by Anita Hughes
She pictured the sideboard in the Cary Grant Suite, brimming with fruits and cheeses. But the produce looked so tempting, she couldn’t resist filling her basket with juicy pears, tangerines, and bags of white cherries.
“Excuse me, stop, please!” a male voice called as she left the market.
She turned around and saw the man with dark curly hair who had found her phone. “What are you doing here, are you following me?”
“I don’t even know who you are.” The man caught up with her. He wore a light blue shirt over tan shorts and brown leather sandals. He held up her purse. “You left this at the fromage counter.”
Serena blushed, taking the purse and placing it in her shopping bag. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”
“Let me guess, you’re American,” he said, walking beside her.
“From San Francisco.” Serena nodded.
“I spent a summer there,” the man said as they stood at the corner. “I hated it.”
Serena burst out laughing. “Mark Twain said the coldest winter he ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”
“Let me guess, you are a famous American actress here for the film festival.”
She heard her phone buzz and checked it eagerly, certain it was Chase. She read a text from Zoe saying she had made dinner reservations, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
“It’s none of your business why I’m here,” Serena snapped, running across the road so quickly she narrowly missed a bicyclist. She wanted to find a quiet café or a bench by the harbor. She would call Chase and insist they send out invitations to the engagement party; whatever Chase discovered about her father they would face together.
“Americans say the French are rude,” the man said, running ahead of her. He had blue eyes and an angular nose and a small cleft on his chin.
She blushed, suddenly desperate to get away. She grabbed the basket of cherries from her shopping bag and thrust them at him. “I’m grateful to you for returning my belongings. I really have to go.”
* * *
Serena crossed the Rue Félix Faure and ducked into the Café Poet. Square tables were covered with starched white tablecloths and a bar held a glistening array of crystal decanters and glass bottles.
She drank a glass of ice-cold lemonade as if she’d spent the last month in the desert. She was about to call Chase when she noticed a young woman sitting on the other side of the restaurant wearing a wide-brimmed white hat with a navy ribbon. Her face was hidden by dark sunglasses and she wore a navy dress and white pumps.
Serena recognized the hat from the Carlton-InterContinental gift shop. She remembered trying hats on with Zoe, giggling that they felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. She looked more closely and realized the navy dress was the Stella McCartney dress she had loaned to Zoe and the white pumps were Serena’s own pair of Guccis.
She flashed on the text Zoe sent saying she was taking a bath and made reservations at Côté Jardin for seven P.M. Why was Zoe sitting at Café Poet when she was supposed to be submerged in bubbles?
Serena followed Zoe’s gaze and saw an older man wearing a straw hat and a burgundy blazer. He wore suede loafers and a gold Rolex on his wrist. He was leaning forward and whispering to a woman with long chestnut hair and a full pink mouth. She wore a low-cut silk dress and gold espadrilles on her feet.
The man took the woman’s arm and led her out of the restaurant. Zoe pushed her chair back and hurried to the door. She waited till the couple strolled down the Rue Félix Faure, and then she turned and followed them.
* * *
Serena entered the Cary Grant Suite, slipping off her sandals and feeling the smooth marble under her feet. The air smelled of hyacinths and roses and the French doors were open to reveal the sun setting over the bay.
“You’re not dressed for dinner.” Serena frowned, seeing Zoe hunched on the ivory silk sofa. She wore a cotton robe and terry slippers. Her eyes were puffy and there were red blotches on her cheeks.
“I ate a bad truffle in Mougins,” Zoe said. She didn’t look up from her copy of French Elle. “I can’t go to dinner.”
Serena debated whether to tell Zoe she had seen her at the restaurant. But Zoe looked so fragile, like a kitten that had been saved from drowning. Serena stepped onto the balcony and gazed down at the elegant boutiques.
“You’re not going to find that je ne sais quoi sitting here.” Serena walked back inside. “We’re going to put on our sexiest dresses and go shopping.”
“The boutiques are closed.” Zoe shrugged. “It’s after six P.M.”
