Seven Letters from Paris (18 page)

“Do you like the market?” asked Jean-Luc.

Like it? I loved the market. I loved the smells, the spices, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeating the air this time of year along with the freshly baked bread. Some of the vendors wore Santa caps and sang French Christmas carols, and the general feeling was one of festivity. The novelty of my new situation didn't look nearly as intimidating as it had upon my arrival.

Maxence pulled on the sleeve of my coat. “
Regarde! Un petit cochon
!
”

In a box to our left, a small piglet ran around in circles squealing, the high-pitched sound sending dozens of pigeons into the air. The vendor was selling some sort of candy—the baby pig was obviously a ploy to attract younger customers. I smiled down upon Max. “
C'est toi?
”

“
Non, c'est notre dîner
,” said Jean-Luc.

Elvire's eyes went wide. Maxence's laughter subsided. I punched Jean-Luc softly on the arm. “We are not eating piglet for dinner.” I winked at the kids. “
Ton
père, quel blagueur!
”

What
a
joker!

Maxence ran up to pet the pig. Jean-Luc placed one arm around me, the other around Elvire. “
Mes
deux
filles
,” he said, and I smiled. Elvire's long eyelashes blinked the snow and any signs of mistrust away.

Miniature lace doily flakes covered the ground in a thin blanket of white, melting under our footsteps. The way the children looked at Jean-Luc, wide-eyed and worshiping, made my heart swell with pride, an overinflated water balloon about to burst. It was a winter wonderland. My wonderland. I was so happy I had to stop myself from spinning in circles in the middle of the street, arms flailing, tongue out to catch snowflakes, like the kids. We walked back to the parking garage with a bag of roasted chestnuts, leaving footprints behind us along the way.

It was time to meet Jean-Luc's friends.

Jean-Luc put on a classical CD and started up the car. The kids popped their earbuds into their iPods. “I've worked with Christian for about fourteen years now. He and his wife, Ghislaine, are as close to me as my own family is.”

“What have you told them about me?”

Jean-Luc popped his lips. “Sam, you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure they're going to love you as much as I do.”

But in typical Sam overthinking mode, I was worried. I clasped my hands together, imagining catastrophe. Like what if the kids told Jean-Luc's friends they couldn't stand me, couldn't wait for me to fly my American butt back home where it belonged? What if, instead of a straw, I asked for a blow job again? What if his friends were uptight, reserved folks who wouldn't get my sense of humor? What if we were being served
pot-au-feu de la mer
and I had to chug my glass of wine to wash it down?

Jean-Luc rang the doorbell. The door opened.

Turned out, my fears weren't justified. At all.

Christian had sparkling blue eyes, a huge smile, and like Jean-Luc, he came complete with an infectious laugh. He spoke a few words of English, which instantly put me at ease. Ghislaine, his wife, had a warm and cheerful face, cropped blond hair, and wore funky glasses with orange frames. Both of them, I guessed, were in their early sixties. With a rush of hand gestures, they ushered us into the living room.

From the moment we arrived, they didn't stop smiling. The aperitif—a sparkling wine—was poured. The kids entertained themselves with a book of magic tricks. Sitting by the fire, we ate small bites—cheeses and tortes—and made our best attempt to get to know one another through the language barrier. Jean-Luc translated when I didn't understand. I pantomimed helping Ghislaine in the kitchen, but she quickly declined.

Over dinner, a spicy Bordeaux wine was served. Jean-Luc recounted our 1989 romance, and how we reconnected twenty years later, and of our future plans to get married. I piped in here and there, speaking only in the past and the present in French. Nobody corrected me, because I was trying. We spoke of some of our troubles in our past relationships, him with Natasha and me with Chris. When we were finished, Ghislaine had tears in her eyes.

“
Je
suis
très contente
,” she said and nodded her head toward the kids. “
Et
je
pense
qu'ils sont heureux aussi. Ils ont besoin d'un morceau de bonheur
.”

It was then I noticed the children were smiling at me. I realized I didn't need a cat to give them what they'd been searching for,
un
morceau
de
bonheur
—“a slice of happiness.” All they needed to be surrounded with was love. Yes, all of us, we were all
très
content. Very happy.

