French Coast Page 9

  “That doesn’t sound bad,” Yvette said, smiling.

  “How am I supposed to write about misery and passion if I’m eating on fine china and sitting on a Louis Seize chair?”

  Yvette glanced at the manuscript, bound with a blue ribbon. “I have to go to a dress fitting, I’ll take it.”

  “Does Henri know you go to Paris alone?” Bertrand asked.

  “I’m not a prisoner here, I do whatever I want.”

  Bertrand picked up the manuscript and placed it in Yvette’s arms. “In that case, it’s all yours. I will give you Edouard’s address.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to read it?” Yvette asked.

  “Why would I read it”—Bertrand’s dark eyes danced—“when I have complete faith in my translator?”

  * * *

  Yvette pulled out her compact as the train rolled into the Gare du Nord. During the train ride she had reread the manuscript, her stomach becoming a mass of butterflies. She even purchased a pack of cigarettes, hoping to calm her nerves. But she only smoked half a cigarette before she started choking and stubbed it out.

  She painted her mouth with red lipstick and brushed her hair until it was a shiny black cap. She wore a red crepe Yves Saint Laurent dress from his latest collection. She paired it with a soft suede purse and patent leather pumps.

  Yvette took a taxi to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and entered the brick building. The lobby was carpeted in a green shag rug and the walls were lined with framed book jackets. Yvette saw a photo of Bertrand in his early twenties: his shiny black hair was thick, his stomach was flat, and his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire.

  “You must be Yvette.” A thin man wearing a dark blue suit appeared from an inner office. “My secretary told me you were here.”

  Yvette followed him down a hallway to an office with large windows and a polished wood floor. There was a wide cherry desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.

  “Trust Bertrand to hire a translator who’s a beautiful woman,” Edouard said, motioning for Yvette to sit down.

  Yvette’s skin bristled. “I was a journalist before I got married, and I have read all Bertrand’s books.”

  “Bertrand’s last book sold more copies in a year than all my other titles combined.” Edouard shrugged. “You are not alone.”

  Yvette stared at Edouard’s beaklike nose and gold Cartier watch, and her courage escaped her. She gave him the manuscript as if she were handing over a newborn baby.

  “Do you mind if I wait while you read the first chapter?”

  “You want me to read it now?” Edouard raised his eyebrow.

  Yvette pulled herself up to her full height and tried to stop the nauseated feeling. “Yes, I do.”

  Edouard sat down and untied the blue ribbon. He set the manuscript on the desk and quickly turned the pages. Yvette glanced at the clock and picked up a copy of Le Monde. She read Paris Match and Hello!, glancing up and studying Edouard’s expression. Finally he set the manuscript aside and looked at Yvette.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it,” Yvette blurted out.

  “It is true to the manuscript.” Edouard sighed, rubbing his forehead.

  Yvette let out a deep breath. All the doubts that had been forming over the last month bubbled to the surface. She had transcribed page after page, looking for Bertrand’s brilliance. But the plot was too simple, the characters weren’t likable, the dialogue was stilted.

  “I typed out fifteen pages of notes.” Edouard slumped in his chair. “Bertrand returned them with a letter saying I could write the fucking novel, and he’d eat duck à l’orange at Tour d’Argent. Two weeks later he sent me a second draft; the only thing he’d changed is he added an e to his protagonist’s name.”

  “I thought it was me,” Yvette said. “I thought I ruined his story.”

  “The public won’t care, they’ll read anything with his photo on the back cover.” Edouard frowned. “But the reviewers will skewer him; it will be a bloodbath.”

  Yvette pictured Bertrand standing in the middle of the garden, protecting her from the storm. She remembered him stripped naked for his photo, exposing himself to the world. She saw him eating ham sandwiches and chocolate cake like a greedy child.

  “When does this go to print?” Yvette asked.

  “We go to press in August,” Edouard replied. “The American and UK editions follow in October.”

  “Give it to me.” Yvette pointed to the manuscript. “I’ll have it back to you in two weeks.”

  “What are you going to do?” Edouard asked, tying the pages with the blue ribbon.

