Seven Letters from Paris (23 page)

It was twenty minutes to four and I was ready for the civil ceremony, save for putting on my dress. I ran to the closet and took it off the hanger. It was a simple cream, tiered, strapless cocktail-length dress with a belt with a single rosette on it. The bridal shop I'd purchased the “real” dress from had thrown in this dress for fifty dollars. Who was I to say no? Unfortunately, I hadn't tried it on in months and I was having problems with the zipper, meaning it wouldn't pull up and was stuck right at my ribcage.

Screw the myth about the groom not being able to see the bride before the ceremony. He'd be driving us to the town hall anyway. “Jean-Luc!” I screamed. “I need your help!”

He ran into the bedroom. “Ouf, honey, maybe you should stay away from the pastries. I think you may have gained—”

“That isn't funny.” I turned around. “Help!”

I pulled the sides of the dress in while he yanked the zipper. “Honey, maybe you should wear something else. We have to leave in two minutes—”

“I don't have anything else to wear.” I turned to face him, my voice shaky. “This will work. It has to.”

“Take the dress off. We'll try pulling it over your head.”

So we did just that. And he was pulling and tugging and tugging and pulling. I'd put fresh roses from the garden into my hair, now up in a very messy French twist. Petals dropped to the floor. “Oh no! My hair!”

“Honey, please figure something out. This isn't working.” He laughed. “Your dress,
évidemment
, doesn't fit and we have to leave now. You might have to get married naked.”

I sat down on the bed. French women may not get fat, but put an American woman in France with all the lovely breads and cheeses and you have Miss Piggy in the making. Jean-Luc wiped the tear forming in the corner of my eye.

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” I puffed out my bottom lip. “Because now would be the perfect time to change your mind.”

“I thought you came with a no-return policy.” Jean-Luc stroked my chin. “Come on, Sam, stop pouting, we have to go.”

“At least I've gained pounds of happiness,” I muttered, a solution to the problem coming to mind. The dress was somewhat on, and Jean-Luc was able to hitch the top eyelet. I bolted back to my closet and grabbed a little black jacket with a black rosette from Forever 21 to hide the fact the zipper was open midback. Not what I'd had in mind, but the dress wouldn't fall off, and it would have to do. Then I ran to the bathroom, smoothed out my hair, puffed up the crushed flowers, and reapplied my lipstick.

“Honey, we have to go,” cried Jean-Luc. “We have two minutes to get to the ceremony.”

I threw the rings in my purse, and Jean-Luc and I raced to the car. The kids were at school. We'd decided to only torture them with one wedding—the special one in July.

Jean-Luc floored it the three blocks to the
mairie
. My head lurched backward from the speed, crushing the flowers in my hair again. He dropped me off in front of the hall where Christian and Ghislaine, our witnesses, were waiting and screeched into a parking spot. Ghislaine greeted me with a wide smile and handed over a beautiful bouquet—white roses, lilies, and freesia, with elegant greens.

This, I was not expecting.

“
Merci
,” I said. Her kind gesture turned what was supposed to be an administrative day into something really special. We headed inside the marriage hall where Jean-Luc joined us a few minutes later.

Today, the deputy mayor of our town was performing the ceremony. He wore a gray suit with a blue, white, and red sash over it. We took our places in front of a large wooden table. Ghislaine sat next to me while Christian snapped picture after picture as the French civil code was read. Five minutes later, Jean-Luc and I signed the marriage booklet, which Ghislaine and Christian signed as well.

Was I married?

“
Les
bagues?
” asked the deputy mayor.

The rings. These were about the only two words I understood throughout the whole ceremony. I pulled the box out of my purse, opened it, and slid the white gold ring onto Jean-Luc's finger. I took off my engagement ring and set it on the table. Jean-Luc gingerly took me by the hand and a wedding band soon adorned my left ring finger. After sliding my engagement ring back in place, I raised my hands in victory, pumping them up twice. Everyone laughed.

Ahh, Americans! We were such an amusing species.

