A Wedding in Provence (8 page)

“Who knows? A pickup. A one-nighter. Who the hell knows?”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I don’t really want your sympathy,” Carly said.

“I give you everything you want,” Wes said, his voice tender in her ear.

“You do?” she asked. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s all you ask for.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s too late to have this conversation,” Wes said wearily.

“Too late at night or too late in our relationship?”

Wes laughed lightly. “Both,” he said.

Carly rolled herself to a seated position. The walls were quiet—finally. Perhaps the lovebirds were sleeping. Didn’t matter now. She was wired.

She got up and moved to the window, the cellphone still at her ear though neither of them was talking. At first she could only see the black silhouette of the hills, set against an even darker sky. Soon her eyes adjusted and she could see the swimming pool, and in it, two swimmers, their bodies naked.

She stepped back as if they could spot her. But no, they were doing laps, side by side, their bodies reflected in the sudden moonlight. She looked up at the sky—the clouds had parted and stars appeared, more stars than she thought possible.

“My mother and Brody are skinny-dipping,” she whispered into the phone.

“At two-thirty in the morning?” Wes asked.

“It’s like a party here but no one knows that I’ve been invited.”

“Because they don’t know you’re watching?”

“They’re not having sex. They’re just swimming.”

“I know, Carly,” Wes said, his voice strained. “I didn’t understand what you said. About not being invited to the party.”

“Nothing,” Carly said, impatiently. “First I have to listen to Nell. And now I have to watch this.”

“Close the window. Go back to bed.”

But she stood there, transfixed. It seemed so easy for them,
matching their strokes, both of them loose and languid in the water. Brody was so much taller and stronger than her mom but he swam at her side. Was Olivia faster—well, her mother was always faster than everyone else—or did he slow his pace to align himself with her? Is that what partners did? She remembered Christmas in Maui with Wes. Her first day there she called the tennis center and asked them to set her up with a good match, someone who played at a 4.0 level. When she got off the phone Wes was staring at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Really?” he asked. “We finally take a vacation and you’re going to play tennis with someone else?”

He wasn’t a good enough tennis player—that was the reason she had looked for a better game. Was she wrong? Should she have put herself on the other side of the net, watching him struggle to return her forehand smashes? Apparently, the answer was yes. She knew that now because Wes tested everyone they knew with this scenario. They all laughed and rolled their eyes: Yes, Carly was not a very good girlfriend. Yes, Carly preferred a good workout to love on the tennis court.

Brody and Olivia stopped swimming and sat on the steps in the shallow end. At least their bodies were underwater—Carly didn’t want to see them naked. Her mother was still fit for a fifty-five year old—and she figured Brody was probably buff, cowboy that he was—but she didn’t want to think about her mother and sex.

“Are you still there?” Wes asked into the silence.

Carly stepped back from the open window.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there with you,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, I’m sorry I’m not anywhere else in France with you. You’re right that I didn’t want to go to your mother’s wedding.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Carly said, and to her surprise she found herself fighting back tears. “You should have done this for me.”

Wes was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Yeah, me, too,” Carly said.

Still neither of them hung up. Carly knew that the minute she said goodbye she’d be alone at a wedding in Cassis. She pressed the phone to her ear and listened to the silence.

O
livia stretched her hand out across the bed—Brody, I need Brody. She reached for him through the hazy swirl of a dream. Her hand rested on the warm spot where he had slept. Where was he? She looked around. Early morning light, tangled sheets at her feet, the drapes lifting with the wind as if they, too, were haunted.

“Brody?” she called out.

Saturday. She tried to recall what was planned for this day. Kayaking in the calanques, whatever they were. Brody had set it all up and she had agreed, though right now she imagined sending the guests away so she and Brody could spend the day in bed.

He’d never agree to that. The man loved an adventure. So
did she, but not one that included boatloads of people. Her people.

Where was Brody?

The bathroom door was open—no one in there. She leaned over the edge of the bed and scanned the floor. His running shoes were gone—the guy had headed out for an early morning run. Good for him, she thought.

