by Alix Nichols
This is awkward.
Uma may be an innocent, but she’s far from stupid. I’m sure she’s figured out by now that Sophie and I have become more than friends. Does it bother her? If she’s still in love with me, I don’t see how it wouldn’t. Yet, she seems to genuinely like Sophie and believes she deserves my honesty, which my girlfriend totally does.
“You’re right,” I say. “As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to come clean with her next time I see her.”
Hopefully next week, what with her father having monopolized her free time.
Uma lets out a relieved sigh. “Good decision.”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“Did you go to Raphael’s rehearsal dinner?” I ask. “Maman told me she was taking you along.”
Uma slaps her forehead. “I was going to tell you about it! Can’t believe it’s been a week already…” She shakes her head. “Time clearly moves faster here than in Nepal.”
“Definitely,” I say.
She tilts her head to the side. “Are you coming to the wedding tomorrow?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Did Maman put you up to this?” I lean my elbows on the table and rub my face. “She keeps saying Raphael can’t be blamed for Sebastian’s choices.”
“Marguerite is right.” Uma takes a breath. “Anyway, I really enjoyed myself except for a bit of weirdness at one point.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I overheard a conversation.” She shifts uncomfortably. “Someone called Marguerite when we were hanging out on the patio. After she asked who was calling, she just listened for a long time, and then…”
Uma falls silent, hesitating.
“What did she say?” I prompt.
“She said she was thrilled to hear their interests were aligned. She asked whoever was calling to let her think about it and she’d call him back.”
“Probably a potential donor.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Uma gives me a funny look. “But when she phoned that person back a few minutes later, she said, ‘I’ll call you tonight to explain the details, but if my plan works, you’ll return to Florida with your daughter’.”
I gasp.
Was her caller Sophie’s dad? Have they joined forces in plotting to separate us? That would explain his sudden visit and keeping Sophie busy every evenings with various activities.
I glance at Uma. She looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t’ve told you.” She wrings her wrists. “Marguerite has always been so kind to me, and I feel like I’m betraying her… It’s just that what she’s doing is wrong… and unfair to you and Sophie.”
I give her a long stare. “Uma, I must be blunt here. Aren’t your interests aligned with Maman’s and Sophie’s father’s? Don’t you want Sophie to go away?”
She blinks. “Why would I? She makes you happy—it’s obvious. And I’m your friend.”
A light bulb goes off in my head.
Uma isn’t in love with me. It’s been Maman’s wishful thinking the whole time. She saw something that wasn’t there, and she made me see it, too, through her sheer will and power of persuasion. Because she wanted her favorite son to marry her chosen protégée.
That’s just so Marguerite.
She is all about benevolence, only her benevolence comes at a price—control over the lives of those she cares for.
“Oh, my God!” Uma claps a hand to her mouth. “You think I’m in love with you.”
“I—”
She shakes her head. “Of course you would. I’m sure that’s what Marguerite has told you.”
I close my eyes for a moment, thinking. “Has Maman told you that you’re in love with me?”
“Yes, a million times. And that you’re the reason I came to France.”
“And I’m not.”
She shakes her head. “It was for the embroidery school. And to escape an arranged marriage without my parents’ losing face.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Did Maman tell you I was in love with you?”
She nods.
My jaw clenches.
“Don’t worry.” Uma smiles. “I never bought it. You do love me, I’m sure, but only as a friend. I’ve never caught you looking at me the way you look at Sophie, or the way… other men look at me.”
“For the record,” I say, “I’ve never caught you looking at me that way, either.”
She smiles.
We sit in silence for a long moment and then I stand up. “I better tell Sophie the truth before her dad does it.”
Uma nods. “And, please, come to Raphael’s wedding.”
“I will.”
If not to make up with my brothers, then to confront Maman.
TWENTY-TWO
SOPHIE
As I admire the wedding venue, which is a sumptuous hôtel particulier in the heart of Paris, I wish I had my phone to take a selfie. I would send it to Noah, just to show off. Only, my phone has gone missing since yesterday lunchtime. I’ve turned the office and my apartment upside down, and called myself from Dad’s phone multiple times, but nada.
It was probably stolen from my purse during lunch.
I’m not too upset, though. All my data is backed up on the cloud, and the phone was an old model with a cracked screen. Dad announced he was buying me the newest and coolest model tomorrow. Because he feels guilty. Beats me how choosing the restaurant where my phone got stolen makes it his fault, but hey, if Mr. Bander needs a pretext to pamper his princess, I won’t stand in his way.
The maître d’hotel directs us to the patio where pre-dinner drinks and sophisticated-looking snacks are being served. I understand the church wedding was held yesterday, in Alsace, where the bride’s mother is a pastor. It was only family and closest friends. This morning, a bigger ceremony was held at the town hall of their arrondissement, and now it’s the dinner party for a much larger circle.
