French Coast Page 12

  The couple pulled apart and Yvette saw the man had short brown hair, blue eyes, and a dark suntan. She thrust her face against the glass and saw it was Henri. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and linen shorts as if he’d just returned from vacation.

  Yvette’s cheeks turned white and her skin felt like ice. She stayed in her seat until the conductor announced the train was leaving. She stood up shakily and descended onto the platform. She walked to the ticket counter and bought a ticket on the first train back to Nice.

  chapter fourteen

  Serena jogged down the promenade, breathing the scent of hyacinths and bougainvillea. She had woken early and sat at her computer, eagerly transcribing her notes. She didn’t stop until the maids knocked on the door and replaced the platters of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast with grilled vegetables and cold consommé.

  She bent down to tie her shoelace and suddenly a camera flashed in her face. She stood up and saw a man with a black Nikon. He snapped another photo and raced down the dock, his camera bouncing against his thigh.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Serena demanded, running after him.

  She tripped on a plank and fell hard against the wood. She heard yelling and saw a tall man with wavy dark hair holding the camera over the water. The photographer shouted in French and the dark-haired man shoved the camera against his chest.

  “Are you all right?” Nick bent down.

  “He took my picture.” Serena tried to sit up. Her hands were scraped and her knee was bleeding.

  “It’s not going to do him much good if I have the memory card.” Nick grinned, opening his palm to display a small red card.

  Serena tried to stand but her knee buckled and she sat quickly on the dock. Nick crouched down and examined her knee. He put her arms around his neck and gently scooped her up.

  “Where are we going?” Serena asked.

  “You don’t want it to get infected,” Nick replied, stepping onto the deck of a white catamaran.

  Serena leaned against beige cushions while Nick disappeared into the cabin. Her head throbbed and her throat was dry.

  “I’ve never seen paparazzi chase a journalist.” Nick returned with a silver first-aid kit. He dabbed her knee with disinfectant and wrapped it in a gauze bandage.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor,” Serena said as she winced.

  “All sailors know first aid.” Nick shrugged. “Are you sure you’re not a famous movie star?”

  Serena opened her mouth but no sound came out. Suddenly she wanted to go home so badly she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run along Crissy Field with Chase, join her parents for dinner at the Yacht Club, make love on her own cotton sheets.

  “You’re crying,” Nick said, and handed her a handkerchief.

  “I’m not.” Serena wiped her eyes.

  Nick crossed his arms and studied her carefully. He strode across the deck and brought up the anchor. He unfurled the sails, letting them catch in the breeze.

  “What are you doing?” Serena asked.

  Nick grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’m taking you sailing.”

  * * *

  “Are you always a knight in shining armor?” Serena asked, lifting her face to the sun.

  They didn’t talk until the boat was skimming across the waves, the shore becoming a distant blur. Serena forgot how wonderful it felt to fly across the water, the wind whipping her hair, the salty spray touching her cheeks.

  “When I was a kid I found wounded birds and took them home to fix their wings.”

  “That must have made your mother happy.” Serena smiled.

  “She complained they carried diseases,” Nick replied. “But she never sent them away until they could fly.”

  Nick tossed the anchor over the side. He disappeared into the cabin and returned with a tray of crackers and cheese and two bottles of sparkling soda.

  “No Boy Scout cookies?” Serena asked.

  “Are you going to tell me why that photographer was chasing you or do I have to turn you in to the French intelligence agency?”

  Serena sipped a bottle of soda and slowly told Nick about growing up in San Francisco and Paris and Washington. She told him how her parents were like doubles partners in tennis, always watching each other’s backs.

  She told him about Chase and how he had his sights set on the White House. She described the planned engagement party: a twelve-piece band in a white tent on her parents’ lawn. She told him about the article in the San Francisco Chronicle and Chase unearthing the birth certificate with her father’s name on it.

  “Your fiancé broke up with you because of an anonymous letter about something that happened almost thirty years ago,” Nick said, frowning. He sat on the deck, his long legs spread in front of him, the sun glinting in his hair.

