Dreaming of Manderley

by Leah Marie Brown

  Instead, I tell her to keep reading.

  “‘ Since taking over as chief executive of Théophilus after his father’s death, Monsieur de Maloret has been full steam ahead, helping to revive his family’s foundering business. First came the triumphant purchase and integration of Italian boat builders Titan-Donati. He expanded Théophilus’s reach by acquiring the Dubai-based luxury yacht manufacturer Samilyah Marine. By shrewdly anticipating trends—such as larger platforms, infinity pools, panic rooms, anti-paparazzi shields, and the integration of jet engines—he has transformed sea travel to a decadent pastime for the world’s most discerning clientele. As annual profits climbed from $532.4 million in 2008 to an astounding $2.3 billion last year . . .’ ” She drops the MacBook to her lap. “Holy Cal Hockley!” Olivia sputters. “Two-point-three billion dollars? This article says your Monsieur X made two-point-three billion dollars last year? And I called him Xavier the Malaria!”

  Xavier’s question about whether I value standing and fortune above all else suddenly makes sense. He is probably accustomed to people currying his favor simply because of his fortune. My daddy used to call people like that ticks. Beware of the ticks, Mandy darling, they survive by feeding off the largesse of others. We had a few ticks in Charleston, hangers-on hoping to make the right connection that would allow them to move up the beast that is society.

  It also explains Xavier’s unwillingness to open up about his life, and his anger when he thought his privacy had been invaded.

  I feel a connection with Xavier. I might not have grown up with billions of dollars, but I was a member of a wealthy and prominent family. I understand the pressure that comes with trying to maintain your privacy when you live in an intrusive society. There’s a saying in Charleston: What happens in your backyard today will be discussed on your neighbors’ front porches tomorrow.

  Charleston has many porches.

  “Do you know how lucky you are?” Olivia says, closing her MacBook. “Of all the cliffs, in all the countries, you somehow visit the one that has a billionaire sporting designer stubble and an incredible six-pack. Oooh, let’s go to Monte tomorrow. Maybe your luck will hold out.”

  “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow. Wouldn’t you rather go to the beach?”

  “I can go to the beach in California! I want to go to Monte Carlo, that magical place where fortunes are made and sizzling-hot love affairs kindled.”

  She closes her MacBook and reaches her hand out, rubbing my head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am rubbing your head.”

  “I know you are rubbing my head,” I say, slapping her hand away. “Why?”

  “For good luck. I am going to stop at the cliff on my way to Monte tomorrow and I want the universe to bring me a handsome billionaire with designer stubble,” she explains, reaching her hand toward my head again. “Share the luck, Manderley!”

  If I have learned anything in my twenty-seven years on this planet, it is that luck is like a bad boyfriend, full of charm and promises in the beginning, but eventually he will disappoint you with his inconstancy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Luck might be a bad, faithless boyfriend, but over the next few weeks Xavier proves that he is good, true, and unstintingly generous.

  We fall into an easy, comfortable pattern. While Xavier attends business meetings, Olivia and I have brainstorming sessions on the beach or go on inspirational adventures.

  We visit the whitewashed Villa Santo-Sospir in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, where the famous French writer, director, and filmmaker Jean Cocteau entertained Orson Welles, Charlie Chaplin, Marlene Dietrich, Yul Brynner, Pablo Picasso, and Coco Chanel.

  One afternoon, Xavier arranges a special outing to the Castle of la Croix des Gardes, a beautiful estate near the port, where Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, and Alfred Hitchcock filmed the ballroom scene in To Catch a Thief.

  A little internet digging and I unearthed several other filming locations used by Alfred Hitchcock, including a villa in Saint-Jeannet that served as the home of the character played by Cary Grant. The elderly owner wouldn’t let us tour the inside of the villa, but she was kind enough to allow Olivia to stand on the back terrace and snap self-ies with craggy Baou de Saint-Jeannet looming in the background.

  “I am standing where Cary Grant stood,” she said. “Go ahead, push me off the terrace. Let me fall to my death on the rocks below. There’s no reason for me to go on. Nothing will ever beat this moment.”

  We reenact the famous chase scene in To Catch a Thief, racing our rented Peugeot through the village of Le Bar-sur-Loup just as Cary and Grace did.

  When I tell Olivia that Cary stayed at the Carlton InterContinental hotel in Cannes during the filming—that Hitch shot the beach scenes on the hotel’s private beach—she insists we go there so she can collect some sand to take back to California with her. I try to tell her it isn’t the same sand because Cannes spends 650,000 euros each year hauling in “fresh beach,” but she won’t listen. “I am getting that sand, Mandy. Even if there is only one grain that was there in 1955, that is still a grain of sand touched by the great Alfred Hitchcock while filming my favorite movie with my favorite actor!”

  We spend days exploring the Vaucluse, a department of Provence where the classic French film Jean de Florette was filmed. We admire rolling hills covered in bright red poppies and stone farmhouses set amidst vineyards. We visit a charming village, walk down its cobbled streets, peek into courtyards, and toss coins into a fountain.

