French Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “I wanted to surprise you.” Serena smiled. “How was Saint-Tropez?”

  “I sold the catamaran and couldn’t wait to come home and celebrate,” Nick replied. “I stopped at the Marché Forville and bought fresh trout and white truffles and heirloom tomatoes. I got blackberries and whipped cream for dessert and a bottle of pinot blanc. I ran into Yvette Renault; I hadn’t seen her in years but she recognized me right away.” Nick stopped and his eyes were like sharp stones. “She said she was sorry she wrote the letter, she was only trying to help Chantal. She had no idea we knew each other, and it was such a tragic coincidence.” Nick gripped the shopping bag tightly. “I didn’t know what she was talking about and she grew flustered and said she thought you told me everything.”

  “I was going to tell you tonight,” Serena said quietly.

  “You think I wouldn’t want to know that the man I called my father wasn’t at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean but lives in a mansion in San Francisco?” Nick raged. “That he wasn’t a commodities broker specializing in Africa and South America but a United States senator?”

  “How do you think I felt when Veronique showed me a photo of my father with his arm draped around Chantal?” Serena felt the bile rise to her throat.

  Nick was about to say something and he turned and gazed at the glittering ocean. He sucked in his breath and took Serena’s hand.

  “Let’s not give the whole neighborhood a performance, let’s go sit on the dock.”

  Serena walked down the alley, listening to her heels click on the cobblestones. She felt Nick’s hand in hers and felt a small stirring of hope. But when they reached the dock, he put the shopping bag on a bench and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “How could you not tell me?” Nick demanded. “Do you know what it was like hearing it from Yvette?”

  “It’s a minefield; I didn’t want to explode any mines,” Serena said as she sat on the bench and gazed at the harbor. The sun had set and the water was an inky black. Lights flickered on yachts like fireflies dancing in the dark.

  “My mother kept a calendar in the kitchen with the dates when he’d be home,” Nick said. He paced up and down the dock, kicking the wood with his shoes. “He sent me postcards with little reminders: Practice your tennis; you’re a gifted player. Study your math; it will serve you later in life.

  “When he was home we did everything together: watched polo matches in Monte Carlo, flew in a single-engine plane down the Côte d’Azur.”

  “My father always wanted a boy,” Serena murmured, flashing on Charles and Chase planning Chase’s campaign. She pictured them sitting at the large oak desk in his study, surrounded by charts and spreadsheets.

  “Once I asked my mother why he traveled so much,” Nick mused. “She described the diamond mines and rain forests he visited; I pictured him wearing a fedora like Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Nick’s eyebrows knotted together. “When his plane crashed I was devastated. The funeral was in the abbey in Antibes; my mother said my father wouldn’t have liked a big fuss. I wore a new suit and my mother wore a black silk dress. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful or so sad. Now I know why she was sobbing; it was because he never wanted to see us again.”

  “Do you think this is easy for me? Imagining Sunday dinners at the Carlton Restaurant?” Serena couldn’t stop shaking. “Picturing my father consulting the wine menu while the maître d’ compliments him on his beautiful children.”

  Nick stopped pacing and turned to Serena. His eyes were dark and his voice was low.

  “You must hate us.”

  “I don’t know what I feel,” Serena admitted. “But it hurt so much I didn’t want to cause you the same pain. We were having so much fun.” Serena stopped. She wanted to tell Nick she was falling in love with him, but the words stuck in her throat.

  “There’s nothing worse than being lied to. If you don’t have complete honesty in a relationship you have nothing.” He gazed at Serena and his voice was like ice. “I guess you’re good at that in your family, your father is a pro.”

  Serena sucked in her breath as if she’d been punched. She hated Nick saying terrible things about Charles, but she didn’t know how to defend him. She sat on the bench, fiercely blinking back tears.

  “I need to be alone,” Nick said, grabbing the brown shopping bag. “Keep the flowers, I bought them for you.”

