Lost December (12 page)

The five of us, Candace and I, Sean, Marshall and Lucy, had booked rooms at the Four Seasons Hotel between Park and Madison avenues. I arrived before they did and slept until Candace knocked on my door. She put her arms around me.

“You okay, honey?”

“I’ll be okay.”

She looked into my eyes. “We’re here, so let’s be happy.” She kissed me. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

Not surprisingly, Sean knew the Big Apple to the core—from the best restaurants to the most exclusive clubs. He even knew the best hamburger joint, a peculiar dive hidden behind a curtain in the lobby of Le Parker Méridien Hotel off Fifty-Sixth Street.

Candace and I spent the day sightseeing, and that evening we met up with the group and dined at a restaurant called
Per Se, where we sat at a table overlooking Central Park. Candace and I shared a fixed-price tasting menu for $295—which didn’t include the wine.

“This is too expensive,” Candace said, setting down her menu.

“Actually, Sean’s paying for it,” I said.

He pointed a finger at me. “You’re paying me back.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have my card in a few days.”

“It’s still too expensive,” Candace said.

“Not for us,” I replied.

“But …”

I stopped her. “We’re going to do this right. I don’t want to hear another word about money. I’ve got plenty. You and I are going to
really
live.”

Candace didn’t look convinced but acquiesced. “Okay. I won’t say another word. I just feel bad spending your money.”

“That’s right, it’s my money.” I touched a finger to her lips. “Not another word. No more looking at price tags. Just enjoy. Promise me.”

She breathed out slowly. “I promise.”

The next day Candace and I spent most of the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then dined at Jean Georges at 1 Central Park West. At Sean’s insistence Candace and I chose Chef Vongerichten’s seven-course assortment: egg caviar, caramelized cauliflower with a caper-raisin emulsion,
young garlic soup with thyme, and a slew of other delicacies I’d never even heard of, let alone tasted.

Culinary indulgences weren’t a big part of my upbringing. My father had simple tastes and would be just as happy with a good potato salad as a tin of Beluga caviar. Actually, probably more so. Sean was exposing me to a whole new world.

Our final full day in Manhattan, I took Candace shopping on Fifth Avenue. We stopped at the flagship Apple store, FAO Schwarz (Candace wanted a stuffed animal), Saks, Prada and Louis Vuitton, where I purchased some luggage for our European adventure. We ended the spree in Tiffany’s, where I bought Candace a silver chain just so she could have the robin’s-egg-blue box. Then I sent her back to the hotel and went to Harry Winston to buy her an emerald-cut diamond solitaire ring. I wasn’t sure when I was going to pop the question, but there was no doubt in my mind that it would be sometime during our excursion and I wanted to be prepared.

Lucy was sick when she arrived in New York and spent most of the time in bed. Candace and I were pretty unimpressed with Marshall’s care of her, which amounted to almost nothing. Our second-to-last night in New York, Candace scolded him for his neglect.

“What am I supposed to do?” he countered angrily. “Sit around the room with her? She’s got room service. What else does she need?”

Our final night in New York everyone, including Lucy, ate at Le Bernardin in the theater district, then attended a Broadway show,
Mamma Mia!
At its conclusion, Sean loudly announced for the benefit of our fellow attendees that the show was “a nauseatingly pedestrian production calculated to take money from bitter, middle-aged women.” Also, he wanted to sue the producers for his time back.

So begins my great adventure abroad.
Here’s an applicable quote I found:

“If you actually look like your passport photo,
you’re probably not well enough to travel.”

Luke Crisp’s Diary

From New York, the five of us flew out of JFK to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. International travel was an adventure for me. Outside of a two-day business trip my father took me on to Montreal when I was ten, I had never been outside the United States.

From Paris we took a commuter flight to Saint-Tropez, a coastal yacht town along the French Riviera and a vacation spot for celebrities. The small town was an artist’s pallet of colors, with yellow, orange and green storefronts and fashionable boutiques set against the brilliant blue of the sea.

Not surprisingly, Sean was as much at home in France as he was in Philadelphia, New York City, or any town for that matter. He was our travel guide and had booked rooms for us at the Château de la Messardière, a five-star hotel perched on a hillside above Pampelonne Bay. Our room had a balcony that overlooked the white sand beach.

“Look at all the lavender,” Candace said, leaning over the hotel balcony. I had never seen her so excited before. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

I thought that
she
was the most beautiful thing in view.
She was wearing a light sundress, and the ocean breeze gently tossed the fabric as well as her hair. I looked at her, then out over the bay in satisfaction.
“This
is living.”

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” Candace said. “This is where Brigitte Bardot was discovered. They say there are more famous faces per meter in Saint-Tropez than anywhere else in the world.”

I looked down at the beach below us to the sea of bronzed sunbathers. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said, “Look at all the beautiful people.”

“You,” she said, taking my chin in her hand and turning my face back toward her, “keep your eyes on me. There’s not enough collective fabric down there to make a dishcloth.”

We kissed, then I went to the bed and lay down. Candace picked up a tour book from the table, thumbed through it for a while then turned back to me. “A euro for your thoughts.”

“I was wondering what my father would think if he saw me now.”

“What do you think he’d think?”

“I’d like to think he might be proud that I was seeing the world. But I don’t know.”

“Give it time,” she said.

I sprawled out on the bed, pulling the pillow under my head. “We’ve got lots of that now.”

She sat on the bed next to me and rubbed my back. “Do you mind if I get a pedicure?”

“Of course not. I’m just going to crash. I’m feeling jet-lagged.”

There was a knock. Candace walked over and opened the
door to Sean, who was leaning against the frame. “Hi,” Candace said. “What room are you guys in?”

“We haven’t checked in yet,” he said. “I need to talk to Luke.”

“Have at him,” Candace said, as she stepped past him.

“Hey, brother,” Sean said. He walked inside and shut the door behind himself.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I need to borrow your Visa. My card’s not working.”

I looked at him. “Why isn’t your card working?”

“I don’t know. But it’s still too early in America to call my mother. They won’t let us check in without a card.”

“I thought you were sharing a suite with Marshall and Lucy.”

“I am.”

“Why doesn’t Marshall put it on his card?”

“Because he’s maxed out his allowance, so he’s borrowing from me until the end of the month. And he’s paying for Lucy.”

“So I’m paying for all of you,” I said.

“Pretty much,” Sean replied.

“Tell them to put it on my card,” I said.

“I already tried that. You have to go down and tell them in person.”

Something about the casual manner in which he said this bothered me. “You tried to charge it to my card?”

“Of course, you still owe me from New York.”

“I know,” I said. I got up and followed him down to the
lobby. Downstairs, Marshall was sitting back on a couch looking at a French magazine. Lucy was standing near the front counter watching everyone’s luggage. She looked pale, which didn’t surprise me, as the last flight had been a little turbulent.

I gave the front desk my credit card and checked them in. I handed out keys, then we walked together toward the elevator. Lucy was struggling with her bags. Neither of the men offered to help her, so I took one of her bags from her.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, “Chivalry is not dead.”