French Coast (3 page)

Serena looked at the lines that creased his brow, the dark lashes that covered his eyes, and knew she couldn't love anyone more. She flashed on her father proposing to her mother thirty years ago and all the places they had lived, the people they had entertained, the events they had been a part of. She saw her mother in her Chanel suits saying how she loved being a political wife.

“You told my father?” Serena asked.

“I had to ask for your hand in marriage,” Chase said, squeezing her hand tighter. “I had to show him I was worthy.”

“You're more than worthy.” Serena felt round tears rolling down her cheeks. “You're the best man I've ever met.”

“Is that a yes?” Chase tentatively stood up. He pushed the ring on her finger and placed his other hand around her back. He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the mouth. He traced the front of her dress, reaching under the thin fabric and brushing her breasts. His fingers stopped on her nipples, squeezing them gently so Serena thought her legs would collapse.

“Yes,” Serena told him, nodding.

Chase picked her up and carried her to the smaller cabin, onto the round white bed. He slipped off his shoes, untied his tie, draped his jacket over the captain's chair. He slid his hands beneath Serena's dress and slipped off her panties. He pulled the dress over her head and stared at her full breasts, her flat stomach, the pink curve of her thighs.

Serena smelled the combination of sweat and aftershave as Chase burrowed his face in her neck. She nibbled his ear, running her fingers through his hair. She opened her legs and arched her body to meet his. He lowered himself on top of her, grabbing her hands and carrying her to the edge.

Serena felt his weight shift, his strength build; his body hurtle toward some invisible finish line. She gripped his shoulders and urged him forward with her hips. She held her breath, waiting for the final moment, the hot burst of light that left her sweaty and sated and hungry all over again.

Serena lay against him, listening to his breathing relax, and stared at the diamond ring on her finger. They were engaged and she still hadn't told him about Cannes.

*   *   *

“I thought we could have a combined engagement party and launch party for the campaign,” Chase said, biting into a chocolate torte with pistachio ice cream. “Your father suggested we hold it at their house; we could tent the garden and build a dance floor.”

Serena pushed her fork around a plate of blueberry upside-down cake. She hadn't been able to eat the first course of wilted spinach salad, and only finished two bites of the mesquite-grilled brochettes. Even the side of polenta and herb butter lay untouched.

All through the meal, as the waiter refilled their glasses of Chateau St. Jean, Serena kept trying to bring up her assignment in Cannes. She saw her career buried under political fund-raisers and wedding planning, and her stomach felt like it was coated in lead.

“Chelsea came into my office today,” Serena said, putting her fork on the plate. “Yvette Renault is writing her memoir and is looking for a ghostwriter. She read some of my pieces and offered me the assignment.”

“Who is Yvette Renault?” Chase asked, scraping up the last bite of torte. He kept picking up Serena's hand and rubbing the ring as if it were a magic lamp.

“Yvette was French
Vogue
's editor for twenty years,” Serena replied. “She was the doyenne of French fashion and rumored mistress of Bertrand Roland.”

“Sounds like a great opportunity.” Chase nodded.

“Yvette is staying at the InterContinental in Cannes; I'd be gone for a month.”

“Cannes?” Chase sat back, wrinkling his forehead.

“She promised exclusive excerpts for American
Vogue.
I'd have a byline on the cover.”

“Cannes,” Chase repeated, folding and refolding his napkin. His face took on the expression he used when he was poring over casework or considering tactics for the campaign. He ran his fingers over the rim of his wineglass, gazing out the window at the darkened bay.

“Did you know that women control sixty percent of the vote in a local election?” Chase said finally. “Their own vote and the votes of their fiancés and husbands. If a guy votes for someone his wife doesn't approve of, their lovemaking drops to once a week.”

“They have studies on that?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

“They have studies on everything,” Chase said, nodding. “Voters are twice as likely to vote for candidates who eat oatmeal for breakfast than cold cereal. Oatmeal reminds them of the breakfasts their mothers made, and makes them feel safe and protected.”