  Serena listened to Nick’s footsteps echo on the dock. She watched couples stroll along the shore, laughing and holding hands. She remembered the first night when they made love and Nick told her it wasn’t hard to be happy. She clutched the bunch of irises, tears spilling down her cheeks, and thought he was wrong.

  chapter twenty-eight

  “My parents’ renewal of their vows is turning into the society event of the season,” Zoe mused, flipping through a French Elle.

  Serena and Zoe lay on the balcony of the Cary Grant Suite, rubbing their skin with Acqua di Parma suntan lotion. Zoe wore a Betsey Johnson bikini she bought for a Skyping session with Ian. Her skin was lightly tan and she wore Dior sunglasses and Tory Burch sandals.

  Serena adjusted her black two-piece and gazed at the coastline. It was early afternoon and blindingly beautiful: the sea was a clear blue flecked with diamonds. The Îles de Lérins glittered on the horizon and yachts lined the dock like a collection of precious jewels.

  “After the ceremony, there will be a reception at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc,” Zoe said as she rubbed suntan lotion on her arms. “My father is flying in the cream of Sydney society: Hugh Jackman, Cate Blanchett, Hamish Blake. Then my parents will sail to Portofino and spend two nights at the Hotel Splendido. Then they’ll fly to Venice and take the Orient Express to Budapest. My mother is at Chanel buying her trousseau and my father is at Harry Winston commissioning a five-carat diamond wedding ring.”

  “You sound like you don’t approve.” Serena frowned.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Zoe said, and grinned. “I’ve never seen my mother so excited. Yesterday we chose favors at Tiffany: silver bracelets with charms shaped like yachts. This morning we did a trial makeup run and this evening we’re sampling entrées: duck à l’orange and chateaubriand and roasted sea bass. When Ian and I get married, we’ll go to a pub and have fish and chips.”

  “No, you won’t,” Serena replied.

  “My mother is already considering renting out the Sydney Opera House for the reception, and Ian hasn’t even proposed.” Zoe sighed. “Did you know they’re not sharing a room until after the ceremony? My father reserved the Presidential Suite for their wedding night. It has a personal chef and a swimming pool.”

  “Will your father still retire?” Serena looked up from her copy of French Vogue. Ever since she saw Nick she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She barely ate and her skin felt like paper. She desperately wanted to call him but there was nothing she could say. Every time she pictured his drawn cheeks her stomach clenched.

  “He’d drive my mother crazy rattling around the house.” Zoe shook her head. “I’m relieved; I wasn’t ready to take over a global company. I’m going to be Head of European Accessories.”

  “What’s that?” Serena shielded her eyes from the sun.

  “I made it up.” Zoe beamed. “I’ve been buying things on our day trips: silver earrings in Grasse, an antique brooch in Provence, the sweetest gold locket in Mougins. We’re going to devote a section of every store to unique accessories and I’m going to go on buying trips to France and Italy and Spain.”

  “There’s nothing like creating your own dream job.” Serena grinned.

  “There has to be perks to having your father own the company. You don’t look happy for someone who was just named senior editor of Vogue,” Zoe said, and hesitated. “Have you heard from Nick?”

  “I don’t think I will,” Serena replied slowly. “I seem to pick men who run away at the hint of trouble.”

  “Nick isn’t like Chase,” Zoe insisted.

  “Maybe Nick was u
pset because I didn’t tell him the truth or maybe he just couldn’t handle the situation. In either case he’s gone.” Serena stopped as if she’d run out of air. “I should stop thinking about him.”

  “Nick probably needs some time,” Zoe replied. “Men are like puppies, they need to crawl into a corner and lick their wounds. He’ll appear at the Carlton-InterContinental tomorrow with two dozen pink roses.”

  “We said some terrible things.” Serena bit her lip. “And I never told him I loved him.”

  “You need some distraction,” Zoe insisted. “Let’s get out of these swimsuits and go buy our bridesmaids dresses.”

  “Your mother said we could wear whatever we like,” Serena said, shrugging. “I thought I’d wear my Givenchy lace dress.”

  “There will be photographers from every major newspaper,” Zoe said as she jumped up. “My father wants everyone in the fashion world to know he’s not still slinking around with twentysomething models. You have to wear something fabulous, you’re representing Vogue.”

