Dreaming of Manderley

by Leah Marie Brown

  “My father was the same way with my sister.”

  “You have a sister?”

  Xavier chuckles. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

  “No.” My cheeks flush with heat again. “I didn’t mean . . . or, rather . . . I don’t know why, but I imagined you came from a family of boys. I am sorry . . .”

  “Don’t be. I like knowing you spend your time thinking about me.” He shifts positions and his leg brushes against mine, a brief, gentle touch. “Tell me, what else do you imagine?”

  Lawd have mercy! Is it me or did the temperature suddenly climb several degrees? I take a sip of my citronnade and look at him over the rim of my sweaty glass.

  He chuckles again, a smooth, satisfied chuckle, and I imagine him in a fencing ring, foil in hand, skillfully parrying and thrusting, a veritable master at sexual banter.

  I sip my drink, glad for the cool glass against my heated hand, and try to appear unaffected by his flirting.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  My hand trembles and some of the citronnade spills out of my glass, splashes onto my lap.

  “I beg your pardon?” I ask, putting the glass on the table and dabbing the stain with my napkin. “Are you asking if I enjoyed imagining you as a child?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. It’s the happiest sound I have heard in months, and even though I suspect it is being provoked by my naïveté, I don’t want it to stop. My lips twitch and soon I am laughing, too.

  “You are utterly charming, Manderley Maxwell. Innocent and utterly charming.”

  “Thank you,” I say, neatly folding my napkin and placing it in my lap.

  “I wanted to know if you enjoyed fishing with your father.”

  “You know what?” I push my glasses on top of my head and lean my elbows on the table, more relaxed now that he has steered the conversation out of dangerous waters. “I did enjoy fishing. It was calming. The steady sway of the boat and the quiet that comes when you’re out at sea—just the water lapping the sides and the wind flapping the sails . . .”

  A sharp pang of longing reverberates through my soul and I need to take a moment so I don’t burst into tears over my loss. This is how the last fifty-nine days and eleven hours have been for me. Sudden, excruciating pangs of longing, triggered by the most benign things. From happy to sad in the space of a breath.

  “You are thinking about your father, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  He reaches for my hand. “If you want to talk about him”—he rubs the back of my hand with his thumb, a gentle, intimate gesture that ignites a longing in me, the same inexplicable longing I felt when I spoke about Cécile and Cyril’s love affair—“I would be happy to listen.”

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling my hand away and then instantly mourning the loss of his warm touch. “I would rather not, though.”

  He sits back again. “Because I am a stranger?”

  “Because”—I swallow the thick lump of emotion forming in my throat—“for the last two months, I have been dwelling in a pit of despair. It’s as if I have been lost in darkness, unable to find the light no matter how wide I open my eyes. Spending time with you reminds me I am still a member of the land of the living. Tonight, after we part ways, I will slip back into that pit. So, for now, I want to enjoy the light.”

  The waiter approaches our table, but Xavier discreetly waves him away.

  “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me, ma bichette.” He reaches for my hand again and lifts it to his lips, kissing the place where his thumb had brushed. “I am honored, truly.”

  My pulse races faster than the engine of his shiny sports car, thump-thumping in my throat. Can he hear the blood humming in my veins? Does he know what his attentions—what his kisses—do to me?

  He lets go of my hand and I snatch it away, cradling it in my other hand as if it had been scalded.

  “Finish your citronnade now and I will drive you back to the hotel.”

  “Yes, Xavier.”

  Obeying, I take another sip of my drink.

  My sister Emma Lee would say You’re so thirsty, Mandy, like a withered old maid desperate for a drop of affection and she wouldn’t be talking about the way I am gulping my citronnade, either. Emma Lee likes to pepper her vernacular with slang, and thirsty, as in desperate for sex and/or affection, is one of the more vulgar words in her lexicon. Maybe Emma Lee is right, though. Maybe I am thirsty. Maybe my thirst for affection is the cause of all those pangs of longing I have been suffering.

