French Coast (22 page)

Serena said she had plans and they had a drink at the Carlton Bar. Charles ordered a bottle of Chateau Rothschild and they talked about the latest Woody Allen movie and the political climate in France.

Serena gazed at her father's green eyes and her mother's strawberry-blond hair and wished they were home in San Francisco. She pictured Sunday dinners at the cherry dining-room table. She remembered eating Niman Ranch steaks and talking about
Vogue
and Chase's run for mayor and the foggy San Francisco summer.

“We'll be home in three months,” Kate said when they stood in front of the Carlton-InterContinental waiting for their town car.

“I'll water the orchids,” Serena mumbled, furiously blinking back tears.

She watched her father talk to the driver and remembered her first year at summer camp. For months she looked forward to horseback riding and tennis and swimming in Lake Tahoe. But when she stood in front of her cabin and watched her parents drive away, she could barely stop herself from running after the car.

*   *   *

“It'll get easier,” Nick murmured, ladling spinach leaves and Camembert and orange slices onto a plate.

“I'm a grown woman and I'm acting like a ten-year-old.” Serena put her napkin on the plate and pushed back her chair. “I'm sorry, I'm not hungry.”

Nick took Serena's hand and led her to the sofa. He kissed her slowly, tasting of olive oil and sea salt. He kissed her harder, drawing her tightly against his chest. He slipped one hand under her skirt and slid his fingers deep inside her. His fingers moved faster until her tension was replaced by an exquisite release.

He kissed her on the lips. “I told you we should skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”

*   *   *

Nick cleared the dishes and Serena set the backgammon board on the coffee table. She knocked the pile of mail on the floor and reached down to pick the envelopes up. She noticed a thick envelope with a San Francisco return address.

“I thought I was the only girl you know from San Francisco,” Serena said as she held up the letter.

Nick put the tray of berries and whipped cream on the table and glanced at the envelope.

“It's from the Oracle America's Cup team, they want me to join the crew.”

“The America's Cup was more than a year ago,” Serena said, frowning.

“They're putting together a team to defend the trophy in 2016,” Nick explained.

“Aren't they based in San Francisco?” Serena asked, her stomach doing strange little flips.

“I told them I'm not interested,” Nick replied. “I've also been asked by the Emirates team and Luna Rossa.”

“You wouldn't consider it?”

“After the Vietnam War, veterans panicked every time they heard a lawn mower or a vacuum cleaner,” Nick said, sitting on the floral sofa. “The sound reminded them of choppers flying over the jungle. It's called post-traumatic stress disorder.”

She twisted her napkin, trying to think of what to say. She glanced at Nick but he was hunched over and his face was hidden by his hands.

“I'd do anything to be back on one of those huge catamarans, part of a team, winning,” he said as he picked up the dice. “But I'm afraid how I would react.”

“It was a long time ago,” Serena said finally. “You don't know how you'd feel.”

Nick threw the dice on the backgammon board. “That's the problem.”

*   *   *

Serena entered the Cary Grant Suite and curled up on a gold satin armchair. She had told Nick she had an early-morning deadline and couldn't sleep over. But all evening she had a queasy feeling, as if she'd eaten a bad piece of fruit. Even after she and Nick made love she had the sensation that she had forgotten something important.

She got up and walked to the sideboard. Room service had left an array of midnight snacks: crustless cucumber sandwiches, minipastries, chunks of Brie, and fresh apricots. She remembered when she arrived and was amazed by the pink marble floors, the ivory silk sofas, the spectacular view.

Now it seemed almost normal that her bed was perfectly made and the lotions and soaps in the bathroom replenished. She felt a small stab, like a pinprick, that soon all this would be gone. She'd be back in her apartment on Russian Hill watching
The Good Wife
and eating Whole Foods chicken.

She slipped on a robe and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and saw Nick's dark hair and blue eyes. She pictured his wide hands and long legs. Her eyes flew open and suddenly she knew why there was a tightness in her chest.

She wasn't upset about leaving the luxury of the Carlton-InterContinental or the beauty of Cannes. She was falling in love with Nick. She turned off the lights and slipped under the covers, wondering how she could make the feeling go away.

