French Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “Are you all right?” Zoe whispered.

  “I’m fine,” Serena said, and smoothed her hair. She took a deep breath and approached a salesgirl wearing a black sheath dress and gold sandals.

  Serena whispered to the salesgirl and pointed to Zoe. The salesgirl arched her eyebrows and shook her head. She whispered again and the salesgirl pursed her lips and nodded.

  * * *

  “You wait in here,” Serena said to Zoe, leading her into a padded room in the back of the store.

  “Please don’t do anything I’d regret,” Zoe moaned. “I can’t afford another six years of therapy.”

  Serena walked to the front of the store and stood behind a glass case. She heard the tinkle of the doorbell and saw an older man wearing a red blazer and pleated slacks. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore a gold Rolex on his wrist.

  “Can I help you?” Serena asked in French.

  “Only if you speak English,” the man replied, smiling. “My French makes me sound like a schoolboy.”

  “We have some unique pieces; this clip is part of the Jules Verne Collection.” Serena pointed to a turtle with an emerald shell surrounded by pavé diamonds.

  “I want something romantic,” the man mused. “Something that says thank you.”

  The man walked slowly between the glass cases, stopping to peer at a gold ballerina with ruby ballet slippers.

  “We keep some of our more important pieces in the back,” Serena said. “I’m happy to show you if you follow me.”

  Serena opened the padded door, her heart pounding. She turned the lights on low and saw Zoe perched on a velvet stool.

  “Zoe!” The man’s eyes flashed. “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s my question.” Zoe’s mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “The last time I saw you you were kissing Mother good-bye in the lobby at Claridge’s.”

  “I can explain.” Malcolm sank onto a stool. His cheeks were pale and his tall frame seemed to shrink.

  “It’s perfectly self-explanatory,” Zoe snapped. “Fashion magnate gets knighted and trades in his loyal wife of almost thirty years for a younger model.”

  “It’s not what it seems.” Malcolm sighed, rubbing his forehead.

  “I’ve been following you for days—Jet Skiing in the harbor, day trips to Sainte-Marguerite, dancing at Charly’s. You’re a poster boy for midlife crisis of the rich. Throw in a red Maserati and a floor-length mink for your trollop and you’re all set.”

  Malcolm looked at Zoe and his eyes were like dark wells. “Zoe, I have so much to tell you, we need to go somewhere and talk.”

  “We can talk here,” Zoe retorted. “Serena is my friend.”

  “Actually, I have an appointment.” Serena squeezed Zoe’s hand. “I’ll see you at the suite.”

  Serena walked back into the showroom and thanked the salesgirl. She opened the thick glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. She pictured Zoe’s watery hazel eyes and her father’s hunched shoulders. She hurried down the boulevard, hoping she’d done the right thing.

  * * *

  Serena sipped a cup of black coffee and nibbled a piece of dry toast. After she left Van Cleef and Arpels she finally gave in to her grief. She left a message with Yvette saying she had the flu and crawled under crisp Egyptian cotton sheets.

  She pictured eating with Chase at Betelnut, hot air ballooning in Napa, driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. She saw him in his black tuxedo picking her up for the symphony, and wearing his Georgetown T-shirt and carrying a bag of Trader Joe’s groceries.

  In the morning her head was hot and her skin felt like sandpaper. She wished her mother were there to brew a pot of cinnamon tea. Then she pictured her mother and father: entertaining at their Georgetown town house, reading together in their Presidio Heights mansion, and her heart cracked. She took two aspirin and sank against the down pillows.

  Now it was early afternoon and she had finally showered and dressed. She made a plate of cream cheese crepes, fresh sliced mangos, and apricots. But the crepe was too filling and the fruit was too sweet.

  Her phone rang and she pressed accept.

  “Serena,” her mother’s voice said. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Where are you?” Serena demanded.

  “We’re in Napa at a friend’s house. It’s lovely, with a swimming pool and a vegetable garden.”

  “Is it true?” Serena’s voice shook. “Does Daddy have another family?”