  The sun is making a last valiant gasp, its orange rays stretching like long, slender fingers grasping to hold on to the remains of the day. I feel the same way—reluctant to bid adieu to this magical day.

  Xavier pays the bill and pushes his chair back to stand. “Shall we?”

  “Wait!” I grab my camera off the table. “Before we go, would you let me take your picture?”

  “Me?”

  I nod my head.

  “I can’t imagine why you would want to take my picture.” He brushes an invisible speck of lint from his immaculate trousers. “Surely, the view holds more interest for you.”

  The view pales in comparison to you, Xavier. “I want to remember . . . everything.”

  He frowns. “Am I forgettable?”

  “Forgettable?” Heat rises up my body from my toes to the tips of my ears. “Of course not! How rude of me. I am sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Relax, ma bichette. I was only teasing.” He laughs. “Go on then, take your picture.”

  Xavier leans back in his chair, away from the light and my lens, like a sleek jungle cat sinking into the shadows. His dark shirt and black hair blend into the background, making it difficult for me to get a good focus. I hold my breath and wait for the reflection off the water to shimmer on his face and illuminate just enough for me to photograph. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, like a big game hunter who suddenly realizes he has become the prey. The light ripples over part of his face. I push the shutter button and exhale.

  I look at the LCD display and my heart misses a beat. Xavier, a dark, ominously immortalized version of Xavier, is staring up at me from the small screen. The light hit him in such a strange, fragmented way that only part of his face and neck are visible. One narrowed eye, the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, the curve of his stubbly jaw. His lips are pressed together in a serious line, neither smiling nor frowning, a brooding expression that transforms his handsome face into something almost sinister.

  “Well?”

  I startle at the sound of his voice.

  “Got it.” I turn off the display and replace the lens cap. “Thanks.”

  “Are you going to let me see it?”

  I am silently debating whether it would be rude to refuse to allow him to look at his own photograph, when he stretches his hand across the table. I turn the display back on and hold the camera up so he can see the image.

  He looks at the display and his lip pulls up in a snarl.

  “Is that the way you see me?” The words roll around in his throat before coming out of his mouth so it sounds as if he is growling instead of speaking. “Am I really that forbidding?”

  “I . . . I think it is a lovely p . . . portrait.”

  “Do you?”

  I nod my head.

  He stares at me for several long seconds as if searching for signs of my duplicity, so I fight the urge to bow my head or look away. I did not lie. It is a beautiful portrait—a disconcerting, beautiful portrait that captures the unusual duality of his nature. The beauty that shimmers on his surface and the darkness—the mysteries unsolved—I sense lurking somewhere below. Despite my powerful attraction to the man, he remains an enigma, a charming, handsome, thoughtful, thrilling, disconcerting enigma.

  “Yes, well, from now on perhaps you should focus on the view. It is more worthy of your talent.”

  * * *

  During the drive back to the
hotel, Xavier tells me about Château de Maloret, his ancestral home in Brittany, describing it as a lovely pile of stones precariously perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean.

  “We are one gale away from losing the west tower.”

  “That’s tragic. Isn’t there anything that can be done to save it?”

  “I am trying to raise the capital, but such projects take infinite time and resources.” He removes his hand from the steering wheel just long enough to rub his temple. “The château has been in my family since the seventeenth century. It has endured two fires, countless storms, and a revolution. The weight of responsibility for preserving a historic home is . . . exhausting, but I must endure. It is my duty and my honor.”

  The worry in his voice touches my heart. I felt the same sense of duty to preserve my daddy’s home after he died. I was devastated when I learned it was being seized by the IRS. My six times great-grandfather built that home before the Civil War and now it’s sitting empty, waiting for some bottom-line motivated developer to snatch it up and turn it into a high-class B & B.

  “Château de Maloret. It’s such a lovely name. What does it mean?”

  “That depends on who you ask.”

  Xavier pulls to a stop in front of the valet stand, opens his door, hands the keys to the waiting valet, and circles around the back of the car to open my door.

