get over yourself, Carrington,” I order to myself in a low-pitched groan. I plunge and slide under the water for as long as I can keep the oxygen trapped inside my lungs. I make it back to the surface with a noisy exhalation of air and swim towards Zach.

  “Finally, you made it,” he jokes and I grimace back at him. “Should we race?”

  The question takes me back to our swims in the Hamptons, to that summer so many moons ago. I welcome the memory, which surprises me.

  “You’re going to lose. Again,” I warn him.

  “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you.” He points at the large rock that marks the end of la calanque, about thirty yards away. “Last one there’s a rotten egg. Any style’s allowed.”

  “You’re on.”

  He waits for me to join his side and breaks into an “On your marks, get set, GO!”

  I stretch out and start kicking and pulling like an extra in a Jaws remake. But Zach seizes the advantage right from the start. Twenty yards in, I check the distance between us by popping my head out of the water, only to be met by a small wave slapping me right in the face. Water spurts up my nostrils and into my mouth. I stop and straighten up. The salty taste makes the skin inside my nose and my mouth itch. I cough.

  Zach swims back to me. “All okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Let’s go back on shore.”

  “No! We’ve only just started.”

  “I won’t suggest a re-match. However, for the record, I won.”

  “I’ll concede this round.” The tide has carried Zach closer and our legs intertwine with each other. “Next time, I’ll ridicule you.”

  “Is that so?” With the back of his calves, he pulls me towards him, his hands circling my waist. I continue the movement by resting mine on his shoulders. My fingertips caress his collarbones, his skin moist and soft beneath my touch. In the distance, a seagull squawks, filling the silence. I let my hands slide along his shoulders, to the hollow of his neck, then through his hair. He pulls me closer, my stomach and my pelvis flat against his. A warm tingle spreads inside me. My breasts feels fuller against his chest and our breathing is soon at the same tempo.