French Coast (18 page)

“I don't have time for men!” Serena exclaimed. “I have to save your parents' marriage and finish Yvette's memoir so Chelsea doesn't put me on the next flight to San Francisco.”

“Yesterday we saw the Prince's Palace and the Museum of Napoleonic Souvenirs and ate crepes at Café de Paris.” Zoe sighed. “Today my father wants to visit the medieval fortress at Saint-Paul de Vence and the flower market in Nice. He's like a race car zooming around a track. He can't stay still and he's terrified of being alone.”

“At least you know where your father is,” Serena said, adding cream and sugar. “I haven't heard from my parents in days. I keep expecting my father to call and say it was all a mistake.”

“We're the ones who are supposed to be falling in love with the wrong men and making our parents frantic,” Zoe said as she tore apart an almond croissant.

“Maybe we're part of the wrong generation.” Serena sipped her coffee. “We should have been young in the sixties.”

“I could never be as thin as Twiggy.” Zoe shook her head. “And the hairstyles were awful.”

*   *   *

Serena closed her laptop and dialed Chelsea's number.

“Thank God you called,” Chelsea's voice came on the line. “Givenchy is threatening to pull their ad unless they see some copy.”

“I haven't finished Yvette's piece yet,” Serena replied. “Remember when you said to keep my eye out for Malcolm Gladding? How would you like an exclusive?”

“An exclusive what?” Chelsea asked. “The inside scoop on his winter collection isn't going to sell full-page ads.”

“An apology to his wife for not listening to her after their daughter's kidnapping, for running around Cannes with another woman,” Serena continued.

“Sir Malcolm Gladding admitting he was wrong?” Chelsea's voice was low.

“Twelve hundred words in black and white.” Serena nodded. “He's desperate to win her back.”

“When can I have it?”

“I just sent it.” Serena's shoulders relaxed.

“This will keep Harry Ames off my back.” Chelsea paused and her voice was soft. “Why didn't you tell me about Chase?”

“Tell you what about Chase?” Serena gripped the phone.

“I saw him at Boulevard with Ashley Pearson,” Chelsea said. “They were sitting next to each other in a booth.”

“Ashley Pearson?” Serena pictured the petite brunette whose great-great-grandfather founded one of San Francisco's first banks.

“They were sharing calamari with lobster stuffing, and they weren't discussing finance.”

Serena hung up and sat on a gold velvet armchair. She imagined Chase at city hall, being sworn in as mayor. She saw Ashley in a cashmere dress and pearls, waving at the crowd.

Serena walked to the dining-room table and opened her laptop. She poured a fresh cup of coffee and started typing.

 

chapter seventeen

Serena closed her laptop and walked onto the balcony. She had been working all day and suddenly she was starving. She wanted to put on a pretty dress and go to a restaurant. She flashed on the fish soup at Le Maurice, the savory smell of herbs and butter and the cozy, intimate tables.

She thought about calling Nick and asking if he wanted to join her for dinner. She pictured his long legs, his wavy hair and easy smile. Then she remembered his mouth pressed against hers, his hands fumbling with her dress. She was going home in two weeks and she didn't want to start a relationship. She'd put on her new Celine tunic dress and eat a plate of seafood pasta by herself.

The doorbell rang as she snapped on a silver necklace. She opened the door and saw a silver-haired man wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket. He wore beige slacks and shoes with leather tassels.

“Dad.” Serena froze.

“I'm overdressed,” Charles said, smiling. “San Francisco was freezing and we just arrived, I haven't had time to change.”

“Come inside.” Serena's heart raced and her mind whirred.

“You look like you're going out.” Charles glanced at Serena's black-and-white silk dress and white patent leather pumps. Her hair was tied in a low knot and she wore a silver bracelet on her wrist.

“I've been working all day.” Serena shrugged. “I was going to get some dinner.”

“I'll join you,” Charles said. “I haven't been in Cannes in fifteen years but I still crave the swordfish at La Plage.”

“We can stay here,” Serena murmured.

