by Anita Hughes
The doorbell rang as she snapped on a silver necklace. She opened the door and saw a silver-haired man wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket. He wore beige slacks and shoes with leather tassels.
“Dad.” Serena froze.
“I’m overdressed,” Charles said, smiling. “San Francisco was freezing and we just arrived, I haven’t had time to change.”
“Come inside.” Serena’s heart raced and her mind whirred.
“You look like you’re going out.” Charles glanced at Serena’s black-and-white silk dress and white patent leather pumps. Her hair was tied in a low knot and she wore a silver bracelet on her wrist.
“I’ve been working all day.” Serena shrugged. “I was going to get some dinner.”
“I’ll join you,” Charles said. “I haven’t been in Cannes in fifteen years but I still crave the swordfish at La Plage.”
“We can stay here,” Serena murmured.
“And miss a date with the most beautiful girl in France? Wait till you try their goat cheese salad.”
* * *
They sat at an outdoor table under a bright orange umbrella. The table was laid with a white linen tablecloth and large square plates. There was a basket of herb bread and a pitcher of lemon water.
“Your mother and I are staying at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc in Antibes.” Charles buttered a baguette. “She’ll join us tomorrow for lunch; tonight I wanted to explain—”
“Maybe we should wait until after dinner,” Serena interrupted, suddenly afraid of what he would say.
“I need to tell you,” Charles insisted. “It was the summer after you were born. We decided to rent a villa on the Côte d’Azur. I was in Paris on business and I took the train to Cannes. Your mother and you would fly over from San Francisco.
“I stayed at the Carlton-InterContinental and one evening I entered the boutique to buy your mother a present. The salesgirl was a brunette with big brown eyes like a young Brigitte Bardot. She suggested a Hermès scarf and a bottle of Dior perfume.
“The next night I was walking along the Rue de la Feuvre and I saw the salesgirl huddled on the sidewalk. I asked what was wrong and she started sobbing that she had been fired. The manager discovered her son sleeping in a cot in the hotel kitchen.
“She had no one and nowhere to go. The boy’s father was an American producer who got her pregnant and left her. I had just rented a villa in Antibes, the keys were in my pocket.” Charles stopped. “I gave her the key and said she and her son could stay there for a few days.
“When I drove to the villa to pick up the key, she asked me to come in.” Charles’s face turned pale. “You don’t know how many times I’ve played back that afternoon, wishing I’d said I had an appointment. We drank a glass of wine and she started crying that she couldn’t find a job or a place to live. I told her she could stay in the villa for the summer.” Charles paused. “We ended up in the bedroom; it was the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
“I called your mother and told her we should rent a villa in Portofino. Then I mailed Jeanne a letter telling her to return the key to the estate agent in August.” Charles pushed away his plate. “Two months later she wrote back that she was pregnant.
“I sent a monthly allowance and visited four or five times a year. She’d been abandoned once, I couldn’t do it again.”
Serena gazed at the table and realized the waiter had replaced her goat cheese salad with grilled swordfish and risotto. She scooped up risotto but then she put the spoon on the plate. Her throat was parched and she couldn’t swallow. She sat back in the leather chair and waited for her father to continue.
“I didn’t want to accept the consulate position, but your mother adored Paris.” Charles looked at Serena. “And it was wonderful for you, you grew up so beautiful and cultured.
“One day your mother surprised me with reservations at the Carlton-InterContinental. Kate and I were walking through the lobby when a young girl approached us. She was about thirteen, tall and gangly with blond hair and green eyes. She threw her arms around me and called me daddy.
“God, I remember, it was like watching a train wreck. Jeanne rushed over and removed Veronique from my neck. I saw the realization on Kate’s face and my heart stopped. Kate didn’t say a word, just entered the elevator. When we got to the suite she demanded I tell her everything.
“She wanted to pack her bags and catch the first train to Paris. She wanted to take you out of school and go back to San Francisco.
“For three days we paced around the suite. On the third night we both fell asleep, too tired to argue. I slept for twelve hours, and when I woke the suite was quiet; I was sure Kate was gone.
“She was sitting at a wicker table on the balcony, eating scrambled eggs. She said we all make mistakes; the test of character is how we behave after they’ve been discovered.
“I promised to never have any contact, to be the best husband and father and try to make the world a better place.” Charles’s eyes were moist. “She said she would try to forgive me.”
* * *
Serena sat on the ivory silk sofa in the living room of the Cary Grant Suite. The curtains were drawn and the lights were dimmed. The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing.
She had left her father in the lobby and ridden the elevator by herself. She felt fuzzy and nauseated, as if she were snorkeling underwater. She kept replaying her father’s words but they were like a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces jumbled.
She pictured Christmas in Palm Springs and summer in Lake Tahoe. She saw lively dinners around the maple dining-room table and watching old movies in her parents’ study. She remembered thinking her family were like three points of a triangle.
She saw her father arrive at the villa, his arms laden with presents, and thought her heart would break. She pictured her father teaching the little boy to ride a bicycle, helping the small girl color a picture. She saw him clean up plates after dinner, eat cake and ice cream in the garden, share a late-night brandy with Jeanne.
