Seven Letters from Paris (24 page)

Elvire's dress was a brand-new, navy blue, empire-waisted, silk chiffon BCBG dress I'd found on eBay that had silver paillettes around the bust line—and she looked stunning in it. My mother's strapless silk chiffon in teal with a small rhinestone detail at the waist fit her perfectly. And Jessica's dress was a sexy blue jersey with crystal-beaded details reminiscent of mine. An ocean of blues for a wedding in a garden by the sea.

Pam, a friend whose father studied with Ansel Adams, knocked on the door and offered to do some sexy boudoir shots of me while the girls got ready. I poured her a glass of champagne. Soon, I was half-naked, lounged in a white armchair, my arm draped over my chest. Elvire raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't say a word.

“Here's to sexily ever after,” said Pam, lifting a glass.

Little did she know.

Our nondenominational ceremony was less about religion and more about celebrating love and was supposed to start at seven sharp, but we were running a few minutes behind. Five minutes before the hour, I sent Jessica to the back porch to get everybody seated in the garden and to grab Maxence and my dad. It was a race against the clock. Or maybe I'd put too much thought into this? I ran over the coincidences in my head.

Seven was my lucky number.

Jean-Luc and I were seven years apart in age.

He'd written me seven beautiful letters.

I'd written my seven-post blog.

Our civil ceremony was held on May 7, exactly one year after the first “love blog” posting. We met on July 24, 1989, near the end of the seventh month of the year, exactly twenty-one years earlier. Did I dare tell a skeptical rocket scientist that I suspected fate had played a hand in getting us together?

I eyed the clock in the bedroom. It would have to wait.

Maxence ran up in his blue slip-on Converse sneakers, looking adorable and very California-casual in his long blue shorts and untucked white collared shirt. The same went for my dad, who was wearing sage linen pants and an ivory shirt, his face adorned with day-old scruff.

We exited the house out of the front door to the gate that would lead us to the garden.

After checking out the arbor, which carried a sense of enchantment with the orchid and starfish decorations, I caught the guitarist's eye and nodded. After a quick transition, Marco launched into a beautiful strummed rendition of Bach's
Air
on
a
G
String
. My mother and my sister made their entrance, followed by Max and Elvire. The officiant, Greg, stood under the arbor, Jean-Luc to his left.

I glanced at my dad's watch. It was
seven
past
seven
, and I could live with that.

My dad escorted me to Jean-Luc and then took his place next to my mother and my sister. Jean-Luc took both of my hands. We gazed into each other's eyes and he mouthed, “You look beautiful, the prettiest rose in this garden.” Jean-Luc was more handsome than ever, wearing a cream-colored shirt with black pants and black shoes.

Greg commenced with the service. “Friends and family of Samantha and Jean-Luc, welcome and thank you for being here on this special day…”

In a daze, I faced Jean-Luc, holding his hands, smiling like a fool. Before I knew it, Greg was saying, “
Vous
pouvez
embrasser
la
mariée
.”

Jean-Luc placed a hand on my back and dipped me, planting a huge kiss on my lips.

The crowd cheered.

The rest of the evening passed beautifully. Everybody was impressed with both the flamenco guitarist, who switched from Sting to Gipsy Kings flawlessly, and the appetizers served during the cocktail hour. The caterers offered chili-herbed shrimp with a Thai dipping sauce, filet mignon on canapés, goat cheese and fresh fig turnovers, tuna tartare on a phyllo pastry, and Belgian asparagus spears with a blueberry balsamic glaze. People sipped on pastis or sangria or made-to-order mojitos, enjoying each other's company. Even the jasmine-scented air smelled of magic.

For the main course, we moved to the poolside tables. I sat Jessica at our table, along with Isabelle, Muriel, and Alain. The children were happy sitting with their cousins. The floating candle and cymbidium orchid displayed in the center was aglow, small tea lights surrounding it. Each napkin had one dendrobium orchid resting on it.

Along with a delicious Pinot Noir, we enjoyed an organic field green salad with grilled pears and caramelized walnuts, followed by an organic boneless chicken breast with fresh mango salsa, accompanied by fingerling potatoes, haricots verts, and ginger-glazed carrots. Before I could blink, Diane Lotny and the band took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jean-Luc and Samantha Vérant to the floor.”

The music kicked in.

Jean-Luc took me by the hand, leading me to the dance floor for our song: Van Morrison's “Moondance.” We'd chosen this particular piece because the lyrics resonated with us, and also because I couldn't think of a better song to dance to under the stars with my rocket scientist. Thousands of stars dotted the sky, one sparkling constellation after the other. And then, just as if I'd ordered it for the occasion, a full moon rose big and bright right over our heads.

Jean-Luc spun me around and pulled me back toward him. I whispered, “I finally found the space station, the brightest point in the sky.” I nuzzled up to his ear. “It's always been right here with you. It's in my heart and it has been there ever since we first met twenty years ago.”

With one hand planted firmly on my back, holding me to earth, Jean-Luc dipped me under the stars.

