Seven Letters from Paris (19 page)

“My father worked in the shipyards,” he explained, “and was always afraid of investing money in real estate. A hard worker, he hung on to every franc he made. Now, even if they wanted to buy, the real estate in La Ciotat has skyrocketed to the moon, and they, like most of the residents here, wouldn't be able to afford prices accessible only to wealthy Parisians.”

I shrugged off the initial shock. “Places don't matter. People do. I'm really excited to meet them.”

The children bolted ahead of us and up a stairwell, their footsteps echoing throughout the corridor.

“There isn't an elevator?” I asked.

It was all a bit reminiscent of Jean-Luc's apartment way back in 1989 Paris.

“No.”

“They have a bathroom?”

Jean-Luc grimaced. “Of course. It's not the middle ages.”

One step at a time, we hiked our way up to the fourth floor. I was winded by the time we reached the top. The lights in the hallway flickered. Jean-Luc's brother, Michel, threw the door open and we entered a sunny three-bedroom apartment. Michel said
bonjour
by kissing both of my cheeks and then slunk into his room, closing the door behind him. This action did not go unnoticed by Jean-Luc's mother, who screamed something in angry French.

Jean-Luc whispered. “My parents are embarrassed by Michel's behavior.”

I waved my hands. “
Non, ça va
. It's okay.” Jean-Luc had already informed me about Michel's shyness. I took no offense.

Jean-Luc's father, André, was thin with a head of white downy hair, kind brown eyes, and a mischievous smile. At seventy-six, he looked fantastic, fit, and full of life. Jean-Luc's mother, Marcelle, came up behind him. She, like Jean-Luc had mentioned, was quite petite with beautiful green eyes, which offered an explanation for the color of Jean-Luc's—a mix of both his parents. She wrapped me in a big hug, much stronger than I would have given her credit for, and grabbed my face, kissing me on both cheeks. “
Bienvenue
dans
la
famille
,” she said, and then more rounds of kissing ensued.

It appeared I was on my way to becoming part French. I may have had the kissing down, but it was time to improve those conversational skills. Then again, Jean-Luc hadn't asked me to marry him; he just assumed it would happen. In July, apparently.

I didn't even have time to breathe before we moved on again. Gilles, Jean-Luc's friend since childhood, and his wife, Nathalie, had invited us over for dinner, along with another couple, Claude and Danielle. Isabelle had already agreed to watch the kids. After the topic of conversation the previous night, I didn't know if I was in the mood to be hazed again, and from what Jean-Luc had told me about Gilles, I was a bit afraid to go. Gilles was the crazy one, the one with the wild eyes, the troublemaker. I was pretty certain we were in for it.

“I spoke to Gilles earlier,” said Jean-Luc, “and he told me something quite funny.” I grunted and he carried on. “On my wedding day to Natasha, he, along with a few members of my family, made a bet on how long the marriage would last.” He chuckled softly to himself. “Half wouldn't give it six months. The others gave it a year.”

I wondered what his family and friends were really saying about us behind our backs. What kind of bets were they making? I'd find out soon enough.

Jean-Luc stroked the top of my hand with his thumb. The action was nervous. There was something he wasn't telling me, something else on his mind. I shifted my body to face him. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “The reason the divorce with Natasha went so smoothly was because I had her sign some papers before the marriage.”

“A prenuptial agreement?”

He nodded. “I never trusted her, but I do trust you. I thought she would change when we married, that the stability would make her more reliable. I'd thought wrong. She didn't get better. She got worse.”

“I'll sign whatever you want me to.”

“That's why I know we don't need this agreement. And when we are married, it will be for good.”

“So we're getting married?”

“Of course,” said Jean-Luc. “Is there any other way for us?”

“But—”

“Here we are,” said Jean-Luc.

We pulled up to Gilles's house, large and modern with an infinity-edged pool. The front door opened and Gilles walked forward, his eyes wide, making him look a bit like Jack Nicholson in
The
Shining
. I took a step backward, but before I could make a run for the hills, Gilles grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me toward him, kissed me on both cheeks, and then picked me up and spun me around before setting me down. “Hello, Sam! Welcome!” he said in English. “Come
eeen
and have some champagne! Tonight, we celebrate your engagement!
Félicitations!
”

Gilles ushered Jean-Luc into the living room, slapping his butt. I followed with an out-of-place laugh. Nathalie exited the kitchen, rolling her eyes. She was dressed to the nines—another one who could pull off the “Who me? No, I just put this old outfit together” attitude. We gave each other a sly once-over, not too obvious but assessing one another nonetheless. Like most of the French women I'd encountered, Nathalie's makeup was minimal, just mascara, foundation, blush, and a smidgen of lip gloss. I noticed her pale gray suede boots immediately. They were perfection. She kissed me on both cheeks. “
Bonsoir, Samantha. Enchantée
.”