  “I’m glad you’re away,” Kate replied firmly. “This will blow over, but journalists can be nasty. They were hiding in the rosebushes; I had to scare them away with a gardening rake.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Serena gulped. “Daddy would never do that.”

  “This isn’t the time to talk about it. I shouldn’t use the telephone, one doesn’t know who is listening,” Kate continued.

  “We have to talk about it!” Serena exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t think about anything else.”

  “I have to go. Serena”—Kate’s voice grew soft—“your father loves you very much.”

  Serena hung up and sank onto the ivory sofa. She felt like a little girl on her first day of kindergarten. She wanted to call her mother back and hear her say everything would be all right, it was all a big mistake. She poured another cup of French press coffee and drank it in one gulp.

  * * *

  “Serena!” Yvette answered the door of the Sophia Loren Suite. She wore a black linen dress and her reading glasses were perched on her nose. “I was reading a letter from my son. I’m lucky, my children are excellent letter writers.”

  Serena entered the living room and sat at the bamboo dining-room table. She wore a white linen sundress and her hair was scooped into a high ponytail and tied with a white ribbon.

  “Pierre and Camille live in Paris,” Yvette continued. “Lilly married a British doctor and lives in London. I pop over the Channel any chance I get.”

  “Lilly?” Serena frowned. “I thought you had two children.”

  “Lilly was a delightful surprise,” Yvette mused, folding her glasses and sitting on a pink silk chair. “Let me tell you about the next time I saw Bertrand. It was almost two years after the summer in Antibes. Henri and I were at a cocktail party in Paris and he walked up to me and said I looked fat.…”

  * * *

  “I see the life of luxury has finally made you fat,” Bertrand said. He wore white slacks and a white button-down shirt and a striped bow tie. He carried a martini in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

  “You’re wearing a tie,” Yvette exclaimed. She hadn’t seen Bertrand in many months and her stomach did little flips. She avoided his eyes and glanced at the floor. “And shoes with socks!”

  “Edouard dresses me up like a performing bear,” Bertrand scoffed. “He even monitors how many cigarettes I smoke. He doesn’t want his bestselling author keeling over from a heart attack wearing a singlet and no socks.”

  “I’m not fat,” Yvette said, and blushed, putting her hand on her gently rounded stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

  Bertrand raised his eyebrow. “I assumed that phase of the marriage would be over by now.”

  “You’re wrong,” Yvette snapped. “My husband is a handsome man.”

  “All wealthy men are handsome.” Bertrand shrugged. “Do you know why men kill themselves to get rich? It’s not for the big houses or fancy clothes; we’re animals, we could live in a cave and walk around naked. It’s so we can fuck beautiful women.”

  Yvette glanced at the men in perfectly cut suits and Gucci loafers. The women had long glossy manes and wore fake eyelashes and bright eye shadow.

  “Why are you here?” Yvette asked, watching Henri talk to a woman wearing a red Valentino dress and gold stilettos.

  “Pays de Cocagne was a bestseller on three continents.” Bertrand drained his martini. “The New York Times said, ‘Roland has touched a nerve that will make grown men cry and women shiver.’
Edouard is looking for a seven-figure advance, but they don’t give millions to recluses.”

  “I saw the reviews,” Yvette said, nodding.

  For weeks after she turned the manuscript in to Edouard she lived in fear, panicked by what she’d done. She expected Bertrand to appear in a rage demanding to know why she rewrote his novel.

  But when the summer ended and she returned to Paris, she grew busy with dinner parties and society functions. She barely thought about the novel until she saw it on the shelves.

  She ran down to Shakespeare & Company and bought copies in English. She closeted herself in her bedroom and read it from cover to cover. Then she put it aside and waited for the reviews to come in.

  The praise was glorious: The New York Times, the London Observer, Le Monde said it was a modern classic. Yvette expected Bertrand to call or write a letter and thank her. She even considered stopping by Edouard’s office, but she was terrified she would be discovered.

