Seven Letters from Paris (17 page)

“Honey, never apologize. Don't worry. I have an idea and the children have already agreed to it.”

I listened to his solution, biting my nails. The kids, Jean-Luc, and I were going to split the cost of the cat. The children had some savings and they would pitch in one hundred and fifty euro each. Jean-Luc would pay for half. And I would be responsible for the remaining one-fifty.

“Uh, okay,” I said.

“I always thought cats were free. You can find them anywhere on the street.” Jean-Luc's laughter was met by my silence. His tone turned serious. “Honey, if you can't afford it, I can pay your portion, but I thought you'd want to be involved.”

“No, no, no. This cat was my idea. I'll figure something out.” Stupid cat. Me and my big fat mouth. “So what part will I own? The ass?”

A few days later, Elvire emailed me to ask if I had any ideas for names. Thinking of her recent obsession with Stephenie Meyer's
Twilight
saga, I suggested Bella. And so we agreed. Bella the Bengal cat it was. Expense aside, I was probably as excited for the cat as both the children were. Plus, it was a great way for me to break down some barriers with Elvire, whose raging hormones were about to kick in. Yes, with two tween-aged kids, I was about to dive into the fire headfirst.

The following morning, Jean-Luc called with incredible news. It wasn't about the cat; his divorce to Natasha had finally gone through. The drama was over and we could start planning our future—one big happy Franco-American family with a ridiculously expensive cat.

With the finalization of Jean-Luc's divorce, the inspiration to straighten out the rest of my life kicked me into motion. It was time to dig in, get rid of all the problems I'd been avoiding, tackling them head on like a linebacker, crushing the big ones first. One: I needed to meet with a bankruptcy attorney to figure out if chapter 7 was a viable option for me. I wasn't going to burden anyone with my debt—not Jean-Luc, not my parents, not anybody. Two: I needed to sell whatever I could. There was a jeweler in Santa Monica on Montana Street with a sign stating, “I buy gold,” so I raced there.

The shop was nice, filled with beautiful pieces, all glittery with diamonds galore. A few eternity bands in a black display case caught my eye. But no, I wasn't there to pick something new out; I was there to sell. The owner of the shop held up a loop and inspected my wedding rings. He was young, around thirty-five, fairly good-looking with long brown hair that came down to his shoulders. He, like most men in LA, wore a funky outfit—two-hundred-dollar “cool kid jeans” and a button-down oxford with an embroidered dragon on the back. He placed the rings on a scale.

“I'll give you fifteen hundred for both.”

I wasn't sure if I had heard him correctly. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Some linebacker. I wanted to sink to my knees and vomit and then cry like a baby. “What?”

“First of all, the diamond is pear-shaped. Nobody buys pear-shaped rings anymore. It's pretty much useless unless I turn it into a necklace. Second, there's a chip in it.” He pointed to the top of the diamond. “It needs to be sanded down, which will cost me a couple hundred and diminish its size. The platinum setting is only worth its weight. You have thin fingers so—” He cut himself off, probably noticing the tears welling up in my eyes. “How much did you think you could get for them, anyway?”

The words gurgled out of my mouth. “My ex told me the diamond was worth eighteen thousand.”

“Not on this planet.” The jeweler laughed. “While the quality is decent, it's not that good. Retail? You'd be lucky to get three or four for it.”

“Four is good,” I said. “I'll take four. Plus the value of the platinum.”

“Honey, I don't buy retail, I buy wholesale. And as I told you, nobody is buying pear-shaped.” My knees felt like they were about to give out from under me. The jeweler's half smile was filled with pity. “Look, I saw you drooling over the case. If you want to do a trade-in, I'll give you a better deal.”

I shook my head numbly. I couldn't sell my old wedding rings to buy new ones. And although we'd discussed marriage and things seemed to be headed in that direction, Jean-Luc hadn't technically asked me yet. “No, that would be bad karma.”

“It's just money,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, I'll buy the rings from you, hand you the cash, and then you give me the cash back and choose something else.”

Was he kidding? Insane? I glared at him. “That doesn't make a difference.”

“Up to you.” He handed the rings back to me. “Really, I'm not giving you a lowball offer. It's fair. Think about it.”

I mumbled, “I will,” and headed for the door. My hands shook as I put the keys into the ignition. I visited three more jewelry stores who all told me more or less the same thing. Panic set in. I'd joked about it before, but it finally hit me that I really had nothing but the clothes on my back.

