French Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “We’re going to Africa.”

  “Africa!” Serena dropped her fork.

  “We’ve always wanted to go,” Kate said, and smiled. “And it’s the one place we won’t be followed.”

  * * *

  After lunch they browsed in Yves Saint Laurent and Fendi. Kate picked out a sleeveless cotton dress and a large straw hat. She added ribbed sweaters, two pairs of capris, and loafers in three different colors.

  “I’ve never shopped for a safari, I feel like Meryl Streep in Out of Africa.” Kate glanced at Serena and paused. “Your father has done great things—helped pass a bill to promote alternative energy, increased funding for schools in California—but he always said you were his greatest achievement.” Kate squeezed Serena’s hand. “That’s all you need to know, let me worry about the rest. You might think I’m weak or old-fashioned, but he’s my best friend.”

  * * *

  Serena put her mother in a taxi and lingered in front of the Carlton-InterContinental. She didn’t feel like walking through the lobby with its gold inlaid floors and uniformed doormen. She didn’t want to rub shoulders with women carrying Louis Vuitton bags and men wearing white linen slacks.

  She crossed the street and ran down the boulevard. She kept running until she reached the dock. Then she unstrapped her sandals and jumped onto the sand.

  Serena hadn’t known she wanted to see Nick until she stood in front of the Carlton. Then she pictured him showing her the aquarium in Monte Carlo. She remembered dinner in the Cary Grant Suite and the kiss on the balcony.

  “Were you looking for me?” Nick stepped onto the dock. He wore a navy T-shirt and beige shorts.

  “I was running on the beach,” Serena said.

  “In a designer dress?” Nick raised his eyebrow.

  Serena glanced at her silk dress and white espadrilles. “How do you know it’s designer?”

  “I live in Cannes,” Nick said, grinning. “Why don’t we go somewhere more suitable, like the bar at Bâoli?”

  Serena hesitated. “I’m not thirsty.”

  “You can watch me drink,” Nick said, taking her arm. “I’ve been working on the boat all day.”

  * * *

  They sat at a round table close to the sand and Serena watched Jet Skiers jump over the waves. The beach was filled with couples lounging on white beach chairs and children playing with plastic buckets.

  Nick ordered two strawberry martinis and a bowl of tiramisu and turned to Serena.

  “Let me guess, you were chasing jewel thieves down the beach and they escaped onto a luxury yacht.”

  “I had lunch with my mother; my parents are in Cannes.”

  “I thought they were staying at a villa in Napa.”

  “They came to see me,” Serena replied. “Tomorrow they’re leaving for Africa.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t say anything you wanted to hear.” Nick frowned.

  Serena sipped the smooth vodka and told Nick about her father meeting the salesgirl at the Carlton boutique years ago, letting her stay in the villa, his indiscretion. She told him how her mother had discovered her father’s secret and decided to stay with him.

  “While other children were at summer camp I was fishing with the governor of Montana.” Serena ran her fingers over her glass. “We hiked the Great Wall of China and sailed down the Nile. I wrote my sixth-grade world history report on my father and I cut out photos of my mother in Vogue and put them in a scrapbook.”

  “None of that has changed,” Nick said.

  “I always thought we were a team, but my father had another life.” Serena’s eyes filled with tears. “How could he still love us and keep a secret family?”

  “You’re beautiful and smart and have a job you love,” Nick said. “And you’re sitting on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world crying into your tiramisu.”

  Serena glanced at the sterling silver bowl.

  Nick signaled the waiter and grinned. “It’s all right, we can order another.”

  * * *

  They strolled down the Boulevard de la Croisette and Nick told stories of huge storms off the coast of Africa and great white sharks in Australia.

  “It’s going to be pretty tame cruising around the Bay of Cannes.” Serena smiled, stopping in front of the revolving glass doors of the Carlton-InterContinental.

  Nick stood so close she could smell the strawberry martini. She gazed at his tan cheeks and suddenly she wanted to feel his lips on hers, his hand pressed against the small of her back.

  “Would you like to come in? The pianist in the bar plays Cole Porter.”

  Nick glanced at his watch and shook his head. “I have an appointment, I have to go.”