  Finally she became pregnant and put it out of her mind. Only, sometimes in the first trimester she had wild dreams: Bertrand demanding she return the original manuscript, Bertrand announcing on television that Yvette was the author, Bertrand knocking on the door of her apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement and smothering her in passionate kisses.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Bertrand said as he reached into his pocket and brought out a lighter.

  “We are leaving for Antibes on Friday.”

  “Even better,” Bertrand said. He lit his cigarette. “I rented a villa in Juan-les-Pins for the summer.”

  “I’m having a baby in October.” Yvette inhaled the menthol scent. “I’ll be very busy.”

  “Knitting booties and folding blankets?” Bertrand moved closer, his arm brushing her shoulder. “Even pregnant women need to stimulate their brain.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Yvette replied, feeling her face flush.

  “I promise it won’t be anything strenuous.” Bertrand exhaled a trail of cigarette smoke. “You can work lying on a chaise lounge by the swimming pool.”

  * * *

  Yvette had been in the villa for a week when she heard a knock on the door.

  “How did you find me?” Yvette asked. She was beginning to show and wore a cotton maternity dress and silver sandals. Her black hair reached her shoulders and was held back with a ceramic clip.

  “I bribed my maid, she knows everything.” Bertrand put his hat on the end table and strode into the two-story living room. The floors were covered in white shag carpeting and the walls were sheets of glass. There was a mirrored bar and a billiard table.

  “Henri’s making more money than I thought.” Bertrand whistled, glancing at the crystal chandeliers, the large abstract paintings, the white grand piano.

  “I’m baking a soufflé,” Yvette said, and bristled. “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “You in the kitchen! I’ve never seen you eat more than a slice of torte.” Bertrand burst out laughing. “Tell your au pair to cook, I want you to translate my new manuscript.”

  “I can’t.” Yvette shook her head. “I have to prepare for the baby.”

  “This isn’t the Middle Ages,” Bertrand said, tapping a cigarette out of his gold cigarette case. “Women lead countries and win wars while they’re pregnant.”

  “I have to prepare the nursery and teach Camille to ride a bicycle and help Pierre with his swimming.” Yvette stood up and walked to the window.

  “That would overtire you,” Bertrand said as he followed her. “My idea is much better. You will work in a comfortable chair with your feet up and I will feed you chocolate parfait.”

  Yvette turned to Bertrand and could feel his mouth close to hers. She wanted to kiss him so badly it was a physical pain. If she refused his offer she might never see him again, if she said yes she would exist in a state of exquisite torture.

  “Will you do it?” Bertrand asked.

  Yvette walked to the end table. She handed Bertrand his hat and opened the front door.

  “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  chapter twelve

  Serena brushed her hair into a knot and secured it with a gold clip. She slipped on a yellow Lilly Pulitzer sundress and gold Manolo sandals. She put her phone and a tube of lipgloss in her purse and walked down the hallway to the elevator.

  After her meeting with Yvette, Serena sat at the glass dining-room table, her fingers flying over the keyboard, feeling the familiar rush of excitement. She wrote for hours, flipping between her notes, drinking frosty lemonade, and nibbling green grapes.

  When she finally closed her laptop the sun had edged behind the Île Sainte-Marguerite and sunbathers had packed up their beach bags. Serena stood on the balcony inhaling the warm salty air and decided she wanted to hike to the castle or eat scallops at a restaurant by the harbor.

  She entered the lobby and saw a familiar figure sitting at the bar. He wore a collared shirt and tan slacks with a leather belt. His dark hair curled around his ears and he wore scuffed boat shoes.

  “What are you doing here?” Serena asked.

  “I knew you were staying at the Carlton-InterContinental,” Nick said, jumping up. “I figured you’d walk through the lobby eventually.”

  “I need to apologize for leaving you at dinner,” Serena replied, suddenly flustered. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “You brought me good luck.” Nick’s eyes sparkled. “I didn’t want to eat by myself, so I walked back to my boat. I ran into an American director who said it was exactly what he was looking for. He bought it on the spot, for twice what I paid.”

  “I’m pleased.” Serena nodded, crossing the marble floor.

