French Coast (24 page)

“Nick thinks if he tells people his sister is a dancer they won't talk about anything else,” V said, and pretended to pout.

“You're not just a dancer, you're one of the most famous ballerinas in Europe. I thought it would be fun to wait until you two met,” Nick said, grinning at V. “You're quite capable of talking about yourself.”

“I saw you perform at the San Francisco opera house,” Serena gushed. “Your Giselle was breathtaking.”

“You see,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “You two are going to talk about ballet all night.”

Serena glanced at Nick and felt a warm jolt, like a small earthquake. She grabbed his hand and held it firmly in her palm.

“I promise we'll talk about other things after I ask V what it's like to dance under Piers Leon and be the youngest ballerina to ever perform Giselle.”

*   *   *

They sat at a round table on the sand and ordered cucumber martinis and mussels in a wine sauce. Nick selected lobster linguine with spinach shoots and a platter of sliced melon and San Daniele ham.

“I haven't smelled butter in so long,” V said as she picked up a fresh bread roll. “When we perform we eat the same meal every night. One baked potato, a piece of grilled chicken, and Jell-O for dessert. Other women fantasize about Leonardo DiCaprio, I dream about profiteroles.”

“You can eat anything you like,” Nick told her as he wrapped a slice of melon in ham. “When we were children you always stole my chocolate cake.”

“Now I have to watch every ounce.” V tore a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. “If I eat an extra slice of toast I can't fit into my tutu.”

“I thought the fashion world was difficult,” Serena said, smiling. “I can't imagine what it's like to be a dancer.”

“Serena is a features editor for
Vogue
in San Francisco,” Nick explained. “She's in Cannes writing a story.”

“You work for
Vogue
!” V exclaimed. “Has Nick shown you Chantal's pictures?”

“Who is Chantal?” Serena asked.

“Nick never likes to talk about Chantal.” V shrugged. “I remember when we visited him at prep school, none of Nick's teachers knew his mother was one of the most beloved models in France.”

“Chantal lives in Antibes.” Nick's voice was tight. “She's retired and she's very private.”

Serena looked at her plate, trying to think of something to say. She glanced at Nick but he was hunched over his plate.

“I see an old friend,” V said as she jumped up. “Excuse me, I'll be right back.”

“I was going to tell you about Chantal,” Nick said finally.

“You don't have to tell me anything.” Serena's voice shook. “We hardly know each other.”

“My mother started modeling after my father died,” Nick began. “She wasn't tall enough to do runway, but she had the most beautiful features. She became the face of Lancôme and was on the cover of
Vogue
and
Elle
. She retired a few years ago, she said women should grow old in private.” Nick's eyes grew dark and he stared at his plate. “It turned out she didn't have to worry; she was diagnosed with inoperable cancer.”

“I'm sorry.” Serena froze. Suddenly she felt foolish for being hurt that Nick hadn't confided in her.

“It's one of the reasons I came back to Cannes, I didn't want her to die alone,” Nick continued. “I was trying to find the right time to ask you to meet her.”

“I would love to meet her.” Serena glanced at Nick and her eyes filled with tears. “Your mother was a famous model and your sister is a world-class ballerina. Is there anything else you aren't telling me?”

Nick wrapped linguine around his fork. He ate spinach shoots and sweet baby tomatoes. He took Serena's hand and traced a circle around her palm.

“Maybe one thing,” he whispered. “I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Serena kissed him slowly, tasting cucumbers and vodka. She closed her eyes and heard the waves lapping against the shore. She kissed him again and felt her heart hammering in her chest.

*   *   *

“Cannes never changes.” V sighed, scraping up the last bite of crème brûlée. “I should hang up my point shoes and spend my days playing in the sand.”

“It's beautiful everywhere you turn.” Serena nodded, gazing at the lights on the Boulevard de la Croisette.

It was almost dark and she could see the coastline from Nice to Monaco. White villas perched on the hillside and pastel-colored apartments lined the narrow streets. She felt Nick's hand on her thigh and a shiver ran down her spine.