  Serena imagined Chelsea’s expression when she heard that Serena was a bridesmaid at Malcolm and Laura Gladding’s wedding. She pictured wearing a gorgeous silk Armani gown or an elegant Jacqueline Kennedy dress.

  She slipped on her sunglasses and smiled. “All right, but I’m not wearing purple, it makes my skin look washed-out.”

  * * *

  Serena stepped into the Dior boutique and gazed at the mannequins wearing kelly-green slacks and cream-colored cashmere sweaters. The store was full of fall fashions: floor-length skirts in orange and magenta, close-toed shoes with jeweled heels and brightly colored pashminas. There were racks of long wool coats and cropped jackets and knit dresses.

  “I love autumn fashions.” Zoe sighed, fingering a purple jersey dress. “You don’t have to suck in your stomach all the time.”

  Serena gazed at a pair of suede ankle boots and flashed on the Vogue offices in September. Everyone wore knee-length skirts and wool sweaters and the latest shoes and boots. There was a ripple of excitement, like the start of a new school year, and endless discussions about the new black and the perfect handbag and this year’s fall coat.

  “Fall is my favorite season in San Francisco.” Serena admired a burgundy dress with a wide black belt. “The fog disappears and the view is spectacular. You can see from Berkeley to the Farallon Islands.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit,” Zoe said, slipping her foot into a leather loafer. “San Francisco has the best sourdough bread and world-famous chocolate. You can teach me how to eat Chinese food and ride a cable car.”

  Serena pictured the crowded streets of Chinatown and the stalls selling sticky noodles and wonton soup. She saw the tall buildings in the Financial District and men and women carrying Starbucks Frappuccinos and warm danishes. She pictured the lobby at Vogue full of women wearing sheer stockings and four-inch stilettos.

  She saw her office with its narrow view of the bay and a shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She imagined being sent to New York for Fashion Week or to the runway shows in Milan. She pictured interviewing Anne Hathaway and Michelle Williams and Blake Lively. She saw herself going to gallery openings and industry galas and introducing herself as senior editor at Vogue.

  Serena fingered a coral-pink cashmere sweater and recalled Yvette saying the best thing about being editor in chief was never having time to think about Bertrand. She remembered always seeing Chelsea’s light on in her office when she went home at the end of the day.

  She would throw herself into her work and not think about Nick. She would stay busy with production meetings and photo shoots and copy deadlines. She would pretend it was a holiday romance and let it fade like a summer tan.

  “When I arrive in Sydney it will be spring,” Zoe said glumly. “I’ll have to worry about tan lines and flabby arms all over again.”

  “You look beautiful.” Serena gazed at Zoe’s smooth brown hair and large hazel eyes. Zoe wore a white lace dress with a pleated skirt. She wore Prada sandals on her feet and small ruby earrings in her ears.

  “At least I’m not wearing polka dots anymore.” Zoe grinned. “You’ve taught me some fashion sense.”

  “I haven’t done anything.” Serena shook her head. “You have an innate sense of style, you just had to stop listening to the wrong people.”

  They entered Dior’s bridal salon and gazed at the rows of ivory satin dresses and silk sheaths. The walls were covered in pale blue silk and the carpet was a thick white wool. Glass display cases held velvet slippers and diamond tiaras and long lace veils.

  “Can I help you?” A tall saleswoman approached Zoe. She wore a navy dress and her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride. You have the perfect figure for our new line of dresses and your hair would look fabulous with a princess tiara.”

  “I’m not the bride,” Zoe replied, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “I was looking for bridesmaids dresses.”

  “Your friend is lucky to have such a gorgeous bridesmaid.” The salesgirl nodded at Serena. “You’ll both look stunning in the wedding photos.”

  * * *

  “The saleswoman said I was beautiful,” Zoe said as they left the boutique. She clutched a bag that held a teal-blue satin dress with spaghetti straps. She had selected silver sandals and a diamond choker. “That’s the first time a salesgirl hasn’t looked at me as if I’m chewing gum and don’t belong in her store.”

