French Coast (26 page)

“Serena!” Yvette wore black cigarette pants and a red silk blouse. She had black Gucci flats on her feet and a black pearl necklace around her neck. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Chelsea called,” Serena said as she walked into the living room. “She's excited about the piece.”

“I'm glad.” Yvette nodded. “Have you seen Nick? I thought I could go with you and explain to Nick and Veronique what I did.”

Serena's eyes flickered and she felt a sharp pain in her chest. She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her Lilly Pulitzer dress.

“Nick is in Saint-Tropez on business,” Serena said. “Chelsea is eager to find out how your story ends. Did you see Bertrand again?”

“Bertrand died a year ago.”

“I had no idea,” Serena replied. “Was it lung cancer?”

“Bertrand was healthy as a horse,” Yvette laughed. “The stupid man got run over by a taxi in New York City. I remember when I received the letter from his solicitor.…”

*   *   *

Yvette climbed the stone steps of the office building and rang the doorbell.

“Good afternoon, Madame Renault,” the solicitor said, extending his hand. “My name is Laurent Bordeaux, thank you for seeing me.”

“It was a beautiful funeral.” Yvette wore a black wool Chanel suit and black Ferragamos. “Bertrand would have loved the selection of hymns.”

“Not many people know Bertrand was religious.” Laurent ushered Yvette into a paneled room with dark walnut furniture. “He was a strict Catholic.”

“Your letter said he left me something. I was surprised, I haven't seen Bertrand in years,” Yvette said as she took off her gloves.

Laurent handed Yvette a thick envelope. “He asked you to open the letter in my office, he wanted you to read it out loud.”

“Out loud?” Yvette frowned.

“He was afraid you'd rip it up and throw it away without reading it.” Laurent smiled sheepishly. “He said you weren't pleased with him.”

Yvette sliced open the envelope and a check fell out. She picked it up and gasped.

“It's a check for five hundred thousand euros.”

“It's the royalties from
Pays de Cocagne
and
La Femme,
” Laurent said.

“But why?”

“He explains in the letter.”

Yvette slipped on her reading glasses and began to read.

Cher Yvette,

The only good news if you are reading this is you're alive and I'm dead. I can't imagine a world without you, even if you are an ocean away lamenting how I abused my talent and ended up writing Hollywood drivel.

I always knew you rewrote
Pays de Cocagne
and
La Femme,
so the royalties belong to you. Spend it on a Hermès bag or a vacation. You should go to California and stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel; I think you'd like it.

I was telling the truth when I said I didn't read my work when I was finished, but the minute the reviews came in for
Pays de Cocagne
I knew something was amiss. All Edouard's society galas and literary functions ruined me. I couldn't write about poverty and despair when I was plump as a Christmas turkey. I couldn't describe lust and longing when all I had to do was tap my cigarette and women lined up to fuck me.

I suspected you rewrote some passages, so I read the whole bloody thing. What an amazing book you wrote. The heroine was pure, the hero handsome and callous and greedy but with a heart of gold. You created literature worthy of Flaubert and Stendhal and I took the credit.

A hundred times I strode into Edouard's office to tell him the truth. But you had your children, your wealthy husband, your apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré. The only thing that separated me from the line cook at the Crillon was my pen and the page. Authors are a narcissistic bunch, and I was worse than the rest. From the age of twenty-five I was petted like a prize pony; I couldn't go back to being a nobody.

I was going to take the money and retire to Majorca, but Edouard brokered another deal without seeking my permission. I had to ask you to translate
La Femme.
If it failed after the spectacular success of
Pays de Cocagne
it would have been a disservice to Edouard and all my publishers.

I finally went to Hollywood, where everyone drives shiny convertibles and harbors dark secrets. No one would have cared if I said my books were written by my dead grandmother during a séance. In Hollywood, art is what children do in elementary school.

Last month I flew in a single-engine plane to Yosemite. The engine failed and we had to make a crash landing. I sat on the runway and knew I had to tell the truth. I couldn't lie under the earth for a thousand years with my name on your books.