Ever since Nick said he was falling in love with her she had been in a heightened state. The melon tasted sweeter, the martini was stronger, the crème brûlée was impossibly rich and delicious. She listened to Nick and V talk about Cannes and his new sailboat and felt like she had been inducted into a secret society.

“I feel like walking,” V announced after Nick paid the check. “Let's go to Nick's apartment and play old CDs. I have a box of nineties music—when I was a girl I wanted to be Madonna.”

“I always knew I wanted to work in fashion.” Serena clasped Nick's hand. “When we lived in Paris my mother took me to the runway shows.”

“I used to raid my mother's wardrobe.” V nodded. “She collected the most divine outfits from photo shoots: Lanvin, Givenchy, Valentino.”

*   *   *

They climbed the three flights of stairs to Nick's apartment. Serena put the bunch of roses in a glass vase and filled the coffeepot. V disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a cardboard box.

“I stash a lot of my things here,” she said as she sat cross-legged on the sofa. “We never stay in one city long enough, and I'm too lazy to get my own place. Then I'd have to pay the water and garbage bills and water the plants.”

Serena poured three cups of coffee and sat next to V on the sofa. She watched her pull out a stack of CDs and a pile of magazines. V found a copy of French
Vogue
and flipped through the pages.

“Here's Chantal.” She handed it to Serena. “Isn't she beautiful?”

Serena gazed at the two-page spread of a woman with large brown eyes. She had glossy chestnut hair and full red lips. Her eyes were framed by thick eyelashes and she had high cheekbones like Elizabeth Taylor.

Serena looked at the pictures closely and a chill ran down her spine. She glanced at V and saw her untie her scarf. V shook her long blond hair over shoulders and twisted it into a bun.

“She doesn't look like you,” Serena said, trying to stop her hands from shaking.

“Nick got her coloring,” V said, sipping her cup of coffee. “I take after our father.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” Serena asked.

V dug through the box, bringing up programs from
Swan Lake
and
The Nutcracker
. She had a newspaper clipping about the America's Cup and a picture of Nick standing in front of a huge catamaran. Finally she found a yellowed photo of a man and a woman and two children.

“It's the only one I can find.” V handed it to Serena. “Dad was always the photographer, so he's never in the photos.”

Serena glanced at the photo of a pretty brunette standing next to a man with blond hair and green eyes. She looked more closely and noticed the man's angular cheekbones and dimple on his chin. She opened her mouth to say something, but the room spun and she slid to the floor.

*   *   *

“Are you all right?” Nick stood over her. He held a damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“I'm fine.” Serena pressed the cloth against her forehead. She tried to stand up but her legs felt like jelly.

“Why don't you lie down,” Nick suggested.

“I should go home, I just remembered I promised Chelsea another five hundred words.” Serena's hands were clammy and she couldn't catch her breath.

“I'll walk back to the Carlton with you,” Nick insisted.

“No!” Serena exclaimed, biting her lip. “I don't want to drag you away from V.” Serena turned to V. “Could I borrow that copy of
Vogue
? It might be an interesting addition to my story.”

“Of course.” V gave her a quick hug. “I had so much fun. It's been so long since I stayed up past eight
P.M
. and talked about anything except pliés.”

“I'm coming downstairs.” Nick put his hand on Serena's arm. “I don't want you to fall down the stairs.”

*   *   *

“Are you sure you're all right?” Nick asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I must have eaten a bad mussel,” Serena replied. “I'll walk it off and be good as new.”

Nick wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the mouth. He released her, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“I meant what I said at dinner. I know we live in different places”—he looked at her and his eyes were like sapphires—“but I've never felt like this before; we can make it work.”

Serena smelled his musk shampoo and wanted to bury her face in his chest. She remembered the yellowed photo and wanted to run as fast as she could. She started walking down the narrow cobblestones and stopped and turned around.

“Why is your sister called V?”