  “Yes.” Serena nodded.

  “I was wrong; he’s not going to wake up in the morning and think he made a mistake.” Nick’s forehead knotted together. “He’s going to lie awake at night and realize he’s the biggest fool.”

  * * *

  Serena trailed her hand in the water as the sailboat eased into its berth. Nick jumped out and conversed with a blond man waiting on the dock. The man waved his arms and spoke in rapid French. Nick nodded and the two men shook hands.

  “Who was that?” Serena asked.

  “The owner of the catamaran,” Nick replied.

  “That’s not your boat?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

  “I’m thinking of buying it with the money I got from my sale,” Nick said, grinning.

  “The first-aid kit, the crackers and sodas?”

  “All boats have first-aid kits and most are stocked with snacks.” Nick took her arm as they reached the boulevard. “You looked like you needed to be on the water.”

  They crossed the boulevard and strolled to the Carlton-InterContinental. Serena stopped at the revolving glass doors and turned to Nick. “Thank you, I had a lovely time.”

  “I’m not going to let some paparazzi accost you in the lobby,” Nick protested, gently propelling her through the doors. “I’m going to escort you to your suite.”

  They rode silently on the elevator and walked down the hallway to the Cary Grant Suite. Serena fumbled with her key, smelling Nick’s scent of suntan lotion and sweat.

  “Here.” Nick reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “This is a bill for services rendered.”

  “‘Found one iPhone, retrieved one purse including wallet and passport, saved priceless diamond, scared away dangerous paparazzi,’” Serena read aloud. “You said I brought you good luck.”

  “That pays part of the bill,” he mused. “I know how you can pay the other half.”

  Nick leaned down and kissed her slowly on the lips. He put his hand on the small of her back and pulled her close. He ran his hands through her hair, caressing her shoulders.

  Serena kissed him back, her body suddenly hungry. She felt his chest against hers, the warmth of his breath, his strong hands on her back.

  “I’ve paid my debt,” she said, and pulled away.

  “Hardly.” Nick grinned. “That’s the first of an installment plan.”

  * * *

  “I thought we were friends!” Zoe exclaimed.

  She wore a red cotton dress with a wide white belt and white sandals. She stormed around the living room, waving a newspaper in the air.

  “Of course we’re friends,” Serena said as she entered the suite. Her heart was racing from Nick’s kiss and she instinctively touched her mouth.

  “You said friends tell each other everything,” Zoe retorted. “I bought all the newspapers in the gift shop to see if there are any pictures of my father, and I found this.” She tossed the newspaper on the glass coffee table.

  Serena glanced at the Chronicle masthead. She scanned the photo of her father in a navy wool suit. She turned the page and saw her mother wearing a Carolina Herrera gown. There was a picture of Serena in her school uniform, and the one of
Charles with the brunette and two young children.

  “Is this why Chase broke up with you?” Zoe demanded.

  “He was afraid the scandal would ruin his chance to be mayor.” Serena twisted her ponytail. “Chase’s career is very important to him, he’s always dreamed of being a politician.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Zoe sank onto the gold silk sofa like a locomotive that had run out of steam.

  “I kept expecting Chase to call and say the letter was a fraud.”

  “And after he came and slept on your Egyptian cotton sheets and you gave your ring back?”

  “I never thought he’d end the engagement.” Serena’s eyes filled with tears. “He said we came first, the rest was gravy.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Zoe asked quietly, slipping off her sandals.

  Serena poured a glass of iced tea and told Zoe about the photographer and Nick and his kiss.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed him,” Serena moaned. Her throat was parched and the tea tasted cold and sweet. “I’m not ready for something new.”

  “I want a string of sexy boyfriends,” Zoe said glumly. “Being in love is exhausting.”

  “Do you have someone in Sydney?” Serena asked.

  “Ian; he’s a geologist,” Zoe said, and nodded. “We’ve known each other since the fifth grade. We’re sort of engaged to be engaged but I told him we need to wait. I have to save my parents’ marriage.”