At home, my mother suggested I contact an estate sale agent she worked with a few years back, so I called and set up a meeting. In addition to the rings, she said they also could help me sell a silver-plated tea set I'd been trying to unload for years. Even in France, I couldn't see myself throwing a formal tea party. I'd have to be patient, the estate agent explained, but she thought she'd be able to sell everything for around five thousand dollars, less 35 percent. With no other options, I agreed.

As for bankruptcy, since I didn't know anybody who had gone through the process, I pored through websites looking for an attorney who (a) didn't look like Slick Willy the used car salesman, (b) didn't advertise a chapter 7 special for $795/all the litigation you need, and (c) wasn't an ambulance chaser. This took some time. Finally, after much research, I settled on a woman named Shannon Sugar who also practiced family law. After I filled her in on my situation and went over the disastrous state of my finances, I asked if she foresaw any problems.

“Well,” said Shannon, “your finances are close to poverty level. You're definitely under the means. But there are no guarantees.”

“Great,” I said. I was a pauper. Just great.

“So I've told you about all the risks and you understand them.”

Yes, I knew I'd ruin my near-perfect credit score, something I was bizarrely proud of. Yes, I knew there was a chance I wouldn't be discharged from my debt. Yes, I knew my finances were a brand-new shade of pathetic. Yes, I knew it would take about three months from start to finish. And yes, I knew, if I was lucky enough to sell my rings, the funds I'd make would cover the attorney's services, leaving me with little extra. Yes, I understood the risks.

“When did you want to file?” asked Shannon.

Want
wasn't the exact word I'd have chosen. I didn't
want
to do this. Nobody in his or her right mind
wanted
to do this. I sucked in my sarcastic response. “I'd like to see how things go over the next few months. If my situation doesn't change, I'll need to start the process right after the New Year.”

“Until then, don't use your credit cards. And don't pay any of your bills.”

I was treading in an ocean of debt. I could do that.

Letter Five

Paris, August 13, 1989

For months, I did whatever I could to find a job. I scoured Monster.com and Craigslist postings, sending off résumés to here and to there, to basically everywhere. I stalked my recruiter. She brushed me off. There were no freelance opportunities. There were no jobs. There was nothing but my career as a dog walker with occasional overnights.

While taking care of two dogs, one horse, and a Shetland pony and sleeping in a guest room that had a collection of old dolls missing eyes and limbs staring me down from a shelf above the bed, I tossed and turned (flanked by the two dogs), and I reminded myself: at least the job would collect enough money to pay for my portion of the cat. But moving to France wasn't set in stone. Anything could happen. Jean-Luc's marriage with Natasha had gone sour because of her relationship—or lack thereof—with the kids. What if they didn't like me?

I'd find out soon enough.

December 19 arrived and I found myself back in France. I exited customs, about to meet my biggest critics. Jean-Luc ran toward me and gave me the biggest of bear hugs and an even bigger kiss. Maxence and Elvire peeked over his shoulder, staring at me—the oddity, the strange woman from America. Elvire was a delicate flower, thin with an ivory complexion and giant cat-shaped blue eyes, her auburn hair providing a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. Maxence was her opposite. Small in stature, sure, but sturdy and tough, the ten-year-old's complexion was more olive toned, his eyes a blue green, and his hair a sandy brown. Both children had their father's perfect lips.

Before Natasha left, she told Jean-Luc he wouldn't find anybody to love his two horrible monsters. It may have been because it was Christmastime, but to me, they looked like little angels—nothing terrible about them at all.

“
Tu
es
plus
jolie
en
personne
,” I said to Elvire, which immediately brought a big smile to her face. We kissed each other on the cheeks, and for good measure, I gave her a big hug. This process was also repeated with Maxence, but instead of telling him he was pretty, I told him he was
très beau
. Elvire's and Maxence's eyes darted from one to another and then to me. I could almost see their thoughts churning, wondering if I was as “nice as their father told them.”

Jean-Luc took my bag and we walked to the car. “Ready to go home?”

Home. I was looking forward to seeing it.

“It's not much,” said Jean-Luc. “But I do what I can. I had to buy it very quickly.” He glanced at the kids. “Right after their mother died.”

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“There's a lot of work to be done.”

“I'll help you.” A do-it-yourself man, Jean-Luc had already prepared me for a few “issues,” like the raw walls in the foyer that needed to be painted and the hole in the shower from one of his plumbing debacles.