She turned off the lights and walked to the bedroom. She unzipped her dress and hung it in the closet. She pulled down the covers and climbed into bed.
chapter eighteen
Serena checked her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t slept and her eyes were large and glassy. She wished she could talk to Zoe, but Zoe and Malcolm had spent the night in Nice. For a moment she thought of calling Chase, but she pictured him sitting in a booth with Ashley Pearson and shivered.
She smoothed her hair, grabbed her notepad, and walked down the hallway to the Sophia Loren Suite.
“Serena, come in! I was just finishing breakfast. Room service prepares the most delicious muesli, I can’t get anything like it in Paris.”
Yvette wore a black pantsuit with a white leather belt and gold sandals. Her cheeks were powdered and she wore bright red lipstick.
“You’re very pale,” Yvette said as she ushered Serena into the living room. “I hope you’re not coming down with another summer cold.”
“I’m fine,” Serena replied. “I drank too much coffee and had trouble sleeping.”
“I must tell Chelsea what a wonderful job you’re doing.” Yvette sat at the bamboo dining-room table. “It can be exhausting reliving one’s past,” Yvette mused. “When we’re young we never think we’ll grow old, and we don’t realize that everything we do has consequences.…”
* * *
Bertrand rented a room above the ice cream store in Juan-les-Pins and they met there every afternoon. Sometimes Yvette thought he did it to test her. Once she stood at the window and saw Françoise and Pierre and Camille and Lilly enter the shop and she felt nauseated. But Bertrand swore it was the only room available, and the views of the harbor were lovely.
* * *
Every morning Yvette sat at her dressing table and planned her day: work in her garden, lunch with the children on the patio, a brisk hike in the afternoon. But then it would be too hot or the children begged to go to the beach wi
th Françoise and she was left alone in the villa.
By noon she was restless and anxious. She’d hastily get dressed and run down the hill to Juan-les-Pins. Often she arrived at the room first and her heart pounded until Bertrand climbed the stairs.
Sometimes he’d be romantic, bringing a picnic of roast beef sandwiches and oranges. Other times he was almost clinical, telling her to take off her clothes and lie on her stomach.
“Sex must be learned,” he said when they were both exhausted from an hour of lovemaking. “If I were teaching you how to drive a car I would show you how to steer,” he’d say, and then he’d bury his face in her, making her come so violently she couldn’t breathe.
They never talked about Henri and they never talked about the end of summer. Yvette lived each day like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
* * *
“Today we are going on an excursion,” Bertrand announced.
He wore a white blazer over a black T-shirt and khaki slacks. He carried a straw hat in one hand and a box wrapped in gold paper in the other.
“What if someone sees me?”
“No one will; I bought you a present.”
Yvette opened the box and took out a silk Dior scarf and a pair of oversize Gucci sunglasses.
“For me?” Yvette blushed.
“You will be as clandestine as a Russian spy.” Bertrand tied the scarf around her hair. “And very beautiful.”
They drove out of Antibes and onto the highway. They turned down a long paved drive and Yvette saw a stone mansion with tall white columns. It was flanked by cypress trees and surrounded by acres of lush gardens.
“We cannot stay cooped up like fugitives,” Bertrand said as he opened her car door. “We will play tourist and then we will have a picnic in La Roseraie.”
They wandered through the mansion with its elaborate crown molding and heavy velvet furniture. Yvette learned that the Villa Eilenroc was built in 1867 by Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera. Bertrand pointed out the elaborate murals in the Night Salon and the glass cases filled with Flaubert’s pens and notebooks.
“Madame Bovary was the first book I ever read.” Bertrand’s face was serious. “No writer has created a greater heroine.”
* * *
After they had seen the vast kitchen and the antique harpsichord in the music room, Bertrand went back to the car and retrieved a picnic basket. He took Yvette’s hand and led her to the rose garden.
“I’ve never seen so many different types of roses.” Yvette inhaled the rich scent.
They sat on the checkered blanket and ate ham and Gouda on pumpernickel bread. There was a jar of dill pickles and a bottle of pinot noir and a raspberry tart.
“Why did you bring me here?” Yvette asked curiously.
“I’m writing a new novel about a Parisian woman whose life is centered around her wealthy husband and children.” Bertrand took out his cigarette case. “I want to use you for research.”
“Research!” Yvette exclaimed.
Bertrand leaned back on his elbows and blew smoke rings in the air. “Tell me everything about yourself, your childhood, your schooling, your dreams.”
“Why me?” Yvette asked, an uneasy feeling forming in her stomach.
“I don’t know any other Parisian housewives.”
* * *
Yvette described her parents’ apartment near the Champs-Élysées, summers in Biarritz, skiing in Chamonix. She told Bertrand about her school years at the convent, how she hated math and loved English.
“I always kept a romance novel in my geometry book,” Yvette mused. “I’d stay up all night reading Barbara Cartland.”
She told him about her parents’ long friendship with Henri’s family, the wedding at Notre Dame Cathedral, the births of her children.
