Finding It (30 page)

“Promise?” she sniffles.

“Double pinky promise.”

We stop hugging. I grab my suitcase by the handle, put the strap to my MacBook case over my shoulder, and give them both a little wave.

“Wait!”

Poppy steps off the curb and reaches into her trunk. She pulls out a big black box embossed with the word “Hunter.”

“You almost forgot your new Wellies.” She tries to hand me the box. “Though, I can’t imagine why you would need two pairs of shiny pink rain boots.”

“They’re not for me.” I begin rolling my suitcase toward the automatic doors. “Give them to Lisa and tell her I said to go stomp in a puddle.”

* * * *

At Gatwick, I make it to my connecting gate just as they are about to close the doors. The terminal attendant takes one look at my bandaged head and ushers me onto the plane, carrying my MacBook and stowing my carryon.

Trust Fund Fanny booked my seat in first class, which means I can sit in any of the available seats. There are two seats open—one beside a woman holding a squalling red faced infant, and another beside a tall, hollow-cheeked man who is making a valiant effort to avoid all eye-contact.

Hmm. Rosemary’s Baby or Mister Asperger’s? Since I have had a dull headache for three solid days—ever since I woke up in the hospital—I opt for the hollow-cheeked man. The eye-contact avoidance thing is a big tip-off that he’s probably not going to want to tell me about his job as a bathroom fixtures salesman or pepper me with questions about what it’s like being a reporter.

It’s only as I am standing in the aisle beside his seat that I realize I have seen his face before—on IMDB.

“Excuse me, I am a columnist with
GoGirl!
Magazine and I was wondering if you had the timey wimey for an interview?”

* * * *

By the time I arrive in Montpellier, I have an interview in the bag and an engagement ring for Luc in my pocket.

I bought the ring during my second layover in the duty-free jewelry shop in Charles de Gaulle. It’s a simple thin white gold band with an antique finish, reminiscent of a Tiffany’s wedding band. I will have to drain my savings to pay off my credit card, but you know what they say, “Go big, or go home.” Since, technically, I don’t have a home, I went big.

I told the jewelry store clerk my story
tragique
and my plan to propose to Luc.

“Are you not afraid he has started seeing someone new?” she asked.

I imagined Jean-Luc having crazy-hot monkey sex with Angelina von Teese—aka Miss Thong, aka Celine—and a wave of nausea washed over me. I told the clerk about Celine answering his phone and asked her if she thought I should be worried.

“
Je ne sais pas
,” she said, raising her hands. “You know zee French men. They are notoriously irresolute.”

Now, I am standing on the curb outside the
Aéroport Montpellier Méditerranée
as Philippe, Luc’s brother, loads my bags into his van. I am still wearing the engagement ring Luc intended to give me on the chain around my neck. It’s become my talisman, reminding me of Luc’s love, warding off the doubts, urging me to have courage.

Philippe comes around to the passenger side, opens my door, and helps me into the van. He’s been especially solicitous since meeting me at the gate, repeatedly asking me how I am feeling, whether I am dizzy, if I need anything to drink.

Luc’s brother jumps in the driver’s seat and looks at me anxiously. “Fanny told me about your accident, but I wasn’t prepared to see you like dzees.” He waves his hand at my head. “Dzee wound, ees eet bad?”

“No,” I say, self-consciously touching my bandage. “It’s just a little cut. I’ll be fine.”

Nurse Terminator removed my whole head bandage before she signed my discharge papers, replacing it with a smaller stick-on bandage, which looks less frightening but reveals more of violently bruised forehead.

“
Bon
!” He turns the key and reverses out of the parking spot. “Now we go ’ome, you will rest, and in a few days, Jean-Luc will be back.”

“A few days?”

“
Oui
,” Philippe says, guiding the van out of the parking lot and onto a busy thoroughfare. “Jean-Luc ees still in Provence.”

“Provence? Why is he still there? I thought he would be home by now.”

Maybe it was the conk to my melon or my tendency to leap without looking, but I brain-spaced the possibility that Luc would not be home when I arrived.

“He ees with zee model.”

My heart drops to my feet. “Celine?”

“
Oui
.” He frowns and pronounces oui with such disdain it sounds more like whay. “He ees with Celine.”

“So they are back together again?”

