This was the magic of the holidays. This was the magic of friendship.
Let the Festi Noêl begin.
23
THROW PAPA FROM THE PLANE
The “Modern Love” article I’d written for my new agent, Susan, was rejected. She barely replied to my emails after that. So I made the hard decision to leave the agency. Having an agent who wasn’t passionate about my work, in fact, was far worse than not having an agent at all. I called her up and said thanks, nice knowing you, but I think it’s time we part ways. She didn’t argue.
Of course, I had a backup plan. Jean-Luc had always joked that women were like monkeys (bonobo chimps?), and that they wouldn’t leave quietly unless they had a firm grip on another branch. Well, I had a new branch. For three months, from the cold months of December to February, I rewrote that damned manuscript. When I was finished, I contacted an editor who was now freelancing, Jay Schaefer. He’d worked with Frances Mayes of Under the Tuscan Sun fame when he was with Chronicle Books. How did I find him? Google. Along with my book proposal and sample chapters, I’d sent a few initial questions when I first made contact: “Does my book stand a chance at publication? Or am I smoking a crack pipe?”
Jay got back to me immediately. He didn’t make false promises of any kind. But he said what mattered: he believed in my story, and he could help me structure it better. Plus, he’d help me revise the book proposal, make it shine. There was just one problem: he didn’t work for free…and I didn’t have any money.
I thought about just giving up. But that wasn’t like me. I believed in my story, too, felt it needed to be told, thought it was something women could relate to. A second chance at life and love? What if I had given up on my life in France when the going got tough? Nope, I was a fighter. And I had other people who believed in my writing, namely my mom. And boy oh boy, was she spurring me on. She offered to give me the small loan I needed. Actually, offered isn’t the right word. She insisted, wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Before I signed on the dotted line with Jay, I enlisted an army of beta readers to read my new draft—friends, family members, and other writers. The consensus was the same.
“Sam! Get your story out there! You can do it!”
I hired Jay, and a new round of edits began.
I’d jumped feet first into this French life. I’d jumped into following my dream of becoming a writer. I’d jumped into motherhood. The seasons were changing. I was changing. And, by the time April rolled around, I wanted Jean-Luc to know exactly how it felt when you took a big leap of faith.
Max and Elvire were the masterminds behind the whole operation. For weeks, the kids and I plotted and planned: Daddy was going down on his fiftieth birthday.
Instead of the moelleux au chocolat with the cœur fondant (chocolate lava cake) he’d anticipated, Elvire placed an envelope on her father’s dessert plate. Jean-Luc’s brows furrowed when he pulled out our handmade card. Max and I exchanged nervous glances. I placed one hundred sixty euro on the table. “I paid half—for the deposit. This is the kids’ portion.”
I didn’t know what surprised him more, the fact we’d bought him a parachute jump for his fiftieth birthday, or that Max and Elvire had actually pitched in for the gift, using their savings on him instead of buying video games or clothes. Once he’d processed what we’d done, Jean-Luc’s eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Jean-Luc’s excitement reminded me why I’d agreed to book the skydive in the first place. I wanted him to experience the thrill and exhilaration, the adventure, of leaping into the blue skies of the French countryside, right into the unknown—the equivalent of how I’d felt when I’d landed in France to meet him years ago. Indeed, it was the perfect gift for his fiftieth birthday.
“Okay,” I said. “You have to call them to book it.”
He set the date for the end of May.
If Jean-Luc was going to jump out of a plane, certainly I could get over my fear of flambé for our second wedding anniversary dinner. Jean-Luc had cooked this particular recipe—shrimp with Pastis—many times before, me always playing sous-chef, slicing and dicing the shallots, parsley, and garlic. This time, I was going to light the match. To my delight, I didn’t burn the house down or singe my eyebrows off. One shrimp may have escaped the pan, but the cat was happy. And so was I.
We’d promised one another no presents, but over dinner—the flambéed shrimp with Pastis served with steamed rice and a mango, avocado, and tomato salsa—Jean-Luc surprised me with a bracelet. The chain was thin, the jewel in the middle an amethyst heart, which rested right on my pulse.
