French Coast (2 page)

“You don't even know me,” Serena murmured.

“I'm Chase Barnett.” The man grinned, holding out his hand.

“Serena Woods.” Serena felt his long fingers brush against hers.

She looked at him more closely. He had brown eyes and long lashes that belonged on a girl. His shirt was buttoned wrong, as if he had been in a hurry and missed a button.

“Serena Woods, born June fifteenth, 1986, at San Francisco Presbyterian Hospital. I've followed your father's career from the beginning: graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in political science, spent a year backpacking around India, married Kate Chisholm, became the father of a beautiful baby girl, ran successfully for mayor of Santa Rosa, then state senator, and California's youngest treasurer. Followed by a failed attempt at governor of California—the only race he ever lost—four years as the French consul general in Paris, and now the U.S. senator from California.”

“You sound like a walking history book.” Serena giggled. Chase stood with his hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed in concentration.

“He's my hero,” Chase said simply. “He's passionate about foreign policy and on the forefront of energy conservation.”

“He drives my mother crazy with his periodicals and newspapers,” Serena said, and nodded. “But he wants to leave the world a better place.”

“I've wanted to be in politics since I was eleven,” Chase said, gazing at the photos of Charles shaking hands with President Obama and Hillary Clinton. “I want to help change the world.”

Serena studied him carefully. She had met many of her father's admirers over the years: serious men with short, slicked-back hair wearing pin-striped suits. Chase looked more like an overgrown surfer, with sparkling eyes and a dimple on his cheek.

Serena stood up and walked around the desk. She wore a knit dress she had slipped on because it wouldn't wrinkle on the train, and her blond hair was tied in a high ponytail. She wore ballet flats, and the top of her head reached Chase's chin.

Serena put her fingers on his shirt. She carefully unbuttoned the top buttons, feeling the smooth fabric beneath her fingers, then rebuttoned them and fixed his collar.

“If you're going to be a politician”—she stepped back, admiring her handiwork—“first you're going to have to learn how to button your shirt.”

*   *   *

Serena gazed around the attic at boxes separated into neat stacks. The attic took up the third floor of the house and contained furniture, books, clothes, paintings from the cities where her parents had lived. Her mother said there was no point in owning a mansion the size of a city block if it couldn't hold all your memories.

Serena searched until she found the boxes marked “PARIS” and carefully removed the tape. She found French cookbooks and theater programs. There was a yearbook from the International School with a picture of her in a navy uniform and her hair in blond braids. At the bottom of the second box she found a pile of magazines tied with a yellow ribbon.

Serena picked them up and sat cross-legged on the floor. She untied the ribbon and spread the covers in front of her: gorgeous French models with impossibly long legs wearing impossibly short skirts.

Serena flipped to the Letter from the Editor and saw Yvette Renault's picture. She had silky black hair, large brown eyes, and a long patrician nose. She wore her trademark strand of black pearls and an oversize emerald on her finger. Underneath the photo were the words
Vivez la vie au maximum
and Yvette's spiderlike signature.

Serena sat back and thought about Chelsea's visit to her office that afternoon. Serena had been choosing photos for her interview with Jennifer Lawrence when Chelsea burst into the room.

“If I ate red meat at lunch I'd nap all afternoon,” Chelsea said as she surveyed the remainder of Serena's roast beef sandwich on rye and a sliced dill pickle. “I have a green smoothie chased by a bowl of edamame. I'm afraid I'll glance in the mirror and look like Shrek.”

“Hardly,” Serena said, putting aside the photos. Chelsea had been a top runway model before she got a degree from Brown. She had long shapely legs and small, childlike breasts. She complained she'd never know the joy of owning a push-up bra, but every outfit she put on—Alexander McQueen dresses, Chloé miniskirts, Jil Sander cigarette pants—looked like a million dollars.

“How would you like to take a break from writing about the best way to wear a bustier and go to the South of France?” Chelsea perched on the edge of Serena's desk. She wore a turquoise Hervé Léger dress and Proenza Schouler wedges. Her brown hair was shaped in a pixie cut and her mouth was coated with dark red lipstick.

