Seven Letters from Paris (16 page)

My heart did a flip-flop.

His trepidation was palpable. He waved his hand in front of the door. “I'm a bit intimidated by all this. My house is much smaller than this. Much smaller. I can't offer you luxury or a pool or a boat. I can only—”

I kissed him lightly on the lips. “Jean-Luc, material things don't matter to me. All that matters is you. And I've told my parents everything. They understand. They do. I have a feeling you and my dad are really going to hit it off.”

At least that was my greatest hope.

Unlike Jean-Luc and my mother, my adopted dad was raised in a life of privilege outside of New York City in a town called Rye. His family came from a line of bankers and lawyers whose history can be traced back to the
Mayflower
. In fact, two of his ancestors were original signers of the Declaration of Independence. His parents, whom I called Gram and Cracker, were quintessential WASPs. They shipped my dad off to an all boys' boarding school, Choate, at the age of eleven, where my father excelled in his studies and also learned to rebel. When it came time to choose a college, instead of opting for Yale and joining the Skull and Bones, like the two generations of men before him, he enrolled at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. Unlike Yale, it was co-ed. It was also, gasp, a family scandal.

But just like Jean-Luc, my dad worked for everything he'd achieved; nothing was given to him. The start of his career was modest. He was living in a small rental apartment when he met my mom and drove an old red Jeep with a hard white top. But he was smart and made all the right moves, and it was no surprise his career in advertising took off the way it did. After all the traveling for his job, my mom refused to move anymore, and they'd settled into this California dreamin' life.

I moved to open the wooden Spanish doors with their iron fittings. Jean-Luc grabbed my arm and whispered, “What do I call your dad? His name is Livingston, right?”

I choked back a laugh. “Nobody has ever called him that. Just call him Tony.”

“Tony?”

“I don't get it either. His dad, Livingston the second,” I said with an over-the-top fake English accent, “was called Peter.”

“I don't know, Sam,” said Jean-Luc.

“Don't worry, you'll be fine. They're going to love you as much as I do.”

And they did.

Jean-Luc and my parents connected instantly, helped by the housewarming gifts he'd brought from France—lavender products and candies and wine. In fact, I'd never seen my dad relate to somebody so well. I watched them talking together for what seemed to be hours, stunned, while my mother buzzed around Jean-Luc like a bee, laughing and smiling and joking.

With Jean-Luc out of earshot, my dad pulled me to the side. “Sam, you're really lucky. You must have a guardian angel looking out after you.”

“I still feel like I'm reeling backward from one knockout punch, but I know what you mean. Along with all the bad came a world of good.”

“Honey, everything will be fine. Bruises heal.”

“So…what do you think about Jean-Luc?”

“It's nice having somebody I can talk to.” He smiled. “I always thought you'd end up with somebody who had the soul of a poet. He's a great guy. And he's really smart. I didn't know he led a team of twenty-four scientists. It's very impressive.”

“Yep, like you, he had to work really hard to get where he is today.”

My dad and Jean-Luc may have come from different backgrounds, but they had a world in common. It wasn't like I expected them to be best friends or that I needed my parents' approval, but it sure was nice to have. Now I just had to have them compete in Trivial Pursuit or Scrabble, games my dad always won—a battle of wits, the American versus the French!

“If I haven't told you lately, I think you're great too,” said my dad. “Whatever it is you want to do, your mother and I will support your decision, no matter what.”

Should I drop the bomb then? Tell them I was probably marrying Jean-Luc and moving to France?

“I'm meeting his family over Christmas, Dad. He's going to book my ticket while he's here.”

“He told me.” My dad's eyes lit up. “The test month.”

We all knew it was more than that.

I cringed. “It was Tracey's idea.”

As I prepared dinner, a simple barbecue consisting of New York strip steaks and a big salad, my mom snuck up behind me and whispered, “He's so sweet. Now I know why you fell in love with him.”

“He's so good to me.”

