by Anita Hughes
“I remembered I have a date,” Zoe interrupted. “I’ll see you two later.”
Serena pulled away, her cheeks turning pink. “This is Chase.”
“I gathered that,” Zoe replied, grinning. “He’s even better than his photo.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Chase held out his hand. “Please don’t leave because of me.”
“I’m meeting a Swiss polo player at La Plage for cocktails,” Zoe said as she walked to the door. “He’s going to help with my badminton swing.”
“Wait,” Serena called, following Zoe into the hallway. “You don’t have a date with a polo player; you promised you wouldn’t lie.”
“I promised I wouldn’t lie to you.” Zoe waited at the elevator. “Your incredibly hot fiancé flew five thousand miles to see you.”
“But we were going to sit at the lobby bar and wait for your father.” Serena frowned.
“I don’t think my father is in any hurry to stop working on his tan,” Zoe replied. “We’ll do it tomorrow. I have a sudden desire to go dancing at Bâoli. It doesn’t get going until midnight, so don’t expect me back until late.”
Serena watched Zoe step into the elevator and grinned. “I was wrong, you are a true friend.”
* * *
“I didn’t think Chelsea’s expense account stretched to this,” Chase said, standing in the middle of the living room gazing at the crystal vase of birds of paradise, the sideboard set with gold-inlaid china, the silk curtains pulled back to reveal the twinkling harbor.
“The Carlton-InterContinental messed up my reservation.” Serena stood beside him. “I met Zoe and she offered to share her suite. It’s a bit over the top.”
“It’s spectacular.” Chase stepped onto the balcony and leaned against the railing. “It suits you, you’ve never looked so beautiful.”
“I thought you were at a retreat at the Bohemian Grove.” Serena joined him and gazed down at the Boulevard de la Croisette.
“I stood under a massive redwood tree listening to men wearing suspenders discuss torts.” Chase breathed in the sweet night air. “And decided I’d much rather be in the South of France with you.”
“That was a smart decision,” Serena said, grinning. She wanted to ask Chase about the letter and her father but the night was so beautiful—the sky filled with stars, the yachts bobbing in the harbor, the sound of laughter floating up from the avenue—she didn’t want to break the spell.
Chase put his arm around Serena and pulled her close. He kissed her slowly, running one hand down her back. He reached under her dress and stroked her breasts, gently massaging her nipples.
“You must be starving,” Serena said when he released her. “Room service changes the buffet every few hours. There’s smoked salmon and cracked lobster and sliced honeydew melon.”
Chase pulled the gold pin out of her hair. “I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and I ate rubber chicken and soggy French fries on the plane. I’d love to lie down on a king-size bed with crisp sheets and down-filled pillows.”
“No shower?” Serena asked. Her body felt like it was lit by an electric charge, and a warmth spread between her legs.
“Why would I want to shower,” Chase whispered, “when we’re going to get sweaty.”
* * *
Chase stood at the side of the bed. He unzipped his slacks and draped them over a chair. He walked over to Serena and unsnapped her bra, his fingers warm and familiar against her skin.
He turned her around, tugging at her panties. He thrust his fingers inside her so quickly she felt like she had stopped at the top of a roller coaster. His fingers worked faster, deeper, pushing her to the edge. She felt the sense of wonderment and then the gasp of exquisite release. He kept his fingers inside her, not satisfied until she gripped his shoulders, waiting for the waves to subside.
“Come here,” he whispered, leading her to the bed. She lay on the cotton sheets and watched him peel off his socks. She pulled him on top of her, pressing her fingers into his back. She drew him inside her and arched her body against his chest. He came first, falling against her breasts and burying his head in the pillow until she wrapped her legs tightly around him and let her body split open.
* * *
Serena opened her eyes and glanced at the bedside clock. It was almost two A.M. and suddenly she was thirsty. She gingerly moved Chase’s arm and slipped on a robe, padding into the living room. She poured a glass of Fiji water and nibbled a chocolate-covered strawberry, feeling deliciously wanton and decadent.