  Zoe sifted through the newspapers and suddenly her eyes grew dark. She picked up the paper and quickly scanned the headline.

  “Oh God, The Sydney Morning Herald.” She handed it to Serena. “We’re too late.”

  Serena gazed at the photo of Malcolm helping a luscious brunette into a speedboat. The woman wore a metallic bathing suit and four-inch stilettos and Malcolm wore a short-sleeved silk shirt and a broad straw hat.

  “I thought no one had photos except Paris Match.” Zoe walked over to the sideboard and ate a handful of raisins. “My mother is going to see this with her porridge and stewed apricots. She’ll be at her solicitor’s office by lunchtime.”

  “Your parents haven’t slept together in thirteen years and they’re still married,” Serena said as she studied the paper. “She’s not going to file for divorce over one grainy AP picture.”

  “My mother is like the dowager on Downton Abbey,” Zoe fretted. “Appearances are everything.”

  “I’m meeting your father in an hour,” Serena replied, consulting her watch. “I’m going to write a piece that will make her feel like Olivia Newton-John in Grease.”

  “My parents once dressed up as Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta for a costume party,” Zoe mused.

  Serena walked over to the sideboard and squeezed Zoe’s hand. “Trust me, it’ll work.”

  Zoe’s eyes were bright and her lips trembled. “My father looked ridiculous in disco pants.”

  * * *

  Serena entered the Carlton Bar and saw Malcolm sitting at a table next to the marble fireplace. He wore a red silk shirt and tan slacks and a gold Rolex on his wrist. His forehead was creased and he sipped a scotch without ice.

  “Did you see it?” He stood up. He looked older than when Serena last saw him; his skin was gray and his eyes were dim. “The Sydney Morning Herald. They may as well have printed my obituary.”

  “It was a photo of two people stepping onto a boat,” Serena said as she sat on a blue crushed-velvet chair. “You could have been part of a tour.”

  “I never wanted to humiliate Laura.” Malcolm sighed. “I was so stupid, I thought I could just fade into the sunset.”

  “That’s hard to do when you’re head of a fashion empire and one of the richest men in Australia,” Serena said, grinning.

  “Did Zoe tell you that?”

  “I’m a journalist.” Serena shrugged. “We’re going to use that to our advantage. We’re going to put your apology on the cover of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and W.”

  “You’re going to have to be a magician.” Malcolm drained his glass and signaled to the waiter.

  “Tell me how you and Laura met,” Serena said as she opened her notepad. “Tell me the moment you fell in love with her, when you knew you’d do anything to win her.”

  * * *

  “We were in a fashion design class at University of Sydney,” Malcolm began. “I noticed her the first day but it took me two months to talk to her. I was a scholarship kid from Newcastle and she was the most elegant woman I’d ever seen: glossy brown hair, big hazel eyes. She wore a strand of pearls and white gloves to class.

  “The professor assigned students to work in pairs and create an outfit from scratch. I rehearsed for days how I would ask her to be my partner: with a bouquet of roses, with a slice of pavlova from the university cafeteria. One day I saw her in the hall and I blurted it out.

  “She said she didn’t even know my name, and she wouldn’t trust half her grade to a guy who wore rugby shirts and sneakers and needed a haircut.

  “God, I remember the way she waltzed off like a princess,” Malcolm said, slowly sipping his scotch. “I begged her friend to give me her measurements. I sold my stereo to buy the finest imported Thai silk; I stayed up nights sketching designs. When I was satisfied I scoured the garment district for the best seamstress. I pawned my watch to buy a pair of gold earrings and I delivered newspapers so I could afford a haircut.

  “On the day of the presentation, I borrowed my buddy’s navy suit and black leather shoes. I stood in front of the lecture hall, trying to see her face. She sat in the back; her skin was like alabaster under the lights. She wore a peach-colored dress and sheer stockings and white silk gloves.