“Henri was never present at the births, but he arrived in the recovery room with a bouquet of roses and a piece of jewelry: diamond earrings for Camille, a sapphire pendant for Pierre, a ruby ring for Lilly.”
She described the apartment on Rue Saint-Honoré that was a wedding gift from Henri’s parents, her charitable foundations, the children’s activities.
“Camille takes ballet and Pierre has started fencing,” Yvette said as she nibbled a piece of tart.
“We eat dinner together before Henri comes home, steak and pommes frites for the children, a piece of fish for me.”
“And that’s enough?” Bertrand peered at her curiously.
Yvette bit her lip. “It always has been.”
* * *
After their picnic they drove back to Juan-les-Pins and made love on the low mattress. Bertrand had never been so attentive. Instead of getting up to smoke his cigarettes, he rested his head in her lap, reading pages from Sentimental Education. When he dropped her off at the villa, he kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
Yvette threw her purse on the sideboard and ran upstairs to take a bath. It was only after she was reading in bed that she realized she had left the Dior scarf in the entry and Henri would be arriving from Paris in the morning.
She crept downstairs and buried the scarf in her lingerie drawer. She lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling. Finally, at three A.M., she knew what she had to do. She turned over and went to sleep.
* * *
“I’m leaving Henri,” Yvette announced. “I’m going to rent a villa year-round in Antibes.”
Bertrand looked up from his notepad. “He would never divorce you.”
“I’ll sue him for adultery,” Yvette said. “I’ll hire a private detective.”
She had been thinking about it all weekend. The minute Henri left on Monday after breakfast, she slipped on a cotton dress and ran to tell Bertrand. Bertrand was drinking an espresso and writing at the small desk next to the window.
“A man in Henri’s position will say he was visiting a sick friend.” Bertrand shrugged. “He’ll pay off the detective and send the girl to the country.”
“I’ll tell him about us,” Yvette insisted. “He can sue me for divorce.”
Bertrand stood up and put his hands on her shoulders.
“You would lose your children.”
“I can’t share a bed with him anymore.”
Bertrand turned her around and unbuttoned her dress. He caressed her breasts, pushing his thumb against her nipple. He kissed her neck, inhaling her Dior perfume.
“You will say you have feminine problems and need your own bedroom,” he said as he reached one hand under her skirt. “Women have been doing it for centuries.”
Yvette felt his fingers opening her like a delicate flower. She strained against him, her body wet and hungry. She grabbed his shoulders, waiting for the waves to wash over her.
Bertrand pulled his fingers out before she came. He laid her on the mattress and pulled up her skirt. He entered her quickly and they came together in one long, dizzying thrust.
Yvette rested her head on his chest. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat. She couldn’t tell him that she wasn’t afraid of sleeping beside Henri; she was terrified of losing Bertrand.
chapter nineteen
Serena entered the Carlton Restaurant and saw her mother sitting at a table on the balcony. Her cheeks were pale but she looked lovely in a pink Chanel suit and beige Ferragamo pumps. Her strawberry-blond hair was brushed into a pageboy and a diamond tennis bracelet dangled from her wrist.
“Serena, I’ve missed you!” Kate exclaimed, glancing at Serena’s floral Ella Moss sundress and white espadrilles. “You look beautiful, what a gorgeous dress.”
“Where’s Dad?” Serena asked.
“He thought we might want some time alone,” Kate said, hesitating.
Kate picked up the menu and studied it carefully. She signaled the waiter and ordered a cup of tomato gazpacho and a watercress salad. She took a baguette from the basket and tore it in half.
“The roasted turbot fish fillet with spring vegetables sounds delicious,” Kate said as she buttered the baguette.
“But I lost my appetite somewhere over Greenland; we had a bumpy flight.”
Kate poured English breakfast tea into a porcelain cup and added a cube of sugar.
“Chase came to see your father before we left,” she continued. “They spent a long time in the study.”
“How could you live with Dad after what he did?” Serena exploded. “And how could you never tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” Kate sighed. “What would be the point?”
“Dad had a whole secret life! I have a half sister,” Serena spluttered.
“But you don’t.” Kate’s voice was firm. “Because your father promised to never have contact with them again.”
“How could you possibly stay with him when he lied to you for fourteen years?” Serena’s hands shook and her teeth chattered. She tried to sip her cup of tea but it was too hot and scalded her tongue.
“I wanted to take the train back to Paris and cut your father’s suits into little pieces. I wanted to rip the pages from his books and shatter his glasses.” Kate stopped, looking at Serena. “But what good would it have done? We had you, we were married.”
“People get divorced all the time.” Serena’s eyes flickered. “Would you want me to stay with a cheating husband?”
The waiter set down two plates of watercress salad with round cherry tomatoes and sliced avocado.
“I imagined life without Charles and it was like cutting out my own heart. I told him what I needed and he agreed.” Kate speared a tomato with her fork.
“I don’t think I could love someone who did that to me,” Serena replied.
“If we all behaved sanely in love there’d be no great literature,” Kate said slowly. “It was a long time ago.”
“What are you and Dad going to do?” Serena asked. Her eyes were watery and she had a sharp pain in her chest.