“It's short for Veronique,” Nick replied. “When I was a kid I couldn't say her name, so my father gave her a nickname.” He grabbed her hand. “You didn't answer my question.”

“I didn't know it was a question.” Serena turned and ran down the hill.

*   *   *

Serena paced around the living room of the Cary Grant Suite. She had come home and changed into a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweats. She added a cashmere sweater and slippers but she couldn't get warm. She sat on the ivory silk sofa and wrapped her arms around her chest.

She remembered the boy in the photo Chase had shown her was named Giles and thought she had made a mistake. But she flashed on Nick saying when he arrived at boarding school he didn't fit in. Maybe he thought Giles sounded too French and gave himself an American name. She recalled her father's description of the young girl who threw her arms around him at the Carlton-InterContinental and knew she couldn't be wrong.

She picked up the copy of
Vogue
and gazed at the photos. Chantal's eyes were liquid pools and her skin was like honey. She had the kind of beauty that made you forget other women existed.

Serena flipped to the front of the magazine and scanned the Letter from the Editor. She saw Yvette's photo and her spiderlike signature, and the rest of the page blurred. She grabbed her purse and ran down the hallway to the Sophia Loren Suite.

*   *   *

“Serena!” Yvette answered the door. She wore a red silk robe and black slippers. Her silvery hair was smooth and her skin glistened with oils. “It's almost midnight, has something happened?”

“You discovered Chantal, you've known her for years.” Serena tossed the magazine on the coffee table. “I want to know everything, I want to know the real reason I'm here.”

Yvette picked up the magazine. “Where did you get this?”

“From the sister of someone I've become close with.” Serena's shoulders shook. “Do you have any idea what you've done?”

“Let me pour you a drink.” Yvette walked to the bar and filled two shot glasses.

“I don't want a drink, I want to know how you could let Chantal write that letter,” Serena raged.

“Chantal didn't write the letter; I did,” Yvette said quietly.

“You wrote the letter to the
San Francisco Chronicle
?” Serena demanded.

“Chantal couldn't bear that her children would have no one after she'd gone.” Yvette slumped in a peach silk armchair. “She doesn't know I wrote the letter; it was my idea.”

Serena picked up the shot glass and swallowed the brandy. “Tell me everything, right from the beginning.”

“I met Jeanne at a party at Ralph Lauren's villa. I was already editor in chief of French
Vogue,
but we still spent a month every summer in Antibes.…”

*   *   *

“You don't look like you are enjoying yourself,” Yvette said, standing next to a dark-haired woman with brown eyes and long eyelashes.

The villa had high ceilings and polished wood floors. The walls were lined with Picassos and Manets and a white grand piano stood in the corner. Waiters in white tuxedos passed trays of steak tartar and sashimi and julienned vegetables.

“The music was so loud,” the woman replied. “I walked down the driveway to ask someone to turn it down, and the host invited me in.”

“Ralph wouldn't let a beautiful woman walk away,” Yvette said, and smiled. “It makes his parties more desirable.”

“I hardly go to parties, I like to stay home with my children.” The woman wore beige slacks and a cream blouse. She lit a cigarette and held it to her lips.

“You should quit,” Yvette said. “Smoking's not good for you.”

“I've smoked since I was eighteen,” the woman said, and shrugged. “It calms my nerves.”

“Yvette Renault,” Yvette said as she held out a manicured hand. She wore a red Chanel dress and black stilettos. A diamond tennis bracelet dangled from her wrist and she wore black pearls around her neck.

“Jeanne Delon.” The woman shook her hand. “I'm sorry, I'm not good at conversation.”

“You don't need to be. With your looks, I bet men stick to you like wax paper.”

Jeanne gazed at the Picasso and her eyes filled with tears. “The man I love left me.”

“What man could be so stupid!” Yvette exclaimed.

“I met Charles when I was twenty,” Jeanne replied. “I had just been fired, I had a one-year-old son and no place to live. Charles let us stay at his villa. I knew he was married but I was young and foolish. We became lovers and I ended up pregnant.