“They put a closed sign on the door but there’s always someone inside in case Angelina Jolie makes a night pilgrimage,” Serena said. “I’ll give you a crash course on Yves Saint Laurent and Dior.”
Zoe put the magazine on the coffee table and looked at Serena, her eyes flickering with excitement. “We can pretend we’re Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“Get dressed.” Serena grinned. “We’re going to outshop Katie Holmes and Blake Lively.”
* * *
Serena and Zoe stepped onto the sidewalk, breathing the warm night air. Serena wore a beige silk dress with spaghetti straps and a wide orange belt. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail and her mouth was coated with shimmering lipgloss.
“I’ve never seen so many stylish women.” Zoe sighed. She wore a snug Lacroix dress and silver stilettos. Her eyes were still swollen and the blotches on her cheeks were hidden by Estée Lauder powder. “I feel like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister.”
Serena squeezed Zoe’s arm. “By the time we’re done, you’re going to look like a princess.”
They started at Bottega Veneta and worked their way through Sonia Rykiel, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and Hermès. The salesgirls were resistant at first, tapping the glass and shaking their heads. But Serena insisted they open the door and spoke in rapid French.
“What did you say?” Zoe asked when the tall, stoic saleswoman at Christian Dior ushered them into the hushed showroom.
“That I’m writing a story on French boutiques for Vogue, and Dior is my top choice for the cover,” Serena said, and grinned, fingering a red silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons.
Zoe gazed at the rows of summer dresses in bold colors. They were made of the thinnest fabrics and accessorized with vibrant purses, chunky necklaces, colorful scarves, and gold bangles.
“They look gorgeous on the mannequins.” Zoe sighed again. “When I wear them I belong in the circus.”
“We need to find the right cut and the perfect color,” Serena told her. She selected a pale pink dress over a cream-colored satin slip. She paired it with ivory pumps with small bows and a medium heel.
Serena waited while Zoe went into the dressing room. Suddenly she heard stifled sobbing. She stood outside, waiting until the cries turned to hiccups. Then she slowly turned the door handle.
Zoe stood in front of the mirror, wiping her eyes with a tissue. The dress was perfectly cut, accentuating her figure in the right places. The pale pink made her eyes sparkle and her skin look like creamy alabaster.
“Why are you crying?” Serena asked.
“It’s my damn allergies.” Zoe hiccuped. “I’ve always been allergic to expensive perfumes. How do I look?”
Serena walked into the dressing room and gazed in the three-way mirror. She handed Zoe another tissue and smiled. “You look like an angel.”
* * *
“My mother took me to Yves Saint Laurent when we lived in Paris,” Serena said as they entered the gold-and-white showroom of Yves Saint Laurent. “She let me pick out her dress to meet the French prime minister. I loved everything: the couture dresses, the long wool coats, the quilted jackets. It’s when I decided I had to work in fashion.”
“You should buy a dress for your engagement party,” Zoe suggested, selecting a floral silk dress. “This would look fabulous with your eyes.”
Serena froze, gazing at the colorful fabric. She hadn’t told Zoe abou
t Chase’s phone call; she kept expecting Chase to text that everything was all right.
Serena held the dress to her neck, imagining standing next to Chase on her parents’ lawn. She saw his brown eyes, his wavy blond hair, the dimple on his cheek. She pictured cutting their engagement cake, popping champagne, all their friends clapping and laughing.
Serena took the dress to the counter and handed the salesgirl her credit card. “I’ll take it.”
chapter six
Serena sat on a chaise lounge on the balcony toying with a plate of melon. Her hair was freshly washed and she wore a silk robe and slippers. She poured a demitasse of French press coffee, adding cream and sugar.
She had missed Chase’s call while she was in the shower and now his phone went straight to voice mail. She bit her lip and called her parents’ home number.
“Darling.” Her mother’s voice came on the line. “How is Cannes? I haven’t heard from you in days.”
