French Coast (15 page)

“Yvette's story is coming together,” Serena said as she glanced at her laptop. “I think you'll be pleased.”

“Harry Ames called me, he's worried about you.”

“The publisher?” Serena asked.

She had only met Harry Ames once, at
Vogue
's New York Christmas party at the Carlyle. He kept tapping his fingers on his glass of eggnog, and Serena felt he'd rather be talking to Donna Karan or Ashley Olsen or anyone besides an editorial assistant.

“Someone gave him a copy of the
Chronicle
and he read the story about your father.”

Serena clutched the phone so tightly she thought it would break. “I haven't seen it.”

“‘Retired senator has kept a second family secret for thirty years, his wife and daughter are devastated,'” Chelsea continued.

Serena felt the room tip and sat quickly on an ivory silk armchair. She tried to answer but her throat closed up and her heart raced.

“I told Harry you're staying in a luxury suite at the Carlton-InterContinental sipping Moët and Chandon and eating foie gras.” Chelsea paused. “He thought maybe I should send you home and assign someone else to Yvette.”

Serena pictured Chelsea in her Hervé Léger dress, perched on the side of her desk. She remembered Chelsea saying if Serena didn't want to go to Cannes, she'd write someone else's name on the Air France ticket.

“I haven't had time to think about anything but Yvette,” Serena replied brightly. “She's spilled some secrets that will shock you.”

“They better knock the socks off the fashion world or Harry Ames is going to serve me as lunch to the board of directors.” Chelsea was quiet and Serena thought she'd hung up. “You're the best writer I have; don't let me think I've made a mistake.”

Serena hung up and sank back against the satin cushions. She was desperate to read the article about Senator Charles Woods, but she didn't have time for self-pity. She had to see Yvette and then she had to sit at her computer and write the best story that ever crossed Chelsea's desk.

*   *   *

“Serena!” Yvette opened the door of the Sophia Loren Suite.

Yvette wore a red linen dress with a wide white hat. Her cheeks were dusted with blush and she wore thick mascara and red lipstick.

“I was visiting a friend,” Yvette said as she took off her hat. “She's quite sick, I thought I'd dress up and take her to lunch. There's nothing like eating soufflé and watching the sailboats to lift one's spirits.

“We've been friends for years,” Yvette continued, smoothing her hair. “Isn't it funny how much time we waste on men when our female friendships last a lifetime.”

Serena took out her notepad and waited while Yvette poured a cup of vanilla tea.

“It's impossible to see that when we're young.” Yvette curled up on a peach silk armchair. “We only know desire, the feeling that starts in your loins and makes everything else seem completely unimportant.”

*   *   *

“I want you to go to a party with me,” Bertrand announced, leaning against the fireplace mantel.

It was late afternoon and Yvette had been working for hours on Bertrand's manuscript. Her back ached and her stomach felt stretched like a balloon.

“What kind of party?” Yvette asked.

“A Hollywood producer is interested in
Pays de Cocagne
. Edouard is in New York and he doesn't trust me to go by myself,” Bertrand replied, lighting a cigarette. “He's still angry that I refused to go on a book tour. I wrote the damn thing, do I have to recite it like a fucking parrot?”

“You want me to go to a cocktail party?” Yvette raised her eyebrow.

“Edouard does, he seems to like you,” Bertrand said, then inhaled deeply. “Are you sure you didn't sleep with him?”

Yvette felt the baby kick against her cotton dress.

“I'll go.” She nodded. “But you have to stop smoking, the smell is making me nauseated.”

*   *   *

Yvette stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room, painting her lips with Lancôme lipstick. She told herself she was going to the party because Edouard asked her to, but she knew she wanted to stay close to Bertrand.

Some afternoons after he left she crept up to her bedroom and closed the curtains. She lay on the king-size bed and stroked herself, picturing Bertrand's dark eyes and cocky smile. She touched her nipples and moved her fingers against her wet mound until her body shuddered in long waves. Only when the baby kicked and she needed to go to the bathroom did she get up and splash cold water on her face.