Et
voilà!
The deputy mayor handed Jean-Luc the
Livret
de
Famille
, a thin red booklet, and then presented another bouquet of flowers—a congratulatory gift from the town. “
Félicitations, Madame et Monsieur Vérant!
”

“
Félicitations!
” echoed Christian and Ghislaine.

After months of stress, now, now it was over? I looked at Jean-Luc, relief flooding my whole system. “What did I just sign?”

“I now own you. You have to do whatever I say.” Jean-Luc pulled me close to him. “So kiss me, Madame Vérant.”

Letter Six

Paris, August 16, 1989

Since I couldn't stay in France longer than three months in a six-month period thanks to travel restrictions, I was forced to return home at the end of May. I'd spent a lot of time being a boomerang, bouncing back and forth from France to California. This time, when I returned to France, it would be for keeps—at least that was the plan. I now had my long-term visa as the spouse of a French citizen, a gift from the French consulate in Los Angeles. It had been over a month, and I was missing my husband and the kids something fierce. To thwart impending insanity, I set up a blog,
The
Frog
and
a
Princess: Life, Love and Living in France
, as a distraction, having decided blogging was a good way to meet other expats and share bits and pieces of my new life with my friends. I posted a link on Facebook to my first post: “Looking for Prince Charming?” He wasn't a rare, elusive creature lurking in a pond; he was real. I found him.

Finally, on a sunny day toward the end of June, Jean-Luc and the kids arrived in California. It was a good thing Jean-Luc had over forty days of vacation, because he was using most of them. My parents became instant grandparents, which thrilled them to bits. We went boating and beaching and biking. We ate American-style—classics like barbecued ribs and grilled burgers and hot dogs. Once again time blurred, and the biggest day on this crazy love adventure had arrived. My mom and I lounged by the pool, watching the kids play in it.

“What are they going to call me?” she asked. “How about Me-Me? I like that.”

“
Meme
is what they call their grandmother.”

“What about Kiki?” she asked.

“Um, that's slang for a penis.”

My mother's eyes widened.

Max jumped into the pool cannonball style and splashed Elvire. “
Viens
dans
la
piscine
avec
nous, Sam! Viens!
”

I got off my lounger, said, “Be happy they call you Anne,” and dove into the water. When I emerged, I smiled and swam after Max and Elvire, splashing them. “After all, I'm happy with being Sam. I am!”

Soon, we only had two hours before our guests for the “all-American and French barbecue” danced into the garden. Jean-Luc had rolled five of the rental tables out from the garage, which Elvire and I decorated with blue and white checked tablecloths, blue clay pots from the dollar store—each with one little French and American flag—and bright, happy sunflowers. We were expecting forty people that afternoon, mostly out-of-town guests and family, and seventy for the wedding celebration.

For the most part, everything for the “big night” was set. The previous week, Elvire and I had bonded over making all the starfish gifts and decorations, while Maxence, who wanted nothing to do with girly things, swam in the pool and played with the dogs, Jean-Luc hung all the Christmas lights, and I wired the remaining starfish into the arbor and into bushes.

A true garden by the sea.

A friend of my mother's, Diane Lotny, was a professional musician. As a wedding gift, she would perform with her band after flamenco guitarist Marco, whom I'd booked for the ceremony, cocktail hour, and dinner, finished. No longer having to rely on my iPod and outside speakers for dancing, I was thrilled with the gift. We were going to rock the canyon. Additionally, M. C., another friend of my mother's and also a professional ballroom dancer, had gifted Jean-Luc and me with private dance lessons. Little did I know that my man could bust a move like there was no tomorrow.

My grandmother and her sister, my aunt Bobby, had pre-tied organza wraps and starfish decorations, so all we had to do was slip them onto the chairs in the morning. My godmother, Diane, who was a stylist, offered to handle all the floral arrangements including decorating the arbor, which Jean-Luc and I would be married under—again.