  * * *

  Serena entered the Cary Grant Suite and walked into the bedroom. She hung up her dress and slipped on a cotton robe. She curled up in a blue-and-white satin armchair and pictured Nick’s dark wavy hair and blue eyes. Maybe she had rejected him too many times and scared him off.

  She heard her phone buzz and grabbed her purse.

  She read the text: Would you like to have dinner at Le Maurice tomorrow night? Maurice is making his famous fish soup.

  Serena felt a pinprick of excitement. She picked up her phone and typed: Yes.

  chapter twenty

  “Go online, I want you to see something,” Chelsea’s voice came over the phone.

  “I’m late for dinner,” Serena replied, checking her reflection in the mirror.

  She wore an ivory lace Givenchy dress and close-toed sandals. Her hair was brushed into a high ponytail and tied with a gold ribbon. She wondered if she was overdressed, if Nick would appear in a T-shirt and khakis. But she fingered the delicate lace and decided she wanted to wear something elegant and sexy.

  “Dinner with a man?” Chelsea asked.

  “You were the one who said Cannes had more eligible bachelors than any city in Europe.” Serena smiled.

  “I haven’t left the office before nine P.M. in a week.” Chelsea sighed. “I eat spinach salad at my desk and wash it down with a green smoothie. Click on Vogue. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  Serena brought up the cover of Vogue and glanced at the glossy photo of Beyoncé in orange Cavalli. She clicked to the third page and saw a photo of Malcolm and Laura dressed in evening wear and stepping into a silver Bentley.

  The headline read, “The Fall of the House of Gladding” by Serena Woods.

  Serena scanned the pictures of Malcolm and Laura and Zoe on the ski slopes in Thredbo, Malcolm and Laura on a speedboat in Sydney Harbor, Malcolm and Laura and Zoe being presented at Buckingham Palace.

  “It’s in the online editions in sixteen countries,” Chelsea said. “It will run in the print edition on Monday.”

  Serena quickly read her own words about the kidnapping, Laura’s desire to move out of Sydney, their decision to send Zoe to England. She read about Malcolm’s years of misery, his admission that he was wrong, and his plea for Laura’s forgiveness.

  If I gave Laura the impression she doesn’t come first, I’ve failed as a husband. When we are young we think we can make the world anything we want it to be. As we grow older we realize there are few things we can control and even fewer things that are important. The only two things I can’t live without are my wife and daughter.

  “Wow,” Serena said. She blinked back tears, afraid she’d smudge her mascara.

  “I owe you that Aubusson rug and Tiffany lamp,” Chelsea replied. “It’s a terrific story.”

  Serena glanced at the clock and grabbed her purse. “I hope it works; I have to tell Zoe.”

  * * *

  Serena strode through the lobby and entered a room with marble columns and paneled walls. The ceiling was painted with an intricate fresco and the floors were covered with Oriental rugs.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Serena smiled.

  Zoe sat in a wing-back chair gazing intently at an ivory backgammon board. She wore a beige silk dress with pearl buttons. Her
hair was curled behind her ears and she wore ruby earrings.

  “I won three games in a row,” Zoe said. “If I win this game my father will owe me a hundred euros.”

  “You play for money?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

  Malcolm sat hunched in a leather armchair. He wore a navy blazer over a striped shirt and tan slacks. His cheeks were pale and his forehead was creased.

  “It keeps the game interesting.” Malcolm looked up expectantly. “Serena, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Chelsea called,” Serena said. “The feature is online.”

  “I’m so glad!” Malcolm exclaimed. “Can I see it?”

  “I left my laptop in my suite,” Serena replied. “Chelsea said it would be in the print edition on Monday.”

  Malcolm jumped up and walked to the entrance. “I’m going to check my computer.”

  “We’re in the middle of a game,” Zoe protested.

  “Serena can take my turn,” Malcolm said, smiling. “You’re winning anyway.”

  Zoe gazed at Serena’s lace dress and beige Manolos. “You’re wearing a new dress and you smell like Estée Lauder White Linen.”

  “Nick and I are having dinner at Le Maurice,” Serena said, twisting her ponytail.