Which—lo and behold—includes Dad and me.
A good-looking French woman in her fifties approaches us with an adorable little girl in her arms.
“Ludwig! I’m so glad you could make it.” She tilts her head toward the baby. “This is Lily, my granddaughter, courtesy of the newlyweds.”
Dad points to me. “This is my daughter, Sophie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sophie,” the woman says. “I’m Marguerite.”
Noah’s mom is called Marguerite, too. Must have been a fashionable name for that generation.
I smile. “Enchantée. And congratulations on your son’s wedding!”
“Thank you, darling.” She looks at Dad. “I’m happy to be here, but I’m also anxious to get back to work.”
“I know what you mean,” he says.
She turns to me. “I run a charitable foundation. The manager and staff are perfectly competent, and yet… You see, I’m a very hands-on philanthropist.”
She smiles and eyes me up and down.
“Magnifique,” she says to Dad, giving him a meaningful look.
His nod is cursory but just as meaningful. “Yes, she is.”
Why do I get a feeling they’ve included me in some game they’re playing without explaining the rules?
“Have you met Raphael and Mia yet?” Marguerite asks.
I follow her gaze to the stunning couple surrounded by a group of guests across the room.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m looking forward to it.”
A boyishly pretty young woman with a professional camera around her neck, is walking toward us. A step behind her is a handsome albeit aloof man holding a baby boy in his arms.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Marguerite gives us a perfunctory smile and scoots off.
The woman with the camera halts next to us. “Hi, I’m Diane, the unofficial photographer of this wedding.”
She holds out her hand.
I shake it.
“Chéri,”
she says to the man holding the baby. “Will you and Tanguy stand over there for a quick pic?”
The man goes to the designated spot and poses.
When she’s done, Diane turns to me again. “I hope we can chat later, when I’m done with my official and unofficial duties.”
The stiff man passes the baby to a middle-aged woman—a nanny, I guess—who takes him out to the garden.
He extends his hand. “Sebastian d’Arcy.”
I shake it, after which he shakes hands with Dad.
Dad turns to me. “This young man is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, owner of one of the most successful businesses in Europe.”
I’ve never seen a count—or any aristocrat—before.
Am I supposed to curtsy?
Nah. He isn’t the Queen of England, after all.
Weird how Dad stressed the man’s title and fancy name. Is he so impressed he forgot he’s American, and a conch to top it off? In Key West, we aren’t given to formalities. Dad usually calls everyone by their nickname, regardless of status or position.
Something else bugs me.
It’s the last part of count d’Arcy’s long name. For some reason, those words sounded familiar… Wait a minute! The chateau Noah took me to in September was called Thouars-Maurice. And its owner was called Sebastian. This cannot be a coincidence. No effing way. Count d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice is Noah’s buddy Sebastian.
Fancy that!
“I visited your amazing estate last month,” I say to him with a smile.
His eyebrows rise from which I deduce Noah hasn’t told him he’d asked me to give him a hand selling the property.
Then again, why would he? It’s not like either of us is getting a commission.
Count d’Arcy opens his mouth as if to say something, shuts it, and gives me a polite smile. “I’m glad you liked it. The estate is my brother’s, actually.”
“Raphael’s?”
“No, my other brother’s.”
Curiouser and curiouser.
I’m sure Noah said the owner of the estate was his friend Sebastian, not his friend Sebastian’s brother. But why on earth would he lie about it? Why would anyone bother lying about such an unimportant, minor detail?
I must’ve misunderstood.
But why didn’t he mention his friend was a count? Probably because Sebastian’s title doesn’t mean anything to Noah. It doesn’t define Sebastian in Noah’s eyes.
Fair enough.
What I really can’t explain is why Noah told me his friend was in need of cash, when Sebastian d’Arcy clearly isn’t.
Maybe Sebastian’s other brother is. I’ll have to ask Noah—
Who’s right here, barely a dozen feet from me, chatting with the bride. And with Uma.
What is he doing here? What is Uma doing here?
D’oh! This is his friend’s brother’s wedding. Noah was invited.
And he chose to come here with Uma.
“Excuse me,” I say to Dad and Sebastian, and begin making my way toward Noah.
“So, should I call you Dr. Mia Stoll, PhD?” I hear him ask the bride.
“That would be overkill,” she says.
“Dr. Mia Stoll then,” Uma suggests.
The bride shakes her head. “Too pompous.”
Noah cocks his head. “How about just doctor, like in Doctor Who?”
The bride grins. “How about just Mia?”
Noah and Uma exchange a comically dubious look and nod in unison. “Yes, doctor.”
I join the trio amid peals of laughter.
Noah’s smile slips and blood drains from his face the moment he sees me.
“Sophie!” Uma gives me a hug. “So nice to see you here!”
I mumble something. Mia says something and I respond to her. Hopefully, my autopilot is using context-appropriate expressions.