  Yvette stood up and clutched the manuscript to her chest. “I’m going to make it a masterpiece.”

  * * *

  Yvette stepped out at the Gare d’Antibes and saw Bertrand waiting on the pavement. He wore a white straw hat and clutched a bunch of daisies.

  “What are you doing here?” Yvette asked.

  “I bribed Françoise into telling me when your train arrived,” Bertrand said, and took her arm. “It’s almost dark, a beautiful woman shouldn’t walk along the streets alone.”

  “Juan-les-Pins is a resort town, it’s perfectly safe.” Yvette raised her eyebrow.

  “We’ll get something to eat on the way,” Bertrand said, ignoring her. “I’ve been working on the new novel all day, I’m starving.”

  “I ate a sandwich on the train. I should get back to Pierre and Camille.”

  Bertrand pressed his fingers into her arm. “Two pieces of white bread and a wilted lettuce leaf isn’t a meal. We’ll have a proper British tea.”

  * * *

  They sat in a booth in a teashop on the main street of Juan-les-Pins. The table was covered by a checkered tablecloth and set with blue-and-white ceramic plates. There was a pot of English breakfast tea, a jug of cream, and a plate of warm scones.

  “The British don’t know fuck about literature, but no one makes better clotted cream,” said Bertrand, slathering jam on a peach scone. “How was Edouard?”

  “He looked just as I imagined.” Yvette smiled, nibbling a digestive biscuit. “Serious and thin.”

  “Did he make a pass at you?” Bertrand asked.

  Yvette burst out laughing. “He read the manuscript and I sat and waited.”

  Bertrand put his cup down so quickly tea spilled onto the saucer. “He read it while you were sitting there? What did he say?”

  Yvette fingered her purse, with the manuscript hidden inside it. She added a spoonful of honey to her tea and stirred it with a silver spoon. She took a sip and looked at Bertrand. “He absolutely loved it.”

  chapter ten

  Serena sat on an ivory love seat and stared blankly at the view. After she left Yvette she deflated like a punctured balloon. She kept expecting Chase to walk through the door or call her cell phone. But she knew that once he made up his mind, he was adamant about following through.

  She thought about the things she wanted to ask him: How old was the little boy in the photo? Where were Giles and Veronique now? Was her father going to contact them? She could call Chase, but that would only make the pain last longer. Finally she picked up her phone and dialed her parents’ home number.

  “Margaret, it’s Serena,” she said when the housekeeper answered. “Is my father home?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Woods are away,” Margaret replied.

  “Could you give me their phone number?” Serena grabbed a notepad and pen.

  “They didn’t leave a forwarding number.”

  “They must have left a number for emergencies.” Serena jumped up and paced around the room.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Woods said they would call for messages.”

  Serena closed her eyes and wished she were standing in her parents’ living room. She pictured the brocade sofas, the lush gardens, the glorious views of the bay. She wanted to smell her mother’s perfume and touch her father’s magazines and newspapers.

  “Tell my father—” Serena stopped. She didn’t know wh
at to tell her father: that she was so angry she never wanted to talk to him, that she couldn’t eat or think or sleep.

  “What would you like to tell him?” Margaret prompted.

  “Tell him to call me,” Serena said finally, and hung up the phone.

  Serena walked outside and leaned against the railing. It was late afternoon and the harbor was alive with activity. Serena saw fishing boats and sailboats with brightly colored sails. She gazed down at her naked ring finger. Then she walked inside, grabbed her purse, and ran down to the beach.

  * * *

  “Excuse me.” Serena stood on the dock in front of a small white catamaran.

  A man with dark curly hair and blue eyes appeared from the cabin. He saw Serena and his face broke into a smile. “I hoped you’d come back.”

  “I’d feel terrible if I lost my grandmother’s diamond,” Serena said, blushing.

  “It’s a beautiful ring.” Nick took it out of his pocket. “Your fiancé had excellent taste.”

  Serena winced as if she’d been slapped. She slipped the ring in her purse and hurried back along the dock.

  “Serena, wait,” Nick called after her.

