French Coast (11 page)

“You were two years old,” Chase said quietly.

“What are you saying?” Serena's hands shook and her eyes were burning.

“Veronique Delon was born at St. Mathilde's hospital in Nice on February fourth, 1988. Your father's name is on the birth certificate.”

“I know my father better than anyone in the world!” Serena sobbed. “He couldn't keep a secret for twenty-eight years.”

“Cory's editor is running the story. I made Cory promise to wait until I returned from France.”

Serena looked at Chase. “You discovered the birth certificate? You went digging in my father's past without telling me?”

“I had to find out if there was proof,” Chase replied.

“Does my father know?”

“I called him yesterday.” Chase nodded. “Your father and mother are staying in Napa for a few weeks. A friend lent them his villa, it's very secluded.”

Serena pictured her mother in her flawless Chanel suits and Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses. She saw her slip off her pumps and massage her toes after a grueling day on the campaign trail. She saw her take Charles's hand and lead him upstairs to the bedroom. She heard the sounds of Miles Davis and muffled laughter under the bedroom door.

“I love you more than anything; you are the most breathtaking woman I've ever met,” Chase said slowly. “But we need to break off the engagement.”

Serena froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Other boys dream of being professional baseball players or astronauts; I've always wanted to be a politician. It's why I went to Georgetown and why I put in these insane hours at the law firm. If we stay together, my career will be over before it starts.”

“This will blow over.” Serena's teeth chattered and she felt naked in her thin cotton dress.

“Say I lose this election and run again,” Chase continued. “My opponent will bring it up in every race from here to the White House. Your father was a two-term U.S. senator with a perfect record, he's fodder for the press.”

“You said we were more important than anything, the rest was gravy.”

“You wouldn't love me if I quit politics, I'd be half the man I am. The press would keep throwing your father's past in our faces, we'd be miserable. We're young, we can find other people. Trust me, I'm doing what's best for both of us.”

“How dare you.” Serena felt the rage boil up inside her. “Why didn't you tell me before we made love, before you ate Zoe's triple-decker turkey club sandwich?”

“I wanted to tell you when I arrived.” Chase scuffed his shoe on the wood. “But you were so beautiful in that turquoise dress, I missed you so much.”

“Get your things out of my suite.” Serena pulled the diamond-and-emerald ring from her finger. “Give this to the girl with the perfect pedigree.”

“You don't know what I've gone through,” Chase begged. “I have to do this, I don't have another choice.”

“Leave me alone!” Serena's voice shook. She shoved the ring into his hand and ran down the dock.

“Serena, wait!” Chase called.

Serena turned and saw his face contorted in pain. He strode toward her and for a moment she thought he was going to put his arms around her and say he had panicked, he couldn't live without her.

“It's your grandmother's diamond.” Chase pressed the ring into her palm. “You should keep it.”

Serena heard the ring clatter on the wood as she ran down the dock. She didn't stop until she had reached the water. Then she collapsed on the planks and buried her face in her hands.

*   *   *

Serena sat hunched for hours, listening to the hum of boat engines. Her throat was dry and every time she pictured Chase, his hands jammed in his pockets, his blond hair touching his collar, her eyes filled with tears.

She heard footsteps, and a man wearing tan shorts and a beige cotton shirt sat on the dock beside her. He had long legs and wore brown leather sandals.

“You dropped this.” He held out the glittering engagement ring.

Serena looked up and frowned. It was the man who had returned her phone on the beach and her purse at the outdoor market.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded, turning and gazing at the bay. Suddenly everything seemed too bright: the sparkling ocean, the shiny yachts, the white seagulls skimming the waves. “You can have it, I don't want it.”

“It's your grandmother's ring, you should keep it.”

“Were you eavesdropping on a private conversation?” Serena seethed.

“I was working on my boat.” The man pointed to a small white catamaran. He held out his hand. “My name is Nick.”

Serena pictured Chase handing back the ring. She remembered him saying he was doing what was best for them, and warm tears rolled down her cheeks.