In an attempt to warm me up even more to the regional specialties, tonight was all about
le
canard
, or duck, and the various ways in which it was served. For starters, we indulged in
foie
gras
, which I'd never tasted before and which was produced in this region of France. It was delicious, a delectable, buttery treat, and was followed by the main course, a
confit
de
canard
, leg of duck, served with roasted potatoes. Our hosts smiled and asked me if I liked the meal.

Indeed, I did. “
C'est fantastique!
”

No French dinner party would have been complete without a salad, a variety of cheeses, and fresh fruits, which, one course after the other, were served right before the dessert—a to-die-for chocolate tart decorated with candied kiwis and strawberries. By the end of the meal, I was stuffed and dizzy from all the rich flavors. Then fatigue set in. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I fought the urge to yawn. It was only ten o'clock, but after our busy day marketing and my jet lag, it felt like two in the morning. Jean-Luc eyed me and explained that I'd just flown in the evening before and he thought it would be a good idea to take me home. After all, we were leaving for Provence early in the morning.

“No problem! We understand!” our hosts exclaimed. A flurry of good-byes and double-cheeked kisses ensued.

On the car ride home, I couldn't help but think how much Christian and Ghislaine did, indeed, feel like family. I'd only spent a few hours with this fabulous couple, but their warmth and kindness made the notion of moving to France a whole lot less terrifying.

If meeting Jean-Luc's friends had been nerve racking, it was nothing compared to how nervous I felt about meeting his sisters. Sisters were protective, the gatekeepers to the family—Lord knows mine was. We were staying
chez
Isabelle, the elder of Jean-Luc's sisters but younger than him by three years, setting off early in the morning.

Once again, I sat in the passenger seat, wringing my clammy hands.

An hour into the four-hour drive from Toulouse to Marseilles, the kids started arguing in the backseat, needling each other, punching, screaming, and yelling. Jean-Luc told them we wouldn't get the cat after the New Year if they didn't cut the crap. Either that or he would pull the car over. This last threat worked like a charm. He turned on the car stereo to a Top 40 station playing dance music—from both the United States and France. Elvire and I sang along to one of Lady Gaga's hits, “Poker Face”; Jean-Luc didn't quite retain his. He grimaced.

“
Les
deux? Vous chantez comme une casserole
. The sound is worse than banging pots.”

Elvire and I continued singing. Max put on his headset. Jean-Luc sighed.

Three hours and many songs later, we arrived at Isabelle's house. I was introduced to Richard (
Ree-chard
, soft on the
d
), Isabelle's partner of seven years, and her two sons, eighteen-year-old Maxime, twenty-three-year-old Steeve (with an extra
e
), Steeve's fiancée Laura, and, of course, Isabelle. Then I met Muriel, the youngest of Jean-Luc's sisters, her husband Alain and her two children, twelve-year-old Arnaud and eighteen-year-old Anaïs. Two large boxers, Leo and Juju, and a gray cat, Dolly, soon joined the party. Everybody, with the exception of the animals, kissed me on both cheeks, the introductions taking well over half an hour.

Both of Jean-Luc's sisters were drop-dead gorgeous, or
éblouissant
. Muriel was very slim and fit, with long brown hair and perfect posture. A raven-haired beauty, Isabelle was the curvier of the two, not to say she was heavy at all—probably a size four. Both sisters had that French attitude—a certain
je
ne
sais
quoi
about them. I supposed it all came down to confidence, which both sisters wore well, and which also included their stylish outfits—effortless and chic, casual yet elegant. Glad to be wearing simple but stylish black boots, jeans, a black sweater, and a black scarf, I almost fit in. Almost. But I was definitely the foreigner. And with so many people talking at once, I was having a hard time understanding any French. My confidence was waning.

Isabelle and Muriel took me on a tour of the house, first pointing out the massive nativity scene in the living room. Some of the terra-cotta figurines, called
santons
de
Provence
and crafted right in the area, were hand-painted in bright blues, sparkling yellows, and vivid greens and reds, depicting the various characters of Provençal village life—fishermen, produce vendors, bohemian women, and shepherds with their sheep. All the villagers and animals stood within a beautiful arrangement of buildings and farms and stores, leading your eye to the
crèche
, where Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus awaited, surrounded by angels and kings and, of course, more animals. Isabelle told me that she and Richard had both been collecting
santons
for years.