“What?” Phillipe takes his eyes off the congested road just long enough to fix me with an outraged expression. “Zee fall must ’ave wounded your common sense. Luc would never go back to Celine. Not after zee way she betrayed ’eem.”

It’s not exactly a “he loves you, Vivia,” but I will take it. I can work with it.

Philippe explains that a French reality TV show about top models wanted to film a segment with the models on a bike tour in Provence.

“Celine is one of zee models.” Philippe switches lanes. “In fact, she told her producer she would only go on zee trip if Luc was zee guide. Of course, Luc agreed because he realized eet would be great publicity for
Aventures de Caumont
.”

Jesus, Mary, and Janice Dickinson! Angelina von Teese is also a reality television star? Fuck me. What can’t the woman do?

Philippe glances at me again and frowns.

“What?” I say, forcing a bright smile. “What is it?”

“You know I do not beat around your bushes, right?”

“Beat around my…” I laugh. “Oh, you mean beat around the bush?”

“Yes, this is what I said.”

I don’t bother telling him the subtle but important distinction between the and your in that sentence.

“Go ahead. Hit me with it, Philippe.”

“What?” Philippe frowns. “I do not hit zee women.”

“No, it means tell me what you have to say.”

“Ah.” He makes another turn and we are on the A9, headed to
Chateau de Caumont
. “I saw zee photographs.”

“Photographs? Of Bishop Raine kissing me?”

“
Oui
.”

“It’s not what you think, Philippe.”

“I think he ees a very funny man. I love
Audition at the Apollo
.” Philippe chuckles and shakes his head, but his humor fades a second later. “If you ’ad a leetle… How do you say
indiscrétion
?

“Indiscretion.”

“If you ’ad a leetle indiscretion with zee comedian, I zink my brother will forgive you, but only if you are honest with ’eem. Luc is a tolerant man, but ’e does not tolerate zee lies.”

Philippe stops at a traffic light and looks at me.

“Philippe, I swear on my mother’s life I did not have an affair with Bishop Raine. I love your brother. I have many faults, and I am probably not worthy of Luc’s love, but he is the only man I have slept with since we met on the bike tour a year ago. The Bishop Raine thing was a stupid misunderstanding. I didn’t handle it well, but I am going to do whatever it takes to win Luc’s trust and forgiveness.”

“So you do not love Bishop Raine?”

“Oh my God! No!”

“I knew eet. I told Chantal you would not date zee man who smuggles zee heroin in his…you know what.”

“Thank you, Philippe.” His loyalty brings tears to my eyes and hope to my heart. “It’s an odd endorsement, but I’ll take it.”

He pats my knee.

“Philippe?”

“
Oui
?”

“Would you please drive me to see Luc?”

“We are going ’ome and Luc will join us in a few days, yes?”

“No.” My voice cracks. “I can’t wait a few days. I need to see him now.

“But Luc ees in Roussillon.”

“So?”

“So”—he pulls the van off the side of the road and turns to face me—“Roussillon ees at least one hundred and sixty kilometers away.”

I don’t speak because I don’t think I could without blubbering like a baby. I’m an emotional wreck—on pain killers, no less.

Philippe clucks his tongue. “Okay, we go,” He puts his blinker on and pulls back on to the A9. “
On se bouge!
”

“
On se bouge
!” I squeal and press a kiss to his whiskered cheek. “
Merci, Philippe. Merci beaucoup
!”

We are four miles out of Roussillon when Philippe’s van starts belching noxious black smoke. Philippe curses.

“What’s the matter? Why is it doing that?”

“
Bâtard
!” Philippe releases a torrent of French curses as he eases the dying van off the road and onto the shoulder. He turns off the engine and slams his fist onto the dashboard. “
Merde! Merde
!”

“Why are we stopping?”

“She is not going to make it, Vivia.”

“She has to make it. We are almost there.”

Philippe raises his hands and does one of those Gallic “Eh, what can you do?” gestures.

I try to quell my rising frustration. When Philippe stopped for gas at the turn off to Roussillon, I popped into the Lidl and purchased a dozen sunflowers wrapped with a broad silk bow, six
je t’aime
Mylar balloons, and a bottle of champagne. Unfortunately, Lidl doesn’t sell fireworks or doves, so my epic proposal plan is turning out to be a little less than epic. After making my purchases, I ducked into the bathroom to freshen up and change into my beaded dress. There was nothing I could do about the bandage on my head or the post-flight bags under my eyes, but I spritzed myself with some of Luc’s favorite perfume, reapplied my smoky eyes, and rubbed a little anti-frizz serum on my hair.