“I'll get rid of my boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios.” Serena laughed, taking a large gulp of wine.

“I think going to Cannes is a wonderful idea.” Chase sat forward. “What could be better than having my fiancée's name on the cover of every woman's bible?”

“You do?” Serena asked, her stomach churning with some new, strange uncertainty.

“We'll have the engagement party when you return,” Chase said, and poured the last drops of wine. “It'll give me time to wrap up things at work and focus on the campaign.”

“I'm glad you agree.” Serena gazed at the square diamond flanked by two emeralds. Suddenly she wanted to ask Chase why he chose now to propose, but the words stuck in her throat. Then she glanced at Chase's chiseled cheekbones and decided she was being childish. Of course he thought in terms of his career, that was one of the things she loved about him.

“I knew we'd be a great team,” he said, and squeezed her hand, the diamond chafing between her fingers. “Let's run up to your parents' house, I promised I'd stop by so we could celebrate.”

*   *   *

“Cannes,” Serena's mother repeated when they were all seated in the grand salon.

Serena sat on the brocade sofa, feeling Chase's fingers press into her back, and a warmth spread through her chest. She glanced around the vast space with its dark wood floors and antique furniture and felt like the luckiest girl in the world. She had all the people she loved in one room, gathered to toast her happiness.

“Of all the places,” her mother murmured, sipping her champagne slowly. “We haven't been there in years.”

“Do you think this is the best time to go?” her father asked, sitting in a high-backed leather armchair. “There's so much to do.”

“Your father's right.” Kate wore a Chanel shirtdress and red Gucci pumps. Her strawberry-blond hair was curled in a smooth pageboy and she wore a string of freshwater pearls around her neck. “Planning an engagement party is as complicated as planning the wedding. We need to arrange the caterer and the band and order a cake. We could have a nautical theme. We'll serve oysters and fresh scallops and have goldfish as centerpieces.”

“Timing is everything in politics,” her father agreed. “In a month it'll be summer, people will leave for their cabins in Tahoe or their houses in Napa.”

Serena pictured Yvette Renault's silky black hair, her large brown eyes, and imagined the stories she had to tell. She flashed on the wide boulevards of Cannes and Chelsea threatening to write someone else's name on the plane ticket. She glanced at Chase, silently willing him to support her.

“Serena's career is very important to her.” Chase grabbed her hand, curling his fingers around hers. “Isn't the first rule of a happy marriage giving your wife everything she wants?”

Serena let Chase refill her champagne glass, and the tightness in her shoulders relaxed. She heard her father and Chase discussing new energy policies and watched her mother fill silver dishes of macadamia nuts and felt the last traces of doubt disappear. She had picked the perfect partner and their lives were going to be full of exciting people and places. She saw the diamond ring reflected in her champagne flute and sipped the sweet, effervescent bubbles.

 

chapter three

Serena stepped out of the taxi onto the Boulevard de la Croisette. She had been to New York Fashion Week and the runway shows of Paris and Milan, but she had never seen so many exquisitely dressed people in one place. Slender dark-haired women with sleek chignons wore white Courrèges slacks and crocheted tops. Their waists were cinched by bright colored belts and they wore gold sandals on their feet. Men wore silk shorts and leather loafers and their dark hair was slicked with oil. Everyone talked in rapid French, puffing cigarettes, sipping espresso, pulling apart buttery, flaky croissants.

It was the last week of the Cannes Film Festival and the main boulevard was like a human parking lot. No one seemed in any hurry to get anywhere; they loitered in front of Christian Dior and Yves Saint Laurent waiting for a glimpse of Angelina Jolie or James Franco. Serena saw a dark-haired man with a gold earring descend from a motorboat and was sure it was Johnny Depp.

Serena paid the taxi driver and gathered her bags, turning to look at the bay. The Mediterranean was a shimmering turquoise lake dotted with luxury yachts and peeling fishing boats. In the distance she could see the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the curve of highway leading to Nice and Antibes.