  “How do you know my name?” Serena asked, turning around.

  Nick ran down the dock to catch up with her. He wore khaki shorts and a blue cotton shirt and his arms were muscled and tan. “It’s inscribed inside.”

  “You read the inscription?” Serena choked the words out.

  “I was hoping I could return it to you,” Nick explained. “Keeping someone else’s engagement ring is bad luck.”

  “Well, now I have it,” Serena retorted. She bit her lip and softened. “Thank you for finding it.”

  “I was about to have dinner,” Nick said. “Will you join me?”

  Serena bristled. “I don’t even know you.”

  “We’ll go to Le Maurice, the fish soup is famous.” Nick studied her carefully. “If you don’t like my company, at least you’ll get a solid meal.”

  Serena twisted her ponytail, trying to remember when she last ate. She wanted to go back to the suite and curl up on the velvet sofa. But she pictured being alone, her thoughts spinning between Chase and her father, and felt a tightness in her chest.

  “Okay,” Serena said, and nodded.

  “I’ll introduce you to Maurice; he catches the fish himself. He’ll give you the catch of the day.”

  * * *

  Le Maurice was perched at the top of a narrow street in the old town. The restaurant had wide windows and a dazzling view of the bay. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling and round tables were set with shiny silverware and sparkling wineglasses.

  “Maurice’s wife is very meticulous,” Nick said, and grinned, putting his linen napkin in his lap. “If she finds a spot on a wineglass she whisks it away and gets you a new one.”

  An older woman wearing a gray dress approached the table. She carried a basket of breadsticks and a pot of churned butter. She kissed Nick on both cheeks, chattering in rapid French.

  “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us,” Nick said when the woman disappeared to the kitchen. “I’ve been coming here since I was a child. Isabel used to put extra whipped cream on my berries to fatten me up.”

  “Your French is perfect, but you speak English without an accent,” Serena mused.

  “I was born and raised on the Côte d’Azur but sent to boarding school in America,” Nick told her as he smeared butter on a breadstick. “My mother wanted me to go to university and become a doctor or an engineer.

  “I discovered sailing on the Long Island Sound,” Nick continued. “From the moment I tied my first square knot, I was obsessed. I barely passed calculus and physics, but I was the captain of the sailing team.”

  “Where did you go to university?” Serena asked.

  “I didn’t.” Nick shook his head. “I raced professionally all over the world: South Africa, Australia, the Bahamas. I could sail anything: dinghies, catamarans, keelboats. I competed with the Artemis team for the 2013 America’s Cup.”

  Serena remembered the summer of races in San Francisco, the giant boats flying under the Golden Gate Bridge. The whole city buzzed with excitement and her father spent every moment on the bay.

  “The America’s Cup was a year ago,” Serena said. “Where are you racing now?”

  The waitress delivered steaming bowls of fish soup with hunks of sourdough bread.

  “I quit last year,” Nick said slowly. His eyes were dark and his forehead knotted together. “Sailing is seventy percent skill and thirty percent luck. You need to know when your luck runs out and it’s time to walk away.”

  Nick ate large spoonfuls of soup and looked at Serena. The darkness seemed to have passed and his mouth curled in a smile.

  “Are you an actress, should I recognize your face from the movies?”

  “I’m a features editor at Vogue,” Serena replied. “I am doing a story on the former editor of French Vogue, Yvette Renault. She’s elegant and fascinating and when she talks I never want her to stop.”

  “You’re lucky; being passionate about your work is the best thing in life.”

  Serena pictured the sixteenth floor of the Transamerica building, the walls lined with glossy Vogue covers. She remembered leaving work on Friday afternoons, her Coach bag filled with tear sheets.

  She saw Chase pick her up in his silver Fiat and drive to First Crush or Zuni Café. She pictured him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and explaining the latest polls. She remembered him squeezing her hand and saying, “We won’t stop until we reach Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “Please excuse me,” Serena murmured, dropping her spoon and pushing back her chair.