She picked up Chase’s blazer to carry it to the bedroom and his plane ticket fell out of the pocket. She reached down and gazed at it absently. Suddenly she saw the date and froze.
Why had Chase said he just arrived when his ticket said his plane landed in Nice two days ago? She put the ticket in his pocket and walked back into the bedroom. She climbed into bed next to Chase and tried to stop her heart from racing.
* * *
Serena woke and saw Chase’s side of the bed was empty. She remembered him tucking her against his chest, his skin glistening with sweat. Then she flashed on the date on the plane ticket and a pit formed in her stomach.
She jumped out of bed and slipped on a yellow knit dress. She brushed her hair and tied it with a yellow ribbon. She walked into the living room and found Chase eating a triple-decker turkey club sandwich.
“I was telling Chase you should go to Australia on your honeymoon.” Zoe sat at the round glass dining-room table, nibbling a piece of toast with honey.
“I woke up starving.” Chase wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Zoe was kind enough to order lunch.”
“I love watching Americans eat,” Zoe said, grinning. “They put bacon on bread and smother everything with mayonnaise.”
“We could go to the Marché Forville,” Serena suggested. “Buy baguettes and pâté and have a picnic in La Croix des Gardes.”
“I’m going to the Casino Croisette,” Zoe announced. “I have an appointment with a roulette wheel.”
“I’ll shower and let you ladies plan the day,” Chase said as he stood up, kissing Serena on the cheek.
Serena waited until she heard the shower running and turned to Zoe.
“Why are you gambling in the middle of the day?”
“Because I overheard my father ask the valet for directions to the casino.” Zoe stabbed her toast with a knife. “He’s never gambled in his life. I can’t let him go there with her, she’ll make him bet his Rolex or his wedding ring.”
“I’d go with you but I need to talk to Chase.” Serena twisted her ponytail. She wished she’d told Zoe that Chase insisted they not mention the engagement. She didn’t want her new friend to think she was abandoning her.
“I’ll be fine, I can practice my French.” Zoe smiled, grabbing her wide straw hat and dark sunglasses. “What trouble can I get into at a casino in broad daylight?”
* * *
Serena and Chase walked along the harbor, passing rows of sleek chrome-and-glass yachts. Neither of them had said a word since they walked out the revolving glass doors and down the Boulevard de la Croisette. Chase curled his fingers around hers, but there was something about his expression that made Serena uneasy.
“My father would love it here,” Serena said finally. “Can you imagine him parking the Serena among these yachts?”
“The Serena would fit in perfectly,” Chase said, then hesitated, drawing an old color photo out of his blazer pocket. He wore tan slacks with a white collared shirt and beige loafers. “I have a photo, it came with the letter.”
Serena studied the photo of a man and a woman standing in front of a whitewashed villa. The man had blond hair and green eyes and carried a baby girl in a pink ruffled dress. The woman had long glossy brown hair and wore a white miniskirt and gold hoop earrings. She held hands with a little boy in a powder-blue suit.
“Who are these people?”
“The woman’s name is Jeanne Delon, and the children are Giles and V
eronique.” Chase dug his hands into his pockets. “The man is your father.”
“This could be anywhere, my mother might have taken the photo.”
Chase turned the picture over and read the faded cursive. “In the garden of Villa Mer, Antibes, 1988.”
“That’s almost thirty years ago!” Serena exclaimed. “My father wasn’t in France then.”
“You were two years old,” Chase said quietly.
“What are you saying?” Serena’s hands shook and her eyes were burning.
“Veronique Delon was born at St. Mathilde’s hospital in Nice on February fourth, 1988. Your father’s name is on the birth certificate.”
“I know my father better than anyone in the world!” Serena sobbed. “He couldn’t keep a secret for twenty-eight years.”
“Cory’s editor is running the story. I made Cory promise to wait until I returned from France.”
Serena looked at Chase. “You discovered the birth certificate? You went digging in my father’s past without telling me?”
