Dreaming of Manderley
Page 27
“That sounds like a business transaction, not a marriage.”
“Oui.”
“So what happened?”
“It became too much. I grew tired of the charade and asked her for a divorce. That seemed to unleash something in her, something feral and reckless.”
“What did she do?”
“She told me she had been having affairs throughout our marriage—affairs, plural—but had been discreet out of respect for me”—he laughs, but it is a harsh sound, devoid of any real mirth—“and that she was through being discreet. I would come home to find her lingerie tossed on the floor, cologne that wasn’t mine left in the bathroom, empty wine bottles beside the bed.”
My heart aches for Xavier. I can only imagine the pain, the humiliation that comes from such a brutal betrayal.
“When she brought one of her lovers, Nicabar in fact, to the village festival, I thought I would lose my mind. If you could have seen her that day, flirting right in front of me, in front of our neighbors, my family. I grabbed her arm to leave, but . . .”
He shakes his head.
“Nicabar got involved and you broke his jaw.”
“Not my best moment, I will concede.” He turns his head, staring at the flames flickering in the fireplace, a twisted frown on his face, and I know he is reliving that dreadful night. “When we got back to the château, Marine threatened to destroy my reputation if I divorced her. She said she would accuse me of abuse and infidelity. She said one of her friends was prepared to lie for her and say that we had been having an affair for months. She said she would go to my business associates and tell them she thought I embezzled money from the company. A desperate, dangerous woman grasping at anything she could to hang on.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her to do her best. Then I went to bed with a bottle of scotch. In the morning, she was gone—along with my mother’s jewels and a sizable amount of money from my safe. I heard the rumors, of course, that she showed up in the village with bruises on her face, weeping and whispering her tale of abuse.”
“Why didn’t you tell everyone the truth? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
“What was the point? Marine had already humiliated me with her behavior, and, I reasoned, anyone who believed those rumors wasn’t going to change their mind because I proclaimed my innocence. I thought it better to quietly divorce her and move on with my life.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“Oui.”
“Where?”
“Mallorca.”
“How do you know?”
“Do you remember our night at La Grotte?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the woman who approached us as we were leaving? The one who made a scene?”
“Jacqueline.”
“Oui.” He smiles sadly. “Jacqueline is Marine’s best friend. A few nights before our encounter at La Grotte, she ambushed me in the hotel parking lot. She said Marine was sorry for everything she had done to me, that she loved me, and wanted to come home. Apparently, her Spanish lover has tired of her.”
“Spanish lover? I thought Nicabar was her lover.”
“She had more than one. Marine always was greedy.”
“That’s what Monsieur Verite said.”
“Did he?” He reaches up, brushes a lock of hair off my cheek. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you all of this sooner. Omitting information is as bad as lying about it. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you, but maybe you won’t be able to forgive and trust me after you have heard what I have to tell you.”
He inhales sharply and his hand drops back into his lap. “What is it?”
I take a deep breath and plunge right into the heart of the messy matter, before I lose my courage. I tell him about my daddy’s back taxes and the IRS seizing his assets.
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“I didn’t think it mattered. You see, discovering my father died in deep debt didn’t change my way of life. Naturally, I was sad to learn we had lost Black Ash Plantation—a home that was built by my six times great-grandfather—but possessions have never really mattered that much to me. I was far more distressed when I realized the enormous burden my father must have been laboring under before his death, the shame that proud, honorable man surely felt knowing he had failed in his duty as caretaker of our ancestral home.” My hand trembles as I brush the tears from my cheek. “My momma left me an extremely generous trust fund, which I have carefully invested. I could have helped to alleviate some of my daddy’s burden, if only I had known.”
“You would have done that, sacrificed your personal security to bail your father out of debt?”
I frown. “Of course, wouldn’t you have done the same if your father found himself in such a distressing state? Sacrifices aren’t as painful when you are making them for someone you truly love.”
He reaches for my hand. “I once said that I had seen glimpses of your soul and that those glimpses were beautiful, that you were kind, honest, and selfless. I had no idea then how true those words were. You are special, Manderley. Truly.”
“Does that mean you forgive me?”
He chuckles and kisses my fingertips. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“Thank God!”
He chuckles again. “Does that mean you want to go on being Madame de Maloret?”
“I have never wanted anything more in my life. I would rather throw myself into a storm-tossed sea than live a day without you.”
“Well, you have already done that,” he says, grinning. “Fortunately, you are married to a fearless and heroic sailor who gladly risked his life to save you.”
“You are fearless and heroic.”
“You are biased.”
“If I am biased it is only because I love you.”
“I love you, Manderley, madly, deeply, desperately.”
“Do you know, this is the first time you have said you love me?”
“Is it?” He frowns.
“Yes.”
“Strange, I have thought it at least a thousand times since I found you standing on the edge of a cliff.”
“You have?”
“Oui.”
One of Xavier’s socks slides down my leg, bunching up around my ankle.
“Will you say it again?”
Xavier reaches down and pulls his sock up to my knee. “I will do better than that.”
He stands up, scoops me into his arms, and carries me out of the living room, down the hall to our bedroom.
“What are you doing?”
“Starting a new tradition.”
“What tradition?”
“Every time you steal a pair of my socks, I am going to carry you off to bed and make violent love to you.”
I look into his blue eyes, shining with happiness.
“Because you love me?”
“Oui,” he says, laughing. “Je t’aime, ma bichette. I love you very, very much.”
Epilogue
It seems to me, as I stand here on the balcony of the Christian Dior suite in the Hôtel Le Majestic that I am experiencing jamais vu, the wonderful phenomenon that occurs when you visit the same place, again and again, but find it as unfamiliar as the first time you visited.
On the street below, Jake Gyllenhaal is standing on the red carpet outside the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, close enough for me to see the sun shining on his artfully tousled hair. The same spot I saw him once before, when my heart was full of unfulfilled yearnings. That Manderley—that sad, anxious woman ruled by responsibilities even as she ached for freedom—is practically unfamiliar to me, now.
That Manderley never imagined she would one day cowrite a screenplay that would be made into a Palme d’Or–nominated film. If Jake Gyllenhaal had stepped off the red carpet and, with the paparazzi’s cameras flashing and whizzing, prophesized her success, that Manderley still wouldn’t have believed it.
Yet, here I
am, four years later, back in Cannes with my best friend, celebrating the success of What Is Hidden, the screenplay we wrote together.
I sense him even before I smell his familiar, citrusy cologne, before he wraps his muscular arms around my waist, before he murmurs in my ear.
“Je t’aime, ma bichette.”
“I love you, Xavier.”
It is no trick of moonlight, no gossamer dream that will evaporate like mist in the morning sunshine. Xavier, my Xavier, loves me, well and true.
I do not long for those feverish first days of our love, those days of innocence and yearning, of sorrow and splendor, before my life as I now know it began. I do not yearn for them because the reality of our love is far, far sweeter than any fantasy I could have conjured.
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