“He's good
for
you. Dad likes him too. And don't forget the dogs! Even Jack likes him. And Jack doesn't like anybody. Everybody in Malibu wants to meet Jean-Luc.”

“He's not a sideshow attraction.”

“Come on! It'll be fun. Bring him to the Wine Barrel.”

Singing karaoke at the Wine Barrel was not an option. I wanted Jean-Luc to see more of California while he had the chance. He had shown me practically all of France, and now it was my turn to play tour guide. The following day, Jean-Luc and I left for Palm Desert to stay with one of my oldest friends, Debra, for one night. After a two-hour drive, we pulled up to her house around noon, a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand.

“Is this a hotel?” asked Jean-Luc.

I glanced at the beautiful Moroccan-inspired home. At over seventeen thousand square feet, it was enormous, the landscaping sheer perfection. “Nope,” I said. “And if you think the outside is impressive, wait until you see the inside.”

Ten-foot-tall carved wooden doors inlaid with brass opened at the press of a button. Debra greeted us. She was blond, beautiful, and with her impeccable taste, she even looked stylish in her beach cover-up. She kissed Jean-Luc on both cheeks. “It's so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said. “Thank you very much for hosting us.”

“Come in, come in! I'll give you a quick tour and then we'll go have lunch at the club.”

Behind his back, Debra gave me the thumbs-up, her mouth open, her head nodding in approval. Jean-Luc's jaw also dropped as we walked into her house. We stood in an open atrium, palm trees reaching up toward the sky. What I didn't tell Jean-Luc was that Debra hired workers from Morocco to build this masterpiece, with all the materials coming from Morocco too. The floors were intricately tiled. The brass lights were all hand hammered. The moldings were finely detailed, white and perfect, like the prettiest of wedding cakes. Jean-Luc took a step forward to peer over the balcony, where, downstairs, a full hammam spa awaited. Toward the back of the home, right off the gourmet kitchen, there was a hookah room, where at the press of a button, a twenty-foot-wide movie screen would rise in front of its stunned audience. Outside, there were two pools—one an infinity-edged lap pool, the other circular with built-in sun beds. It was paradise, a desert oasis of luxurious dreams.

At lunch, I watched Jean-Luc work his magic, marveling at his social grace. He didn't have to try to impress; being personable came naturally to him. When the check arrived, he reached for it. Debra stopped him. “It's a club. Only I can sign,” she said. “Your money is no good here.”

Jean-Luc glared at me. Debra laughed.

We spent the afternoon taking in the desert sun, listening to music, swimming in the pool, and drinking champagne. Debra and I sat on the outdoor couch, glasses in hand.

“Oh my god,” she said. “We need to have him cloned. Stat.”

“So you like him?”

“Like him? I LOVE him. He's adorable, smart, sexy…” She grabbed my knee. “Sam, I've never seen you so happy. You've really hit the jackpot with this one. He's really a great guy.”

Jean-Luc waved to us from the pool.

“I agree,” I said. “I agree.”

Debra and I clinked glasses.

In the evening, we ate at the local sushi restaurant. Jean-Luc, as usual, was dapper in a smart black linen shirt, a black belt, and jeans. Again, I played observer, just listening in as he and Debra talked and laughed. At the end of the meal, Debra excused herself for the ladies' room.

“I want to pay for dinner,” said Jean-Luc. “I didn't like not being able to pay at lunch.”

“Then you better call the waiter over now,” I said, and Jean-Luc did.

His face turned crimson when he found out Debra had already taken care of the bill.

“We'll just have to sneak out of the house in the morning and buy breakfast and lunch before she can catch us.”

His mouth twitched.

Six days flew by too quickly. I knew that Jean-Luc would return to France and I'd find myself alone again. But rather than feeling empty, I was in high spirits. Soon I would spend one month with Jean-Luc in France—the test period. Who would be testing whom? We didn't know, although he had said that his kids could be a handful sometimes. That night, we sat on my bed with my laptop. Instead of booking my flight with his frequent-flyer miles, like I thought he was doing, he pulled up a site to Mauboussin, a French jeweler. He turned the screen toward me.

