by Alix Nichols
I had to quit my pizza delivery job.
Lucas tells us that now that Nageurs de Paris has won enough games to be taken seriously, he has big plans for the club. His first step will be to hire a publicist who will raise sponsor money and get advertising contracts for players.
Let’s hope that happens, and soon.
Because I’m running out of funds. The estate hasn’t been sold yet. Heck, I haven’t even had time to hire an agent. And even when I do, it’s not like I intend to keep the proceeds. Assuming Sophie’s ballpark is correct, most of the fifteen million will go to Maman’s foundation as planned. There will also be a huge tax to pay, and maybe even lawyer fees if Sebastian contests the sale.
Which he might, seeing how much he’s attached to preserving the d’Arcy patrimony.
Is that such a bad thing?
I startle at the thought that came out of nowhere. Well, not quite. Ever since Sophie and I went to Burgundy, my mind keeps conjuring up images of the trained vines, of the view on the park from the Salon Bleu, and of Sophie gawking at the down-at-the-heels grandeur of the castle.
“This place is magnificent, for sure, but not just on the outside,” she said as we were leaving. “It has a beautiful soul. I hope the new owner can see it and love it the way it deserves to be loved.”
My doorbell rings as I swallow the last bite of my sandwich. Oscar wakes up for a split second, then shuts his eyes again, in what I choose to interpret as complete trust in my capacity to handle the intruder.
It must be Maman.
She’s taking me to a “lovely” new restaurant she’s discovered in my neighborhood, and that’s why I just ate a sandwich. Maman’s “lovely” restaurants tend to be of the kind that serve beautifully presented itty-bitty portions that never leave me sated.
I let Maman in, glancing at my watch. The reservation is for seven, so I have a full hour to ask her the questions I’ve been burning to ask since Raphael’s wedding.
She heads to the TV room and sits as far from Oscar as she can. She says he’s too scruffy. She isn’t entirely wrong.
“You invited Mr. Bander to Raphael’s wedding just so he’d bring Sophie along and she’d find out the truth about me,” I say without a preamble.
She gives me a long stare. “You shouldn’t have lied to her.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have. And you should’ve stayed out of it—or advised me to come clean. But, instead, you used my mistake to advance your agenda.”
“I had your best interest at heart,” she says. “And the same goes for Ludwig who was very concerned that his only daughter would ruin her future.”
“By being with me?”
“By abandoning her dreams for an infatuation.”
It was more than an infatuation, I burn to say.
Why else would it grow with every passing day and week, instead of fading away? Why else would it feel so right, like I found the woman who was made for me?
But I keep silent, afraid that saying those things out loud will make Sophie’s departure even harder to bear.
“By the way,” Maman says. “I’m glad your peccadillo led Ludwig to me. What a wonderful, upright man! He believes in charity as much as I do. I’m sure it won’t be long before he donates a sizable amount to my foundation.”
“No doubt.” I squint at her. “So the pair of you came up with a genius fix to the problem Sophie and I created.”
“Don’t be so cynical,” Maman says before simpering. “I must admit, our fix was brilliant in its simplicity and effectiveness.”
“Just listen to yourself!”
She shrugs. “I did nothing wrong. Sophie is a nice girl, but she’s wrong for you.”
“Because you know who’s right for me.”
“As it happens, I do.” She arches an eyebrow. “Uma.”
Of course.
Maman’s gaze softens. “She loves you.”
“Yes, she does,” I say. “As a friend.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“She told me that herself.”
Maman blinks, visibly confused. “She couldn’t have.”
“And yet she did. Maman… I can see how she and I may look like a great match. Only, we aren’t drawn to each other.”
“You’re just saying it to spite me.” She rearranges her legs and smoothes her skirt. “You’re upset.”
Sarcasm contorts my mouth. “No kidding.”
“All I wanted was your happiness.”
“Did it occur to you to ask if I’d already found my happiness before you walked all over it?”
She blinks again.
Bile rises in my throat. “Tell you what, Maman, you should order some puppets for the foundation and start staging shows.”
She shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that’s a priority for the children we’re helping.”
“It won’t be just for them—it’ll be mostly for you. Your puppets will do exactly what you want them to do. And your shows—every single one of them—will end exactly the way you want them to end.”
She lifts a trembling hand to her face and rubs her left temple, an expression of suffering on her face.
Migraine.
A.k.a., my cue to apologize and take back everything I’ve just said, because I’ve suddenly realized she’s right. Because that’s how we roll.
But not anymore.
Neither of us speaks for a while.
Then Maman stops rubbing her temple and gazes into my eyes. “I love you, Noah. Please believe me when I say that everything I’ve done was dictated by that love.”
“Oh, I do believe you.” I nod for emphasis. “But here’s the thing. Your love has soured me. It’s poisoned my relationships with Seb and Raph, and now also with Sophie. I’d say something’s wrong with your love.”
She sniffles and dabs her eyes, which would normally shut me up.
But not this time.