“I had to find out if there was proof,” Chase replied.
“Does my father know?”
“I called him yesterday.” Chase nodded. “Your father and mother are staying in Napa for a few weeks. A friend lent them his villa, it’s very secluded.”
Serena pictured her mother in her flawless Chanel suits and Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses. She saw her slip off her pumps and massage her toes after a grueling day on the campaign trail. She saw her take Charles’s hand and lead him upstairs to the bedroom. She heard the sounds of Miles Davis and muffled laughter under the bedroom door.
“I love you more than anything; you are the most breathtaking woman I’ve ever met,” Chase said slowly. “But we need to break off the engagement.”
Serena froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Other boys dream of being professional baseball players or astronauts; I’ve always wanted to be a politician. It’s why I went to Georgetown and why I put in these insane hours at the law firm. If we stay together, my career will be over before it starts.”
“This will blow over.” Serena’s teeth chattered and she felt naked in her thin cotton dress.
“Say I lose this election and run again,” Chase continued. “My opponent will bring it up in every race from here to the White House. Your father was a two-term U.S. senator with a perfect record, he’s fodder for the press.”
“You said we were more important than anything, the rest was gravy.”
“You wouldn’t love me if I quit politics, I’d be half the man I am. The press would keep throwing your father’s past in our faces, we’d be miserable. We’re young, we can find other people. Trust me, I’m doing what’s best for both of us.”
“How dare you.” Serena felt the rage boil up inside her. “Why didn’t you tell me before we made love, before you ate Zoe’s triple-decker turkey club sandwich?”
“I wanted to tell you when I arrived.” Chase scuffed his shoe on the wood. “But you were so beautiful in that turquoise dress, I missed you so much.”
“Get your things out of my suite.” Serena pulled the diamond-and-emerald ring from her finger. “Give this to the girl with the perfect pedigree.”
“You don’t know what I’ve gone through,” Chase begged. “I have to do this, I don’t have another choice.”
“Leave me alone!” Serena’s voice shook. She shoved the ring into his hand and ran down the dock.
“Serena, wait!” Chase called.
Serena turned and saw his face contorted in pain. He strode toward her and for a moment she thought he was going to put his arms around her and say he had panicked, he couldn’t live without her.
“It’s your grandmother’s diamond.” Chase pressed the ring into her palm. “You should keep it.”
Serena heard the ring clatter on the wood as she ran down the dock. She didn’t stop until she had reached the water. Then she collapsed on the planks and buried her face in her hands.
* * *
Serena sat hunched for hours, listening to the hum of boat engines. Her throat was dry and every time she pictured Chase, his hands jammed in his pockets, his blond hair touching his collar, her eyes filled with tears.
She heard footsteps, and a man wearing tan shorts and a beige cotton shirt sat on the dock beside her. He had long legs and wore brown leather sandals.
“You dropped this.” He held out the glittering engagement ring.
Serena looked up and frowned. It was the man who had returned her phone on the beach and her purse at the outdoor market.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded, turning and gazing at the bay. Suddenly everything seemed too bright: the sparkling ocean, the shiny yachts, the white seagulls skimming the waves. “You can have it, I don’t want it.”
“It’s your grandmother’s ring, you should keep it.”
“Were you eavesdropping on a private conversation?” Serena seethed.
“I was working on my boat.” The man pointed to a small white catamaran. He held out his hand. “My name is Nick.”
Serena pictured Chase handing back the ring. She remembered him saying he was doing what was best for them, and warm tears rolled down her cheeks.
“It will get better,” Nick said gently. “Time is a great healer.”
“You don’t know anything,” Serena snapped. “You live in a place where palm trees grow in the middle of the avenue and the air smells of Cuban cigars and expensive perfume.”
“You think people don’t get sick and die because they can dip their toes in the Mediterranean?” Nick raised his eyebrow. “You think heartbreak only exists in cities where people work in skyscrapers?”
“I didn’t mean that.” Serena gulped. She gazed at the outdoor cafés and elegant boutiques and remembered arriving in Cannes full of excitement and anticipation.