“It will get better,” Nick said gently. “Time is a great healer.”

“You don't know anything,” Serena snapped. “You live in a place where palm trees grow in the middle of the avenue and the air smells of Cuban cigars and expensive perfume.”

“You think people don't get sick and die because they can dip their toes in the Mediterranean?” Nick raised his eyebrow. “You think heartbreak only exists in cities where people work in skyscrapers?”

“I didn't mean that.” Serena gulped. She gazed at the outdoor cafés and elegant boutiques and remembered arriving in Cannes full of excitement and anticipation.

“I didn't hear why you gave your fiancé his ring back,” Nick said slowly. His eyes were clear blue and he had sharp, angular cheekbones. “But I bet he wakes up in the morning and wishes he'd found a way to keep it on your finger.”

“I have to go,” Serena said, and she jumped up.

She ran down the dock to the Boulevard de la Croisette. She walked past the dazzling windows of Chanel and Hermès. She marched through the gold-and-white lobby of the Carlton-InterContinental. It was only when she was in the Cary Grant Suite, drinking a straight shot of vodka, that she realized that the man on the dock still held her grandmother's diamond ring.

 

chapter nine

Serena sat on the gold velvet sofa nursing her second shot of vodka. She tried to swallow it but the alcohol made her stomach burn. She set it on the glass side table and closed her eyes, letting her misery cover her like a blanket.

She considered ordering room service and watching
Casablanca
or
An Affair to Remember
. But she pictured her office with its narrow view of the Bay Bridge. She saw Chelsea perched on her desk saying she thought Serena valued her career.

Serena walked to the bedroom closet and selected a navy linen dress and a pair of beige pumps. She applied an extra coat of mascara and twisted her hair in a knot. Then she grabbed her notepad and walked down the hall to the Sophia Loren Suite.

*   *   *

“Serena, come in,” Yvette said as she opened the door. She wore a black A-line dress and carried a bouquet of pink and red tulips.

“The hotel does a wonderful job with flowers, but it's so satisfying to create one's own arrangement.” Yvette walked over to a crystal vase on the cherry sideboard. “I bought these at the market in Rue d'Antibes, they smell heavenly.”

“They're lovely,” Serena replied, suddenly wishing she'd stayed in her suite. She pictured all the bouquets Chase had sent her—white roses for her birthday, yellow tulips for her promotion, giant sunflowers because he thought they would brighten her desk.

“It's so hot, would you like a lemonade or a glass of iced tea?” Yvette stuck the final bloom in the vase and set it on the dining-room table.

“I'm fine.” Serena gulped, trying to stop the throbbing in her forehead. She sat on a peach upholstered chair and flipped to a fresh page in her notepad.

“There's something different about you,” Yvette mused, looking at Serena carefully. “You're not wearing that stunning diamond ring.”

Serena gazed at her naked finger and instinctively covered it with her other hand. “I hate to wear it to the beach, it gets covered with suntan lotion and sand.”

Yvette started to say something and then she flicked a piece of lint from her dress. “Shall we begin? I have so much to tell you.”

*   *   *

“Bertrand arrived every day at lunchtime,” Yvette began. “He brought roast beef sandwiches and fruit tarts and bags of sweets for the children. Sometimes he brought great bunches of flowers—roses and lilies and daisies—I always gave them to Françoise to take home so Henri wouldn't see them on the weekends.…” Yvette gazed at the crystal vase of tulips and her eyes clouded over.

“I'm finished.” Yvette put the manuscript on the antique desk.

It was late afternoon and sprinklers played on the lawn outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Françoise had taken the children to Antibes for ice cream and the house was quiet.

“Did you notice these villas smell like rotted wood?” Bertrand asked, sitting in a worn leather chair. He wore khaki pants and a white T-shirt and smoked an extralong cigarette. “The brochures describe them as ‘romantic' and ‘timeless' and American movie stars rent them for a fucking fortune. But if you're not careful you could be lying in bed and the ceiling might fall on top of you.”