“It’s gorgeous and Yvette Renault is fascinating,” Serena replied. “She’s the most elegant woman I’ve ever met.”
“When we lived in Paris I wore only the designers she suggested,” Kate agreed. “I own my favorite Sonia Rykiel dress because she wrote every fashionable woman must have at least one.”
“How’s Daddy?” Serena fiddled with her coffee cup.
“Wonderful! We drove to Napa and ate lunch at Bouchon. The sautéed gnocchi with spring vegetables was delicious.”
“Have you seen Chase?” Serena asked, trying to ignore the lump that had formed in her throat.
“He was here for hours yesterday,” Kate said. “I had to bring turkey club sandwiches to your father’s study or they would have starved.”
“Did he say why he was there?” Serena asked.
“More campaign ideas,” Kate replied. “Your father is like a child in a candy store.”
“Is Daddy there? I’d love to say hi.”
“He went to get some rib eye steaks,” Kate said. “It’s such a lovely night, we’re going to have a candlelit dinner on the patio. There are advantages to being retired; it feels like we’re back in college but with a king-size bed and gourmet cuisine.”
Serena hung up, wishing she could call her father, but neither her mother nor her father owned a cell phone. She could talk to Zoe, but she had gone on a day excursion to Théoule sur Mer, grabbing a sausage and a scone as she ran out the door.
Serena walked inside and gazed at the breakfast selections on the sideboard. The Belgian waffles and fresh blueberries that looked delicious an hour ago turned her stomach. She entered her bedroom and stood in front of the closet, debating what to wear for her meeting with Yvette. Suddenly, her legs felt wobbly and she sank onto her bed.
She pictured her mother and father driving in her father’s Audi convertible in Napa. Her parents told each other everything, but her father hadn’t mentioned an anonymous letter saying he had a secret second family in France.
Perhaps he had said nothing because Chase had already discovered it was false, and the campaign launch and engagement party were going ahead as planned. Serena felt her shoulders relax and the throbbing in her head subside.
She brushed her hair in the mirror, reaching for a blue satin ribbon. She gazed at her reflection and a pit formed in her stomach. What if her father hadn’t said anything because there was something he didn’t want his wife to know?
* * *
“Come in.” Yvette opened the door of the Sophia Loren Suite. She wore a red linen dress with a wide black belt and black leather pumps.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” Serena said, glancing at the room service table set up on the balcony. The table was covered with a pink silk tablecloth and set with white bone china. There was a crystal vase full of peach-colored roses and a carafe of sparkling water.
“Nonsense, you must join me.” Yvette motioned for Serena to sit down. “The kitchen makes enough to feed an army.”
Serena surveyed the hearts of palm salad with asparagus and green beans, the grilled beef fillet with rock salt and crushed pepper sauce, and the plate of fat pommes frites. There were four kinds of mustard and a jar of Heinz ketchup.
“You use ketchup?” Serena raised her eyebrow.
“Bertrand went on a book tour in America and discovered ketchup.” Yvette scooped salad onto a porcelain plate. “He insisted it tasted good on everything—eggs, sausages, even filet mignon. I remember the first day he arrived with a picnic basket.” Yvette paused, putting her fork down. Her eyes clouded over and she gazed out at the Mediterranean.
* * *
“What’s that?” Yvette asked, answering the door of the villa. The skies were low and the air smelled like rain. She wore orange-and-white Gucci culottes. Her dark hair touched her shoulders and she wore a gold chain around her neck.
“I brought lunch.” Bertrand held up a wicker picnic basket. He wore white slacks and a white T-shirt that was already damp with sweat. He took off his hat and set it on the sideboard, running his fingers through his black hair.
“Our cook makes my meals,” Yvette replied, ushering him inside.
“French gourmet food is for sissies,” Bertrand said, eyeing the grand salon to see where he should have his picnic. “Cold soups, soufflés, custards. I need red meat, potatoes, vegetables that aren’t swimming in butter.”