  “I unwrapped yards of tissue paper and revealed a dress the color of seashells. It had a heart-shaped bodice and a cinched waist and a full skirt. I paired it with a lace slip and ivory gloves with pearl clasps.

  “I remember reciting the words I’d been practicing in front of the mirror: ‘Some designers name their collections after movie stars; I call this the ‘Laura’ after the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’

  “I was sweating so badly I wanted to bolt out of there.” Malcolm frowned, running his fingers over his scotch glass. “But I knew I only had one chance. I put the dress in the box and gave it to her.

  “She said if I was going to give her a gown, I better invite her somewhere to wear it. She had tickets to Swan Lake at the Sydney Opera House, and I was going to take her.” Malcolm paused, his face spreading into a smile. “Then she told me I better wear socks.

  “They say cricket is boring, but ballet takes the cake,” Malcolm mused. “But when Laura sat next to me in the dark auditorium, when I smelled her perfume and touched her hair, I knew I could do anything. I promised myself I’d give her everything she wanted—houses, cars, jewelry, her own damned box at the opera.”

  Serena waited for Malcolm to continue, but his eyes went dark, as if the film he was watching ended.

  “Why did she tell you to wear socks?” Serena asked.

  “I borrowed my buddy’s suit but I forgot the socks.” Malcolm laughed out loud. “The most important moment of my life and I forgot the bloody socks.”

  chapter fifteen

  Serena slipped on her yellow Lilly Pulitzer dress and strapped on white leather sandals. She tied her ponytail with a yellow ribbon and coated her lips with lipgloss. She ate one quick bite of toast with strawberry jam and stepped into the hallway.

  “Serena! I’m so happy to see you,” Yvette said as she opened the door of the Sophia Loren Suite.

  She wore red yoga pants and a black leotard and clutched a paperback book. “I hate insomnia, but reading can be such a gift. I make a pot of tea and curl up with a book and before I know it, it’s morning.”

  “My father gets insomnia.” Serena walked into the living room.

  The turquoise curtains were pulled back and the bay shimmered like a sheet of glass. The sideboard was filled with platters of warm scones and berries and there w
as a pitcher of orange juice on the dining-room table.

  “Have you read Anaïs Nin? She was born in Paris and was rumored to be Henry Miller’s mistress.” Yvette curled up on the cream silk love seat, tucking her feet under her. “Her diaries are quite … vivid. It’s strange how a staid married woman can meet a man and her whole life can change.…”

  * * *

  Yvette smelled Bertrand before she saw him. She entered the ice cream shop in Juan-les-Pins and inhaled his scent of cigarettes and sweat. She turned around and saw him sitting at a table, eating a banana split.

  “How do you do it?” he asked. “You have to share your secret with other women.”

  “What are you talking about?” Yvette blushed, seeing other shoppers glance at her curiously.

  Bertrand walked to the counter and gazed at her floral cotton dress with its wide leather belt.

  “You keep having babies, but you don’t get fat.”

  Yvette clutched the pint of vanilla ice cream, trying to stop her heart from racing. She hadn’t seen Bertrand in two years, since the day she took the train to Paris. When she’d returned to Antibes she discovered Bertrand had left for Hollywood.

  * * *

  She finished translating the manuscript, feeling bold and reckless. She knew Bertrand wouldn’t read it and Edouard would say nothing, so she gave Bertrand’s dour heroine her own unrequited passion. She turned it in to Edouard like an addict giving up her opium. Then she waited to have her baby, hoping the early-morning feedings, the delirium of sleepless nights, would cure her.

  Bertrand sent two dozen lilies when she gave birth with a note written on ivory notepaper. She read the words aloud: “‘You have done what I never could, created something perfect.’” Then she folded it carefully and slipped it into her lingerie drawer.

  * * *

  Yvette entered the vast kitchen and put the ice cream in the freezer. She poured a glass of lemonade and sat at the long oak table. Only when Françoise walked in asking about the steaks did she realize she had left their dinner at the ice cream shop.