“And miss a date with the most beautiful girl in France? Wait till you try their goat cheese salad.”

*   *   *

They sat at an outdoor table under a bright orange umbrella. The table was laid with a white linen tablecloth and large square plates. There was a basket of herb bread and a pitcher of lemon water.

“Your mother and I are staying at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc in Antibes.” Charles buttered a baguette. “She'll join us tomorrow for lunch; tonight I wanted to explain—”

“Maybe we should wait until after dinner,” Serena interrupted, suddenly afraid of what he would say.

“I need to tell you,” Charles insisted. “It was the summer after you were born. We decided to rent a villa on the Côte d'Azur. I was in Paris on business and I took the train to Cannes. Your mother and you would fly over from San Francisco.

“I stayed at the Carlton-InterContinental and one evening I entered the boutique to buy your mother a present. The salesgirl was a brunette with big brown eyes like a young Brigitte Bardot. She suggested a Hermès scarf and a bottle of Dior perfume.

“The next night I was walking along the Rue de la Feuvre and I saw the salesgirl huddled on the sidewalk. I asked what was wrong and she started sobbing that she had been fired. The manager discovered her son sleeping in a cot in the hotel kitchen.

“She had no one and nowhere to go. The boy's father was an American producer who got her pregnant and left her. I had just rented a villa in Antibes, the keys were in my pocket.” Charles stopped. “I gave her the key and said she and her son could stay there for a few days.

“When I drove to the villa to pick up the key, she asked me to come in.” Charles's face turned pale. “You don't know how many times I've played back that afternoon, wishing I'd said I had an appointment. We drank a glass of wine and she started crying that she couldn't find a job or a place to live. I told her she could stay in the villa for the summer.” Charles paused. “We ended up in the bedroom; it was the stupidest thing I'd ever done.

“I called your mother and told her we should rent a villa in Portofino. Then I mailed Jeanne a letter telling her to return the key to the estate agent in August.” Charles pushed away his plate. “Two months later she wrote back that she was pregnant.

“I sent a monthly allowance and visited four or five times a year. She'd been abandoned once, I couldn't do it again.”

Serena gazed at the table and realized the waiter had replaced her goat cheese salad with grilled swordfish and risotto. She scooped up risotto but then she put the spoon on the plate. Her throat was parched and she couldn't swallow. She sat back in the leather chair and waited for her father to continue.

“I didn't want to accept the consulate position, but your mother adored Paris.” Charles looked at Serena. “And it was wonderful for you, you grew up so beautiful and cultured.

“One day your mother surprised me with reservations at the Carlton-InterContinental. Kate and I were walking through the lobby when a young girl approached us. She was about thirteen, tall and gangly with blond hair and green eyes. She threw her arms around me and called me daddy.

“God, I remember, it was like watching a train wreck. Jeanne rushed over and removed Veronique from my neck. I saw the realization on Kate's face and my heart stopped. Kate didn't say a word, just entered the elevator. When we got to the suite she demanded I tell her everything.

“She wanted to pack her bags and catch the first train to Paris. She wanted to take you out of school and go back to San Francisco.

“For three days we paced around the suite. On the third night we both fell asleep, too tired to argue. I slept for twelve hours, and when I woke the suite was quiet; I was sure Kate was gone.

“She was sitting at a wicker table on the balcony, eating scrambled eggs. She said we all make mistakes; the test of character is how we behave after they've been discovered.

“I promised to never have any contact, to be the best husband and father and try to make the world a better place.” Charles's eyes were moist. “She said she would try to forgive me.”

*   *   *

Serena sat on the ivory silk sofa in the living room of the Cary Grant Suite. The curtains were drawn and the lights were dimmed. The room was so quiet she could hear her own breathing.

She had left her father in the lobby and ridden the elevator by herself. She felt fuzzy and nauseated, as if she were snorkeling underwater. She kept replaying her father's words but they were like a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces jumbled.

She pictured Christmas in Palm Springs and summer in Lake Tahoe. She saw lively dinners around the maple dining-room table and watching old movies in her parents' study. She remembered thinking her family were like three points of a triangle.