  “You’re going to make your parents very proud,” Serena said, and nodded. She had sifted through racks of chiffon dresses but nothing excited her. Finally she settled on a pale pink dress with a satin bodice. She bought beige slingback sandals and an ivory satin clutch.

  “I could have tried on dresses all day,” Zoe continued. “Did you sample the mini-éclairs and the puff pastries? And the champagne was heavenly; I felt like Victoria Beckham.”

  Serena saw a man walking down the street and froze. He had Nick’s wavy brown hair and wide shoulders. He turned around and Serena saw he had brown eyes and stubble on his chin. She dropped her bag and her purchases scattered on the sidewalk.

  She didn’t want to go back to nights alone with tear sheets and photo proofs. She wanted to drink white wine and eat mussels with Nick. She wanted to hold hands on the beach and smell his musk shampoo. She wanted to lie on his narrow mattress and taste the salty sweetness of his lips.

  “Are you okay?” Zoe asked. “You look like a wax figure at Madame Tussauds.”

  Serena crouched down and picked up her bag. She smoothed her hair and tried to smile. “I’m fine; I drank too much champagne.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  “I feel as nervous as I did when I was twenty-two,” Laura said, sitting on a stool in the small room at the back of the church. “We got married at Saint James Church in Sydney. Malcolm wore a gray morning coat and a yellow-and-white striped tie. I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.”

  Serena gazed at Laura’s smooth brown hair and immaculate makeup and smiled. It had been an intoxicating day and Serena felt caught up in the excitement of the wedding.

  A white Bentley had picked Serena and Zoe up at the Carlton-InterContinental and delivered them to the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Serena glanced around the lobby with its Louis XVI chairs and delicate tapestries and remembered Yvette’s descriptions of the hotel. Every surface was filled with crystal vases, and tall French doors opened onto lush gardens. Serena smelled the scent of roses and bougainvillea and polished wood.

  A uniformed valet escorted them to the Presidential Suite and drew back brocade curtains. The view stretched down the whole coastline and Serena could see Nice and Cannes and Monaco. She stood outside and heard birds chirping and watched fishing boats glide out to sea.

  They spent the morning getting their makeup done and eating a brunch of fluffy egg-white omelets, buttered scones, and strawberries and mangoes and pomegranates. Laura kept flying to the door and exclaiming over the array o
f cards and blue Tiffany boxes.

  “You look beautiful,” Serena said as she admired Laura’s gray Oscar de la Renta dress with its small waist and flared skirt. She had paired it with jeweled Stuart Weitzman pumps and a satin Chanel evening bag. She wore an amethyst around her neck and diamond solitaires in her ears.

  “I had forgotten weddings are so much fun,” Laura said as she sipped a crystal flute of champagne. “Zoe is taking things so seriously. She went to talk to the priest about his reading; I think he’s actually afraid of her.”

  Serena smiled. “Zoe is very excited.”

  “She’s becoming more like her father every day,” Laura replied, picking a piece of lint from her skirt. “She’s turning into a wonderful young woman, I couldn’t be more proud of her.”

  “She’s very happy the way things turned out,” Serena said slowly.

  “You’d think at our age we’d get over the emotional drama and leave it to your generation.” Laura sighed, fluffing her hair. “Zoe told me about your parents, and I read it in Paris Match; I admire your mother.”

  “You admire her?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

  “It’s wonderful to love someone so much you’d stand by them through anything.” Laura applied coral-pink lipstick. She glanced in the oval mirror and blotted her lips.

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Serena said, frowning.

  “Love is messy and painful, but once you find it you have to hang on to it.” Laura turned to Serena and smiled. “Because really, what else is there?”

  * * *

  Serena stood in the front of the church, gazing at the pews filled with men in linen suits and women wearing silk cocktail dresses. She felt Zoe poke her rib and suppressed a giggle.

  The church was one tiny room with stained-glass windows and stone floors. The aisle was covered with a red carpet and strewn with yellow and white roses. Roses were everywhere: filling the entry in great tubs, packed in tight bunches on the altar. Zoe kept whispering there were so many flowers she felt like she was suffocating.