Uma hooks her arm through Mia’s and walks away with her.
Noah and I stare at each other.
“Sophie,” he says. “I feared this would happen… I tried to call you all day yesterday—”
“I lost my phone.”
He swallows. “I went to your place, and I waited, but you didn’t come home…”
“Dad took me out, and then I slept over at Mom’s.”
“That’s what I thought.” He draws a breath. “Has he… Has he told you about me?”
A sense of foreboding seizes my chest. “What do you mean?”
“I guess he hasn’t, then.” Noah’s lips compress into a hard line. “He just brought you here instead.”
My chin begins to tremble.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Noah says.
I stare at him and, suddenly, I know.
All the jagged pieces of the puzzle fall into place, forming a picture that explains everything.
“You’re Count d’Arcy’s other brother,” I say.
He nods.
“You’re the owner of the estate you took me to last month.”
He nods again.
“Why?”
Before he can respond, I lower the pitch of my voice and say mockingly, “I’m Noah Masson, a goalie and a pizza delivery man.”
The muscles on his face are so taut they look like they might snap at any moment.
“Why the charade?” I ask.
He grabs my hand. “It wasn’t a charade, Sophie. I am Noah Masson, goalie and pizza delivery man. That’s who I’ve chosen to be.”
“And yet,” I smirk. “Your brother is a filthy-rich count and you yourself are worth at least fifteen million.”
He says nothing.
“You never even mentioned you had a brother,” I say. “Two of them!”
“I didn’t mean to—” he begins.
I fake a male voice again. “I’m renting a tiny apartment from you and helping my friend sell his estate. Oh wait, it’s my estate! My mom volunteers for a charitable foundation. Oh, wait it’s her foundation. Uma is just a friend. Oh wait, she’s actually my fiancée with whom I came to my brother’s wedding.”
“She isn’t!” Noah almost shouts. “It’s not what it looks like.”
A few heads turn toward us.
“With you, nothing is what it looks like,” I say.
“Sophie, please, can we go somewhere private, so I can explain my reasons… and apologize properly?”
“Don’t bother.” I yank my hand from his and look around.
Dad is leaning on the wall near an elaborate flower arrangement, watching me anxiously.
I run to him. “Will you take me home?”
He nods, and five minutes later we’re in a cab, zooming away to my apartment.
When the mansion vanishes from sight, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and turn to Dad. “Will you take me home to Key West?”
TWENTY-THREE
NOAH
Oscar gives me a wounded look, followed by a frustrated growl and a long vibrato whimper. That particular sequence means, “Why aren’t you sharing that sandwich? I thought we were friends.”
“You’ve put on weight, buddy.” I pet him. “The vet says we have to watch your diet.”
Oscar whines some more and scampers to the gap between the cupboard and the wall where he stays for a long moment. Coming out, he heads straight to the TV room and climbs on the couch for his midafternoon nap.
I’ve always wondered what he does in that corner. Maybe it’s his meditation room where he performs a breathing routine, reminds himself life isn’t so bad, and recovers his mojo. Another possibility is that he keeps a stash of naked lady dog postcards in there to be perused in times of emotional crisis. Whatever happens in that nook clearly works, because he always emerges from it cheered up.
I wish I had a place like that.
Because if this isn’t a time of emotional crisis for me, then I don’t know what is.
Sophie didn’t answer my calls for the next two days following the wedding. When I called from the int
ercom of her building, she wouldn’t buzz me in. Then I left for Athens for a LEN Cup game. The team stayed on for a couple more days to visit the Acropolis and explore the local night life.
Zach and I flew back. I went to Sophie’s office straight from the airport. Her colleagues told me my landlady had to cut her internship short and return to the States for personal reasons. A friendly young woman told me Mademoiselle Bander had hired the agency to take care of my lease.
“I’m here to help if there’s anything you need,” she said, giving me her card.
“Thank you, everything’s fine.”
Heading out the door, I wondered how she’d have reacted if I’d told her the truth, which hasn’t changed since July.
I need to kiss Sophie Bander.
So badly that I’m seriously considering going to Key West to try to smooth things over with her. I screwed up, there’s no doubt about that. But I did have mitigating circumstances.
Sophie always told me she was going to marry the man of her father’s dreams. She had a life plan for her future as a Floridian real estate mogul. She was going back to Key West at Christmastime to start it off. What we had wasn’t serious.
Cut the crap, Noah.
These are not “mitigating circumstances.” They are cheap, pathetic excuses. The bottom line is, Sophie had been honest and frank with me from start to finish.
And I lied to her.
No wonder she’s mad at me.
The problem is I can’t go to Key West right now. My team needs me. For the first time since Lucas established the club, we have a serious shot at becoming national champions. We’re in the middle of a crazy season, competing in two overlapping championships, Championnat de France and the LEN Cup. We train several hours a day, and we travel all the time.
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.