Dinner wasn’t the only thing on fire that night; my heart was, too. He whipped out a pair of opera tickets and placed them on the table. I didn’t think it was possible, but I loved this man more every day.
“They’re for next weekend,” he said. “I picked them up at work.”
“How’d you know this was my favorite opera?” I said, trying to find my breath. “Thank you.”
“You never have to thank me, Sam.”
Oh, but I did.
Three years ago, when I had left a loveless marriage, filed for bankruptcy, become a dog walker, and moved back in with my parents in Southern California, I thought things couldn’t get any worse. But after tracking down Jean-Luc, my life, even with all of the problems and stress, just got better and better. This wonderful man had managed to open up my heart—fully and completely—to love.
It was five minutes after six. Jean-Luc raced into the house and kissed me. “Are you ready, my love? We have to go.” His gaze darted to my three-inch heels and moved up my legs. My black fitted dress came below the knee, but, by the way his jaw dropped, I was pretty sure Jean-Luc knew I was most likely wearing sheer black thigh-highs. “Oauh, you look incredibly sexy. Maybe we should stay home?”
“No way, José. Madame Butterfly is my favorite opera.” I placed a twenty-euro bill on the kitchen counter, and yelled up to the kids. “We’re leaving now. Order a pizza.”
“D’accord,” said Elvire.
“We’ll be back around eleven,” said Jean-Luc. “And you better be in bed.”
“D’accord,” the kids answered in unison, followed by giggles.
We locked the front door and headed to the car, knowing full well that when we got home, those sneaky adolescents would have been watching for the lights of our Ford and would race to their rooms, pretending to be asleep. All par for the course. Jean-Luc floored it to the Halle aux Grains Theater in Toulouse, one hand on the wheel, the other inching its way up my thigh. He snapped the top of my nylons. “I like these.”
“I know you do.”
We drove by the Canal du Midi, passing dozens of bicycle riders, some of them with flowers in their baskets, some with bread under their arms; past the street of the school where I’d taken my French lessons; past a sign for the préfecture, where I’d picked up both my driver’s license and carte de séjour. And a funny thought occurred: I really didn’t feel like an immigrant anymore. I’d settled into this life.
Jean-Luc parked the car and, hand in hand, we strolled to a café to grab a quick bite to eat before the show, taking a table by the window. Jean-Luc’s hands and eyes didn’t leave mine until the waiter brought us the menus.
“Vin rouge? ” asked Jean-Luc. I nodded and he ordered a demi-carafe.
Two chèvre chaud salads and a basket of crusty bread later, and we were seated in the first row of the theater, the stage so close I could almost touch it. Jean-Luc’s hand rested on my thigh. He eyed me mischievously. The musicians in the orchestral pit warmed up their instruments, violins and cellos humming. Finally, the lights dimmed and the maestro took his place on the podium. The moment the first soprano’s note reached my ears, a lump formed in the back of my throat and shivers ran down my spine, the harmonious melodies pulling on my psyche. I was left breathless, barely able to move during intermission.
Yet, it was the second act I was most looking forward to. Right when
Cio-Cio San sang “Un Bel Dì, Vidremo,” the opera’s most illustrious and haunting aria, the tears I’d been fighting welled up. Never giving up on love, Cio-Cio waited for Pinkerton, her American husband and a United States Naval Officer, to come back to her, faithfully watching for his ship to enter the port every day since he’d left her three years prior. Suzuki, Cio-Cio’s maid, gathered flowers to prepare for Pinkerton’s arrival.
In the darkness of the theater, tears of happiness glistened on my cheeks, the lyrics taking on new meaning. Un Bel Dì, Vidremo: One good day, we shall see. Unlike Cio-Cio, who soon found out her devotion was all for naught, that day had come for me and, thankfully, there would be many more. My arm slid under Jean-Luc’s, and our fingers intertwined like vines. I placed my head on his shoulder. “I left you at a train station twenty-three years ago.”