 

chapter twenty-two

“You look like the girls at university who drank scotch all night and spent the morning over the sink,” Zoe said.

Serena looked up from her copy of
Paris Match
. She had tried to sit down at her laptop, but the words danced on the screen. She finally curled up on the ivory silk love seat with a cup of vanilla tea and a stack of magazines.

“I drank one glass of red wine and went to bed at midnight,” Serena said, putting the magazine on the glass coffee table.

“I hope you're not coming down with something.” Zoe frowned. “I was stuck on a tour bus for four days, my immune system is shot.”

“I think I'm in love with Nick,” Serena replied. She wore a yellow cotton jumpsuit and her ponytail was tied with a silk ribbon. She wore no makeup except for clear lipgloss. “At first I thought it was just sex, that time in a new relationship when you can't get enough of each other.”

“I don't know actually,” Zoe mumbled. “Ian and I never made love.”

“You never had sex!” Serena exclaimed.

“There was my roommate's older brother at boarding school,” Zoe said, nibbling a croissant. “And the captain of the debate team at St. Andrew's, but Ian and I never got past second base.”

“You said he was about to propose.” Serena frowned.

“Ian treats me like a porcelain doll. He thinks because of the kidnapping I'm allergic to being touched.”

“Are you?” Serena asked.

“There was a man on the tour bus,” Zoe said slowly. “He had blond hair and blue eyes and the body of a Greek god. For four days we toured the vineyards in Provence and all I could think about was Gregg ripping off my clothes and fucking me on a bed of grapes.”

“You never felt that way about Ian?” Serena asked.

“Ian's idea of fun is exploring rock formations at Bondi Beach,” Zoe mused. “He's nice to kiss but I never had the desire to put his hand on my breast.”

“I hope you didn't do that on the tour bus.” Serena giggled.

“I didn't say a word,” Zoe sighed. “I couldn't even sample the French cheeses, I felt like my tongue was taped to the roof of my mouth.”

“You have to call Ian and tell him you want a break,” Serena insisted. “You can't marry someone you don't want to sleep with.”

“I don't want to hurt his feelings.” Zoe frowned.

Serena sipped her cup of vanilla tea. “It's better than breaking his heart.”

*   *   *

Serena and Zoe strolled along the Boulevard de la Croisette, stopping to look at the boutiques. Serena admired a gold bikini and pictured wearing it on Nick's catamaran.

“You haven't heard a word I said,” Zoe said, glancing at Serena curiously.

“I'm sorry.” Serena pulled her eyes from the bathing suit. “I'm a bit distracted.”

“I asked you about Nick.” Zoe wore a green linen Michael Kors dress. Her hair was brushed behind her ears and she wore emerald earrings.

“He's handsome and warm and funny,” Serena mused, strolling past Missoni and Chloé and Givenchy. They had decided to distract themselves by going shopping, but every outfit Serena saw—pink Lilly Pulitzer sundresses, white Fendi miniskirts, cotton sweaters at Courrèges—made her think of Nick. She pictured having dinner at Le Maurice, dancing at Bâoli, sharing early-morning croissants on the beach.

“He got an offer to join the Oracle America's Cup team in San Francisco,” Serena continued. “I pictured bicycling on Ocean Beach, hiking in Muir Woods, spending the weekend together and knowing I'd see him again on Monday.”

“I don't see the problem,” Zoe replied.

“He's afraid to race professionally, he told them he wasn't interested.” Serena twisted her ponytail. “I realized I didn't want to imagine life without him.”

“Have you told him?” Zoe asked.

“I'd spoil our time together and it wouldn't change anything.”

“Did I tell you Gregg is a watchmaker in Geneva? He has the most beautiful hands.” Zoe stood in front of a patisserie and gazed at the trays of rich desserts. “I know I'm in trouble when I'm not tempted by caramel custard and chocolate marzipan. I'm going back to the Carlton to take a cold shower.”

*   *   *

They walked through the revolving glass doors and entered the marble lobby. It was early afternoon and women carried shopping bags filled with gold and silver boxes. Serena saw couples lingering over cocktails and men smoking cigars and reading
Le Monde
.