  “My father has been living on aged scotch and pretzels.” Zoe sighed. “I can’t get him to sit still long enough to eat a steak and grilled vegetables.”

  “If your mother had seen the photo of your father and the model she would have called,” Serena said, frowning.

  “My mother is not the kind to scream over an international phone line.” Zoe ate a handful of cashews from a silver bowl. “She’s the kind who leaves your suitcases packed at the front door.”

  “My parents are going on safari in Africa; they think they’re Meryl Streep and Robert Redford,” Serena replied.

  “I don’t know what my father will do if she doesn’t forgive him,” Zoe said. “He keeps talking about fly-fishing in Alaska or joining a Buddhist temple in Thailand.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go to dinner with Nick.” Serena sighed. “I should forget about men and concentrate on my career.”

  Zoe moved her backgammon piece across the board. “You have to go; you’re wearing Givenchy—and I want another slice of chocolate torte.”

  * * *

  Serena climbed the cobblestoned street of Le Seurat and saw Nick waiting outside Le Maurice. He wore a tan collared shirt and pleated navy slacks. His hair was damp and he carried a bouquet of yellow and white freesias.

  They entered the restaurant and sat at a round table by the window. Serena picked up the leather menu, suddenly feeling out of place. She should be at PlumpJack or Greens with Chase. They would be sharing Bolinas Farms oysters and drinking a Sutter Home zinfandel.

  “Let me order,” Nick said, touching her hand. “I know everything on the menu.”

  Serena looked up and saw Nick’s warm smile and a small shaving cut on his chin. She felt his hand on hers and the air slowly left her lungs.

  She placed her menu on the table. “I’ll eat anything except Brussels sprouts.”

  Nick ordered fish soup followed by roasted sea brim with candied lemon. He selected a niçoise salad and calamari risotto with grilled asparagus tips.

  They talked about Nick’s summer in San Francisco and Serena’s month in Cannes.

  “I arrived during the Cannes Film Festival,” Serena said. “The hotel mixed up my reservation and I couldn’t find a room.”

  “I’ve seen paparazzi hide in a public toilet to catch Tom Cruise when he pees,” Nick said, and smiled. “For a month, Cannes is the center of the universe. Even the air feels more expensive, as if the movie studios import the oxygen.”

  “Zoe wanted to crash some of the parties on the yachts,” Serena replied. “But I was afraid a Russian bodyguard would throw us into the bay.”

  “One of my friends attended a party where jungle animals roamed freely on the yacht,” Nick said. “A guest fainted when she saw a Bengal tiger.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Serena said, grinning.

  “Especially if she’s a famous producer.” Nick fingered his wineglass. “When I was a child my mother brought me to the red carpet. I’d stand behind the velvet rope waiting for celebrities. One year I got Harrison Ford’s autograph.”

  “I love French actresses,” Serena mused. “Catherine Deneuve always looks so poised, as if she’d never experienced heartbreak.”

  “You’ll have to come back next May.” Nick ate his last piece of sea brim. “I’ll get tickets to the Palme d’Or and we’ll rub shoulders with Tobey Maguire and Keira Knightley.”

  * * *

  Nick went to say hello to Maurice in the kitchen and Serena looked down at her plate. Yvette’s memoir was almost finished and Serena would be going home. She flashed on her parents’ mansion with its large rooms and sweeping views of the bay. She pictured her apartment with its hardwood floors and Pottery Barn furniture.

  Why was she sharing seafood risotto with Nick when in a few weeks he’d be sailing in the Mediterranean and she’d be sitting at her desk on the sixteenth floor of the Transamerica building?

  She placed her napkin on her plate and pushed back her chair. She grabbed her purse and was about to walk to the door.

  “Wait until you see the dessert Isabel prepared,” Nick said, approaching the table.

  Isabel followed him carrying a silver tray of chocolate profiteroles and fruit tarts with vanilla custard. There were two cups of milky cappuccino sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Serena tried to blot out the images of Coit Tower and Fisherman’s Wharf. She sat down and put her napkin in her lap. She picked up a peach tart and took a bite. She looked at Nick and smiled. “It’s delicious.”