“Your love is broken, Maman,” I say. “It needs some serious fixing.”
She stands up and storms out the door.
I don’t try to stop her.
Instead, my thoughts return to the estate. The more I think of it the less I see how Sophie’s enthusiasm about it reflected badly on her. She was just being herself. Candid and genuine. Refreshingly honest. Awestruck by something exceptional—and vocal about it.
Isn’t that a thousand times better than hypocrisy?
TWENTY-FOUR
SOPHIE
Watching the sun dip into the Gulf of Mexico, coloring the sky all shades of purple, reminds me of the view on the park from Noah’s castle. I’d announced it was the most beautiful vista in the world, even better than Key West sunsets. I had raved about the chateau and its grounds, and even declared I would do anything to lay my hands on it. Including marrying someone I didn’t have deep feelings for.
The shame.
That conversation is, without a doubt, the single most mortifying episode of my life. Just remembering it sets my face on fire. Why, oh why, did I say those things?
I was making a point.
And Noah took it.
With a sigh, I scoot from the middle of the bench to the side of the boat, hoping that Doug’s friends Tim and Rosalind won’t notice my flaming cheeks.
“What do you think, babe?” Doug calls out from behind the helm. “Gorgeous, huh?”
I’ve lost count of the times I almost asked Doug to call me bébé. He probably would as a tribute to my French side. Only there’s a risk that hearing him say bébé would make things even worse for me. Getting over Noah has been hard enough—I don’t need a daily reminder of what he murmured when he made love to me.
It’s been only two months, but it seems like my Parisian holiday ended an eternity ago. And yet, it seems like yesterday.
“The sunset or your boat?” I ask Doug, turning my head to give him a bright smile.
Rosalind and Tim chuckle.
“The boat.” Doug grins back, proud beyond measure of his shiny new yacht.
“The best view ever!” I say.
Just to think I was a girl who couldn’t get the hang of lying no matter how hard she tried.
That girl is gone.
The new me has grown up and figured it out.
Watch me. “Hey, I’m getting a little queasy,” I say to Doug, pulling a sad face. “Could you drop me off at the pier?”
He gives me an aww-you-poor-darling look. “Sure thing. Do you mind if we continue without you?”
“Not at all!”
This one isn’t a lie. Doug’s friends are OK, but we have zero shared interests and nothing to say to each other.
With Doug, at least, I can talk shop.
When I’m finally alone in the house—I’ve moved back in with Dad until I find a new apartment—I fix myself a cranberry cooler and sit on the porch.
Halfway through my drink, my phone rings in my pocket. It’s Noah. I never pick up when he calls me, expecting each call to be the last. But he’s been at for eight weeks now, sometimes daily, and there’s no sign of him relenting.
Dad says I should just block his number. He’s right—that’s the best thing to do.
I answer the call.
“Sophie?” he sounds incredulous.
“Yes. I picked up just to ask you to stop calling.”
See? I’m so good at lying now it’s scary.
What I really picked up for is to hear his voice. And also because it’s been so damn hard to stop thinking about him, to forget his eyes, his smile, his lovemaking…
“I’ll stop calling if that’s what you want,” he says. “But will you please hear me out first?”
I huff out a sigh. “It’s OK, Noah. I’m not mad anymore. You hid things from me because you had no reason to reveal them. We weren’t in a serious relationship.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yes, and I think my dramatic departure from your brother’s wedding was utterly ridiculous. I hope you didn’t have much explaining to do.”
“You’ve changed,” he says.
“Amen to that. What about you? Did you sell the estate?”
“I donated my trust fund to Maman’s foundation and kept the estate.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Seb and Raph are chipping in with enough to cover the renovations and initial upkeep.”
“Seb and Raph, huh? The brothers you hated so much you wouldn’t even mention their existence.”
There’s a brief silence before he says, “I’m done with hate.”
Good for you.
“How’s the championship looking?” I ask.
“We trounced Bordeaux and Nancy and defeated Marseille, which nobody expected, seeing as they practically own the national championship. Next week, we’re headed to Strasbourg for the finals.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you, I’ll need it.” He hesitates. “Not just for the match, but for… everything. The delivery man is now saddled with a huge estate, a crumbling chateau, and a once-profitable winery. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Hire a manager or bring in an associate.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” he says.
“Stop thinking—act.”
He chuckles.
“It was nice talking—” I begin.
“Would you like to be my associate and spearhead all of the cool projects you came up with in Burgundy?”
Whoa.
“Thank you for offering,” I say, “But I’m going to say no.”
“Sophie, I—”
This time it’s my turn to cut in. “I’m about to get a marriage proposal.”
“From whom?”
“A lovely local man—our biggest competitor, as it happens. Well, ex-competitor now.”
“Has your ex-competitor penciled a date onto your calendar?” he asks with sarcasm.
“In fact, he has. Next Saturday at Louie’s Backyard.”
Why I’m giving him the time and place, I do not know. It’s not like he’s going to fly in from France and save me.
Anyway, I don’t need saving.