“And I’m so very happy when you came back to me you didn’t leave.”
So was I. I suggested that one day we take a trip to Paris, to retrace the steps we first took together.
“One day,” said Jean-Luc. “One day.”
Un Bel Dì, Vidremo: One good day, we shall see.
Jean-Luc and I had many good—no, great—days together. The romance between us thrived, regardless of the hurdles we had to jump over along the way.
The night before his big leap, I joined Jean-Luc at the table on our deck. “Did you check the company out, to be sure it’s safe?” I asked for the thousandth time. Just the thought of Jean-Luc catapulting from the side of a plane from four thousand meters and free-falling at over two hundred kilometers per hour sent shivers of dread down my spine. “I’m not sure I trust what I found out about the company on Google, and not just because it’s written in French.”
“They’re fine, Sam.” Jean-Luc placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Didn’t you find me on Google? Were you sure I was safe?”
A dash of déjà vu: we’d had this conversation many times before. I spouted off my canned response. “That’s different. We already knew one another. We reconnected. You were the one who got away—”
“And, now that you caught me, you’re throwing me out of a plane?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”
In the morning, wispy clouds filled the cornflower blue sky, the temperature a perfect seventy degrees. Jean-Luc woke up at sunrise, raring to go. Max had a big rugby tournament, so he wouldn’t be accompanying us.
On the hour’s drive to the Gers region, Elvire sat in the backseat listening to her iPod, Jean-Luc guided the car with one hand casually draped over the steering wheel, and I tried not to flip out in the passenger seat. Instead, I focused on the French countryside, no longer reminiscent of a flat suburb of Toulouse, but undulating with cow- and sheep-dotted hills. And I wondered if livestock could cushion his landing.
It was two in the afternoon when our silver Ford rumbled down a dirt road to the jump site. We parked the car, and I took in my surroundings. Ten brightly colored parachutes danced in the sky, a whimsical mobile of reds, blues, bright greens, and yellows. Directly in front of us stood an open barn-like structure, its floors covered in glossy, oversized French movie posters where people suited up—one guy dressed in a cow costume, udder and all. Fifty or so Belgian soldiers wearing army fatigues, and all sporting the same buzz cuts, made their way to a military plane. The place looked well equipped and, more importantly, legit—if I didn’t factor in the human cow.
I was feeling better about the whole situation until a parachutist landed in the distant cornfield. Good God almighty, what if an unforgiving corn stalk impaled my husband? Mouth agape, I turned toward Jean-Luc. “You don’t have to do this. You can always change your mind.”
“Sam, why are you nervous?” he asked. “You’re not the one jumping, I am.”
Per my usual Lucille Ball–like methods, I masked my paranoia. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. The kids and I bought the bargain jump and you won’t have a parachute.” I paused. “You’re insured, right?”
A white truck emblazoned with the company’s logo screeched onto the lot, a thankful distraction from my off-color joke and Jean-Luc’s impending response. A parachutist hopped out of the passenger door and swaggered into the barn as confident as Val Kilmer in Top Gun, shooting everybody the thumbs-up with one hand, and picking cornhusks out of his pants with the other.
Jean-Luc nudged me in the ribs. “Tu vois? Everything is cool.”
Much to my chagrin, we paid the remaining balance for the jump with the money the kids had given.
Elvire and I listened in while Jean-Luc received his debrief, in which a stocky instructor manhandled my husband’s body into the three positions one assumes during a tandem jump, a strange kama sutra of sorts. Five minutes later, Jean-Luc’s back and thighs were encased in a harness. I broke out my camera with a quivering smile when Jean-Luc strutted toward the red and gray prop plane.
After a rumble and a roar, the plane disappeared into the horizon. Fifteen stress-filled minutes later, I caught a glimpse of the first jumper, a tiny dot no larger than an ant, followed by another minuscule blip, then another. Elvire pointed. “There he is. There’s Papa. I see the parachute. It’s the red one.”