“
C'est magnifique
,” I said. Admittedly, after I had seen Jean-Luc's Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I was a bit scared about how the French celebrated Christmas.

The sisters smiled. Isabelle excused herself and returned a few moments later with a small box. “Open. It's a small welcome to the family.”

Muriel's grin widened. “From your new sisters.”

I opened the gift to find a thin and very classic sterling silver bracelet from a store called Agatha Paris. While the bracelet was beautiful, I was more blown away by how warm these two women were, how kind everyone was. I was being welcomed into this country, this new life, with air kisses and acceptance.

“You like?”

“
J'aime beaucoup, beaucoup, beaucoup. Merci
.”

Seeing as they'd never been to the States, both sisters wanted to start planning a trip right away—and ASAP. And the perfect time was the marriage of Jean-Luc and Sam! They planned to come for two weeks, maybe three. It would be the trip of their lives! This was all news to me, and in one fell swoop, I saw my dream of getting married in a French castle vanish. I pulled Jean-Luc aside.

“What's all this talk about us getting married in California?” I whispered.

“I should have warned you how excited they were to finally have an excuse to visit the States.”

Isabelle shot me a thumbs-up. The two sisters chatted, their voices rising in excitement. I could make out the words “Las Vegas!” “And California!” “The Grand Canyon!” “Area Fifty-One!” My mouth twisted and I sighed. “I'm no dream killer.”

“Honey, if you want to get married here, we can. Don't change your ideas because of them.” He tilted his head toward his sisters. They were still smiling. Somehow this seemed oddly planned out.

“Whatever. It's no big deal. I can always make my sister get married in a castle.” I pulled my iTouch out of my purse and opened up the calendar. “When were you think…” I started, cutting myself off.

“My office is closed for two weeks at the end of July, and then I can take more days.”

Wait one little second here.
Un
instant
. Jean-Luc and I had talked about marriage, but he hadn't actually proposed yet. “But you haven't asked me—”

Muriel called Jean-Luc over before I could utter one more word. I heard the French words for “dinner,” “help,” and that was all I could discern. I eyed Jean-Luc curiously, but he held up a finger and said he had to look after the sauce.

Eleven pairs of eyes turned to me over dinner. This time in Franglais—a language I was more than familiar with—Isabelle asked, “Do
tu
and Jean-Luc wish
pour
les
enfants
?” For some reason I expected her to throw in the word
terrible
, but she didn't. She just watched me squirm in my hot seat, a smile on her face. Ah, what fun! Let's torture the American.

“We've talked about it,” I said, stabbing a grape tomato with my fork. It split open, oozing yellow seeds. “But now is not the time.”

The conversation was a little uncomfortable. I threw back my glass of wine. Unfortunately, all eyes still rested on me. With a bemused expression, Richard leaned over and refilled my glass. I could almost read his mind. “
Ahh, zis Americane
, she
eez
a drinker!” He may have even said it out loud.

“
Quand? Quand est-ce que tu veux des enfants?
” asked Muriel.

“
Après le mariage. Nous attendrons pour juillet
,” I said, mustering up my best French. I sank in my seat, translating the words I'd just uttered. After the marriage? We'll wait for July? Why was I talking about a marriage that was just assumed? And having children?

The sisters, Richard, Alain, Steeve, Maxime, and Jean-Luc burst out in laughter. Isabelle grabbed her stomach. Muriel couldn't even look at me. Heart racing, I turned to Jean-Luc. “What? What's so funny?”

“Honey, you just said you were waiting to have an orgasm.”

“No, no, no, I didn't say that. I said not until July. July!” My eyes went wide in confusion. The group's laughter came harder. Their eyes watered. They wheezed and giggled and snorted. I frowned.

Jean-Luc took my hand and squeezed it. “Sam, you didn't pronounce July right. You said it like the verb
jouir
, which means to have an orgasm.”

Oh. No. I didn't.

But yes, yes, and OH YES, I did.