There’s a pause before Noah speaks. “I take it you intend to say yes.”
“You bet.”
I do intend to say yes, despite my panic attacks in the middle of the night, doubts, and the knowledge I’ll never feel about Doug the way I feel… felt about Noah.
“Isn’t it too soon for a proposal?” he asks. “You couldn’t have dated him more than two months.”
“Why wait? Doug and I are a great match, personally and professionally.”
Except, my body still refuses to allow him more than a no-tongues smooch every now and then.
It’s back to frigid for me.
Doug says he doesn’t mind. He claims that my decorum is one of the things he likes about me. I never gave him the reason why I left Paris earlier than planned, but he’s come up with an explanation of his own. That city was too decadent for Sophie Bander. Doug is extremely proud to be dating the most uptight woman in Key West.
The image of Noah’s blond head between my widespread thighs with my fingers delving into his soft hair as I guide him flashes before my eyes.
It’s hard to believe that woman was me.
But what happens in Paris, stays in Paris.
“You told me once,” Noah says, “that you avoided emotions because they cloud your judgment.”
“So?”
“Can’t you see that’s what’s happening to you now? You’re letting an emotion cloud your judgment. And it isn’t even a good emotion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Anger.”
I say nothing.
“You are still mad at me,” he says. “And you want to hurt me as much as I hurt you.”
“It’s not about you! I’m over you. I’ll marry Doug because he’s the kind of man I’ve always wanted to end up with.”
“Listen to me, bébé. Don’t repeat my mistakes. I let anger guide me for years, but things weren’t as black and white as I thought. The villains had redeeming qualities, and the saint… wasn’t so saintly.”
“So you turned your back on Marguerite?”
“Of course not. I still love her, and I admire her commitment to philanthropy. But I’m no longer the tool of her revenge.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I say.
“Bébé—”
“Take good care, Noah.”
And with that, I hang up.
TWENTY-FIVE
NOAH
The first thing I see as I get off the plane is a big sign on the passenger terminal: WELCOME TO THE CONCH REPUBLIC.
I smile.
Sophie told me how Key West jokingly “seceded” from the United States in protest for something back in the eighties. I knew the locals enjoyed their fake independence, but I didn’t quite expect a sign at the airport.
Another surprise is that it isn’t as hot as I was bracing myself for. But it is mid-December.
It’s almost winter.
After I pass through customs, I head to the taxi line. The hotel I’m booked at is out of town and pricey, but that’s what you get when you reserve last minute. And let’s not even talk about my business-class airfare; it’s the most I’ve ever paid for a ticket. Actually, for anything. I emptied my savings account and I’m overdrawn, but I didn’t touch the estate renovation account that Seb and Raph set up.
It had felt wrong.
Climbing into the cab, I give the driver the address. Amusement flickers in his eyes, but he just drops my duffle into the trunk and drives off.
Exactly one minute later, the cabbie pulls into the front yard of a large wooden mansion with a sign that says, “Marnie’s Bed and Breakfast.”
It would’ve taken me five minutes to walk here.
“Twenty dollars,” the driver says, pointing to the price list taped to the outside of the car.
I pay, grab my duffel, and head for the entrance of the bed-and-breakfast. In
my peripheral vision, I spot something unusual a couple of meters to my left. It’s a toy iguana that someone has placed under the palm tree.
Must be the local version of the garden gnome.
The iguana tilts its little head and scurries up the trunk of the tree.
Noah, you’re not in Paris anymore.
By the time I’ve checked in, showered, changed into a fresh set of clothes and returned to the lobby, it’s already dark.
“How far are we from Louie’s Backyard?” I ask the guy at the front desk.
“A twenty-minute drive. Twenty-five, tops.”
“Can you call me a cab?”
“I just tried for another customer,” he says, “but the wait is about thirty minutes right now. There’s the Poultry Farmers’ Convention—”
“Never mind. I’ll walk there.”
“It’s too far for a walk,” the concierge says. “You could rent one of our bikes.”
I could—and I do.
Any chunk of time gained at this point, even if it’s just a five-minute nugget, may change my life.
The concierge gives me directions, hands me a helmet and a lock, and sends me on my way.
It’s not until I’m riding in the dark along a narrow strip between the ocean and the highway, my eyes veiled by wind and rain, that I admit I should’ve walked.
The bike isn’t the problem—it’s me.
I’m the weak link, wasted from two consecutive flights and too little food. The receptionist said it was easy-peasy. “Just ride along the water past the AIDS Memorial, Higgs Beach, and Casa Marina until you see Louie’s Backyard.”
Maybe, instead of trusting him, I should’ve asked for a map or, at least, for a description of the AIDS Memorial. As it is, I’m riding blind, separated from the ocean on my left by a low guardrail and from the highway on my right by nothing. I have no clue where I am.
Suddenly, my front wheel meets an obstacle, and I fly off the bike and over the guardrail.
Fuck!
At least, I won’t drown, I tell myself as I fall.
Thump! Splash!