  She rushed out of the restaurant and strode down the hill. She stopped at the bottom and heard Nick calling her name. She kept walking until his voice was swallowed up by the click of her heels on the pavement.

  chapter eleven

  Serena entered the Cary Grant Suite and saw Zoe sitting on the sofa, eating a bowl of round red cherries.

  “It’s impossible to stick to my diet when room service keeps replenishing the sideboard.” Zoe passed Serena the bowl. “It’s like visiting Disneyland without going on all the rides.”

  Serena shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You look like you’ve been running with the bulls.” Zoe eyed Serena’s flushed cheeks and messy hair. “Where’s Chase?”

  Serena sank onto a love seat. “He left.”

  “I thought I’d find him ravishing you on the sofa like in a Thomas Hardy novel,” Zoe replied. “When is he coming back?”

  Serena twisted her ponytail, trying to keep her voice steady. “Chase broke off the engagement.”

  “Chase worships you! He’s like one of those biplanes writing ‘I love you’ in the sky in white curly letters.”

  Serena stared at the ceramic vase of white roses. If she told Zoe the truth she would have to admit there was no chance the birth certificate was false, the photo was perfectly innocent. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine her father with a raven-haired mistress and two illegitimate children.

  “It’s not the right time,” Serena said slowly. “Chase needs to concentrate on his career.”

  “That’s absurd! You two were stuck together with Elmer’s Glue. You said you were good for his career.”

  Serena bit her lip and gazed at Zoe. She hated to lie to her friend.

  “Maybe later,” she said, and shrugged. “Now he has to concentrate on getting elected.”

  “What are you going to do?” Zoe asked.

  “I’m going to give Chelsea the best pieces she’s ever read.” Serena’s eyes flickered. “I’m going to work until I have a corner office with signed prints by Julian Schnabel and 180-degree views of the bay.”

  “At least one of us has a plan.” Zoe slumped against the cushions. “I followed my father all afternoon. I’m in real trouble—he went ring shopping.”

  “He’s
married to your mother,” Serena said, frowning.

  “That’s not stopping him from acting like a lovesick teenager.” Zoe ate a macadamia nut from a silver bowl. “They were in the casino for hours, playing roulette and drinking kir royales. I’ve never seen my father drink a mixed drink; he only drinks aged scotch. Then they walked to Van Cleef and Arpels.”

  “What were they doing there?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

  “I stood in a corner like a Russian spy,” Zoe sighed. “I heard my father say to the salesgirl he was coming back alone tonight. What if he buys her Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond or a priceless jade necklace?”

  “I don’t think even Malcolm Gladding would buy million-dollar jewelry on a whim,” Serena said, smiling.

  “I don’t want him to buy her a charm of the Eiffel Tower.” Zoe’s eyes filled with tears. “I want him to go home.”

  Serena stood up and walked to the balcony. She glanced at the half-moon in the sky and the stars dancing over the harbor.

  “Put on something dark and inconspicuous,” Serena said. “We’re going out.”

  “Are we going to commit a crime?” Zoe asked. “I heard the food is terrible in French prisons.”

  “You’ll see,” Serena replied grimly, walking to her bedroom closet and flicking through a row of black dresses.

  * * *

  “I feel like we’re auditioning for Men in Black Four,” Zoe said as they strolled down the Boulevard de la Croisette.

  They both wore black wool dresses and black pumps. Zoe wore a wide-brimmed black hat and Serena wore her hair in an elegant chignon.

  “If I approach my father in public, it will be on the front page of every newspaper.” Zoe frowned. “My mother will read it while she eats her Weet-Bix.”

  “Trust me,” Serena said, opening the heavy glass doors of Van Cleef and Arpels, breathing the scent of Chanel No. 5 and lemon polish.

  The cherry floors were covered by a white wool rug and the walls were lacquered turquoise. Pinpoint lighting illuminated glass cases filled with emerald teardrop earrings, diamond chokers, and heart-shaped watches.

  Serena saw a butterfly with diamond-and-sapphire wings and a whale with a jeweled spout. She stopped in front of a case of engagement rings—emerald-cut diamonds and round solitaires and flawless five-carat stones. She gazed at her naked ring finger and flinched.