  When he isn’t busy with his work, Xavier takes me to secluded, off-the-tourist-track places in Provence and along the Côte d’Azur. We have a picnic of crusty fougasse bread filled with olives, Italian sausage, and creamy French cheese, and drink rosé on a beach near Villefranche-sur-Mer and watch the fishermen tossing their nets into the sea.

  He patiently carries my basket through village markets as I buy soap flecked with lavender buds for Emma Lee, bottles of Herbes de Provence for Tara, and a sheer pink pashmina for Olivia.

  We drive in his convertible through mountainous passes and along the coast from Cannes to Saint Tropez. We sun ourselves upon the ramparts of Château de La Napoule, an old military fort built on the edge of the sea in 1387 by the counts of Villeneuve. In a quayside café in La Napoule I try absinthe. While the bartender performs the absinthe ritual—attaching a flat, perforated spoon to the rim of a glass, placing a sugar cube on the spoon, and slowly pouring the green liquid over the cube—Xavier translates the words printed on a small plaque on the café wall: In 1898, following his release from the Reading Gaol, where he had served two years hard labor for homosexual activities, the poet Oscar Wilde came to this café to drink absinthe and befriend the local fishermen.

  In the evenings, as the day is fading into night, we wind our way through the city’s labyrinth of narrow streets in search of a new restaurant, one that will become our place. We eat goat cheese soufflé, fish soup with spicy sauce, grilled sea bass brushed with Provençal olive oil and sea salt, summer berries and fresh cream.

  Then, we stroll barefoot along the beach, kissing in the lantern light. Or, we lie together on a deckchair, listening to waves whispering against the shore. These are my favorite times, the moments I treasure and press to the pages of my mind like snapshots. I treasure the quiet, end-of-day moments the most because they are when Xavier is at his most candid, relaxed and open, holding me in his arms while he tells me about his childhood in Brittany, his love of the sea, or the pressure he feels to preserve a family business that has been operating for over two hundred years.

  I gather all of these little bits of information like scraps of paper blowing in the breeze, snatching at them, flattening them out, and pasting them to the scrapbook in my mind labeled Xavier.

  The sunny days of summer do not last forever. Soon, the clouds will roll in, the temperature will drop, and I will find myself in a land far from Cannes. Perhaps it will be a Friday night in October. Olivia will be at some club and I will
be at home, soaking in my rose-scented bubble bath, listening to Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole, remembering the way the Mediterranean looked like a mosaic of blues and greens. When the bubbles go flat and the bathwater turns cold, I will climb out of my tub, wrap myself in a robe, and pad into the living room. I will click on my gas fireplace and sit on my sofa. Then, I will reach into my mind, pull the Xavier scrapbook off the shelf, and flip through the pages. I will remember the snapshots of us together, strolling down the Croisette, Xavier’s hand on the small of my back. I will remember the scraps of paper and all of those little bits of information. Xavier played Rugby in college. Xavier prefers single-cask scotch with a splash of water. When Xavier was eight, he stole his father’s sailboat and tried to sail to Madagascar because he read about a band of pirates who made their home in a cave on the island. Xavier tastes like warm cinnamon when he kisses me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

  Hypothetically speaking, if an American citizen were to move to another country, say, England, for example, would they need to obtain a work visa before traveling there or could they apply for one after they were settled in? Would they even need a work visa if they were planning on starting their own business?

  Text from Tara Maxwell:

  Has Emma Lee told you she is definitely moving to England, or is she avoiding it because she knows you will try to talk some sense into her?

  I return to our rooms after breakfast one morning to find Olivia frantically tearing things out of her dresser drawers and tossing them into her open Louis Vuitton suitcase. High heels, tubes of lipstick, lacy La Perla panties, and pilfered bottles of Fragonard toiletries litter the floor. (Olivia has been asking the maid to leave extra each time she refreshes our room, and now she has an impressive stock of travel-size hotel toiletries.)

  “Thank God you are here!” She says, shoving bottles of Fragonard into her sneakers. “We have reservations on the four-fifteen to Paris and I don’t know how we are going to make it. I still have to finish packing, and shower, and put on my face, and . . .”

  She sinks to her knees beside her open suitcase and tries to fit the sneakers into an overfilled compartment. I kneel beside her and take the sneakers from her shaking hands. Then I remove a pile of wadded-up T-shirts from her suitcase, shaking them out and folding each one into a neat little square. I put the T-shirts back into the suitcase, turn the sneakers so the soles face away from the garments, and efficiently fit everything back into the suitcase with enough room for several more bottles of pilfered toiletries.

  “Our flight isn’t until next week, Olivia.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? We have reservations on the four-fifteen. We are leaving today!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Didn’t you read my text?’

  “What text?”

  Olivia reaches into the pocket of her robe and whips out her iPhone. She pushes the home button and holds the screen in front of my face, too close for me to read. I take the phone, hold it farther away, and read the text.

  Text to Manderley Maxwell:

  Spec news.

  “That’s it? It just says spectacular news.”