“Are you firing me?” Serena asked, flashing on her latest feature, on Cameron Diaz. Perhaps her questions had been too personal and Cameron's publicist called Chelsea in a rage.

“Yvette Renault, the legendary editor of French
Vogue,
is writing her memoir. She is looking for a cowriter and saw your pieces in
Vogue
.”

“She wants me to write her memoir?” Serena gaped. She remembered seeing Yvette's face plastered in
Vogue
when her father was the consul general in Paris. She wore impeccably cut wool suits and towering heels. Serena read she was almost six feet in her stocking feet.

“You're fluent in French and you've written some brilliant celebrity profiles,” Chelsea said as she examined her long red fingernails. “Plus she said she'd give American
Vogue
exclusive excerpts. It's going to be juicy. Yvette launched the careers of France's top models and had a relationship with Bertrand Roland. No one knew if she was his personal secretary or his mistress.”

“Didn't he win the Prix Goncourt?” Serena frowned.

“He was even more famous for how many women he got in his bed,” Chelsea mused. “Yvette was married, to a very Catholic husband.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Serena replied. “Why the South of France?”

“She's staying at the Carlton-InterContinental in Cannes,” Chelsea said. “I'd give anything to stroll down the Boulevard de la Croisette and watch the yachts in the harbor. But I've got a staff of English majors, and if I leave the office they forget how to turn on the coffeepot.”

“How long would I be gone?” Serena suddenly flashed on Chase announcing his candidacy.

“Do you have a problem with being surrounded by dark-haired men wearing white linen suits? I read Cannes has more handsome men per capita than any other city in Europe.”

“You made that up,” Serena replied, giggling. “I'm not interested in other men. Chase is going to announce his run for mayor soon and I need to be here.”

Chelsea eyed Serena carefully. “I didn't take you as a ‘behind the podium' kind of woman, I thought you wanted a career.”

“Of course I want a career.” Serena sat up straight, rearranging her beige Zac Posen skirt. She had worked so hard for this: three years in New York as an editorial assistant, two years in San Francisco as a features writer, and then finally the title of features editor and her own office with a narrow view of the Bay Bridge.

“Then say yes, and I'll reserve a room at the Carlton.” Chelsea blew a speck of dust from the front of her dress. “Make sure you write me lots of postcards; I'll put them on my desk and drool over the elegant boutiques and outdoor cafés. I've only been there once, but the window shopping was better than sex.”

“Can I let you know tomorrow?” Serena twisted her ponytail the way she did when she was nervous.

Chelsea hopped off the desk and walked to the door. She twisted the door handle and turned around. “Let me know by noon, or I'll have to write someone else's name on an Air France ticket to Paris.”

*   *   *

Serena flipped through the magazine, trying to learn about Yvette. She always liked to know her subjects: Did Jennifer Garner advocate public or private schools for her children? What was Gwyneth Paltrow's biggest fashion disaster? When she interviewed Katie Holmes, Serena arrived with a box of Sprinkles salted caramel cupcakes, and by the end of the hour Katie had told her everything about Tom Cruise.

Serena closed the last magazine and twisted her ponytail. She knew Yvette loved the ballet, was an ardent admirer of Oscar de la Renta, and detested the use of fur. But she hadn't revealed anything about her personal life; there was no mention of Bertrand or a cuckolded husband.

Serena walked to the window, gazing at the wide stretch of bay and the sun setting behind the Oakland hills. She imagined sitting on a sun-soaked balcony with Yvette, hearing her stories about legendary French houses: Yves Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Chanel. Then she thought about Chase, straining like a horse at the starting gate to start his campaign, and Chelsea's veiled warning. She taped the boxes shut and hurried down the stairs.

 

chapter two

Serena pressed the buzzer and waited for Chase to walk upstairs. She wore a pink-and-yellow Kate Spade dress with a wide leather belt. Her hair fell in a smooth wave and she wore Brian Atwood flats on her feet.

She gazed at her reflection in the mirror and tamed a few loose strands of hair. Chase insisted they eat at local restaurants—PlumpJack, Boulevard, Emerald—at least twice a week. Chase pumped the hands of the maître d' and the chef and Serena smiled over glasses of Napa Valley chardonnay and plates of grilled halibut.