Every worry I’d had washed away.
The first of the parachutists, a woman, landed gracefully with her tandem partner, as did the second, also a woman. Jean-Luc’s red parachute made its approach. Instead of landing on his feet, he and his partner skidded across the ground like a human train—Jean-Luc the engine, his instructor the caboose. Jean-Luc’s face wore an odd expression. He stood up and walked toward Elvire and me, holding his rear.
“Are you okay?” I called out.
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?” asked Elvire, her eyes round with concern.
Jean-Luc burst into laughter, turned, and wiggled his behind. “My pants split open!”
I was thankful he’d worn boxers and hadn’t flown commando.
Once he stopped dancing around for his amused audience, Elvire and I barraged him with one question after another: “Did you like it? Was it worth it? Were you scared?”
“Alors, we were up in the air and they announced we would jump in two minutes. They opened the door and I could barely breathe. My instructor stood behind me, holding onto the sides of the plane. My feet dangled over the edge, the wind whipping my feet. I was like a puppet hanging there. And then we were in the free fall. Adrenaline took over…”
Yep. He liked it. And this gift was worth every last darn centime. Jean-Luc’s love, his warm laughter, had tipped into balance the anxieties I’d had about jumping into a new life, and the nagging voice in my head had begun to change its tune from “I can’t do this. I’m going to die!” to “I’ll really regret this if I don’t give it a try.” When push came to shove, I realized a big part of me was fearless. If there was anything I’d learned on this trajectory we call life—it’s that sometimes you just have to take a leap. Well, that, and when parachuting, it might be a good idea to pack a second pair of pants.
Jean-Luc’s hand clasped mine.
I mumbled, “And now you know exactly how I felt when I landed in France.”
Recipes for Passion
JEAN-LUC’S FLAMBÉED PASTIS SHRIMP
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 10 minutes
Serves: 4 to 6
Great for: a dinner party or a healthy summer meal
Wine suggestion: fruity rosé like Bandol or Vin des Sables de Camargue
•3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced
•5 small shallots, peeled and finely chopped
•2-inch piece fresh ginger root, peeled and finely chopped
•24 to 48 uncooked shrimp, skin on (6 to 8 per person)
•¼ cup Pastis*
•¼ cup flat parsley, chopped, for garnish
•1 lime, sliced in 4 wedges, for garnish
•Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
In a large skillet, warm a dash
of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, shallots, and ginger, cooking until softened and fragrant. Stir in the shrimp, cooking until they begin to turn pink. Add the Pastis and light it with a match. Carefully, shake the pan gently, tossing the shrimp. Once the flame has settled down (if it doesn’t, snuff it out with the cover of large pot), return the pan to low heat.**
Season with salt and pepper, garnish with parsley, and serve warm with steamed rice, mango-avocado salsa (p. 244), and wedges of lime.
*Can’t get your hands on Pastis, the anise-flavored liqueur? You can always use tequila, rum, absinthe, ouzo, or Cognac as a tasty substitution.
**Flambé at your own risk—please be careful!
MANGO-AVOCADO SALSA
Prep time: 20 minutes
Cook time: 30 minutes (to chill in refrigerator)
Serves: 4 to 6
Great for: summer picnic or on the side of seafood dishes like shrimp
•2 avocados, peeled and diced
•2 tomatoes, diced
•¼ red onion, finely minced
•1 mango, diced
•1 handful flat parsley or cilantro, finely chopped
•½ jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced
•1 lime, juiced
•Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Chill in the refrigerator for about half an hour, or until ready to serve. Serve with tortilla chips or as an accompaniment to a seafood dish like Jean-Luc’s Flambéed Pastis Shrimp (p. 243).
MOELLEUX AU CHOCOLAT WITH A COEUR FONDANT
Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 10 to 12 minutes
Serves: 6 to 8
Great for: an easy and delicious dessert
Wine suggestion: sparkling Chenin Blanc
How to Make a French Family Page 22