“Will you take the manuscript to your editor?” Yvette asked.

“I'll mail it to Edouard at Hachette. He sends it on to Random House in London and Knopf in New York.” Bertrand shrugged, grinding the cigarette into an ashtray.

“You trust the French postal system?” Yvette raised an eyebrow.

“If I go to Paris, Edouard will force me to have lunch with bookstore owners and reviewers.” Bertrand frowned. “I'll have to eat escargot and drink red wine and listen to them moan about French culture.”

“That doesn't sound bad,” Yvette said, smiling.

“How am I supposed to write about misery and passion if I'm eating on fine china and sitting on a Louis Seize chair?”

Yvette glanced at the manuscript, bound with a blue ribbon. “I have to go to a dress fitting, I'll take it.”

“Does Henri know you go to Paris alone?” Bertrand asked.

“I'm not a prisoner here, I do whatever I want.”

Bertrand picked up the manuscript and placed it in Yvette's arms. “In that case, it's all yours. I will give you Edouard's address.”

“Are you sure you don't want to read it?” Yvette asked.

“Why would I read it”—Bertrand's dark eyes danced—“when I have complete faith in my translator?”

*   *   *

Yvette pulled out her compact as the train rolled into the Gare du Nord. During the train ride she had reread the manuscript, her stomach becoming a mass of butterflies. She even purchased a pack of cigarettes, hoping to calm her nerves. But she only smoked half a cigarette before she started choking and stubbed it out.

She painted her mouth with red lipstick and brushed her hair until it was a shiny black cap. She wore a red crepe Yves Saint Laurent dress from his latest collection. She paired it with a soft suede purse and patent leather pumps.

Yvette took a taxi to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and entered the brick building. The lobby was carpeted in a green shag rug and the walls were lined with framed book jackets. Yvette saw a photo of Bertrand in his early twenties: his shiny black hair was thick, his stomach was flat, and his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire.

“You must be Yvette.” A thin man wearing a dark blue suit appeared from an inner office. “My secretary told me you were here.”

Yvette followed him down a hallway to an office with large windows and a polished wood floor. There was a wide cherry desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.

“Trust Bertrand to hire a translator who's a beautiful woman,” Edouard said, motioning for Yvette to sit down.

Yvette's skin bristled. “I was a journalist before I got married, and I have read all Bertrand's books.”

“Bertrand's last book sold more copies in a year than all my other titles combined.” Edouard shrugged. “You are not alone.”

Yvette stared at Edouard's beaklike nose and gold Cartier watch, and her courage escaped her. She gave him the manuscript as if she were handing over a newborn baby.

“Do you mind if I wait while you read the first chapter?”

“You want me to read it now?” Edouard raised his eyebrow.

Yvette pulled herself up to her full height and tried to stop the nauseated feeling. “Yes, I do.”

Edouard sat down and untied the blue ribbon. He set the manuscript on the desk and quickly turned the pages. Yvette glanced at the clock and picked up a copy of
Le Monde
. She read
Paris Match
and
Hello!,
glancing up and studying Edouard's expression. Finally he set the manuscript aside and looked at Yvette.

“It's terrible, isn't it,” Yvette blurted out.

“It is true to the manuscript.” Edouard sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Yvette let out a deep breath. All the doubts that had been forming over the last month bubbled to the surface. She had transcribed page after page, looking for Bertrand's brilliance. But the plot was too simple, the characters weren't likable, the dialogue was stilted.

“I typed out fifteen pages of notes.” Edouard slumped in his chair. “Bertrand returned them with a letter saying I could write the fucking novel, and he'd eat duck
à
l'orange
at Tour d'Argent. Two weeks later he sent me a second draft; the only thing he'd changed is he added an
e
to his protagonist's name.”

“I thought it was me,” Yvette said. “I thought I ruined his story.”

“The public won't care, they'll read anything with his photo on the back cover.” Edouard frowned. “But the reviewers will skewer him; it will be a bloodbath.”