The last week Serena's stomach had been tied in knots. She kept staring at her diamond ring, wondering if she should take the assignment. Her mother kept calling the office asking whether she wanted lilies or peonies, Sonoma or Napa wines, red velvet cake or vanilla custard, at the engagement party.

“I can't believe you're leaving all the decisions to me,” Kate said when Serena said she had two stories to file and no time to think. “This is one of the loveliest times in your life; you're engaged! You should be relishing every minute.”

Serena would hang up and click on Vera Wang or Valentino on her computer, studying the satin dresses with wide tulle skirts, the long Greek tunics with intricate beading, and think her mother was right. She wanted to choose the most elegant shoes, the sweetest-smelling bouquets, the prettiest bridesmaid dresses. But then she would glance at the piles of tear sheets and photos on her desk and know she made the right decision. She and Chase wanted a year's engagement; there would be months to plan the wedding.

*   *   *

“I don't understand my parents,” Serena had said, frowning, when Chase arrived to take her to the airport. It was Saturday and he wore navy slacks and a striped polo shirt. His blond hair was damp and his cheeks glistened with aftershave. “All through college they asked me how I was going to use my English degree. When I was promoted to features editor they took me to Fleur de Lys and my mother gave me her signed copy of Rona Jaffe's
The Best of Everything
.”

“Your parents are of a different era,” Chase replied, perched on her bed. “Maria Shriver worked for NBC News until Schwarzenegger became governor, and Michelle Obama was an executive director for the University of Chicago Hospitals. I love seeing you excited about your work, it's incredibly sexy.”

Serena stopped folding sundresses into her suitcase and kissed Chase on the lips. “I love you, I'd vote for you any day.”

Chase pulled her toward him, unbuttoning her Free People blouse, and unsnapped her bra. He lifted up her cotton skirt and stroked her panties with his fingers.

“I'll miss my plane,” Serene murmured, feeling his fingers move in deep, confident strokes. She clung to his back, willing him to dig deeper, push farther, make her wet and slick and fluid.

“I want to make sure you miss me,” he whispered, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist. She felt her body arching, reaching, pulsing, and then the long sweet release. She rested her head on his shoulder, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

“There's nothing more important than you and me,” he said quietly. “The rest is gravy.”

*   *   *

Serena walked along the boulevard, gazing at the long line of palm trees. She had changed into an orange linen jumpsuit and ivory Gucci wedges. She brushed her hair into a high ponytail and tied it with an orange silk ribbon. She sprayed her wrists and neck with Dior, feeling like Grace Kelly in
To Catch a Thief
.

The Carlton-InterContinental had a creamy stone facade and black turreted roof. Serena saw flags flying above the entrance and the yellow-and-white awnings of the Carlton Restaurant, where guests sipped milky cappuccinos and read copies of
Le Monde
.

Serena walked through the gold revolving glass doors into the lobby. She glanced at the thick marble pillars, the gold inlaid floors, and felt like she was inside a jewelry box. Royal-blue sofas were scattered over Oriental rugs and crystal chandeliers twinkled from the lacquered ceiling.

“I have a reservation,” Serena said as she approached the reception desk, inhaling the scent of camellias and wood polish. “Serena Woods.”

The concierge tapped letters into a sleek keyboard. “I'm sorry, we don't have anyone with that name.”

Serena wrinkled her brow, trying again in French.
“Je m'appelle Serena Woods. J'ai un réservation.”

The man smiled stiffly, as if Serena were a stubborn child. “I understand English, mademoiselle, but I do not see your name.”

“Try Chelsea Brown.” Serena leaned against the cool marble, jet lag and fatigue making her dizzy.

“I have nothing under that name,” the concierge said, and shook his head. “Perhaps you are at the wrong hotel; have you tried the Hilton?”

“I'm here to interview Yvette Renault,” Serena replied, suddenly desperate. “She is also staying here.”

“Madame Renault has been our guest for a week,” the man said, nodding. “She is in a suite on the
septième
floor.”

“Please.” Serena fished some euros from her purse. “I've been on planes for fifteen hours. I have the most important interview of my career tomorrow; I need somewhere to sleep.”