  The lobby was filled with couples drinking predinner cocktails. Serena heard a harpist playing and the sound of ice clinking in cocktail shakers.

  “I need to do something nice for you,” Nick said, following her to the entrance.

  “You found my phone and saved my diamond,” Serena replied, walking through the revolving glass doors onto the sidewalk.

  “Sailors are very superstitious,” Nick said as he put his hand on her wrist. “This is the first good luck I’ve had in a long time; I don’t want to jinx it.”

  Serena stopped and turned. His hands were rough and he had long fingers with fingernails like half-moons.

  “I was about to explore.” Serena sighed. “You can show me your favorite places.”

  Nick’s face broke into a smile. He walked to a blue Renault parked at the corner and opened the passenger-side door.

  “Where are we going?” Serena hesitated.

  Nick walked to the driver’s side and squeezed his tall frame into the narrow seat. “Monte Carlo.”

  * * *

  “Monaco is the second-smallest country in the world after the Vatican,” Nick said, his hand poised on the stick shift. “The Grimaldis have ruled the principality since 1297. Prince Rainier and Princess Grace were married in the Cathedral of Monaco in 1956; now they are buried in the crypt.”

  Serena thought fleetingly of Grace Kelly with her white-blond hair and blue eyes and perfect pedigree. She remembered her parents watching To Catch a Thief and herself dreaming of zipping along the Côte d’Azur next to Cary Grant in a white tuxedo. She pictured the honeymoon she and Chase had discussed: Capri, the Amalfi Coast, Monaco.

  * * *

  Nick drove into Monte Carlo and parked next to the harbor. Serena and Nick strolled past the Hôtel de Paris with its creamy white stonework and gray turrets. They climbed the marble steps of the Casino de Monte-Carlo and peeked at the ornate gaming salons.

  “The buildings are like birthday cakes,” Serena said as she gaped. Even the boutiques and cafés were housed in elegant structures with black tile roofs and gold awnings.

  “Follow me,” Nick said as he took Serena’s hand. “We have to catch the sunset.”

  They climbed a narrow path that wound above the town. Serena was about to say she needed to catch her breath when she saw a huge stone
structure built into the cliff.

  “Where are we?” Serena asked.

  “You told me to bring you to my favorite place.” Nick smiled. “The Oceanographic Museum was built in 1910 by Prince Albert the First. It was run by Jacques Cousteau from 1955 to 1988.”

  Serena turned to look at the view. The sky was turning purple and the roofs seemed to be dusted with diamonds. White villas perched on cliffs and yachts lined the harbor like strands of a pearl necklace.

  “Let’s go inside. Wait until you see the shark exhibit.”

  Serena and Nick walked through a vast room with skeletons of whales hanging from the ceiling. They visited the aquarium, filled with luminous tropical fish and Neptune Grass. Serena saw clown fish and inky moray eels and dazzling sea anemone.

  “It’s more beautiful than the showroom at Van Cleef and Arpels,” Serena murmured, watching a tiger shark glide between pink and white coral.

  “I used to come here all the time. When I was eight I decided I wanted to be a submarine captain.” Nick grinned, his eyes glinting like a schoolboy. “Once I discovered sailing, I knew I’d rather be cruising over the water.”

  They walked out into the crisp night air and ran all the way to the harbor. Serena gazed at the yachts lit up like Christmas trees and felt almost happy. Monaco was a jewelry box, filled with wonderful and exotic objects.

  “You’re smiling,” Nick said, glancing at her curiously.

  “I thought you were going to drag me into the casino,” Serena replied. “Instead I got a history and science lesson.”

  “I don’t gamble; the house always wins,” Nick said meditatively. “My father used to teach me random things. He died when I was fourteen. He was in New York on a business trip; his limousine had a flat tire on the way to the airport and he missed his flight. He caught the next one and it exploded over the Atlantic.”

  “I’m sorry,” Serena said quietly.

  “He ran out of luck,” Nick said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked along the dock. “Luck is everything. If you’re not in the right place at the right time you might miss the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with.”