Seven Letters from Paris (14 page)

“Jean-Luc, it's the same for me. I'd all but given up and thought I deserved no better. I'd settled. And then I found your letters, and now everything has changed.”

“Everything.” Jean-Luc squeezed my hand hard. “With you I see a kind woman, a wonderful woman with the heart of a child, a woman who will be good to my children—the ones I have now and the ones we will hopefully have together. So, Sam, I think I'd be the stupidest man on the planet if I ever messed things up with you. Just promise me one thing,” he said.

“Yes, anything.”

“You'll never make me feel like half a man. It's the reason I left the children's mother. I want to feel whole with you.”

Ditto. We fell back into each other's arms and made crazy, mad, passionate love.

The two nights we spent in Dinan passed without any hitches—save for the woman at the hotel cornering Jean-Luc every chance she got, which we both found to be pretty funny. At night we walked the steep cobbled streets, exploring the town and doing a little window-shopping. We ate
galettes
filled with
chèvre chaud,
warm goat cheese, accompanied by a
cidre
brut,
a dry cider. We stopped by a local pub and people-watched while enjoying mint mojitos. Each evening ended with us making love. We began each day the same way.

We visited the fortified city of Saint-Malo, complete with its pirate flags, and enjoyed fresh oysters by the sea, walking along the rugged beaches. We hiked through the ancient town of Mont Saint-Michel, the former monastic settlement located in Normandy, which from afar resembled a giant sand castle floating above amber-colored fields of corn and wheat. When we arrived there, Jean-Luc warned me about the sea of never-ending tourists and also the fact that we had to leave before high tide or we'd be stuck, since the tidal island would be surrounded by water in a few hours.

We traversed the beaches of Normandy, the casino in Deauville, a town known as the French Riviera of the North. We ate
moules
frites
, explored history, and drank fine French wines. We were a young(ish) couple in love and having the time of our lives.

The funny thing was, I'd never been a sentimental, heart-goes-all-a-flutter girl, and now I'd become the female half of the couple I used to make fun of—the ones with their hands all over each other, gazing longingly into each other's eyes. Normally, I would have said those kinds of couples never last, but each day I spent with Jean-Luc proved this theory dead wrong.

While we were checking into another château-turned-bed-and-breakfast, Château de Goville, just outside of Bayeux in the Normandy region of France, I found myself wondering how on earth I was going to be able to leave Jean-Luc in a few days. I watched him speaking to the owner and gazed at Jean-Luc proudly. He simply charmed this older gentleman, who, uptight at first, was now slapping Jean-Luc on the back as if they were old friends.

Too bad I had no idea what they were saying to each other, so I just took everything in as Jean-Luc booked our room.

French antiquities were displayed about everywhere, in every cranny, every room, and every nook—plates, textiles, porcelain roosters, and glass figurines. The atmosphere had an old-world elegance about it, as only the French could pull off. Jean-Luc still chatted with the owner, and I knew I had more than a few minutes to explore the grounds. I wanted to absorb the atmosphere, breathe it all in. I stepped outside, into a beautiful French garden with manicured bushes, roses, and a small gazebo tucked in the back. The exterior of the château was in a state of decay—the sandy limestone a bit cracked, the white shutters peeling—but that only enhanced its charm.

Jean-Luc had done it again; he'd found my idea of perfection.

A young couple rode up the gravel driveway on a motorcycle, the engine coming to an abrupt halt. Curious, I watched them take off their helmets. The guy was good-looking enough, in a broody sort of way, and the girl was quintessentially French, a permanent pout on her lips and gorgeous even though her long brown hair was a windswept mess. They walked by me, leaving the front door open, and headed up the stairs, each step echoing loudly.

Jean-Luc waved me back inside, and we were shown up the stairs and into our room.