Tracey and Michael came over early, offering their assistance. They were on a budget and I wanted my best friend staying close by, so I'd set them up with new friends Rob and Edina, who lived at the bottom of the street. Besides enjoying myself, nothing else needed to be done. The caterers would handle the rest. The photographer was confirmed. Everything was going as planned, including my dress which, thankfully, still fit. Okay, it was tight, but it still zipped up.

Jean-Luc and I hired Rayna, my mom's cleaning woman, and her daughter, Yvette, to work the rehearsal dinner. At the ceremony, they would be guests, members of our family. As a surprise, Yvette, who happened to work in catering as well as going to school, prepared a delicious salad and small pizzas to snack on. The caterers dropped off the dishes—an American French barbecue on a budget of eight dollars a person. While Yvette set up the buffet and Rayna made fresh lemonade, I tied forks, knives, and spoons into red and blue napkins with a white ribbon and put them in a basket. This wedding was truly a community effort.

One by one, the other guests arrived. Jean-Luc's French contingency—his sisters and Muriel's husband, Alain, and, save for Anaïs, their children; Gilles, Nathalie, Claude, and Danielle; and Christian, Ghislaine, and their daughter, Anne.

My graceful grandmother, Nanny, and her sister, Aunt Bobby.

Rob and Edina, my neighbors.

My aunts, my uncles.

Lori, my best friend from college, and her husband, Jonathan.

Barbara, my favorite dog-walking client, and Stacy, the owner of the company.

My friends, some old, some new. My family.

Before I knew it, the party was in full swing. French music played in the background. People danced and ate and the sound of laughter echoed across the canyon. The buffet table displayed a colorful explosion of salads and drinks. The molasses baked beans, corn on the cob, and barbecued chicken were served in warming trays, while Yvette cooked up hot dogs and hamburgers to order, all the fixings placed to the side. Max didn't know where to turn first; it was his idea of heaven.

I took a plate and sat down with Lori and Tracey. Stephen, a friend of my mother's who had offered to take pictures of the event, stood poolside, his professional camera in hand. Gilles ran around the yard handing everybody a pink printout. “Are you ready?” he asked before darting into the house.

They were up to something. I bit my bottom lip and looked to Jean-Luc, who just shook his head in resignation. He knew a little pain was coming our way. A dish best served with humor. I hoped.

“Samantha and Jean-Luc,” said Stephen, waving his hands. “These people claim they have a song dedicated to you guys in honor of something that's happening tomorrow at seven o'clock. I don't know what that's about.” Stephen raised his shoulders. “Is everybody ready?”

“
Oui,”
came the resounding cheer.

Jean-Luc groaned.

“Cue the music,” said Stephen.

After an
un, deux, trois
, Jean-Luc's family and friends, including Max and Elvire, launched into a song hazing Jean-Luc. Sung to the tune of a folk song from their hometown of La Ciotat, a little off-key and in French, they teased him about how he'd fantasized about one of his teachers, how he spoke a few languages, namely Russian and English, only because of girls, and how he grew up by the sea. The last verses, however, were quite sweet and included the children, Jean-Luc, and me and how we would all live happily ever after together.

We applauded and we screamed and we cheered.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my little hummingbird perched on his branch. When I turned my head to face him, he twittered and flew away. I guessed his work with me had been completed.

• • •

There wasn't much to do on the big day. Shortly after the flowers arrived, I showed my godmother how I'd envisioned the arrangements to look and where the extra flowers were needed around the property. I gave her a free hand, knowing that everything would look fantastic. The scent of flowers filled my mom's yoga room, which was where all the wedding supplies were being stored. Of course, I had the florist arrange the personal items. I could only imagine the creative mess I would have made of a bouquet.

Elvire would carry a miniature version of my bouquet consisting of ivory roses, freesia, and green cymbidium orchids. My mother, Jessica, Tracey, my Nanny, and Jean-Luc's sisters would all wear cymbidium orchid and rose wrist corsages. For the men—my dad, Jean-Luc, and Maxence—I'd arranged orchid boutonnieres. I set aside fifteen stems of dendrobium orchids for the caterers, placing them on the kitchen counter with a note: “Please use these as you see fit—on the cake, the tables, and anywhere else! Thank you, the Bride!”