Life took a magical turn and suddenly everything just flowed. A reprieve from the eighty-degree weather typical of summer in southwestern France, there was a nice breeze. I opened the
volets
off the kitchen wider and locked the heavy wooden doors into position with an iron latch, carefully pushing the branches of my favorite rose bush to the side. Bursting with at least a hundred scarlet clusters, its vines climbed up the rustic beams on the back of our townhouse and nestled onto the small terra-cotta-tiled roof protecting our kitchen from the sun. The heady scent of lavender and roses filled the air. Oddly, all the flowers had bloomed a second time. Like me.

The kids were at their grandmother's for the remainder of the summer, giving us newlyweds some time alone. When they returned, I wanted to have the house in order—warm and inviting, to offset the impending chill I expected to be present when they returned home, thanks to their grandmother's dislike of Jean-Luc.

I was a woman with a plan.

Jean-Luc's gaze shot over to the small bookcase in the hall. Handy with a drill, I'd hung three carved plaster plaques, the ornamental and architectural work of an artist named Sid Dickens, over it. Along with pictures of the family I'd placed on top of the bookcase, I found a beautiful wooden ship in the garage. It was about three feet long and one foot wide and impressively detailed, from the planked wooden floor to the sails. Jean-Luc regarded it with pride. “My father built that, every piece carved with his own two hands.”

I ran my fingers across the delicate helm, then the mast. “It wasn't a kit?”

“
Non
.”

“Wow, that's incredible.”

His eyes softened. “No, you're incredible. I love what you're doing here. Really, it all looks great. You've done so much in so little time.”

Skype flashed on my computer.

I turned to Jean-Luc. “I can call her back later.”

“Answer it,” he said. “It's your mom.”

“I love you,” I said.

“I know.”

I clicked the video screen open. “Hi, Mom!”

“I'm so excited to see all the work you've done to your house. Show me.”

“Hello, Anne,” said Jean-Luc. Although he would spend hours on the phone with my mom, which was something I loved about him, Jean-Luc wasn't a fan of video. He pecked me on the cheek and waved to the screen before sneaking down the stairs, leaving me to take my mom on a house tour. She oohed and aahed.

A few days later, we picked up the kids at the airport. They were a bit quieter and more reserved, hesitant. But when they opened the door to the kitchen, now painted orange with two Italian paintings adorning once-bare walls and the big silver bowl filled with fruit on the breakfast bar, their smiles widened. When they walked into the living room, their eyes darted back and forth. A rug now decorated the floor. Add the green accent colors of throw pillows, blankets, candles, and plants—all thanks to the wonders of IKEA and the cash we received as wedding presents—and I could tell they were thrilled.

But it was when we went upstairs that the kids saw the biggest change. The IKEA bookcases were put together, the computer and printer sat on the new desk, shaggy burgundy carpet adorned the floor, and the once-naked walls were painted and decorated with pictures of the family. I retrieved an empty picture frame from the bookshelf. It was silver-painted wood with carved flowers. “
C'est pour la photo de ta mère
.”

“
Merci
,” Elvire said. “
Merci
.”

No matter what their grandmother had told them, no matter what they had gone through with Natasha, they both needed to know I wasn't going anywhere. This was my home now and there was no revolving door. I was there to stay. I knew I'd never replace their mother, but I was now a part of their lives.

“
D'accord
,” said Jean-Luc. “
Range
tes
sacs. On partira demain
.”

We were leaving tomorrow?

“
Ah, oui
,” said Max. “
On
ira
en
Espagne
.”

I'd been so busy I'd almost forgotten we had the annual trip with Jean-Luc's scuba club that weekend. It was time to experience Jean-Luc's underwater passion, something neither the kids nor I had ever done. The following afternoon, we loaded up the car and drove a little over three hours to L'Estartit, a seaside village located in the Costa Brava region of northern Spain. Elvire, Max, and I would be joining the group for one morning dive—a
baptème de plongée
. We walked to the dive center, passing by restaurants and numerous shops typical of any European beachside community—the kind selling sunscreens, rafts, sarongs, and tchotchkes, the kind of store Elvire and Max could spend hours in. They stopped in front of one of the boutiques.

“
À plus tard
,” said Jean-Luc.

Later would mean now. The kids bounded into the shop. Jean-Luc gave them three minutes until he pulled them out.

While my dive-master husband was occupied with his co-workers, the kids and I were placed in the hands of our instructor—a fiery, redheaded Catalan lady who spoke both Spanish and French. But she didn't speak English and this made me extremely nervous. While I understood the basic concepts of scuba diving, I hoped I didn't miss anything important. Because I could die. Max was the first to raise his hand when she asked who wanted to go first. Elvire was second. I was last.

“
C'était bon
?
” I asked Max when he returned from the sea to the boat.

He shot me a thumbs-up.

“
Tu
as
eu
peur?
” God knew I was scared.

He shrugged. “
Non, pas vraiment
.”

Fifteen minutes later, Elvire climbed up the ladder, her blue eyes glimmering in the Spanish sun. With a grunt and a nod, a salty man with a stubbly beard called me over. He reminded me of a pirate—all that was missing was an eye patch. First, he put a weighted belt around my waist then he pointed to a pair of fins, which I put on. He handed me a mask and threw the stabilizing vest and tank into the water. “
Sautez!
” he said.