Then I was introduced to Claude and his wife of twenty-five years, Danielle. We sat on a brown couch—modern and reminiscent of Roche Bobois—and Nathalie served the aperitif—small bites of spiced cheeses, along with
kirs
. Gilles pulled a camera out from the pocket of his shirt.

“We all want to know why. Why, with all the men in the United States, all the men in the France, all the men in the world, why? Why are you with Jean-Luc?” The room shook with laughter. Gilles laughed maniacally and took my picture. He pointed to Jean-Luc and continued, “Just look at him. He's
orr-eeb-le
. A monster!”

In silence, I sat there, not quite sure what to do. Jean-Luc popped his lips. Nathalie and Danielle shrugged their shoulders. Having known each other for well over thirty years, this was all par for the course when these three cronies got together, I gathered.

“No woman in their right mind would marry him,” agreed Claude. He tapped the side of his head twice. Gilles and Claude leaned forward. Gilles retrieved a pad of paper off the glass coffee table, as if to take notes.

“Tell us. Why?”

“I've never met anybody like him before. I love him.”

Gilles's laughter echoed. He scribbled on his pad, and after flailing his arms around, said, “Sam, we need for you to be serious
pour
un
instant
. Why Jean-Luc?”

I took a sip of my champagne. I could roll with this, go with the flow, have a little fun of my own. “What's with all this talk about marriage?” I held out my left hand. “He hasn't even asked me yet. I don't see a ring on my finger. Do you? It could be one of those candy rings or plastic, for all I care.”

Bingo.

Gilles and Claude gasped and clasped their hands over their mouths in mock shock. Danielle and Nathalie giggled. Jean-Luc sighed.

“
Zut
alors
, Jean-Luc!” Gilles held out his camera with one hand and pointed to the ground with the other. “Get down! Get on one knee and do it now!”

The women clasped their hands with anticipation. Claude pulled Jean-Luc off the couch. And all of a sudden, Jean-Luc was on one knee in front of me. His friends chanted, “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Gilles took one picture after the other.

Jean-Luc grabbed my hand and said, “Samantha, will you be my wife?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but the collective groan filling the room cut me off. Gilles piped in while snapping pictures like a paparazzi photographer. “That was
or-eeb-ble
. Encore!”

Jean-Luc shook his head. “Samantha, my love, you are the only woman in the world for me, my brightest light, the prettiest rose in my garden. Will you do the honor of marrying me?”

“Not much better,” said Gilles, “but it will do.” He nudged my shoulder. “Aren't you going to answer him? Don't look at me. I already have a wife.”

My gaze met Jean-Luc's. “Yes, I'll marry you.”

Gilles, Claude, Danielle, and Nathalie chanted, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss.”

So we did.

“Where will this wedding be?” asked Nathalie.

Hint. Hint. Hint.

Jean-Luc and I answered in unison, “California.”

We were back at Isabelle and Richard's, sitting on the bed, after having stuffed ourselves with more duck
chez
Gilles and Nathalie. If I ate any more
confit
de
canard
, I might have started quacking. Reclining on my elbows and kicking my boots off, I watched Jean-Luc pull out a circular, white box from his bag. A name, Mauboussin, marked the cover. He pulled the lid open. Resting inside was a white gold ring with a huge, and I mean huge, square, pale pink amethyst sparkling brilliantly among an elegant and feminine band of pavé diamonds. I gasped. The
Fou
de
Toi
!

“I wasn't planning on doing this tonight. But things have changed, and since Christmas Eve is tomorrow…What's one day?” Jean-Luc delicately pushed the jewel onto my left ring finger. “Since you already said yes.”

Words wouldn't come to me. In awe, I gazed at the ring, about to burst into tears. “I wasn't joking when I said the ring could be plastic—”

“Honey, what's the matter? You don't like it? Did you like the other one better?”

Like it? Was he kidding? I looked up to Jean-Luc, tears streaming down my face. “Are you insane? I love it.” I threw my arms around his neck and we kissed, his hands caressing my back. “Ring, no ring, I love you so much.” I laughed, eyeing my hand. “But this ring, truly, is something else.”

“It is. Isn't it?”

I stared at the pink bonbon decorating my finger, smiling. Since we were now doing this by the book, I had an idea. “Please, you have to ask my dad for permission. It will mean so much to him.”

“Let's call your parents now.”

“I've got a better idea,” I said. “We'll do it live.”

I pulled out my computer, fired it up, waited impatiently for the start screen, and opened Skype. My parents' computer was listed as being online, and my mother answered on the first ring. “Hi, Sam!”

“Mom, put on the video and get Dad and Jess.”

She yelled, “Tony, Jess, come here! Sam's calling from France!”

My grandmother's voice vibrated in the background. “Hi, Sam! I miss you.”