“Sam, it's not at all like your parents' place.”

“I know. I've already seen it.” His eyes widened in horror. “Google Earth,” I said by means of an explanation. “It's a cream-colored town house with a small front yard—two stories high with a green fence.”

“When—”

“After you sent me the phone, I had your address on the package.”

Jean-Luc was well aware of my curious nature. He called it snooping; I called it research. At least I'd been honest about my Mata Hari–like activities. “Ahh, my little spy. You have been a busy girl.” He nudged my shoulder. “There's a box you might be interested in at home. I'll show you where it is.”

We pulled up onto his street, which I immediately recognized from my Google investigations. A woman walking a rambunctious Pomeranian stared at our car. I lifted my hand in a friendly gesture. She glared at me and picked up her pace, practically dragging her dog down the street. Jean-Luc laughed. “People aren't as friendly here as they are in the States. They're, how do I put it, a bit more reserved.”

He pulled into a parking spot. The kids jumped out of the car and headed for the white town house with the green iron gate. The small front yard was a bit overgrown with weeds, but I didn't say anything.

“I need your artistic sense to make the house a home,” said Jean-Luc, fumbling with the keys.

“Didn't Natasha do anything?”

“No. I did everything—I worked on the house. I did the cooking and the cleaning, the grocery shopping, the decorating. Everything.”

“But didn't she work?”

“For a while she did. Then her contract ran out and she collected unemployment. I have no idea what she did with her money. She never offered to pitch in for anything. When I'd ask her, she'd scream and cry.”

“Has she called?”

“No, we haven't spoken since our divorce was finalized two weeks ago. We've only communicated by email.”

“Has she reached out to the kids?”

“Not a word.”

I huffed out my disapproval.

Jean-Luc opened the door. I was expecting “man taste”—a black leather couch with a big-screen TV, maybe a wagon wheel coffee table. But he'd been exaggerating about how much help he needed. Sure, the rooms could use a woman's touch, but he'd done a fine job decorating. The living room had natural-colored grass cloth wallpaper covering one wall, and the bare wall was painted a light beige. The dining room table, a solid, dark wood piece with four chairs, was of Asian influence, as was the sideboard on which the TV sat. The couch was chocolate brown, from IKEA, with just enough space for four. The room was narrow but comfortable and would benefit from some splashes of color—a rug, some art, throw pillows, candles, things of that nature. In the corner stood a Charlie Brown Christmas tree—a pathetic twig with four colored lights and a few pieces of multicolored garland thrown on it. It was clear that he was trying.

“When I bought this place, it had been abandoned. You should have seen it, Sam. It was horrible. Rushed to find something, I only had two weeks to make it habitable before the kids came to live with me. Thankfully, my brother helped.”

I peered into the small kitchen with pine cabinets and a black-and-white checkered tile floor. Everything was spotless. Jean-Luc opened the door leading to the garage where I found a little alcove with a small laundry room. He pointed to the dryer. “I just bought that. For you. Merry Christmas, to my American girl.”

“You're such a romantic,” I said.

His beautiful lips pinched together in a smirk. “I am, Sam. Be patient. You'll see.”

As he ushered me upstairs, I wondered what he was up to.

Jean-Luc had covered the entryway and the stairwell leading up to the second floor with brick-like tiles, but the work stopped midway at the landing, and the walls above the brick work were untreated drywall. He motioned to the bare walls and shrugged. “I know it needs to be painted. I just haven't had time to do anything yet. And I'd like for you to pick out the color.”

I nodded, looking forward to lending a hand. “You've done a really nice job with the place. You should be proud.”

“You're too kind. It's not perfect, but it will get there one day.”

Elvire's room was wallpapered a pale sunflower yellow and decorated with
Twilight
posters. In addition to her bed, there was a bookcase, a dresser, and a glass desk. It was total teenage chaos—an explosion of candy wrappers, papers, and clothes on the floor. Jean-Luc shook his head. “I told her to clean up, but she just doesn't listen.” He yelled, “
Elvire, viens ici et range ta chambre!
”

“
Deux
secondes
,” came her reply.

Two seconds. I snorted, remembering what I was like at her age. Kids, whether in France or the United States or Zimbabwe, were all the same.

I picked up a photo of a much younger Elvire smiling with a woman with short dark hair. The woman had blue cat-shaped eyes, just like Elvire. Pink and blue confetti covered their bodies.