“Laura sent a letter!” Malcolm rushed toward them. He wore a navy blazer over a red shirt and beige slacks. His cheeks were drawn and there were new lines around his eyes.

“What did she say?” Zoe glanced at the blue envelope covered with Australian stamps.

“I'd like you to open it.” Malcolm handed Zoe the letter.

“I can meet you upstairs,” Serena suggested.

“We're all going to hear it.” He took Zoe's and Serena's arms and led them to the Carlton Bar. “But first we're going to order a round of very dry martinis.”

*   *   *

“‘Dear Malcolm,'” Zoe began. “‘I'm pleased that you surfaced somewhere as pleasant as Cannes. When Zoe said you disappeared from Claridge's I was afraid you had done something drastic. I know life has been difficult. I remember the early years when we held fabulous dinner parties and the house was full of friends and music and laughter.

“‘I wish they had gone on forever and now we were doing the things we dreamed of: seeing the Acropolis in Greece, attending Mardi Gras in Venezuela.'” Zoe paused and looked at her father. “I think you should read the rest.”

“‘I tried to put the kidnapping behind me. If we had seen things the same, our life might be different,'” Malcolm read slowly. “‘Your recent apology was quite moving and I ruined some expensive makeup.'” Malcolm paused, his hand shaking. “‘If you had written it before I saw the photo of you and that very shapely brunette I might have reconsidered. Please tell Zoe to come home soon; her social calendar is filling up. I'm sure the South of France will treat you well, the French love a man with a title.'”

Serena glanced from Malcolm to Zoe, remembering the dozens of interviews she had conducted. She was always able to say something to break an awkward silence. But Zoe's cheeks were white and Malcolm looked like he'd received a death sentence.

“There's something else in the envelope.” Zoe handed it to her father.

Malcolm stared at the picture of himself kissing a dark-haired woman wearing a low-cut red dress and silver stilettos. He saw the Boulevard de la Croisette in the background and the yachts bobbing in the harbor.

Malcolm threw a hundred-euro note on the table and pushed back his chair. He strode across the lobby and entered the elevator.

“What do we do now?” Zoe moaned, scooping up a handful of pistachios and popping them in her mouth.

 

chapter twenty-three

“I missed you this morning,” Nick said on the phone. “I had to eat a mushroom omelet and fresh-picked strawberries by myself.”

“You're making me hungry.” Serena surveyed the glass dining-room table. Her laptop was surrounded by a cup of cold coffee, a plate of crackers, and yellow notepads covered with Post-its. “I've put myself under house arrest. I'm not leaving the suite until I write two thousand words.”

“I thought you left because I beat you at backgammon.” Nick laughed. “We could have a rematch tonight. I'll make poached cod with stuffed artichokes and we'll play strip backgammon in front of the fireplace.”

Serena pictured Nick's small apartment with the slanting wood floors and floral sofa. She saw the wooden bookshelves and the brick fireplace and the wide windows overlooking the bay. She closed her eyes and smelled butter and garlic and cloves.

“It sounds heavenly, but Chelsea already thinks I spend my time eating escargots and drinking dry martinis on the sand,” Serena replied.

“Tomorrow night I'm taking you to Z Plage,” Nick insisted. “There's someone very important I'd like you to meet.”

“I don't know if I can.” Serena hesitated. “Zoe is worried about her father, I shouldn't leave her alone.”

“You can't leave Cannes without eating at Z Plage,” Nick continued. “The fish is roasted in a clay oven and they have fireworks on the beach. We'll bring Zoe one of their chocolate soufflés.”

“Breathing salt air sounds lovely,” Serena mused. “I could sneak away for a couple of hours.”

“I'll pick you up at seven
P.M
.,” Nick replied. “Wear something that's easy to take off, I don't want to fight with zippers and buttons.”

“You have to work for your reward.” Serena twisted her ponytail.

“I'll work for it.” Nick's voice was low. “After I take off your clothes.”

*   *   *

Serena walked to the window and gazed at the sparkling Mediterranean. It was early evening and the fishermen pulled their catches to shore. Waiters wrapped up yellow umbrellas and dragged beach chairs across the sand. Serena watched the streetlights turn on and heard the sound of soft jazz.