I want Edouard to publish new editions of
Pays de Cocagne
and
La Femme
with your name on the cover. I have written a foreword explaining the circumstances and left it with my solicitor. I loved you since the day we met at the Carlton-InterContinental in Cannes. If only I had been a better man or you had been a lesser woman, we could have made it work.

*   *   *

Yvette sat in the salon of her apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré and reread the letter. She imagined what it must have been like for Bertrand, knowing he was a sham. She saw his proud black eyes, his slick dark hair, and felt her heart would break.

She flashed on their first tryst at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc in Antibes. She pictured the elegant suite, the four-poster bed, the red velvet bedspread. She remembered how he taught her to delight in his touch and make love with abandon.

She took the check out of her purse and tore it into small pieces. She tossed them into the fireplace and sank into a brocade armchair. She took off her reading glasses and let the tears roll down her cheeks.

*   *   *

Serena sat perfectly still, waiting while Yvette collected herself. Yvette's cheeks were white and her shoulders sagged. She suddenly looked old and tired.

“Are you going to republish his books?” Serena asked.

“I can't deprive France of one of its idols,” Yvette replied. “You will tell the story in my memoir. Maybe readers will believe me and maybe they will think I'm a bitter scorned lover.” Yvette laughed softly. “People write strange things in their autobiographies.

“You asked if I was sorry I told Bertrand I loved him,” Yvette continued. “We do extraordinary things for love; if we didn't there would be no great books.”

“That's what my mother said, when she justified staying with my father,” Serena replied.

“Perhaps we heard it at the same cocktail party.” Yvette smiled. “If you love Nick, you have to tell him.”

“That's none of your business,” Serena said tightly.

“I know you are furious with me,” Yvette replied. “But if I hadn't brought you here, you would never have met Nick.”

“Nick thinks life is about luck,” Serena said, fiddling with her pen. “That you meet the right person if you're in the right place at the right time.”

“Real love doesn't happen often, and when it does you have to embrace it.” Yvette looked at Serena and her eyes were dim. “After all, what else is there?”

 

chapter twenty-six

Serena ran along the beach, inhaling the salty air. She forgot how good it felt to fill her lungs with fresh oxygen and feel the sand under her feet. She gazed at the seagulls skimming the waves and the tightness in her shoulders relaxed.

She had stayed up all night thinking about Chantal and her father's secret family. She pictured Charles and Chantal strolling along the shore while Nick and Veronique played in the sand. She saw them eating family dinners in the villa and sharing ice cream cones in Juan-les-Pins.

She stood on the balcony watching the morning sun glint on the bay and knew she had to get out of the Cary Grant Suite. She strapped on her running shoes and ran past the street vendors selling fresh coffee and chocolate croissants. She jogged down the Boulevard de la Croisette and didn't stop until her calves burned and her forehead was covered in sweat.

Her phone buzzed and she reached in her pocket to answer it.

“Darling, I'm thrilled to hear your voice,” her mother's voice came over the line. “I was worried I wouldn't get a connection.”

“Where are you?” Serena squinted into the sun.

“Dakar,” Kate replied. “Don't be alarmed, but your father is spending the night in the hospital. He had an incident on safari.”

“An incident?” Serena started.

“He swears it was nerves but they're calling it a minor heart attack,” Kate replied. “I told him not to get too close to the water buffalos but he wouldn't listen.”

“Should I come there?” Serena asked.

“Fly halfway around the world to hear your father complain about hospital Jell-O?” Kate laughed. “Don't be silly. They're pumping him full of drugs and he'll be good as new in a couple of days.” Kate paused and her voice was soft. “I'm calling to see how you are. Your father and I are worried about you, we wish this nightmare never happened.”

“I'm wonderful.” Serena gulped, gazing at the fishing boats bobbing in the harbor. “Chelsea is so pleased with my story I'm getting a promotion.”

“How exciting!” Kate exclaimed. “I can't wait to tell Charles.”

“Tell Dad to do what the doctors say.” Serena blinked away tears. “And send me a picture, I've heard Dakar is beautiful.”