“Natasha asked Elvire to keep the pictures hidden away. Do they bother you?”

It wasn't as if they bothered me, per se. I felt like I was staring into the face of a ghost, a difficult feeling to describe—not quite jealousy, but an awareness. A little pit formed in my stomach. “Did Natasha want to compete with the memory of a dead mother?”

“No,” said Jean-Luc. “She competed with Elvire for my attention.”

“I'm more than happy to share you.” Remembering the story he'd told me about his one ménage à trois, I kissed him and corrected myself. “With the kids, that is.”

Jean-Luc ushered me into Max's room, which was wallpapered in cornflower blue. Unlike Elvire's, his room was neat and organized. Collectible trading cards were stacked in perfect little piles on his desk. His clothes had been put away. His toys were arranged. I smiled when I saw the blue robot my parents had given him for his birthday, which Jean-Luc had brought back for Max after visiting me in the States. A gray elephant trunk stuck out from under the navy blue duvet.

“That's Doudou. Max has had him since he was a baby.”

“Oh,” I said. Another remnant from the past. It was then that I told myself to leave snooping to the side. I knew everything about Jean-Luc and the kids that I needed to know.

“I have something else to show you,” said Jean-Luc, guiding me to the balcony, which had been closed in with a big window. He smiled proudly. “I thought you'd need your own closet. I put the floors in myself, put up the walls. All you have to do is pick out the fixtures.”

My heart beat wildly, happily.

Our next stop was the sparsely furnished master bedroom—only a bed and a dresser. “You look a little tired.” He kissed me on the nose. “Take a rest while I prepare dinner.”

I dreamt sweet dreams and didn't wake up until the next day. We made love in the morning, me trying to keep quiet with Max sleeping soundly right next door. For a while, we just lay there, wrapped up in each other's arms, legs intertwined.

“Do you think you'll be able to live here?” whispered Jean-Luc.

I rubbed my hand over his muscular chest. “It already feels like home.”

• • •

Right after breakfast, Jean-Luc, the kids, and I were to head to the Christmas market in Toulouse. Nicknamed
La
Ville
Rose
, because of all its brick buildings, the “rose city” was the center for France's aerospace industry—and the reason Jean-Luc lived in the area. I was excited to see the rose city covered in a blanket of white, which, according to Jean-Luc, was very rare.

Dressed up in our winter gear—boots and jackets and hats and scarves—we drove twenty minutes to
Le
Capitole
, the center of Toulouse, passing by snow-covered parks where parents pulled their children on plastic sleds and the Canal-du-Midi, which was now covered in a thin sheet of ice. We traversed up and down narrow streets flanked by beautiful buildings with iron balconies and carved wooden doors, finally arriving at our destination—a large square filled with little log cabins selling everything from clothes and shoes to spices to seafood and sausages. The stalls faced an enormous brick and limestone neoclassical building adorned with impressive sculptures. A bevy of cafés, complete with patrons sitting outside, surrounded the market.

“Once the market is finished, the square is empty. Sometimes performances or other events take place here. That's the city hall,” said Jean-Luc, nodding to the
Capitolium
. “On its far right though, there is a theater. Do you like opera?”

The kids groaned. I laughed and said, “I do.”

“And your favorite?”

“
Madame
Butterfly
.”

“One day, maybe we can see it together.”

“I'd like that.”

The kids ran ahead of us. Jean-Luc put his arm around me and we followed, giving them their space to explore but keeping an eye on them all the same.

Among the old and the young, we sauntered through the market window-shopping, just simply enjoying all the sights, smells, and sounds. There was a slight breeze, not enough to bring on chills, just enough to ensure the tip of my nose was cold. Max and Elvire ran up to a bonbon vendor, practically drooling over the sweets. Jean-Luc handed them each a couple of euro. Would they buy the sparkling, sugar-encrusted fruits—peaches, apples, and strawberries? Or chocolate?

“Honey, do you want a wine with spices? It's a specialty here.” Jean-Luc tipped his head toward a stall a few feet away. I nodded an eager yes. He walked away, his strut confident. Again, I watched him yuck it up with the vendor. Jean-Luc was so easygoing; he made everybody smile.

Our eyes locked as he handed over a paper cup of
vin
chaud
, and the scents of Christmas permeated my nostrils. I took a sip, the liquid warming my throat. Delicious. The kids soon rejoined us, crystallized sugar sparkling on their lips, and we walked on.