She saw her father arrive at the villa, his arms laden with presents, and thought her heart would break. She pictured her father teaching the little boy to ride a bicycle, helping the small girl color a picture. She saw him clean up plates after dinner, eat cake and ice cream in the garden, share a late-night brandy with Jeanne.

She turned off the lights and walked to the bedroom. She unzipped her dress and hung it in the closet. She pulled down the covers and climbed into bed.

 

chapter eighteen

Serena checked her reflection in the mirror. She hadn't slept and her eyes were large and glassy. She wished she could talk to Zoe, but Zoe and Malcolm had spent the night in Nice. For a moment she thought of calling Chase, but she pictured him sitting in a booth with Ashley Pearson and shivered.

She smoothed her hair, grabbed her notepad, and walked down the hallway to the Sophia Loren Suite.

“Serena, come in! I was just finishing breakfast. Room service prepares the most delicious muesli, I can't get anything like it in Paris.”

Yvette wore a black pantsuit with a white leather belt and gold sandals. Her cheeks were powdered and she wore bright red lipstick.

“You're very pale,” Yvette said as she ushered Serena into the living room. “I hope you're not coming down with another summer cold.”

“I'm fine,” Serena replied. “I drank too much coffee and had trouble sleeping.”

“I must tell Chelsea what a wonderful job you're doing.” Yvette sat at the bamboo dining-room table. “It can be exhausting reliving one's past,” Yvette mused. “When we're young we never think we'll grow old, and we don't realize that everything we do has consequences.…”

*   *   *

Bertrand rented a room above the ice cream store in Juan-les-Pins and they met there every afternoon. Sometimes Yvette thought he did it to test her. Once she stood at the window and saw Françoise and Pierre and Camille and Lilly enter the shop and she felt nauseated. But Bertrand swore it was the only room available, and the views of the harbor were lovely.

*   *   *

Every morning Yvette sat at her dressing table and planned her day: work in her garden, lunch with the children on the patio, a brisk hike in the afternoon. But then it would be too hot or the children begged to go to the beach with Françoise and she was left alone in the villa.

By noon she was restless and anxious. She'd hastily get dressed and run down the hill to Juan-les-Pins. Often she arrived at the room first and her heart pounded until Bertrand climbed the stairs.

Sometimes he'd be romantic, bringing a picnic of roast beef sandwiches and oranges. Other times he was almost clinical, telling her to take off her clothes and lie on her stomach.

“Sex must be learned,” he said when they were both exhausted from an hour of lovemaking. “If I were teaching you how to drive a car I would show you how to steer,” he'd say, and then he'd bury his face in her, making her come so violently she couldn't breathe.

They never talked about Henri and they never talked about the end of summer. Yvette lived each day like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

*   *   *

“Today we are going on an excursion,” Bertrand announced.

He wore a white blazer over a black T-shirt and khaki slacks. He carried a straw hat in one hand and a box wrapped in gold paper in the other.

“What if someone sees me?”

“No one will; I bought you a present.”

Yvette opened the box and took out a silk Dior scarf and a pair of oversize Gucci sunglasses.

“For me?” Yvette blushed.

“You will be as clandestine as a Russian spy.” Bertrand tied the scarf around her hair. “And very beautiful.”

They drove out of Antibes and onto the highway. They turned down a long paved drive and Yvette saw a stone mansion with tall white columns. It was flanked by cypress trees and surrounded by acres of lush gardens.

“We cannot stay cooped up like fugitives,” Bertrand said as he opened her car door. “We will play tourist and then we will have a picnic in La Roseraie.”

They wandered through the mansion with its elaborate crown molding and heavy velvet furniture. Yvette learned that the Villa Eilenroc was built in 1867 by Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera. Bertrand pointed out the elaborate murals in the Night Salon and the glass cases filled with Flaubert's pens and notebooks.

“
Madame Bovary
was the first book I ever read.” Bertrand's face was serious. “No writer has created a greater heroine.”

*   *   *