One flipper at a time, I made my way to the ladder and jumped in the water, treading for a few minutes, waiting for our instructor, who was easy to spot since her wet suit was equipped with red horns on the hood and a pitchfork tail on her rear. She swam over to me, helped me strap on my vest, and in French, told me to put the regulator in my mouth and to breathe.

Hand in hand with the devil, I began the slow descent into the Mediterranean Sea. The first three minutes were absolute hell. My fear wasn't of the marine life swimming around me; it was of suffocation. I'd always thought the first time I'd try diving would be in a swimming pool. But here I was in open water. The instructor adjusted my vest, making it easier for me to get my bearings. Little by little, my nerves calmed and my breathing became more natural, stable. The sea life was plentiful—hundreds of tiny, fluorescent purple fish, large black-and-white striped fish, little yellow ones, blue ones, and even a couple of starfish. Gripping her hand, I relaxed a bit and enjoyed—or tried to enjoy—the world around me.

Five minutes later, we emerged. I was still alive, felt more than alive. I conquered another one of my fears. Jean-Luc smiled at me from the deck. With love on my side, I realized, I could do anything.

• • •

September eased in and the kids returned to school, Jean-Luc returned to work, and I did my best to settle into this new life as a stay-at-home immigrant stepmom—for now. During the day, I tackled the weeds in the garden and pruned the rose bushes while making small talk with my neighbors through the wire fence separating our properties. A couple in their midseventies, Claude and Paulette, bestowed me with softball-sized
coeur
du
boeuf
tomatoes from their garden and homemade
foie
gras
. Although my French had improved, it was still sometimes difficult to communicate with them—but I was trying.

One day, I idly checked my Facebook page. What I found stunned me into a stuttering stupor. My biological father had not only tracked me down, he had sent me a friend request and a message about how lucky I was to live in France and, moreover, how I had a sixteen-year-old half-brother who I should meet someday.

It had been over twenty years since I'd last heard from him. And this? This was what he sent? His nonchalant, laissez-faire attitude appalled me. I couldn't stop the tears from falling when I told Jean-Luc. I choked back my anger. “I need to end this with him now. I don't want him in my life anymore, showing up like this unannounced.”

“Sam, I've told you this once before, you have to suck out all of the poison in your life. If you don't, it will kill you.” He squeezed my shoulders. “So do it.”

It took me three days to find the right words:

Dear Chuck:

Sorry, Charlie, you are a complete stranger and my hand in friendship is not up for grabs. No, I don't hate you or harbor you any ill will, but nobody needs to dredge up painful memories from the past when they've already moved on. As for your son, if he or I ever want to reach out to one another, we will. Please respect my wishes and continue on with your life the way it's been—without my mother or me in it.

Wishing you all the best,

Samantha Platt Vérant

Able to say good-bye on my terms, I finally had the closure I needed. Poof. All my pent-up anger was gone. Even my heart felt lighter. I called Tracey to fill her in on my latest victory.

“Aren't you curious about your brother?” she asked.

“I am. Do you think we'll look alike?”

“There's only one way to find out. Ask for a picture.”

“I can't, Tracey. In a way, I'm relieved I finally got to say my piece after all these years. I'm happy Chuck is out of my life.”

“You sure?”

“About Chuck, yes.”

“And about your would-be brother?”

“Only time will tell.”

Much as I'd rewritten my past with Jean-Luc, I'd also been able to close the book on a haunting history that held me from completely moving on. But had I really let go? Again, there was only one way to find out. I pulled Jean-Luc's seventh letter out from the blue plastic folder and reread it.

Letter Seven

Paris, November 23, 1989

• • •

I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, thankful I finally garnered up the courage to write Jean-Luc back. I'd found my everything. I tucked the letter back into the protective pocket that separated Jean-Luc's seven letters from the stack of other letters at least two inches thick.

Who were all these other letters from? And why on earth was I keeping them? No longer did I need to hold on to my past, looking for emotional validation or ego boosts. Not when I had everything I'd ever wanted in the present. Inspiration hit.

Lighter in hand, I booked it to the backyard, ready to purge. Breathless with excitement, I placed a stack of letters on the barbecue grill and lit one corner. Pages crinkled, curling up and turning gray then black, finally settling into a pile of smoldering ash. Plumes of smoke billowed up to my nose. Engulfed in orange flames, souvenirs from past relationships crackled and hissed, and names long forgotten vanished. Vapors of charcoal and dust filled my lungs. I choked back a cough and threw more letters into the pile—saying
au
revoir
to a secret admirer and a final
adieu
to high school and college sweethearts. My eyes watered and burned, but I didn't stop the cleanse. I held my breath and threw another old letter onto the flames in celebration. It was the “Play with it again, Sam” card from Chuck.

A strange sense of pleasure flooded my body. I watched Chuck's card burn until it settled into a pile of ash. Then I threw another letter onto the blaze, tempted to dance around the fire in some kind of bizarre tribal ritual while chanting, “Free at last.”