The video screen came on and my mom's smile filled the screen. My grandmother peered over her shoulder. “Hi, Nanny. I miss you too!” I tilted my head to the side. “Nanny, this is Jean-Luc.”

“Hello, Dottie,” said Jean-Luc. “I've heard wonderful things about you.”

“It's nice to meet you too, Jean-Luc,” said Nanny, a look of confusion written on her face. “On Skype, I mean. I can't wait to meet you in person.”

The whole family was on the computer screen now, talking over one another. Bodhi panted in the corner. All I could see was his wet black nose. I held my left hand up to the camera. My mom, Nanny, and Jess squealed.

“Oh my God.”

“Congratulations!”

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

Once the ladies' excitement wore off, I jabbed Jean-Luc in the ribs. He straightened up, and while doing so, cut his head out of the view. I adjusted the screen so he'd be able to face my dad eye to eye, man to man.

“Hello, Tony, I'd like to ask for your permission to marry your daughter.”

By the light in my dad's eyes, I could tell he appreciated Jean-Luc's gesture, even though it had obviously been prodded by me. “Of course,” began my dad, but he was cut off.

The women in my family yelled, “Take her!”

Before I disconnected, my mom asked to see what a Provençal Christmas was like. So I marched my computer downstairs, showed her the tree and the
santons
, and along the way, introduced my sister, mom, and grandmother, who had come along on the tour, to Isabelle, Richard, Maxime, Steeve, and his fiancée, Laura, who were still up watching TV. They waved and laughed and all I could think was that this was so weird, being able to introduce my family to my new French family using a computer.

The second the screen dimmed, I called Tracey's cell phone, using my Skype call credits.

“Well, Merry Christmas,” she said.

“To you too. Oh, and it's official.”

“What is?”

“Jean-Luc and I are engaged!”

“Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!” She paused. “Are you, by chance, getting married in France?”

I sighed and explained the California decision.

• • •

Much as I loved my gray sweater with lavender sequins from Forever 21, I was no longer twenty-one, and it no longer fit me. So I gave it to Elvire. She smiled and thanked me, left, and two seconds later came back into the bathroom, wearing the sweater, and watched as I put on my makeup. She tilted her head to the side. I smiled. I could pick up the hint. She needed a woman in her life. I could feel it. And holy bejezus, if there ever was a time for bonding, it was now.

“
Est-ce que tu veux un peu de maquillage?
” I asked and Elvire nodded her head enthusiastically.

I chose all natural colors—a little brown eyeliner, a touch of cream eye shadow, a hint of blush, and some mascara. I handed her a lip gloss, which she applied. By the way her chin tilted up just a little higher, I could tell she felt pretty. Together, we plodded downstairs where Maxime and Steeve immediately gave her a catcall, which made her blush. She hit Maxime. “
Arrête!
”

“Your little girl is growing up,” I said as I joined Jean-Luc on the couch.

He groaned.

“Hopefully, when she's older, she won't be like me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jean-Luc.

“Well, my family keeps trying to get rid of me, but like a boomerang I keep coming back.”

For once, my humor translated. Jean-Luc took me by the arms and led me to the dining room. “I've caught you and I'm not letting you go.”

“That's good,” I said, “because I come with a no-return policy.”

“
Tout
le
monde, venez à table
,” came the call.

Everybody get to the table. It was Christmas Eve and time for dinner.

Alain, Muriel's husband, had brought over the main course for dinner, a wild boar. Someone said grace. My thoughts were elsewhere—primarily,
How
the
hell
do
I
get
out
of
eating
this
wild
game
in
thick
gray
sauce
without
offending
anyone?
My soon-to-be French family members, fourteen of them gathered for this feast, were speed talking one on top of another, and I wasn't able to take part in the very lively conversation because, once again, I couldn't make out one word. They could have been speaking in Swahili for all I could understand. Jean-Luc placed a piece of wild boar on my plate. My head spun. My stomach churned. I pushed a gristly piece with my fork, fighting back the queasiness roiling in my stomach. Jean-Luc piled a spoonful of thick sauce over the meat. I gulped. “Honey, I don't think I can eat this.”

“It's good. You'll like it. Alain shot it himself.”

Like that made it any better. “I know. But the sauce? It's gray…”

“Yes, it's delicious, incredible, made out of blood!”

Blood? I wanted to cry. Like the poor pig on my plate, I felt like I was being roasted. Everybody was laughing and talking as I held myself back from screaming in frustration. The more they laughed, the angrier I got. Insecurities pecked at my brain. This life, this world, was so very different from mine. I watched everybody eating and decided I must have horrible table manners; I didn't even eat right. Unlike me, when the French cut their food, they didn't switch their fork to their right hand before bringing it to their mouths. I stared at my ring. It hit me all at once. A new life? A new language? A new country? And two kids who would probably trade me for a pack of gum? Okay, maybe not a pack of gum, but a cat?

