A Wedding in Provence (22 page)

“Too fast,” Paolo said. “I don’t understand.”

“Help me,” Carly said so quietly that Paolo leaned toward her.

“I help you,” he said, smiling.

She stepped to the sink and washed her hands, then dried them on a kitchen towel and stood at the opposite end of the center island. Paolo walked around and stood beside her. He reached for a copper bowl and placed it in front of her. It was filled with egg whites. He handed her the whisk and showed her how to move it through the liquid.

She took the whisk from him and tried to flick her wrist the way he had done. The movement was sloppy and awkward. She felt tears fill her eyes. I can’t do this. I can’t even beat a goddamn egg.

But then Paolo placed his hand on hers. He guided her hand gently, so that together they were whisking the eggs. She felt the heat of his palm, his breath so close to her face, his hip bone pressed against her side. She smelled vanilla. Was that him or the eggs? Her wrist found a rhythm that was fluid and easy.

He didn’t step away. His hand stayed glued to hers, his body close beside her, and together they whipped until the liquid transformed into a landscape of foam, lifting into soft peaks.

Hold on, she thought. Don’t let go.

“I
’m going to our room,” Olivia said. “You have to go get dressed somewhere else.”

She leaned over and kissed the top of Brody’s wet head. They had finished swimming laps in the rain; Brody sat in the shallow end of the pool while Olivia gathered her already wet towel from the lounge chair.

Sébastien walked out to the meadow, hauling a big sack over his shoulder. He wore a rain poncho that made him look like a walking garbage bag.

“Why are you swimming in the storm?” he called.

“My bride had too much energy,” Brody said.

“Are you complaining?” Olivia asked.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Brody said. “Why do I have to get dressed somewhere else?”

“It’s our wedding day. You’re not supposed to see me in my dress until the wedding.”

“We’re not kids,” Brody said. “This is an old people wedding.”

“I don’t know any old people getting married,” Olivia said. “And my daughters want me in hiding.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I put your suit in Jake’s room,” Olivia said.

“I’m not changing in Jake’s room,” Brody said sharply.

“Why not? You’re modest all of a sudden?”

“They were fighting,” Sébastien said. He made his way around the perimeter of the pool, picking up debris from the storm and dropping it into his sack. “I heard the noise this morning.”

“Fighting?” Olivia said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“We weren’t fighting,” Brody said. “Thank you for that, Sébastien.”

“De rien,”
Sébastien said. “I had to get ice for Jake’s head.”

“Ice? You mean they were
physically
fighting?” Olivia asked.

“He slipped,” Brody said.

“Who slipped? What are you talking about?”

“Did you see the woman he brought home last night?” Sébastien asked.

“What woman?” Olivia said.

Brody stepped out of the pool. He walked toward Sébastien.

“Some black goddess,” Sébastien said. “No idea where he found her.”

“What did you say?” Brody asked.

“Saw her strutting out of here this morning.” Sébastien sashayed across the pool deck with an exaggerated wiggle of his hips.
“Comme ça.”

“A black woman,” Brody said.

“French,” Sébastien said. “Not from around here. She needed directions to get back to town. Left her car at the port and walked to the inn with him last night.”

“I’m an idiot,” Brody mumbled.

Olivia glanced at him. “What did you do?”

“I’ve got to find Jake,” Brody said, grabbing his towel and heading to the inn.

“See you at show time!” Olivia shouted.

Brody turned back and puckered his lips at her.

“No fighting!” she yelled.

She turned back to Sébastien, who wrapped up the sack and threw it over his shoulder.

“Were they really fighting?” she asked.

“I do not know a thing,” Sébastien said with a smile. “I am an innocent innkeeper.”

“That’s about the last thing you are,” Olivia muttered.

“Do not be angry with me, my friend.”

“How can I not be angry?”

“I made a very bad mistake,” Sébastien said. “I wish I could undo it. But I cannot.”

Olivia shook her head. “Make it right, Sébastien.”

“I will,” he said. “I promise you.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“And while you’re at it, can you stop this damn rain?” Olivia asked. The rain beat on her head, her shoulders, her
back. She had wrapped a towel around her bathing suit but the towel, too, was damp and heavy.