Sage green brocade fabric decorated the walls. There was a beautiful mahogany writing desk in the corner and a round table with two chairs before the window, a place to take our breakfast in the morning. It was lovely—a strange, eclectic kind of lovely. We sprawled out on the canopied bed and the distinct sounds of a couple making love—a bed squeaking, a girl moaning—came from the room above us. Lights rattled. I was fairly certain I knew who was experiencing the passionate exchange, yet it was over just as soon it began. A door slammed. Footsteps clomped down the stairs.

“I think we have some competition,” said Jean-Luc with a sexy wink.

“Competition? I feel sorry for the girl. It only lasted two minutes.”

“Nothing wrong with a quick shot.”

But there was. Time had passed by too quickly. We only had two days left. Two days left to tease one another. Two days left to make love.

• • •

In the morning, we drove three hours to the quaint seaside village of Étretat, a commune in the Haute-Normandie region, making it just in time for lunch. We'd sat outside in a tented restaurant, enjoying the sea-scented air and listening to the cries of seagulls, where Jean-Luc introduced me to a new treat called
bulots
—which were little sea snails served with an aioli sauce flavored with lemon zest. No stranger to more typical dishes like
escargot
, I'd trusted Jean-Luc to order and heartily dug the delicacies out of their mottled brown shells, eating one right after the other.

“Where are we off to next?” I asked.

“It's a surprise,” said Jean-Luc. He peered at me over his Ray-Ban sunglasses. “It's my hope you'll love it.”

Jean-Luc paid for our lunch and led me by the hand. We walked through town then across a grassy knoll. With each step we took, the view became increasingly breathtaking. I soon found myself overlooking chalky white cliffs and the dark blue waters of La Manche, which separated France from its neighbor Great Britain.

“I've never visited here, but I remembered you loved art, and mostly the French impressionists,” said Jean-Luc, pointing to a stunning archway in one of the rock formations. “These are the cliffs Monet loved to paint. Do you remember seeing his painting at the Musée d'Orsay on your first trip to Paris?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice catching in the back of my throat. Just like twenty years earlier, way back in 1989, when Jean-Luc had taken me to Sacré-Coeur to point out where my favorite artists had painted because he'd remembered our conversation from the evening before, he'd remembered my love for French artists, namely the impressionists. Jean-Luc pulled me in for a kiss, the breeze blowing through our hair.

“Come,” he said, pulling away from the embrace. “Let's explore.”

We stood at the edge of the cliff, but I wasn't scared. I'd placed all of my trust into Jean-Luc's hands. Fear of love and being loved was really becoming a distant nightmare of my past. I wanted to take the leap.

• • •

Our last two nights were spent in Saint-Valéry-en-Caux, a short one-hour drive from Étretat. The fatigue from nonstop exploration had finally set in. One short walk later, we'd decided to take our dinner at the hotel, which was lovely and overlooked the rocky beach.

Again, I placed my faith in Jean-Luc. He hadn't done me wrong just yet. In fact, he'd done everything right. So I agreed when he suggested I try the
pot-au-feu de la mer
. The waiter placed the meal on my place mat. I'd expected mussels, shrimp, and maybe some calamari, not a bunch of fish—heads, eyeballs, and skin included—in a steaming bowl of cabbage soup. The explosion of various colors, combined with the pungent smell, brought an open-air fish market on a hot day to mind. Still, I couldn't offend Jean-Luc by sending it back, so I swallowed a bite of the unidentifiable fish back with a sip of wine, the only way to wash the mouthful of torturous tastes down.

“How's your dish?” asked Jean-Luc.

I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth and tried to keep from grimacing. “The, the, the shrimp are really good.” They were too salty and difficult to manage with their shells on.

“And the other fish? They have a nice taste?”

“Mmmm-hmm. Delicious. Want some?” Like the one staring at me? He took a bite from my bowl, leaving a silvery skin behind. He motioned for me to continue eating with his fork. But I couldn't. Not without a chaser. There was just one problem. Only one set of glasses sat on the table and they were filled to the top with the house rosé. He'd think I was an alcoholic if I started chugging wine. I picked up the carafe of water. “Honey, can you ask the waitress for two water glasses?
Ou, j'ai besoin d'une pipe
.”

