“Bon. I know you are leaving for Monte Carlo soon. Until then, let’s enjoy our time together and get to know each other better.”
The memory of last night creeps out of the dark, quiet recesses of my subconscious into my active consciousness, like a brash uninvited guest crashing a party. Loud, disturbing memories as difficult to ignore as a slinky gold dress moving through a dimly lit parking lot at night. Does Xavier have someone waiting for him at home or, perhaps, upstairs? I want to ask him, but I am afraid to confess I was spying on him.
“What is it, ma bichette?” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses the spot where his thumb had just been. “Something is bothering you.”
For once, I wish I had the confidence to respond like a silver-screen ingénue. Lauren Bacall. Bette Davis. They would look into his eyes and say something dismissive, like Don’t be ridiculous, darling. What could possibly be bothering me?
I am not a sultry, sharp-eyed, knows-what-she-wants kind of woman like Lauren Bacall. I don’t have Bette Davis’s brashness and talent for clever dissimulation.
“It’s only . . .”
“Only what?”
“I saw you.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
He narrows his gaze and two deep creases appear between his eyebrows. “Last night, when?” he asks, letting go of my hand.
“When you were returning from your engagement.”
He leans back slowly and lowers his chin, studying me through the veil of his thick lashes. “Did you follow me?”
“What?” My legs begin to tremble and I have to push my thighs together to keep my knees from knocking. “Why would I follow you?”
“Why would you google me?”
“I didn’t! Olivia did.”
He glares at me and the trembling spreads throughout my body. Did you know Lauren Bacall came up with her sultry camera “look” by accident because she was so nervous the first time she acted in a film she pressed her chin to her chest and looked up at the camera? She said the position helped calm her. I want to channel Lauren now, but am afraid I would only end up making her sultry look psychotic. Instead, I take a deep breath and hold it for several seconds before exhaling.
“I had insomnia last night,” I say. “I was sitting on my balcony, drinking a cup of tea, when I saw you walk up to the hotel.” He nods his head, silently commanding me to finish my story. “I was about to go back to bed when I saw a beautiful woman—the same woman you met in the lobby the other night—get out of a car and approach you. I don’t know what was said, but I could tell it wasn’t a pleasant exchange.”
“You are correct. It was not a pleasant exchange.”
“Is she your . . . someone?”
He clenches his jaw and a muscle beneath his cheek contracts. “Definitely not.”
“But she was, once?”
“What?” He scoffs. “Jacqueline has never been, nor will she ever be, my someone. I always want to be honest with you, Manderley, but I would prefer not to talk about Jacqueline. All you need to know, for now anyway, is she played an insignificant role in my life once, a part of my life I am trying hard to forget.”
“I understand, Xavier.”
“Do you?” He exhales heavily and rubs his forehead. “I don’t think you do, but you’re kind to say so.”
“I want to understand.”
“I know you do, and I thank you for it.” He leans forward again. “So, you haven’t said if you will go out with me tonight.”
“You haven’t asked me out.”
“I haven’t, have I?” He chuckles.
I shake my head.
“Very well.” He grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head, then he takes my hand and holds it, absently stroking his thumb over my knuckles. “Manderley Maxwell, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? We could go dancing afterward at a lovely rooftop bar with sweeping views of the sea.”
My heart misses a beat. Spending the evening with Xavier is exactly what I want, but I wish he hadn’t asked me to go dancing. I am not a good dancer and I have never been into the club scene. Someone as athletic and sophisticated as Xavier probably dances beautifully and visits the most exclusive clubs.
I remember Olivia’s words about losing my groove and realize I have never had a groove—and if I keep living for my work and everyone else, I won’t ever develop one.
“I would love to go out with you tonight.”
“Would you? Bon! It’s settled then.” He stands and pulls me to my feet. “Now, why don’t I walk you to the courts so you can play your tennis game?”