“Go inside,” Sébastien said. “Become a bride,
chérie
.”

“Carly’s better at makeup,” Nell said. “We’ll wait for her.”

“You’re sure she’s up?” Olivia asked. She looked at her watch. It was already twelve-thirty.

“She’s up. She was out in the hallway a while ago shouting something about sex.”

“What are you talking about?” Olivia asked.

“Never mind,” Nell said.

“Can you girls please try to get along today?” Olivia asked. “A little wedding gift to me?”

“We’ll be fine,” Nell said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Olivia stood in the doorway of her bathroom, watching Nell. She had given her the small toiletry bag in which she kept her makeup.

“This is all you have? You’re worse than I am,” Nell said, spreading the items on the counter.

Olivia sighed. “I’m not getting into costume to be someone else for my wedding. This is me. And I don’t wear a lot of makeup.”

“It’s going to be you but better,” Nell promised.

They heard a knock on the door.

“Carly,” Olivia breathed out.

She flew to the door and opened it.

Carly stood there, wearing an apron, her arms dusted with flour.

“Who are you?” Olivia asked, laughing.

Carly smiled. “I learned how to bake a cake.”

“I learned how to sew,” Nell said. “It’s like Home Ec 101 around here.”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said.

“And now we move on to the beauty portion of Emily’s Finishing School for Young Women,” Nell said, brandishing cosmetic brushes and pulling Olivia toward the bathroom. “Carly, you need to get your makeup kit. This is all Mom has. It’s pathetic. You can do Mom’s makeup, and I’ll try to do something with her hair. Do something with your own hair, too. You’re growing dust bunnies up there.”

“It’s flour,” Carly said, running a hand through her hair.

“Go get your hair dryer,” Nell said. “We need two in here. Suddenly I’m the only one who cares about looking good. What’s wrong with you guys?”

“That’s because all you have to do is mess up your hair and you look great,” Olivia said, tousling Nell’s hair.

“Go,” Nell said to Carly, who finally turned and walked from the room.

Olivia sat in the chair in front of the small vanity in the bedroom. Nell put her hands on her shoulders. Olivia looked at her daughter in the mirror.

“It’s your day, Mom,” Nell said. “Let’s make this a spectacular day.”

Olivia felt a rush of warmth spread through her body.

Nell plugged in the hair dryer and, for a moment, Olivia closed her eyes and focused on Nell’s fingers running through her hair, the heat of the dryer on her neck, the noise in her ear. Nell is taking care of me, she thought. And when she opened her eyes, she saw herself smiling in the mirror.

“How do you know how to do this?” she asked. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of the dryer.

“One of my roommates is a hairstylist,” Nell said. “I thought about doing that for a little while. She makes really good money. But I’d hate it. It’s a very gossipy world.”

“Are you thinking of giving up acting?”

Nell shook her head, then shrugged. She kept her eyes on her brush, on the lift of Olivia’s hair, on the dryer expertly held in her hand. “I want to support myself,” she said. “I think it’s time.”

“I don’t mind,” Olivia said. Though she did mind. It wasn’t easy to send her daughter five hundred dollars a month. But she so wanted her to have a chance to make it as an actress. And she knew how hard that might be. She herself gave up too early.

“Well, I’m giving myself another month,” Nell said. “Then I’m off your payroll.”

Olivia reached back and patted Nell’s leg. “Don’t give up acting,” she said. “You’re too good to give it up.”

“I’m not planning on giving up,” Nell said. “In fact, my plan is to try harder. I’ve been going at it in a half-assed way. Not enough auditions. Not enough pressure on my agent. I want to change all that.”

“Good for you,” Olivia said. Nell looked different—she was standing taller and there was something more determined in the set of her mouth. Her Nell.

“And I think that I can still do that and get some kind of part-time job that makes enough money so I can pay my own damn rent.”

Olivia watched Nell’s hands in the mirror—they moved
through her hair, lifting, drying, curling. Good, she thought. I won’t fight her on this one.