*   *   *

“It's a shame your husband is missing the party,” Bertrand said as they approached a white villa flanked by palm trees. “He hasn't spent much time in Antibes; is there trouble in paradise?”

Yvette bent down to adjust her heel. She wore a pale pink maternity dress and white leather sandals. Her dark hair curled around her neck and she wore small diamond studs.

“Henri is in London,” Yvette said, bristling. “He's in the middle of an acquisition.”

“I hear it's raining in London.” Bertrand climbed the stone steps. “I hope he took his raincoat.”

*   *   *

Yvette stood by the bar, sipping a Shirley Temple. The living room had an oak floor covered with Oriental rugs. Leather sofas were scattered around the room and two afghan hounds slept next to a glass coffee table.

“American women have no fashion sense,” Bertrand observed. He wore white linen slacks and a white T-shirt. He held a scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Yvette gazed at the women in hot-pink miniskirts and platform shoes and wished she'd stayed at the villa. She'd never attended a party without Henri, and she felt suddenly shy and out of place.

Bertrand was swept away by a blond man in a navy silk suit and Yvette examined the array of fruits and cheeses.

“Your husband is very handsome,” a female voice said. “I'm sure you'll have a beautiful baby.”

Yvette looked up and saw a young woman with blue eyes and straight blond hair. She wore a turquoise miniskirt with a gold chain belt.

“He's not my husband.” Yvette blushed.

“Everyone said the French were progressive,” the girl said, filling a plate with crackers and duck pâté. “In Ohio you still get a ring before you make a baby.”

“I am married but Bertrand is not my husband.” Yvette flashed her wedding band. “He is a novelist, we are friends.”

“That's the author everyone's talking about,” the girl said, glancing at Bertrand curiously. “I imagined him younger, with thicker hair.”

“Bertrand is a wonderful writer,” Yvette said stiffly, filling a plate with wedges of Edam and slices of melon.

“He has quite the reputation,” the girl replied, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “If he's not taken, I think I'll say hello.”

Yvette watched the girl cross the room and touch Bertrand's arm. She saw Bertrand lean close, his shoulder brushing her breast. She saw the girl flutter long fake eyelashes and whisper in his ear. She saw him take her hand and lead her into the hallway.

Yvette dropped the plate on the side table. She clutched her stomach and ran to the bathroom. She stood in front of the beveled mirror, retching into the pink marble basin.

*   *   *

“You can't go to Paris,” Bertrand fumed. “I'm on a fucking deadline. You have to finish translating the manuscript.”

“And I'm having a baby.” Yvette sat at her desk writing a list for Françoise. “My doctor insists I come in for an appointment.”

“You had an appointment last week.” Bertrand paced around the living room, clutching his straw hat. “It's not so hard to have a baby; you wait nine months and it pops out.”

“Something about test results.” Yvette kept her eyes on her notepad. “I'll return in a few days.”

*   *   *

Yvette had woken up the morning after the party and knew she couldn't stay in Antibes. Being around Bertrand kept her body in a state of alert. Her blood pressure was raised and the pulsing between her legs was a mix of the most exquisite pleasure and sharpest pain.

She would write him a letter and say the doctor insisted she finish her pregnancy in Paris. He could mail the manuscript and she would complete it in her apartment. The children might be angry that their days at the beach were cut short, but when Henri returned from London he could take them paddle boating in the Bois de Boulogne.

Yvette slept during the train ride, her body filled with a wonderful sense of relief. The train pulled into the Gare du Nord and she gazed out the window, waiting for the conductor to open the doors.

She saw a man kissing a blond woman wearing a short white dress. She pictured kissing Bertrand in public, his smooth cheek touching hers, his hand reaching beneath her skirt.

The couple pulled apart and Yvette saw the man had short brown hair, blue eyes, and a dark suntan. She thrust her face against the glass and saw it was Henri. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and linen shorts as if he'd just returned from vacation.