She pushed herself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. Squinting at herself in the mirror, she saw everything she didn’t want to see. Wrinkles, dark circles under her eyes, weariness. In her mind she didn’t look like that woman in the mirror. She still felt like a kid, like someone not quite ready for the grown-up world. But she had managed to raise two girls who were now adults, of sorts, and she had finally snagged a great guy. Adulthood should be wondrous. Was it? Aging sucked. She turned away from the mirror.

Someone was tapping on the door. She threw on Brody’s boxer shorts and his T-shirt, deep-breathing his musky scent. “Coming,” she mumbled.

She threw open the door and released a happy sigh. Emily. The only person she really wanted to see other than Brody.

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a sexy negligée on your wedding weekend?” Emily asked, eyeing Olivia’s outfit.

“This is as sexy as it gets,” Olivia told her.

“Your hunk went running,” Emily said. “You want breakfast?”

“Only if you promise that it’s just us. I’m not ready for the multitudes.”

“I promise,” Emily said.

Olivia walked out barefoot and shut the door behind her.
She wrapped her arm through Emily’s and they headed down the hallway.

“You doing okay?” Olivia asked.

“Shh,” Emily warned. “We want them all to stay asleep.”

“Right, boss,” Olivia whispered. But she wondered if Emily
would
talk about Sébastien. Emily was private. She didn’t ever mention marital problems so Olivia assumed there weren’t any. Who doesn’t have marital problems? And Olivia hadn’t even known that Emily hated New York until she announced her move to France. Emily was Olivia’s counsel through her taking over the theater company, through her divorce, through every kid problem that lasted more than a week, but Olivia rarely heard about the inner workings of her best friend’s life.

They made their way downstairs and into the kitchen. Early-morning light streamed through the many windows of the room and Olivia felt her bones settle in her body.

“Do I need a graduate degree to work that thing?” she asked, pointing at the mammoth espresso maker on one counter.

“I’ve got it,” Emily said. “Sit here.”

She offered a stool at the center island, one that faced the large windows and a beautiful view of the garden and the vineyards beyond.

“You wake up like this every morning,” Olivia said, sitting and sighing.

“And ten minutes later I’ve got an earful of noise from guests demanding a tour and tasting at the best winery in Bandol.”

“Oh, yeah, the guests,” Olivia said. “I hear you.”

The espresso maker silenced them for a minute and the smell of freshly ground coffee filled the room.

“Thank you for this,” Olivia said when Emily sat beside her, placing two cups in front of them.

“The espresso’s easy,” Emily said.

“Giving us your inn for a weekend isn’t so easy.”

“It would have been if—if Sébastien hadn’t ruined everything.” Emily reached for a notebook and started leafing through the pages.

“He might have ruined your weekend. But he’s not going to ruin ours.”

Emily nodded. She flipped pages of the notebook. Olivia saw sketches of food.

“Did you hear me?”

“You think he just ruined my weekend?” Emily asked, a sharp edge in her voice. Finally she looked at Olivia, her eyes hard.

“I didn’t mean that,” Olivia said. “I know what he did was awful. I know how deep a wound that must be.”

“Do you?” Emily asked.

“I can imagine,” Olivia assured her. “Em. This isn’t about me. I’m just trying to be here for you.”

Emily slammed the notebook shut. “I don’t know what Paolo’s thinking. He can’t make crème brûlée tonight. It’s his worst dessert. He burns it every time.”

Olivia reached out and touched Emily’s shoulder. Emily flinched.

“Em. Talk to me.”

Emily dropped her head to the table and covered it with her arms. Olivia rested her hand on her friend’s lower back.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just in a rage.”

“I’ve never seen you in a rage.”

“I’ve never had a cheating scumbag of a husband before.”

She pushed herself up and walked to the oversized refrigerator. She had created a state-of-the-art kitchen for the inn, one in which she could expertly whip up breakfast for ten people every morning. But still the room retained its coziness, with whitewashed wood and mismatched antique stools. Olivia thought about all that was at risk here: Emily’s marriage, her career as an innkeeper, her life in France.