Olivia thought about her own decision to give up her acting career. Back in the early days she kept getting small roles in small plays—never anything that brought her real attention or satisfaction. Before her marriage to Mac she couldn’t support herself as an actress so she did voice-over work for a couple of San Francisco ad companies. It all felt insignificant—she had always had such big dreams for herself. So she quit one day, early on in her marriage, and got a job as the artistic director of a regional theater company. She was probably hired because of her husband’s money and connections—the nonprofit theater world wasn’t immune to that—and the feminist in her always felt a little embarrassed by it. But she did the very hard work of making that theater company grow until it had real status and presence in the Bay Area arts scene. Did she miss acting? Not for a second. She had a gift for planning dynamic seasons, she had formed an accomplished resident company, and she had already created a couple of hits that went on to Broadway.

“You could come audition for a play at my theater,” she suggested to Nell. She had never made the offer before. She’d always sensed that Nell needed autonomy, separation. But perhaps now she was ready. The minute the words were out of her mouth, Olivia loved the idea. “Why don’t you do that?” she pressed when Nell didn’t answer. “We’ve got a great Christopher Durang play in our next season. And there’s one by a hot young female playwright that you’d love.”

“I’ll think about it,” Nell said flatly.

“You wouldn’t want to work for me?”

“I said I’ll think about it,” Nell repeated.

Olivia looked at herself in the mirror. Nell had transformed her hair into something new: Soft curls fell over each other, cascading down her neck.

“Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”

“Look at you,” Nell said. “You look beautiful.”

“I’d really like you to think about it,” Olivia said. “I know what a good actress you are.”

Nell nodded, finishing Olivia’s hair with a soft spray. Then she put the can on the vanity and leaned down, her face next to Olivia’s. They both looked at each other in the mirror.

“San Francisco’s not easy for me,” Nell said. “I’ve got a super-lawyer father, a whiz-kid sister, and an artistic genius mom. I don’t want to get lost in that. I’m just beginning to find myself apart from all of you.”

Olivia nodded. “But there’s something in you,” she said, “that’s better than all of us.”

Nell kissed the top of her mother’s head.

Someone knocked on the door and Nell stepped back. Olivia felt a stab of sadness that the moment ended. Already Nell was walking away and Olivia sat there, looking at her strange new self in the mirror. She had a startling thought: Somehow she always felt that supporting Nell financially kept her wayward daughter tied to her. Nell always felt so easy to lose, as if Olivia might turn her back and her daughter would slip away. But it occurred to her now that the opposite might be true. By letting her go, her daughter might come back to her.

“Man, you’ve got a lot of makeup,” she heard Nell say to Carly in the other room.

“I’m useless with makeup,” Olivia called out to them. “You’ll have to do it for me.”

“That’s the plan,” Nell said. She bustled into the room, setting up the bathroom stool next to the desk chair. “You sit here,” she ordered Carly, pointing at the stool. “Now transform this woman into a bride.”

Carly sat. For a moment she stared at Olivia as if looking at a blank canvas. Where are you? Olivia wanted to say.

“Color,” Carly said. “You need color.”

“What’s wrong?” Olivia said quietly.

“I need to concentrate,” Carly told her. “You need to hold your face still.”

“Grrr,” Olivia said, scrunching her face.

“And no faces,” Carly said.

She set to work, smoothing a foundation on Olivia’s face, adding bronzer and blush, working all kinds of products on her eyes. Olivia loved the feeling of Carly’s hands on her face, smudging, rubbing, tapping. But she watched her daughter’s own face and saw a dark sadness there. She wanted to push the brushes and pots and creams away and take Carly in her arms. But she kept quiet, kept still and let herself be pampered.

“Et voilà,”
Carly said, leaning back.

“Can I look?” Olivia asked.

Carly nodded.

Olivia turned toward the mirror. The woman looking back at her surprised her; she smiled at her reflection. “Why have I spent my life looking drab when I could have wowed the world with this face?” she asked.

“Drab,” Nell moaned. “No one would ever describe my mother as drab.”

“But this is magic,” Olivia whispered, peering at her smoky eyes, her long lashes, her contoured cheekbones.

“Wowza,” Nell said, appearing at her side. “It’s a bride!”

“Thank you,” Olivia said to both girls.

“Into your dress now!” Nell commanded.

“My god, you two are taskmasters,” Olivia said, smiling.

“We learned from a pro,” Nell said. “Look over here,
madame
.” She gestured into the bedroom.