  Olivia grabs the iPhone from my hand and slips it back into her robe pocket before hurrying into my room. She returns a few seconds later, breathless, holding more hotel toiletries.

  “It is spectacular news. The most spectacular news.” She tosses the shampoo and lotion bottles onto the folded pile of T-shirts and sits down beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Go ahead, guess what it is.”

  “You’re in love with Gaspard and you are going to stay in France permanently.”

  “That would be divine, wouldn’t it? But this is even better news.”

  “What could be better than love?”

  “Success.”

  “You already have that.”

  “Well, we are about to have some more.”

  “We?”

  “I sort of pitched our screenplay idea to my agent, and he sort of pitched it to a few execs, and now Warner Brothers is talking about offering us a contract!”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  She claps her hands excitedly. “You haven’t even heard the best part yet.”

  “I haven’t?”

  She shakes her head and squeals. “They are talking about getting Leo to play the part of the tennis-pro jazz musician.” She doesn’t wait for my reaction. She hops up and begins pacing the length of the room. “We need to go back to LA immediately. We need to meet with my agent and . . .”

  Her voice fades to a distant hum. All I can think about is saying goodbye to Xavier. I knew this time would come—it was like a dark cloud hovering far, far away on the horizon, moving closer, closer, each day—but I thought we still had a few more days together. What am I going to do? The dark cloud that has been threatening my happiness for weeks has finally arrived and all I want to do is run to Xavier, wrap my arms his neck, and cry, Please, please don’t make me go. I don’t want to go back to Los Angeles. I want to stay with you!

  My iPhone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket.

  Text from Xavier de Maloret:

  I have a business meeting this morning. Would you like to go for a swim this afternoon? I know a secluded beach not too far from here.

  Tears cloud my vision. I blink them away and send a text to Xavier telling him I have something important to say. I hit return and hold my breath until my phone chimes again.

  Text from Xavier de Maloret:

  I just stepped out of the shower, but you are welcome to come up now.

  I leave my room without telling Olivia where I am going, panic spurring me on, prodding me to run, run down the hall and up the flights of stairs, run to Xavier’s door and into his arms.

  Hurry. Hurry. If you don’t hurry, you might get there and discover he has already left the hotel. You might lose the chance to look him in the eyes, those beautiful Mediterranean-blue eyes that sparkle one moment and hint at darker, enigmatic depths the next. Hurry!

  I am out of breath and flushed all over by the time I reach his door. A frantic, frizzy-haired mess of a woman terrified at the thought of missing her opportunity to say goodbye to the man she . . .

  . . . loves.

  And there it is. The awful, agonizing truth of the matter. I am in love with Xavier de Maloret.

  I knock on the door and Xavier answers, his hair damp, a towel around his neck, a smudge of shaving cream on his cheek near his ear. He is wearing pajama bottoms without a top, his muscular chest tanned to a rich brown from all of our days swimming in the sea.

  “Bonjour, ma bichette,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. “This is a nice surprise.”

  My eyes fill with tears as soon as I hear him call me his little deer. The literal translation of ma bichette is “my little doe,” but I recently discovered it is also a term of endearment, meaning darling or sweetheart. I realize the name might rankle some feminists, but it makes me feel warm inside, like when I used to drink hot cocoa after trudging through the snow from my classes to my dorm room. He notices my tears.

  “What’s the matter?” He opens the door and gestures for me to come in. “Have you had bad news?”

  I step inside and close the door. “The worst.”

  “Come,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to a chic sitting room decorated in tones of gray, black, and white. He gestures for me to sit on a velvet sofa while he sits on the coffee table across from me. “What is it?”

  “I have come to say g . . . goodbye.” My voice catches and I have to look away from him before I burst into tears. “We are leaving this afternoon.”

  “Leaving? So soon? I thought you were going to be here until the end of the month.”

  “We were supposed to be, but Olivia needs to go back to Los Angeles to meet with her agent. She pitched an idea we had for a new screenplay and Warner Brothers is interested. It’s a tremendous opportunity.”

  “B
ut that is marvelous, isn’t it? It’s your chance to write the stories you want to tell, instead of editing someone else’s.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  He sighs and runs his hand through his damp hair. “Then don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “Because you are her life preserver?”

  “Well, yes,” I say, shoving my glasses up my nose.

  “Stop doing that,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Wouldn’t you rather do something else?”

  “Like what?”

  He stands up, walks over to the window, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares out for so long I worry he has forgotten I am here. Finally, he turns back around and walks over to me.

  “Marry me.”

  “Marry you? Are you crazy?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I can’t marry you.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest again and looks down at me. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t even know you.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, to start, I don’t know your full name.”

  “Girard Fortune Xavier de Maloret.”

  The panic I felt when I saw the Balmain blondes flirt with Xavier returns, viciously clawing at my frail confidence. My chest itches and it takes all of my control not to scratch. Xavier is a rich, handsome man from an aristocratic family who probably lives in a grand mansion and runs with a grand set. Why would he want to marry me? Plain, socially awkward Manderley Maxwell. Sure, I came from wealthy parents, but I have never been part of a set.