“You’re not talking,” Olivia said.

Emily stared into the fridge. “I’m thinking,” she murmured.

“About food or your marriage?”

“Same thing,” Emily said. “I need them both to survive.”

“You don’t need Sébastien to survive.”

Emily pushed the refrigerator door as if she were hoping for a resounding slam. But it whispered closed. She stood in front of the stainless-steel door, still searching for something.

“I don’t know, O,” Emily said, her voice weary. “I never thought I’d be in this situation. It’s so French, it’s such a cliché. But this is Sébastien, my Sébastien. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

She finally turned and looked at Olivia.

“What does he say?” Olivia asked gently.

Emily shook her head. “It’s so stupid. I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

“Me? You can tell me anything. I’m an expert on stupid. I spent twenty-two years married to a man who loved his business more than he loved me.”

“Sébastien denies it.”

“Come on.”

“Really. He says she came on to him and he turned her down and so she created this drama to punish him.”

“Do you believe him?” Olivia asked.

Again, Emily shook her head. “Not for a second.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” a voice said behind them.

They both spun around. Sébastien stood in the doorway, looking as if he had just woken up. His hair was tousled; his jeans hung low on his hips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and Olivia noticed that he was thicker than he used to be. Even handsome Sébastien showed signs of aging, she thought. Is that what sent him into another woman’s arms? Fear of losing what he’s got?

“Go away,” Emily said without much conviction.

“I want to talk to you. Before the day begins and you won’t come near me again.”

“I’ll leave,” Olivia said.

“No,” Emily said, and her hand shot out to grab Olivia’s elbow. “Stay.”

Olivia dropped back onto the stool.

Sébastien walked around to the other side of the center island and sat on one of the stools facing them.

“Get dressed,” Emily commanded.

He looked around the room, grabbed an apron and tied it on over his bare chest. He looked like a hillbilly chef.

“I won’t believe you, no matter what you say,” Emily said. She pulled the notebook open and stared at it.

“I lost your trust,
chérie
,” Sébastien said, his voice low and
quiet. “I will win it back. I will do whatever I have to do to win you back.”

Emily looked up and faced Sébastien. “You fucked that woman,” she said.

Olivia flinched—the second time Emily had cursed in a day and a half. Olivia had always teased her about being so prudish about language but Emily had argued that she couldn’t take a chance in her business—her clients would be horrified if she dropped an F bomb. In Olivia’s theater world, “fuck” had become a meaningless hiccup.

Sébastien held Emily’s gaze.

“Once,” he said.

“Liar.”

“It is true.
Une fois
.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know. I will make you believe me. I will not lose you,
chérie
. I did a terrible thing. Once.”

“I don’t care how many times you fucked her.”

“Once.”

“Why does that matter? Do I get one free fuck now?”

“Can I tell you what happened?” Sébastien asked.

“I don’t want to know,” Emily said. Then she threw the notebook across the room. “Tell me what happened.”

“We should talk about this alone,” Sébastien said weakly.

“I don’t want to be alone with you,” Emily told him.

Olivia held her breath. She didn’t want to be here, yet she wouldn’t abandon her friend.

Sébastien placed his hands on the table in front of him and stared at them. They were paws really, the hands of a man who
worked around the inn, painting, gardening, building. When he and Emily took over the inn, he gave away his New York suits and polished shoes. He was an even better-looking man in a work shirt and jeans.

“It was only once because I was sick about it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Em, let him tell the story.”

“Shut up,” Emily snapped.

They all sat quietly for a moment. The refrigerator hummed.

“It was about two months ago,” Sébastien said, his voice low. “I met Luc at Le Fumoir.”

“Luc,” Emily said with disgust. Olivia had heard about Sébastien’s old childhood friend. He was a version of Jake, Brody’s friend. Luc didn’t treat women with much respect.

“When I got there Luc already had a woman at the table. She was drunk and very affectionate with him—I thought maybe they knew each other. No—a few minutes later she was behaving the same way with me. And Luc got mad. I tried to leave but Luc beat me to it. I told the woman I would have one drink but then I was going home.”