He grabs his towel, tosses it over his shoulder, and rests his hand on the small of my back—a gesture that is fast becoming familiar to me, one I will forever associate with Xavier, like the way he furrows his brow when he is listening intently, or the way his thumb feels when he traces circles on my skin. Other men I have dated held my hand or put their arm around my shoulder when we were walking in public. Xavier is the first to touch me in this chivalrous way, and it excites and pleases me more than any touch ever has.
We arrive at the courts—two magnificently maintained clay courts bordered by tall Italian cypress trees—and find Olivia locked in a fierce match with a handsome man in tennis whites. We stand in the shade of a cypress, Xavier’s hand still on the small of my back, my pulse racing faster than Olivia chasing her opponent’s rapid volleys.
“She’s good,” Xavier says.
“Olivia is brilliant at everything she does.”
“You admire her, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” I turn to face him, tilting my chin up so I can look into his eyes. “What kind of woman would I be if I didn’t admire my best friend? Mutual admiration, a desire to encourage each other to reach new heights, these are the foundation stones of all of my deep relationships.”
He leans down and presses his lips to mine, kissing me in the shade of the cypress tree, with the fierce thud-thud-thud of my pulse pounding in my ears.
“We’ve only known each other a few days and already I feel admiration for you. Admiration, and a deep desire—”
“There you are!”
Olivia notices us standing on the other side of the fence and walks across the court, her hips doing a sexy Marilyn Monroe sway. She sticks her finger between one of the chain links and crooks it. I step closer.
“It’s Gaspard!” she breathlessly whispers. “He’s free this afternoon and asked if I might like a lesson. You know? Improve my stroke.” She winks saucily and my cheeks flush with heat. “Do you mind?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Have fun.”
She looks around me, raises her hand, and waves at Xavier. I look over my shoulder in time to see him return her wave.
“Are you kidding me?” she says, raising her voice. “I am going to spend the afternoon getting hot and sweaty with a gorgeous Frenchman. I can’t think of a better way to spend the day, can you?”
“Olivia!”
“By-ee.” She giggles before hurrying back to Gaspard.
“So,” Xavier says, taking my racquet from me. “Are you going to follow your best friend’s advice?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want to spend your afternoon getting hot and sweaty with a Frenchman?”
Sweet Lawd in heaven! My pits and palms are moist, my lady parts are damp. I am already hot and sweaty because of a Frenchman!
He notices my wide-eyed expression and laughs.
“Relax, ma bichette. I was only suggesting we spend the afternoon at the beach, perhaps swim and relax, catch up on some reading. Though, if you would prefer to go back to my room and make mad, sweaty love, I would be happy to—”
“The beach sounds lovely. I will just pop up to my room to change into my suit and meet you in the lobby. Does half an hour sound good?”
. . . Because I am going to need to spend fourteen minutes of it giving myself a major pre-game pep talk.
“Great moments are born from great opportunities, Manderley, and that is what is being presented to you now. So, get out there and win-win-win.”
“I will reserve two loungers, grab a few things from my room, and meet you in the lobby.”
He rests his hand on the small of my back and we walk to the lobby. He pushes the elevator button, the doors slide open, and we step inside. My legs begin to tremble again as adrenaline rushes through my veins. In a few minutes, I will be lounging beside the most virile man I have ever met—and, I will be naked, except for a bit of silky fabric covering my lady parts.
Do you want to sit on the bench with all the other spinsters? Do you want to be a sad, sorry Stella? No? Then stop your whining, suit up, get out there, and get your groove on!
Chapter Twelve
“I need a serious pep talk.”
I was dabbing OPI’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s nail lacquer onto my toenails in a last-minute toenail touch-up when my phone rang. I hobbled out of the bathroom, wads of toilet paper stuck between my toes, to answer the call because I was afraid it might be Xavier ringing to say he wanted to cancel. I didn’t remember until after I heard my sister’s breathless voice on the other end of the line that I hadn’t given him my personal number.