Yvette's cheeks turned white and her skin felt like ice. She stayed in her seat until the conductor announced the train was leaving. She stood up shakily and descended onto the platform. She walked to the ticket counter and bought a ticket on the first train back to Nice.

 

chapter fourteen

Serena jogged down the promenade, breathing the scent of hyacinths and bougainvillea. She had woken early and sat at her computer, eagerly transcribing her notes. She didn't stop until the maids knocked on the door and replaced the platters of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast with grilled vegetables and cold consommé.

She bent down to tie her shoelace and suddenly a camera flashed in her face. She stood up and saw a man with a black Nikon. He snapped another photo and raced down the dock, his camera bouncing against his thigh.

“What do you think you're doing?” Serena demanded, running after him.

She tripped on a plank and fell hard against the wood. She heard yelling and saw a tall man with wavy dark hair holding the camera over the water. The photographer shouted in French and the dark-haired man shoved the camera against his chest.

“Are you all right?” Nick bent down.

“He took my picture.” Serena tried to sit up. Her hands were scraped and her knee was bleeding.

“It's not going to do him much good if I have the memory card.” Nick grinned, opening his palm to display a small red card.

Serena tried to stand but her knee buckled and she sat quickly on the dock. Nick crouched down and examined her knee. He put her arms around his neck and gently scooped her up.

“Where are we going?” Serena asked.

“You don't want it to get infected,” Nick replied, stepping onto the deck of a white catamaran.

Serena leaned against beige cushions while Nick disappeared into the cabin. Her head throbbed and her throat was dry.

“I've never seen paparazzi chase a journalist.” Nick returned with a silver first-aid kit. He dabbed her knee with disinfectant and wrapped it in a gauze bandage.

“Don't tell me you're a doctor,” Serena said as she winced.

“All sailors know first aid.” Nick shrugged. “Are you sure you're not a famous movie star?”

Serena opened her mouth but no sound came out. Suddenly she wanted to go home so badly she couldn't breathe. She wanted to run along Crissy Field with Chase, join her parents for dinner at the Yacht Club, make love on her own cotton sheets.

“You're crying,” Nick said, and handed her a handkerchief.

“I'm not.” Serena wiped her eyes.

Nick crossed his arms and studied her carefully. He strode across the deck and brought up the anchor. He unfurled the sails, letting them catch in the breeze.

“What are you doing?” Serena asked.

Nick grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “I'm taking you sailing.”

*   *   *

“Are you always a knight in shining armor?” Serena asked, lifting her face to the sun.

They didn't talk until the boat was skimming across the waves, the shore becoming a distant blur. Serena forgot how wonderful it felt to fly across the water, the wind whipping her hair, the salty spray touching her cheeks.

“When I was a kid I found wounded birds and took them home to fix their wings.”

“That must have made your mother happy.” Serena smiled.

“She complained they carried diseases,” Nick replied. “But she never sent them away until they could fly.”

Nick tossed the anchor over the side. He disappeared into the cabin and returned with a tray of crackers and cheese and two bottles of sparkling soda.

“No Boy Scout cookies?” Serena asked.

“Are you going to tell me why that photographer was chasing you or do I have to turn you in to the French intelligence agency?”

Serena sipped a bottle of soda and slowly told Nick about growing up in San Francisco and Paris and Washington. She told him how her parents were like doubles partners in tennis, always watching each other's backs.

She told him about Chase and how he had his sights set on the White House. She described the planned engagement party: a twelve-piece band in a white tent on her parents' lawn. She told him about the article in the
San Francisco Chronicle
and Chase unearthing the birth certificate with her father's name on it.

“Your fiancé broke up with you because of an anonymous letter about something that happened almost thirty years ago,” Nick said, frowning. He sat on the deck, his long legs spread in front of him, the sun glinting in his hair.

“Yes.” Serena nodded.

“I was wrong; he's not going to wake up in the morning and think he made a mistake.” Nick's forehead knotted together. “He's going to lie awake at night and realize he's the biggest fool.”