The couple seated at the next table over snorted into their napkins. Jean-Luc broke out into a wide, sexy grin. “You just said you needed a blow job.”

“No, I didn't. I said I needed a straw.” I sunk into my chair, mumbling as I corrected myself. Damn that dirty French site. “Which would have been
une
paille
, not
une
pipe
.”

Jean-Luc leaned forward, stealing a bite of something pink and slippery from my bowl. My lips twitched involuntarily. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “And you lied to me. You promised you would never lie to me.”

“I didn't lie.”

“Yes, yes, you did.” He laughed. “You don't like your dinner. You hate it. It's like watching a small child squirm.”

“So you knew this whole time? And you didn't say anything?”

“It's been very entertaining watching you eat. You make some very funny faces, Sam. Very funny.”

“I didn't want to disappoint you,” I said.

“You could never disappoint me, Sam. You are a treasure, one I intend to keep.”

• • •

The days and nights blurred together into one. On the rocky beach of Saint-Valéry-en-Caux, we spread out a beach towel and tried to enjoy our last moments together with a bottle of wine, a slab of green pepper pâté, and a loaf of freshly baked bread. In the distance, a family paddled bright orange kayaks, circumnavigating a couple of fishermen casting their nets. The water was calm, smooth as glass. In contrast, my emotions rocked. A pit of dread replaced the butterflies of happiness fluttering around in my stomach. The following morning, Jean-Luc would be dropping me off at Charles de Gaulle. And I wasn't ready to leave.

“We've got some rough times ahead of us, and we need to be patient,” said Jean-Luc, “but we can do this. We're laying the foundation for the rest of our lives. Now, all we have to do is build.”

Besides my love and maybe some pretty words, I wasn't able to offer Jean-Luc much of anything. “What can I build on? I don't have a job. No money. All I have are the clothes on my back.”

Jean-Luc laughed. It started off soft and got louder. I furrowed my brows. “What's so funny?”

He poked me in the ribs. “That's the saddest story I've ever heard.”

“I'm being serious.”

“So am I.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, Sam. I've said this to you before, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me. I want to share everything with you. Although everything I have isn't much. I'm a very simple man, living a very simple life.”

A life less complicated sounded good to me. I was tired of running, tired of trying to keep up with the Joneses. I didn't need a fancy car or a huge house or designer clothes. When it all came down to it, nothing like that mattered at all, and it never had. All I needed was a life rich with love. And passion.

Oh yes, I needed passion.

In silence, we watched the sunset cast a yellow and orange hue on the white cliffs towering above us. A warm summer breeze brushed through my hair. Jean-Luc wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight as if I could blow away. The air smelled fresh and salty, clean, a promise of new beginnings.

Shifting my weight slightly, I turned my head so I could see Jean-Luc's face. His eyes reflected the color of the sky, so peaceful, so serene. I watched the seagulls swoop in the air and the waves crash onto the rocky shore, feeling as if I was in a perfect dream and I didn't want to wake up. In that perfect moment, I found the quietness and the peace I'd been searching for my entire life. Jean-Luc's heart beat against my back.

He got me, accepted me with all my faults.

I got him.

I settled into his arms, leaning my back against his chest. A single, silent tear rolled down my cheek. The following morning I would be on a plane. I didn't want to say good-bye. But of course, I had to.

• • •

From: Jean-Luc

To: Samantha

Subject: Mon Amour

I've just arrived home after seven hours of driving without my wonderful passenger. I often looked at the empty seat next to me, hoping to find you there. You cannot imagine how much I miss you, all of you—your body, your skin, your eyes, your mouth, your laughter, your humor. You're a wonderful woman, so tender and so nice, full of surprises. I never thought I'd find a woman like you. Never in my dreams. And yet you exist! The reality of you is beyond words. These ten days with you were fantastic, but a life with you, it has no qualifier; it's just the door of paradise. Yes, everything is beautiful.

Yours,

Jean-Luc