“Good afternoon, Tara. I am fine, thank you for asking. Cannes is even lovelier than Aunt Patricia’s postcards. How are you?”
“I’m sorry, Daphne,” Tara says. “I want to hear all about Cannes, but first, I need your help with Emma Lee.”
My father used to call me Daphne after the Greek mythological water nymph, because of my love of the sea. He said Daphne was so beautiful she brought Apollo to his knees. I think he was being ironic with the last part.
“What has Emma Lee done this time?”
“It’s not what she has done, but what she says she is going to do. She met some old British woman at B. Crav’s turn-up last night, who told her she would make a ‘veddy splendid marriage broker’ and now she is talking about moving to England and becoming a matchmaker.”
Beauregard Cravath III—B. Crav to his friends—is a member of Charleston’s ancient elite. The Cravaths are an influential political family with roots going back as far as the seventeenth century. In fact, B. Crav’s ancestor was a relative of one of the Lords Proprietors, overseers appointed by King Charles to tame and colonize Charleston. B. Crav is an enthusiastic polo player. His Whitney Turn Up is the social event of the polo season, drawing bluebloods from all over the world. He’s also a philandering playboy who has tried to wed and/or bed Tara and Emma Lee.
“I am confused,” I say, chuckling. “Are you worried she will make good on her promise to move to England, or are you afraid it’s just more of Emma Lee’s magical, fairy-dust, wishful thinking, and she will spend the rest of her life watching reality television on your couch?”
“It’s not funny!”
“Of course it isn’t.” I stop laughing. “Emma Lee—a girl whose only serious relationship has been with the man who highlights her hair—thinks she is going to click her ruby slippers and magically travel to a fabled land where she is a wizard of matchmaking. To embark on such a fantastic journey, she would first need to leave your couch. I don’t see her giving up the comforts of home for Oz, do you?”
Tara whistles. “I always knew you were more practical than emotional, but when did you become so jaded and biting?”
“I am not jaded. Am I?”
“That sounded a little jaded.”
I look down at my shiny, freshly lacquered toes and sigh. Living in the land of prenups and paternity suits has definitely made me skeptical that I will ever be one half of a soul-mates-forever love, but I didn’t think I had become jaded about others finding love, or about people having the courage to pursue their passions. Of course, I can’t tell Tara this because she expects me to be the brilliant big sister, the one with a nifty bag full of answers and hope.
“I am sorry, Tara.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, a new, slightly frantic note of worry in her voice. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, upping the perk in my tone. “I am just tired. Nothing a few days lounging on the beach won’t cure.”
“Phew! I don’t know what I would do if you started foundering.” She lets out a half laugh, half cry. “After all, you’re Steady-On Manderley.”
Steady-On Manderley, who is terrified at the prospect of spending an afternoon on the beach with a handsome man, surrounded by long-legged blondes in Balmain bikinis who will take one look at her and find her sadly wanting. Steady-On Manderley, who secretly yearns to be as rash and outrageous as her little sister Emma Lee. Steady-On Manderley is foundering, foundering beneath the weight of her unfulfilled dreams.
“Emma Lee will be fine, Tara. She is a charming risk-taker who takes wild, daring leaps and always ends up on her pretty little feet.”
“Of course Emma Lee is a risk taker, because she has always had us running after her with a net. I would be a risk taker, too, if I knew someone would be there to catch me if I fell.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“What?”
“Are you envious of Emma Lee?”
“No!” Tara sighs. “Maybe. Yes, a little. I envy her courage to boldly chase after whatever shiny thing captures her interest. She sees something she wants and she just goes after it.”
“Tara, darlin’, if there is a shiny thing you want to chase after, a bold leap you wish to make, do it knowing I will be there to catch you, too. I always have been there and I always will be.”
She sniffles and I realize she is crying. “Steady-On Manderley. What would we do without you?”
“Snatch each other bald?”