• • •

The morning was dark and stormy, the clouds pregnant, threatening rain. Weather aside, we were on our way to Jean-Luc's hometown, La Ciotat, located on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. After twenty minutes on the highway, we rounded a corner and Cassis, La Ciotat's neighboring seaside resort village, came into view. Breathtakingly beautiful, the colors of the magnificent landscape were especially vivid in the stormy light—yellow, salmon, and orange buildings settled among a backdrop of green. The town itself was nestled in a bay, surrounded by sheltered inlets known as
calanques
.

“Ahhh, this is the smell of home,” said Jean-Luc as he rolled down his window. “Breathe it in.”

The air carried the wet scent of salt and earth, and it was refreshing. We drove over rocky canyons and cliffs with jaw-dropping views of the waters below us toward La Ciotat. Scary and beautiful at the same time, the Mediterranean Sea churned and boiled, a whipped cream and frothy white.

“You must have loved growing up here.”

“I did.” Jean-Luc nodded and pointed to a bluff. “This is the highest point in all of Europe. Oh, we got into some trouble when we were young.” He laughed softly to himself. “I never had to leave the town. Girls from all over Europe…”

“Simmer down, stud.” I eyed the backseat. “There are children in the car.”

“They don't understand English that well.”

Laughter lit up Jean-Luc's eyes; I rolled mine.

La Ciotat was much bigger and more rugged than its dainty and charming neighbor, Cassis, but still beautiful. Taking a quick drive through town, we passed the old shipping port, the beach, and countless restaurants and shops—all of which seemed to cater to tourists. Besides the famed
calanques
, La Ciotat laid claim to housing the world's oldest movie theater, the Eden, where the first movie screening took place.

“We have some time before my parents expect us,” said Jean-Luc, which meant we were supposed to be punctual but not early. “So we'll grab a quick
café
.”

We parked the car in a public lot by the beach and meandered the cobbled streets, eventually finding a
salon
de
thé
. We staked out a table for four next to a display of varying tea kettles—all with a very Japanese influence. The kids ordered two sodas and cookies. Jean-Luc and I opted for tea. Right after we placed our order, Jean-Luc pulled out his wallet. No cash. Before I could offer a
centime
, Jean-Luc got up, leaving me with the kids. “Don't even think about it, Sam. It isn't up for discussion. I'll be right back.”

“
Où tu vas, Papa?
” asked Elvire just as the front door closed.

I held my hand up and rubbed my thumb against index and middle fingers, the universal sign: money. Elvire nodded her head in understanding. Suddenly, a ruckus came from outside, loud music and laughter. The kids eyed me. I nodded. We all jumped up from the table and headed out to find giant walking Christmas trees with big, googly eyes and men on stilts painted up like toy soldiers and giant snowflakes. Men in Santa hats played musical instruments—horns, drums, and trombones—while women dressed up in elf costumes danced. It was madness of the best kind. I whipped out my video camera.

The mood in the courtyard was beyond festive, filled with laughter and, well, walking Christmas trees. A chubby tree covered in bright yellow balls, shiny ornaments, and big red bows bounded toward Maxence. Max's lopsided smile wanted to say, “I'm too cool for this,” but the laughter in his eyes said otherwise. It must have been the floppy felt star on the Christmas tree's head. Immediately after this, one of the toy soldiers in candy-striped pants grasshopper-legged his way over to Elvire and stood right over her, his hands on his hips. His face was painted white, in contrast to his large Dali-esque swirling black mustache and goatee. Big round balls adorned his red suit, matching his jester-style hat. His eyes widened comically as he took a lock of Elvire's auburn hair, holding it high in the air, but not pulling it. Elvire burst into laughter before she ran away. The stilted man pretended to chase after her, dancing and shaking his fingers.

Jean-Luc walked up behind me. “What's going on here?”

“I have no idea.” I'd been smiling so much that my cheeks hurt. “Is this what Christmas is like in the South of France?”

“
Évidemment
.”

A few moments later, the crowd of Christmas revelers dispersed to perform their merrymaking act on other unsuspecting persons. Laughing, we all headed inside the
salon
de
thé
to enjoy our mid-morning snack.

• • •

Jean-Luc's parents' apartment building was old, most likely built in the sixties, and a bit run down, a box without French charm—not quite what I expected, which Jean-Luc picked up on almost immediately.