“All I've seen is a hospital waiting room with Formica floors and vinyl chairs.” Kate sighed. “But I made Charles promise we'd go to an outdoor market. I've always wanted a sarong.”

Serena hung up and jogged back to the Carlton-InterContinental. She walked through the marble lobby and paused in front of the gift shop. She gazed at the elegant mannequins dressed in white Courrèges slacks and mesh Lanvin sweaters and suddenly knew what she had to do.

Zoe was right; she needed to tell Nick the whole story. She'd go to his apartment and wait for him to return from Saint-Tropez. She'd stop acting like a victim and buy something that made her feel glamorous and sexy.

She entered the gift shop and sifted through racks of designer dresses and Italian shoes. She selected a green Chloé dress and a pair of gold Manolos. She added a Pucci scarf and a thin gold belt. She carried the box to the elevator and pressed the button.

“Serena,” a familiar voice called.

She turned and saw Malcolm striding through the lobby. He wore a red blazer and tan slacks and a wide straw hat. He held hands with a woman wearing a beige linen dress with a wide silver belt. She wore low heels and carried a soft leather clutch.

“I'm glad I found you, I've been looking for Zoe,” Malcolm said.

“She's shopping on the Rue d'Antibes,” Serena said, trying not to stare at the woman. “She's flying home to Sydney tomorrow.”

“I'm glad we got here in time. I'm being rude.” Malcolm took off his hat. “Serena, I'd like you to meet my wife, Laura.”

*   *   *

“I can't believe you flew to Cannes without telling me,” Zoe fumed. “I could be sitting on a Qantas 747, about to land at Kingsford Smith Airport by myself.”

Serena looked from Zoe to Malcolm to Laura and couldn't help grinning. She remembered Zoe's face when she appeared in the lobby and saw her parents holding hands at the elevator. Zoe's cheeks turned pale and she spilled her boxes all over the marble floor. The concierge hastily picked them up while Zoe demanded to know what Malcolm and Laura were doing in Cannes.

*   *   *

They sat at an outdoor table at the Carlton Restaurant sipping strawberry martinis. Malcolm ordered pan-fried scallops with truffled mashed potatoes and artichokes flavored with parsley and garlic and Parmesan cheese. There was a basket of baguettes and pots of herb butter and olive oil.

“We wanted to surprise you.” Malcolm grinned. He looked like a different man from the one who had disappeared after reading his wife's letter. His gray eyes gleamed and he kept one hand draped over Laura's shoulder.

“I spent three days trying to tracking you down,” Zoe said, and glared at her father. “You can't crisscross the globe as if you were driving to the Blue Mountains.”

“I won't be sorry if I don't see the interior of a first-class airplane cabin for a while.” Malcolm nodded, piercing a scallop with his fork. “But I had to try to win your mother back.”

Laura spoke for the first time. “I spent almost two decades being angry at your father.” She had smooth brown hair and hazel eyes and finely lined cheeks. She wore freshwater pearls around her neck and a heart-shaped Chopard watch on her wrist. “He didn't build Australia's biggest fashion empire by sitting back and doing nothing. I finally understand he doesn't listen to anyone else.”

“Then why are you here?” Zoe frowned.

“I didn't think Malcolm could do anything that would change my mind,” Laura said, and sipped her martini. “But he pulled off something extraordinary.”

“After I left you and Serena, I went up to my suite and stood on the balcony,” Malcolm recalled. “If I had been younger, I would have climbed on the railing and thrown myself on the Boulevard de la Croisette. Instead I poured a scotch and reread the article Serena wrote. I hardly recognized the young man who sold his stereo and pawned his watch to create a dress. Can you imagine having the confidence to think if you turned up with a box full of tissue paper you could win the girl of your dreams?

“I finished the bottle of scotch and the idea came to me. I gathered my passport and took a taxi to the airport before I could change my mind. I remember the flight attendant saying I looked like I had a fever. She gave me a blanket and tucked me into one of those enormous first-class cocoons and I slept the twenty hours to Sydney.