  “Allow me,” he says, taking my heavy camera from my hands.

  He rests his hand lightly on the small of my back and we walk across the parking lot toward the hotel. He keeps his hand there even as we step through the revolving door and into the lobby, a protective, proprietary gesture that is so old-school Hollywood, so Laurence Olivier-esque, it makes me want to sigh. I wish all men would treat women with such deference, such decorum.

  We ride the elevator to my floor. This time, instead of bidding me goodnight from inside the elevator, Xavier follows me down the dimly lit corridor. He is going to ask me to invite him in for a nightcap and then he is going to pick me up, throw me on the bed, tear the clothes from my body, and make violent love to me.

  Lawd have mercy! Emma Lee is right. I am thirsty!

  I fumble around inside my purse, searching for my room key. When I finally find it, I slide it in the slot with the magnetic strip facing the wrong way. The little light above the lock flashes red. My hand begins to sweat. I pull the key card out, turn it around, and slide it back in. The light flashes red again. Damn!

  Xavier takes the key and slides it into the slot. The light flashes green. The door clicks open.

  “Relax.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “I am not going to push my way into your room and make violent love to you . . . unless, that is, you want me to make violent love to you.”

  The air leaves my lungs in a sudden rush, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway.

  Violent love? Did he just ask if I want him to make violent love to me? Sweet baby Jesus in heaven! I thought those same words only seconds ago. Is he a mind reader or is my thirstiness that apparent?

  “W . . . what did you . . .”

  He bends down and brushes his lips against my shoulder, his beard grazing my bare skin, and my words become a moan in the back of my throat. The door clicks shut behind me.

  “You want me to make love to you,” he whispers, kissing a path to my neck. “Don’t you, ma bichette?”

  I stand with my arms hanging limply at my sides, my purse dangling from one clenched fist, and nod my head. The feel of his warm lips and stubbly chin against my naked skin is sending tremors through my body, mounting shockwaves of pleasure. I can’t speak. I can’t move. It’s like I have sleep paralysis. Terrifying, thrilling sleep paralysis.

  When he takes my earlobe into his warm mouth, my brain sends a message to my limbs, telling them to move, to act before it is too late. I drop my purse and clutch the front of his shirt, pulling him to me. He murmurs something in French and groans low in his throat, wrapping his arm around my waist and kissing me on the mouth. I am vaguely aware of the spicy scent of cologne and the chocolatey taste of coffee before I am plummeting, tumbling head over sandals, clutching Xavier’s shirt as if it will keep me from falling in love, profoundly, perilously in love with him. And I am only vaguely aware when he stops kissing me. I feel the cool air on my moist lips, hear his jagged breathing, and I open my eyes.

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Because you looked as if you wanted to be kissed . . . and because I wanted to kiss you.” He leans down and brushes his lips over mine again, lightly. “You deserve to be kissed, ma bichette, and you deserve someone who will shower you with thoughtful gifts.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, laughing nervously.

  “I do.” He bends over, picks my purse up from the floor, and hands it to me. “There is nothing I would like more than to spend the evening with you, but . . .”

  He brushes another light kiss over my lips.

  “I understand. You have a prior commitment.”

  “I must go now.” He brushes my hair from my forehead and kisses it. “Bonne nuit, Manderley. Sweet dreams.”

  Chapter Seven

  After spending an hour soaking in a lavender-scented bath and three hours twisting myself up in 1800-thread-count sheets, I realize Xavier’s wish, that I should have sweet dreams this night, is not going to come true. How am I supposed to dream when I am too disconcerted to fall asleep? Disconcerted. Disturbed, as in one’s composure or self-possession. Distracted. Flustered. Agitated. Unsettled. Discomfited. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, I count synonyms. Xavier’s kiss has me thinking of synonyms for disconcerted. Rattled. Ruffled.

  I remember the taste of his lips on mine, the pleasure-pain sensation of his beard scratching against my shoulder and neck. Maybe disconcerted isn’t the right word. Maybe astonished is the right word. I am astonished anyone as beautiful as Xavier would want to make love to me.