“Honey, what's wrong?' asked Jean-Luc.

“I don't know if I'm ready for this,” I whispered.

“You don't have to eat the wild boar.”

I forced a smile but didn't say a word.

Jean-Luc took the piece of wild boar off my plate and put it on his. Like kissing a scared child's wound, this simple action made everything all better. Instead of keeping secret the fears I'd had about changing my whole life, in hushed whispers, I told him about them. Jean-Luc understood my trepidation, and I realized that, even in overwhelming circumstances, I could conquer anything with him by my side. His old love letters, after all, had inspired me to change my life. So what was I so afraid of? Trying something new? All of this was new to me. Gathering up my courage, I ate a piece of that wild boar in the blood sauce. And it wasn't so bad. That night, I went to bed excited as any child on Christmas Eve. But my real Christmas gift was not the beautiful engagement ring, not our wild and passionate lovemaking, not the ridiculously expensive cat we would soon be picking up, and it was definitely not the clothes dryer; it was Jean-Luc and his kids.

“I know all of this is very different for you.” Jean-Luc kissed the nape of my neck. “I'm just so happy to have you in my life. Together we can do this.”

• • •

My mother purchased green and red velvet monogrammed stockings from Pottery Barn for Jean-Luc, me, and the kids, the latter of which I'd filled with a bunch of fun things—candy, T-shirts, games, lip glosses for Elvire, and temporary tattoos for Max. Both of their eyes lit up as they dug into the stockings, surprised to find more presents. As for Jean-Luc's Christmas gift, it was more sophisticated than a T-shirt or a plastic candy cane filled with chocolates. Immediately, he ripped his old watch off to put the new one on.

“How did you afford this?” he asked.

“Ancient Chinese secret,” I said.

“Sam…”

“Jean-Luc, really, I bought it months ago when I had the cash.”

“It's too much.”

But it wasn't. Compared to what he'd done for me, it was nothing. “Well, I know you love scuba diving. And I know you needed a new watch.”

I'd purchased the five-hundred-meter stainless-steel, blue-faced Swiss Army diving watch right when I returned home from our trip to Europe, months before the big bad wolf of bankruptcy came huffing and puffing and blowing my house down. When I saw the watch online, I knew I had to get it for Jean-Luc. And it was a bargain, since it was a discontinued model. It had taken great self-control to not tell him about it—especially since it had been hidden in my desk when he had visited me in October.

“At any rate, it was on sale and, like me, it comes with a no-return policy.”

“Sam, it's too much,” said Jean-Luc.

“Too late,” I said.

After the family opened up their gifts, we packed up the children's things and drove the thirty minutes to drop them off at their maternal grandmother's, where they would be staying for a week. We pulled up to a small, fenced-in brick cottage. Across the street, chickens and roosters ran around in an open lot. A black-and-white cat came up to the gate. The children kissed us quickly on the cheeks, grabbed their bags, and jumped out of the car. They threw their bags down outside the front door and ran after the cat.

“Will I meet their grandmother?” I asked.

“No. She hates me, blames me for her daughter's death.”

“It's not your fault Frédérique got cancer.”

“She thinks so and there's no convincing her otherwise.”

A gray-haired woman wearing charcoal pants and a white sweater came out of the house. I waved, but she didn't even bother to glance in our direction. She ushered the children into the house, never once looking over her shoulder or offering any kind of sign acknowledging our existence.

I gulped. This would be one hard problem to overcome. I made a mental note to try to figure out how to bridge the gap.

• • •

Since we were in the heart of Provence, Jean-Luc and I spent the remainder of the week at Isabelle's, and once again he became my own personal (and very sexy) tour guide. We visited ancient ruins and cathedrals and fortified cities—Marseilles, Aix-en-Provence, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, and Les-Baux-de-Provence. But symbolizing my new life, I was looking forward to New Year's Eve. Gilles had invited Jean-Luc and me to stay at his cabin in the Alps.

We were well into the two-hour drive when Jean-Luc asked, “Honey, do you ski?”

The first time I went skiing was with Tracey and it was a nightmare. I'd never set foot on a mountain before, not that the slopes in southern Wisconsin were mountainous at all—more like man-made hills of solid ice. Tracey had given me about two seconds of instruction and we made our way to the chairlift, where it immediately knocked me over. I also fell getting off it. Tracey took me to the top of the hill and told me to “go for it.” And go for it I did. Screaming, “Get out of my way! I don't know how to ski!” I went straight down, over a small jump, legs splayed, and right into some poor sucker who was stopped on the slope. From the top of the hill, Tracey said all she saw was a giant puff of white. Poof! Thankfully, I wasn't hurt, just had the wind knocked out of me. I also bent the guy's ski pole.