Per my instructions, Jean-Luc had already rolled out the remaining tables from the garage. While Michael and Jean-Luc moved all of the rental chairs to the garden, Tracey, Jessica, and I slipped the organza wraps with starfish ties onto the chairs. After setting up hurricane lamps with battery-operated candles on the back ledge, which took all of two minutes, the only thing left to do was make the sangria.

All the busy work was completed by ten in the morning. Jean-Luc kissed me on the forehead before he took off with my dad to pick up the cake. As they walked away, Jean-Luc smiled at my dad. “Before, she was a boomerang, but I've caught her.”

“I'm holding you to that,” said my dad with a laugh.

With nothing to do but relax, I sat poolside with Tracey and the kids. Since the linens hadn't been set out yet, I let Maxence and Elvire go mental in the pool. I'd joked with Tracey that she and Michael should've tied the knot right along with us. But once she'd mentioned putting the Irish flag into the all-American barbecue pots, right next to the French one, I reconsidered the wisdom of that idea. Not to mention how the extra guests would freak my mother out. I'd had a hard enough time convincing her to let me host
both
the barbecue and the wedding at the house.

Michael came up behind Tracey and put his arms around her. Tracey smiled. “Do you need anything else? Otherwise we're going to go explore Santa Monica a bit while we can.”

“Nope. It's all good. Thanks for your help.”

“It looks really beautiful, Sam.” She gave me a hug.

“Thanks.” I squeezed her tight. “I'm so glad you guys are here.”

“I wouldn't have missed this for the world.” She laughed. “What a story. I'm thrilled to be a part of it.”

So was I.

They left, and I decided to walk the dogs to diffuse my nervous energy. I was in the garage putting away the dogs' leashes when my dad and Jean-Luc drove up in my mother's SUV. Jean-Luc sat in the backseat, licking his fingers. And…

Oh my god! The cake!

I ran up to the window and peered in to find Jean-Luc's hand covered in white frosting, a smidgen on his nose. He regarded me wide-eyed, probably expecting me to go ballistic. “We went around the corner and it slid. I tried to stop it, but—”

“Sorry, Sam,” said my dad. “It'll still taste good, right?”

I burst out into hysterical, uncontrolled laughter.

By the worried expression on their faces and the way neither of them were able to meet my gaze, I could tell they both felt terrible. I surveyed the damage. It wasn't that bad. Just some smudged frosting and a couple of indentations from Jean-Luc's hands. My laughter came harder. Stuff like this? 'Twas only a cake wound. Life was filled with much bigger problems. “The caterers just got here. They'll be able to fix it.”

In a matter of minutes, one of the chefs worked his magic. I thanked my lucky stars I had ordered the extra dendrobium orchid stems. The flowers were placed on each of the three tiers, surrounding the bottom. A few cymbidiums covered up the major damage. When the chef was finished playing doctor, there was no sign of injury.

“Thank you,” I said. “You're a real cake saver.”

“No worries. We're used to this kind of thing happening all the time.” The chef placed the cake topper—a porcelain princess holding a small green frog in her hand. It was perfect. He pointed to me and then to Jean-Luc. “Ahhh, I get it. You're the American princess and he's the French frog.”

At four o'clock, it was time for us girls to get ready. Jessica, my mom, Elvire, and I scurried to my parents' room, bringing along a bottle of champagne and taking it over as the bridal suite. Elvire took a sip from my glass. By the way she smiled, I knew she loved being included, feeling like one of the grown-ups, one of the girls.

My ivory-colored dress hung off the armoire. Designed by Maggie Sottero, it was less of a bridal gown and more of an evening dress, and the highlight was the back. Ruched gossamer chiffon, the bodice was fitted with crystal-encrusted halter straps which joined together at the nape of the neck into one sensational bar back treatment; it was sexy and glamorous and, even better, since it was a sample, it was cheap. My hair was styled into a simple half up-do—a bit reminiscent of the sixties and Brigitte Bardot—and held in place with a beautiful starfish and pearl comb.