Bertrand laid a red-and-white checkered blanket in front of the stone fireplace and set it with a loaf of crusty bread, wedges of Edam and Camembert cheeses, and slices of roast beef and ham. There was a container of potato salad, a dark chocolate torte, and miniature jars of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup.
“What is this?” Yvette picked up the jar of ketchup. She couldn’t help but smile, imagining what the owner of the villa would say if he saw the indoor picnic spread out on his hundred-year-old floors.
“Ketchup.” Bertrand sliced the baguette and slathered it with mustard. “I discovered it in a minibar at the Beverly Hills Hotel. It is the greatest invention the Americans have made; it can make stale Wonder Bread with bologna taste delicious.”
“I would imagine they fed a famous French author better than that.” Yvette laughed, perching on an ottoman.
“I couldn’t eat at those fucking fancy literary dinners with society matrons hovering over me to see how I held my fork.” Bertrand layered the bread with thick slices of ham and cheese. He put the sandwich on a plate and handed it to Yvette.
“I can hardly eat a bite.” Yvette accepted the plate and politely nibbled the sandwich. “I had muesli and fresh peaches for breakfast.”
“I brought extra slices of chocolate torte for the children.” Bertrand made another sandwich for himself, adding pickles and red onions. “I thought they would be playing in the garden.”
“Françoise took them to the Picasso Museum in Antibes,” Yvette replied, looking out the full-length windows at the dark, oppressive clouds. “It looks like rain.”
“Then we will get started.” Bertrand nodded, reaching into the picnic basket for a fat manuscript bound with thick rubber bands. “This is for you, work wherever you like. I will sit here and enjoy a glass of claret.”
“I thought you were going to read out loud to me,” Yvette said, and frowned.
Bertrand burst out laughing. “I never read my work after I finish the final draft; I would rather hang upside down in Fleury-Mérogis and have water dripped on my head.”
“How will you know if I do a good job?” Yvette asked, horrified.
Bertrand stood up and walked over to Yvette. She could smell sweat and spicy ground mustard. “You will know if you do a good job.” He touched his heart. “You will feel it here. Take your time, we have all afternoon.”
* * *
Yvette took a long white notepad out of the desk drawer and unscrewed a silver fountain pen. She carefully slid off the elastic bands and began to read. Suddenly the rain came down in steel-gray sheets. There was a bolt of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. Yvette jumped, spill
ing ink on the page.
“Are you all right?” Bertrand looked at her curiously. He lounged against the fireplace, eating large bites of his sandwich and wiping mayonnaise from his chin with a napkin.
“I’m afraid of lightning and thunder.” Yvette shivered as another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “I have been since I was a little girl.”
“You are afraid of many things—the ocean, thunder,” Bertrand mused.
“My grandmother was the same.” Yvette pulled her eyes from the window. “I inherited it from her.”
Bertrand walked to the front door and opened it wide, letting the rain drip onto the wood floor.
“What are you doing?” Yvette demanded, running to close the door.
“There is nothing more beautiful than the elements.” Bertrand stood at the entry. “It’s like having a first-row seat at the symphony.”
Yvette cautiously stood behind him, feeling the rain touch her cheeks. The air smelled fresh and damp. She turned to go back inside when Bertrand grabbed her hand and ran into the front garden.
“What are you doing?” Yvette shrieked. Her heart was hammering so quickly she couldn’t catch her breath.
“The lightning is miles away,” Bertrand said, grinning. He wrapped his arms lightly around her shoulders. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Yvette let herself rest against his chest, feeling strangely calm and quiet. Then the sky burst with color and there was a crack of thunder so loud it shook the ground. She put her hands over her head and dashed back to the house.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded when they stood in the grand salon. She had run upstairs and put on a dry sweater and black slacks. She dried her hair with a towel and poured herself a glass of red wine. “We could have been killed.”
“Do you know how many people are killed in thunderstorms?” Bertrand took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. “You are in more danger using an electric toaster.”
“You’re insane.” Yvette shivered, gulping the red wine.