“You look gorgeous,” Chase said, and kissed her on the mouth. “And you smell even better.”

“You look pretty good yourself.” Serena smiled, musing how Chase's wardrobe had evolved. The tweed blazers and khakis had been replaced by Brioni suits and hand-tailored dress shirts from Wilkes Bashford. He wore his hair a little shorter and had a wardrobe of fine silk ties.

“I want voters to see me as someone who aims high,” Chase would say, glancing at the tie selection at Neiman Marcus. “Someone who can receive a foreign delegation, woo start-ups, pave the streets of San Francisco with gold.”

Sometimes when Chase slept over and they lay in bed, sweaty and elated from sex, she could almost taste his ambition. She would listen to his heartbeat and feel his arm thrown across her waist and wonder what he would do if he lost. Then she'd glance at his firm jaw and his smooth cheeks and knew that wasn't possible. Even asleep, he had winner written all over him.

Occasionally she'd thought about asking her mother what it was like to be married to someone who was consumed by his work. She had watched her mother stand at her father's side at fund-raisers, attend endless ribbon cuttings and hospital openings, always dressed in flawless Chanel. But then she saw her father squeeze her mother's hand, watched him rub her shoulders at the end of a long day, and knew he loved her more than anything. They were a perfect couple, like ice skaters skating to their own melody.

*   *   *

Chase drove the silver Fiat down Polk Street and Serena debated how to tell him about Cannes. She decided to wait till after dinner, when they'd be sitting at a window-side table, full of wild mushroom risotto and coconut sorbet. She checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror and felt Chase take her hand. He held it in his lap like a talisman, looking over and smiling his confident, white smile.

“I thought we were going to Greens,” Serena said, frowning when Chase passed the restaurant and continued on Lombard Street toward the Marina.

“Your father asked me to check on his boat.” Chase pulled into the parking lot of the St. Francis Yacht Club. “He left some papers in the cabin.”

Her father's boat was his pride and joy, a sleek white catamaran with
SERENA
written on it in bold red letters. He spent every free moment polishing her wood, grooming her sails, taking her on cruises under the Golden Gate Bridge to the Farallon Islands.

The main cabin had pine floors, soft leather sofas, and a fridge stocked with California wines and bottles of pale ale. There was a large globe and a mahogany table with a backgammon set and an ivory chessboard.

Serena stepped into the cabin and let her eyes adjust to the dark. She smelled the rich, sweet fragrance of roses. Roses were everywhere. They were scattered over the plank floor, strewn on the sofa, filling the sideboard in crystal vases. There were yellow roses in the fruit bowl and a great bunch of peach roses in an empty milk jug.

“What's going on?” Serena asked, and turned to Chase.

“From the moment I saw you in your father's study, I knew you were the woman I wanted by my side,” Chase said, and kneeled on the wood floor. “You're incredibly beautiful, talented, and smarter than I'll ever be. Together we're going to do great things, make the world a better place. Serena Woods, will you marry me?”

Serena felt her knees buckle. Her eyes filled with tears and she saw Chase take a velvet box out of his pocket. He carefully pried it open and displayed a large square diamond resting between two emeralds on a white gold band.

“My grandmother's diamond,” Serena whispered.

“Your father insisted I use it.” Chase squeezed her hand. “I had it reset with emeralds to match your eyes.”

Serena froze, her mind whirring. Their conversations revolved around Chase's run for mayor, his long hours at the law firm, Serena's job. She knew when they talked about his plans for the governorship or the White House that it would be as husband and wife. But that seemed far off, as if it would happen to a more mature, grown-up couple sometime in the future.

For a moment she flashed on Chase's decision to announce his candidacy and a queasy feeling formed in her stomach. She pictured standing beside Chase in front of city hall, the diamond ring glinting on her finger. Could he possibly want the journalists to mention that he was engaged to Senator Woods's daughter when they printed their stories? But then she pictured the giant bunches of sunflowers that arrived at her office, the texts he sent a dozen times a day. Chase showed her he loved her in a million different ways.