  Befuddled. Bemused. Beguiled.

  Soon, I will be singing the 1940s Broadway hit, “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.” I have become a simpering child because a Frenchman has bewitched, bothered . . . Great! Xavier’s kisses and promises of lovemaking have me singing saccharine-sweet show tunes in my head.

  . . . I feel restless, like I drank a tea made from poison ivy leaves and I am all itchy inside.

  I click on the bedside lamp, throw off the covers, and climb out of bed, padding over to the minibar and flicking the switch on the electric tea kettle.

  A minute later, I am lounging on the balcony, the hotel’s plush robe wrapped around my shoulders, a cup of hot tea in my hands, watching moonlight spill like mercury down the hills and into the sea. The sultry night breeze on my skin and hot chamomile tea in my belly work their magic, soothing my itchy nerves. My lids feel heavy and I am about to go back inside to climb into bed when I notice Xavier striding across the Boulevard de la Croisette. I sit up so quickly the robe slips off my shoulders.

  He is dressed in a tuxedo. The moonlight shining off his slicked-back black hair makes it appear as if it is glowing blue, an entirely strange, haunting effect. He steps onto the cement island in the middle of the crosswalk and waits for the traffic going in the other direction to clear. It gives me a chance to secretly study him, to memorize every gorgeous detail about this man who has bothered and bewitched me. Like the way his perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket fits over his broad shoulders, or the crisp white line of his collar against his tanned skin, or the way he is standing, with one of his hands casually thrust inside his pants pocket, his chin lifted to a confident angle. How I wish I had my camera in my hands instead of an empty teacup; though, I am confident I won’t need a photograph to recall how handsome Xavier looks at this moment, how the unexpected sight of him makes me feel breathless and dizzy. I haven’t felt this girlishly giddy since Drew Landon let me wear his letter jacket—and that was my sophomore year in high school.

  The light changes and Xavier finishes crossing the boulevard. I sco
ot down the lounger until I am close enough to the railing to peek between the wrought-iron bars, keeping Xavier in sight as he strides along the sidewalk leading to the hotel. I can almost hear the heels of his shiny oxfords striking the pavement. He is nearly to the hotel entrance, nearly out of my sight, when a tall, slender woman in a slinky gold cocktail gown emerges from a parked car and calls to him, her lilting, accented voice carried to me on the breeze.

  “Xavier.”

  He stops walking and turns around. She raises her hand, waggling her fingers. He takes a step back. Perhaps it is a trick of the moonlight, but the relaxed, confident man I watched stride across the Boulevard de la Croisette moments ago now seems transformed into someone unrecognizable, a tense, almost sinister shadow of Xavier.

  Undaunted, the woman hurries over to him. She moves as if she intends to kiss his cheeks, hesitates, and steps back, leaving an arm’s-length between them.

  “Laisse-moi tranquille,” I hear Xavier say. Leave me alone.

  And then the woman speaks, her full, red lips moving rapidly. Her words do not carry to me. I turn my head, pressing my ear between the rails, but still I cannot hear what she is saying. This muted conversation continues for another minute before Xavier turns to leave.

  “Xavier, wait!” she cries, her voice louder now.

  She reaches for his sleeve, but he knocks her hand away. She recoils from the slap, stepping back, her foot slipping off the curb. Her ankle turns and she lets out a pained cry.

  I expect Xavier to hurry back to her, to offer his assistance, but he has already disappeared through the revolving door, leaving the woman alone in the dark, and leaving me to wonder if he is the debonair, tuxedo-clad hero who rescued me from a purse snatcher; or the sinister, hand-slapping shadow.

  Chapter Eight

  I am standing on the deck of a magnificent sailboat staring at a sky as black as satin and stars as bright as pearls. The boat rocks gently, like the reassuring sway of a newborn’s bassinet, and the breeze hums a nocturnal lullaby in my ears. I feel at peace.