“But I put on my dress!”

“Eet won’t be long,
cherié
. Just another hour or two.”

“An hour? Or Two?” I fan my face with my hands and take quick, shallow breaths. “I can’t wait another hour. My flowers will wilt. My hair will frizz. I can’t ask Luc to marry me sporting a ginger ’fro.”

Philippe shrugs again.

I open my door.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t just sit here. “I grab the bottle of champagne from the space between the seats. “I will walk to Roussillon if I have to.”

“But Rousillon ees five kilometers away.”

“I don’t care.”

“What about your head?”

“I have to do this, Philippe.” I look at him. “I am walking to Roussillon whether it’s five kilometers or fifty-five.”

“Or you could ride.”

“Ride? What do you mean ride? Hitchhike?

“No, that would be stupid.” He pronounces stupid as two words—stoo-peed and uses his thumb to gesture to the back of the van.

I turn around. An
Aventures de Caumont
’s aluminum touring bike is in the back of the van.

“Ride to Roussillon?”

“You do not like zee riding.”

I hate zee riding, but it is rather apropos since I met Luc on a bike tour. It’s like I have come full circle.

“Let’s do this thing, Philippe.” I grab the flowers and balloons. “Hook me up!”

“You must change your clothes. You can’t ride a bike in zat gown.”

I look down at my beaded dress. It’s the prettiest thing I have ever worn, and it makes me feel super sexy.

“Superman had his cape, Wonder Woman her lasso, and I have this slinky little dress.” I give the beads a shake. “Besides, how could I compete with a bunch of super models if I show up wearing ripped jeans and an old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt?”

“There ees no competition, cherié.” Philippe shakes his head. “Luc fell in love with you when you were wearing a
reediculous
shirt with a cartoon marshmallow, remember?”

“Sushi roll. It was as sushi roll.” The memory brings misty tears to my eyes. “Thank you, Philippe.”

He lifts the bike out of the van and pushes it over to me.

“Won’t you at least change your shoes?”

“No, absolutely not.” I shake my head. “Luc loves these shoes.”

“Okay.”

I wrap the balloons around the handle bars and then reach into the van, take my MacBook out of my briefcase, and stick the champagne, flowers, and my iPhone inside. I drop Luc’s ring in a pocket and zip it shut. I sling the case over my shoulder like a messenger bag and look at Philippe’s brother.

“Which way to Roussillon?”

“Stay on zees road. It will take you to zee village.” He reaches into the van and grabs a helmet. “If you don’t find ’eem on zee road, go to zee Hôtel Sainte Honore.”

He hands me the helmet, but I don’t take it. I don’t care if I just suffered a head injury.

“I am not wearing that thing. Do you know what it will do to my hair?”

Philippe fixes his brown gaze on me and smiles languidly, one eyebrow raised. I know the look. Luc has given me the same look dozens of times. It says, “Do you really want to throw down with me, because we both know I am going to win this one.”

“Fine.” I grab the helmet from his hands. “Give me the stupid helmet.”

I put the helmet on my head, adjust the chin straps so they’re loose, and I am off.

“
Bon chance
, Vivia!” Philippe calls after me. “
Allez trouver votre homme
.”

Allez trouver votre homme
? Oh yeah, I am going to get my man.

My Epic Failure: Love

There’s a very good reason Monsieur Christian Louboutin doesn’t offer athletic shoes in his line; because the pampered and privileged grand dames who can afford to clutter their closets with the pricey pumps don’t ride bikes. They recline on chaise lounges while muscle-bound minions carry them from place to place.

It doesn’t help that
Aventures de Caumont
bikes are proper touring cycles, with proper pedals designed for proper cycling shoes. The only way I can make it work is to wedge my toe under the front lip and let my spiked heel hang off the back. My toes are throbbing, but I refuse to stop even for a rest.

The champagne bottle is banging painfully against my hip, the Mylar balloons keep smacking me in the face, and my dress keeps riding up. Every hundred yards or so, I have to stand on my tiptoes and yank my skirt down. I haven’t checked, but I am almost certain I have left a trail of beads and sunflower petals.