“I didn’t hear why you gave your fiancé his ring back,” Nick said slowly. His eyes were clear blue and he had sharp, angular cheekbones. “But I bet he wakes up in the morning and wishes he’d found a way to keep it on your finger.”
“I have to go,” Serena said, and she jumped up.
She ran down the dock to the Boulevard de la Croisette. She walked past the dazzling windows of Chanel and Hermès. She marched through the gold-and-white lobby of the Carlton-InterContinental. It was only when she was in the Cary Grant Suite, drinking a straight shot of vodka, that she realized that the man on the dock still held her grandmother’s diamond ring.
chapter nine
Serena sat on the gold velvet sofa nursing her second shot of vodka. She tried to swallow it but the alcohol made her stomach burn. She set it on the glass side table and closed her eyes, letting her misery cover her like a blanket.
She considered ordering room service and watching Casablanca or An Affair to Remember. But she pictured her office with its narrow view of the Bay Bridge. She saw Chelsea perched on her desk saying she thought Serena valued her career.
Serena walked to the bedroom closet and selected a navy linen dress and a pair of beige pumps. She applied an extra coat of mascara and twisted her hair in a knot. Then she grabbed her notepad and walked down the hall to the Sophia Loren Suite.
* * *
“Serena, come in,” Yvette said as she opened the door. She wore a black A-line dress and carried a bouquet of pink and red tulips.
“The hotel does a wonderful job with flowers, but it’s so satisfying to create one’s own arrangement.” Yvette walked over to a crystal vase on the cherry sideboard. “I bought these at the market in Rue d’Antibes, they smell heavenly.”
“They’re lovely,” Serena replied, suddenly wishing she’d stayed in her suite. She pictured all the bouquets Chase had sent her—white roses for her birthday, yellow tulips for her promotion, giant sunflowers because he thought they would brighten her desk.
“It’s so hot, would you like a lemonade or a glass of iced tea?” Yvette stuck the final bloom in the vase and set it on the dining-r
oom table.
“I’m fine.” Serena gulped, trying to stop the throbbing in her forehead. She sat on a peach upholstered chair and flipped to a fresh page in her notepad.
“There’s something different about you,” Yvette mused, looking at Serena carefully. “You’re not wearing that stunning diamond ring.”
Serena gazed at her naked finger and instinctively covered it with her other hand. “I hate to wear it to the beach, it gets covered with suntan lotion and sand.”
Yvette started to say something and then she flicked a piece of lint from her dress. “Shall we begin? I have so much to tell you.”
* * *
“Bertrand arrived every day at lunchtime,” Yvette began. “He brought roast beef sandwiches and fruit tarts and bags of sweets for the children. Sometimes he brought great bunches of flowers—roses and lilies and daisies—I always gave them to Françoise to take home so Henri wouldn’t see them on the weekends.…” Yvette gazed at the crystal vase of tulips and her eyes clouded over.
“I’m finished.” Yvette put the manuscript on the antique desk.
It was late afternoon and sprinklers played on the lawn outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Françoise had taken the children to Antibes for ice cream and the house was quiet.
“Did you notice these villas smell like rotted wood?” Bertrand asked, sitting in a worn leather chair. He wore khaki pants and a white T-shirt and smoked an extralong cigarette. “The brochures describe them as ‘romantic’ and ‘timeless’ and American movie stars rent them for a fucking fortune. But if you’re not careful you could be lying in bed and the ceiling might fall on top of you.”
“Will you take the manuscript to your editor?” Yvette asked.
“I’ll mail it to Edouard at Hachette. He sends it on to Random House in London and Knopf in New York.” Bertrand shrugged, grinding the cigarette into an ashtray.
“You trust the French postal system?” Yvette raised an eyebrow.
“If I go to Paris, Edouard will force me to have lunch with bookstore owners and reviewers.” Bertrand frowned. “I’ll have to eat escargot and drink red wine and listen to them moan about French culture.”