She does another half laugh, half cry at my reference to a childhood hair-pulling fight she had with Emma Lee, resulting in both of them losing clumps of hair.
“If Emma Lee’s heart is telling her feet to head to England to be a matchmaker, or India to be a Bollywood star, let her go. All you can do is let her go and be ready to cheer her on with loud applause when she succeeds, or welcome her home with open arms when she fails.”
“Even if we think she is making a big mistake?”
“It’s her mistake to make, Tara. Ultimately, we are the only ones who can decide which way we will go in life, and we are the only ones who can say whether our choice to take one path over the other was a mistake or our destiny.”
Chapter Thirteen
Even though my heart is palpitating and my stomach is roiling with sour orange juice at the thought of walking down the Majestic’s jetty in my department store bikini, I think of Emma Lee’s audacity and confidence and keep my head held high as Xavier and I walk from the lobby to the beach.
During the Festival, photo-calls were held on the jetty. Maggie Gyllenhaal. Russell Crowe. Ryan Gosling. Emily Blunt. Charlize Theron. They’ve all attended photo-calls on the Majestic’s famous jetty. Beautiful, glamorous people smiling, pouting, sulking for the camera.
Today, I don’t see Ryan or Charlize, only long-legged blondes in Balmain monokinis eyeing my romper cover-up behind their oversized Jackie O–inspired Chanel sunglasses.
Xavier booked us the front row, which means we will have an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean and the Lérins Islands in the distance. It also means we have to walk past a dozen scantily clad beauties lounging beneath pristine white parasols.
I don’t need a hand mirror to know that a prickly hot rash is spreading down my neck and over my chest. I frequently break out in a rash when I am anxious.
I want to feel glamorous, like Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity, a movie with the most erotic beach love scene ever filmed, but I am more like Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot. Jack was in drag, frolicking on the beach in a large one-piece and wig, when Marilyn Monroe declared him flat-chested.
I feel like a flat-chested man in drag. The black-and-white bathing suit I thought was so Rita Hayworth pinup, with the sweet
heart neckline and boy-shorts bottoms, isn’t doing me any favors either. Why, why didn’t I remember Rita was a C-cup?
“Here we are,” Xavier says, when we arrive at the two lounge chairs positioned at the end of the jetty. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“Bottled water would be lovely, thank you.”
Xavier leaves me and walks back down the jetty to the bar. I remove my cover-up and perch on the edge of one lounger. I am squirting sunscreen onto my hand when Xavier returns with the bottled water. He looks at my chest and pulls off his sunglasses.
“Manderley?” he says, sitting down on the lounger opposite me. “Are you unwell?”
A Balmain blonde in the row across from ours glances over her shoulder, a bland, bored expression on her face, until she notices Xavier’s broad shoulders and muscular back. Her lips quirk.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
“You are not fine,” he argues. “You have a rash, ma bichette, all over your neck and chest. It looks like an allergic reaction, to something you ate, perhaps?”
The Balmain blonde rolls her eyes dramatically. Heat flushes my cheeks. I look down at my toenails and notice a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to the Breakfast at Tiffany’s lacquer on my big toe. My humiliation is complete.
“Ah, I see.”
Xavier stands and walks back down the jetty, leaving me alone, a rash-covered embarrassment of a woman with toilet paper stuck to her blue nail polish. I want to dive in the turquoise water and swim and swim until I reach the Lérins Islands. Instead, I stick my arms in my cover-up and clutch my beach bag to my chest. Xavier speaks to a hotel employee and returns.
“Come, ma bichette,” Xavier says, reaching for my hand. “We are leaving.”
I take his hand and we walk back down the jetty, hand in hand past the Balmain blondes. I have to resist the urge to scratch my neck when one of them winks at Xavier.
“We don’t have to leave the beach.”
“We’re not,” he says, leading me down a set of steps and across the beach to a daybed for two, with white canvas drapes. “We are just moving somewhere a little less conspicuous.”
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