  * * *

  Serena and Nick walked out of the restaurant and down the steep hill to the harbor. They strolled along the beachfront and Nick took Serena’s hand. She let her palm rest in his, inhaling the sultry sea air.

  She gazed at the sleek yachts and saw couples talking and laughing. The women wore shimmering cocktail dresses and gold sandals. The men spoke rapidly and poured bottles of French champagne.

  “You look like you’re trying to solve the problems of the Western world,” Nick said as he glanced at her serious expression.

  “Everyone in Cannes knows how to enjoy life,” Serena said. “I think I forgot how to be happy.”

  “I’ll show you.” Nick stopped and touched her chin.

  He tipped her face up to his and kissed her slowly on the mouth. He put his arm around her and pressed her against his chest. He kissed her harder, his lips tasting of peaches and chocolate.

  Serena kissed him back, a shiver running down her spine. Suddenly she wanted to feel his mouth on her breasts, his hands in her hair.

  “We’re creating a spectacle,” Serena whispered, glancing at the people standing on the yacht.

  Nick looked at her closely. He leaned forward and tucked a blond hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll go somewhere more private.”

  Nick kept Serena’s hand in his and she felt her heart racing. She didn’t know where they were going but she knew she wanted to be with Nick. She wanted to see his hard chest, watch him take off his shirt and unzip his slacks.

  They walked up a cobblestoned alley and into a whitewashed building. A wooden staircase led to the third floor and the walls were pale pink plaster. Serena could smell butter and garlic and fresh baked bread.

  Nick fumbled with his key and opened the door to his apartment. The living room had a slanted wood floor and large French windows. There was a floral sofa and a brick fireplace and a bookshelf full of paperback books.

  “It’s not the Carlton-InterContinental, and most of the furniture belongs to my landlady.” Nick grinned. “But if you stand at the window you can see the bay.”

  “It’s lovely,” Serena said.

  She stood in the middle of the room and suddenly her euphoria vanished. Everything was unfam
iliar: the coffee mugs on the counter in the tiny kitchen, the paintings on the wall, Nick’s jacket hanging on a peg in the hallway. A shopping bag held a Côte d’Or chocolate bar and a jar of green olives.

  “When I saw you running down the dock, I knew I’d never met anyone more beautiful,” Nick said, fingering her lace dress. “You carry your heart on your sleeve, and it’s luminous.”

  Nick kissed her slowly, pulling the ribbon from her hair. He turned her around and unzipped her dress. He led her into the bedroom and unsnapped her lace bra. He gently cupped her breast, drawing circles around her nipple.

  He reached down and slipped off her silk panties. He plunged his fingers inside her, moving in a slow rhythm. He held her close, watching her bite her lip. He moved his fingers faster, feeling her body rise and fall in one long glorious motion.

  Serena rested her head on his shoulders, waiting for the waves to subside. She felt the familiar sense of joy, of giving your body to someone else. She took his hand and pulled him down on the bed.

  She slipped off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. She kissed him on the mouth and ran her fingers down his chest. He lay next to her, touching her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He waited until her body arched and then he opened her legs and pushed inside her.

  Serena clung to Nick’s back, smelling his musk shampoo. She felt his body working until she forgot about thinking and let herself be carried with him. She heard him moan and then her body opened so completely she couldn’t stop. She lay against him, sweaty and gasping for breath.

  “You see?” Nick said, and grinned. “It’s not so hard to be happy.”

  * * *

  Serena stepped out of the shower and slipped on a cotton robe. She slathered her skin with Acqua di Parma lotion and spritzed her wrists with Chanel. She glanced at the mirror above the marble vanity and saw her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.

  She had slept at Nick’s apartment and they made love again in the morning. Then they got dressed and ate breakfast at a patisserie by the harbor. After they shared blueberry scones and frothy cappuccinos Nick left to work on the boat and Serena returned to the Carlton-InterContinental.

  She wished she could tell Zoe, but Zoe had left a note saying she and her father were taking the train to Saint-Tropez and asking where was her piece of chocolate torte. She signed it with a smiley face and two hearts.