“When the time comes, I can't afford to buy you a big diamond. But diamonds are a dime a dozen. I'd like for you to have something different. Is there anything here you like?”

Wow. He'd really been thinking about rings. I shot Jean-Luc a sly smile and clicked through some designs. One design popped off the page: the
Fou
de
Toi
. It was a six-carat pale pink amethyst—a rose de France—set onto a delicate white gold band, offset by tiny pavé diamonds—a bonbon for any women's finger, total eye candy. I had no idea what Jean-Luc's budget was. The cost of this ring was two thousand euro.

“You like that one?” said Jean-Luc.

“I like the name. Crazy for you. Because I
am
crazy for you.”

Jean-Luc clicked through the designs to another ring. It was white gold with a small diamond set into what looked like tiny butterfly wings, the band also inlaid with pavé diamonds. It was simple and elegant, charming. It also cost three hundred euro less. “What about this one?”

“It's pretty too.” I read the name of the ring out loud. “
Moi
aimer
toi
.”

“You speak French like a cavewoman.” He shoved the computer to the side and pushed me onto my back. “Me love you too.”

• • •

My heart had gone from zero to ninety and all I wanted was to get a move on with my life, with Jean-Luc in it. And now he was gone. We spoke to each other every day, professed our undying love, and tried to support each other as best we could with oceans separating us. Of course, we also talked about marriage, but there were still so many unknowns. Like when would his divorce go through? And would his children like me? It was my greatest hope that they would come to accept me, but after what they'd been through with their first stepmother, they weren't exactly going to be running into my arms.

I'd thought about this a lot.

One thing I would never attempt to do was discipline Jean-Luc's children. This did not mean if they did something I didn't like, I'd let them walk over me. But I refused to play the role of the evil stepmonster, and hopefully they would come to view me as a friend, a person they could trust. I wanted to start working on gaining their confidence. I remembered the children were more brokenhearted over losing Natasha's cat when she left than they were over losing her. I needed to find a cat, a better cat, and stat. If anything, choosing a new pet together would help me connect with the kids.

A friend of mine had just posted a picture of her new Bengal kitten on Facebook, and the moment I saw him, I knew this was the breed I wanted to introduce the kids to. The search for a spotted, creamy and caramel-colored tiny panther began. After spending hours on Google, I found the name of a few breeders in my area only to learn that the kittens cost a minimum of twelve hundred dollars. Which wasn't going to happen. Upon further investigation, I discovered the mothers, or breeding cats, were usually sold for two hundred dollars or less, a much more manageable number. I ran the idea by Jean-Luc, and he suggested I discuss my idea with Elvire. After all, it would give us something to talk about woman-to-woman and a way for us to get to know one another.

So I emailed her.

Elvire, a cat lover, knew of the breed. Together, in French, we exchanged excited emails about how getting one for Christmas would be incredible, if Jean-Luc was agreeable. And so the research began. Elvire and I emailed back and forth, suggesting one breeder or the next. A few weeks later, after much digging, I was able to uncover
une
éleveur
in the Bordeaux area—only two hours away from Jean-Luc's home. There were four kittens left to choose from—two boys and two girls. I asked Elvire to have Jean-Luc call the breeder for more information and then to have her papa call me. The phone rang a few minutes later.

“How much are they?” I asked, worried.

“Nine hundred euro.”

Leave it to me to find one of the world's most expensive cats. “Honey, I told you. I could buy an older cat here,” I said. “Two hundred dollars.”

“They want a kitten.”

“At a year old, they're kind of like kittens…”

“Elvire wants to pick the cat out, a female, and thanks to you, she now wants this breed. Maxence too.”

Of course they did. The Bengal was like the rock star of cats. “I'm sorry.”