SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Am I getting close?’ he asks.

  ‘Nice try,’ I say, unable to hide my smile. ‘My name is Olivia.’

  He leans in and kisses me on each cheek, his dark stubble brushing against my skin, sending butterflies on a mad twirl through my already growling stomach.

  ‘Enchanté,’ he says.

  ‘Enchantée,’ I respond. Enchanted, indeed.

  Damn, these Frenchmen certainly know how to seduce the foreign girls.

  ‘Are you always this charming so early in the morning?’ I joke, glancing at my watch. ‘It’s only ten o’clock.’

  This time, he blushes a little. ‘Well, it is not every day that a stunning American woman steps out of a taxi in my neighborhood, and stops to look up at the sky like a lost angel.’

  ‘Well, can you take this lost angel to the crêperie? I’m starving, and I’m on a schedule here.’

  ‘Mais bien sûr, mademoiselle.’ But of course, Miss, he says, not fighting the grin spreading widely across his scruffy cheeks.

  Alex leads me inside the tiny crêperie where a short, plump man is flipping crêpes and joking with one of the servers. Patches of gray hair inch around the sides of his shiny, bald head, and the lines around his eyes are kind and welcoming as he smiles at us.

  ‘Jacques, this is my new American friend, Olivia,’ Alex says in French. ‘She would like you to teach her how to make a Nutella crêpe, and then she would like to eat it.’

  Jacques places a hand on his pot belly and laughs heartily. ‘Une belle américaine? Quelle chance!’ A beautiful American girl? What luck! ‘Avec plaisir, mademoiselle.’ With pleasure, Miss.

  Jacques shuffles toward us, greets both me and Alex with kisses, then ushers me back behind the counter to get started. ‘Allez, viens.’ Come on, he says, stealing the journal from my hands and the purse off my shoulder before placing them on a nearby table.

  Alex eyes the journal as Jacques ties an oversized apron around my neck.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help with the list?’ Alex prods. ‘I have to get to the boulangerie in a few minutes, but I can at least point you in the right direction since you are so new to Paris.’

  I couldn’t imagine a more dashing Frenchman to share that kiss with atop the Eiffel Tower or to dance with tonight in the Tuileries, but just as I am considering asking what time he gets off work, a petite French woman swoops into the crêperie, swings her arms around Alex’s neck and plants a big kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Bonjour, mon cher.’ Hello, my dear, she says, her eyes twinkling up at him.

  He hugs her back and kisses her on both cheeks. ‘Bonjour, ma petite Joséphine. Ça va?’

  The two of them chatter away in French, and as I am trying to concentrate on what they are saying, Jacques hands me a bowl of batter and begins instructing me on how to make my first crêpe. A few seconds later, Joséphine flies out of the crêperie as quickly as she appeared, and Alex lifts a brow in my direction. ‘So, can I help with the list?’

  I shake my head, wondering why all the good ones have to be taken. ‘No, thank you, though. It was lovely meeting you, Alex.’

  He places a hand on the doorframe and shoots me a killer grin. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you know where I work. And I may be a little biased, but I do make a pretty good pain au chocolat…’

  I am so entranced by Alex’s sweet smile, by his ruffled hair and sexy jeans that I am now spilling batter all over the floor.

  ‘Oh mon Dieu! Ces Américaines!’ Oh my Lord, these American women! Jacques cries as he snatches the bowl and spatula from my hands and shows me how it’s done.

  ‘Enjoy your Nutella crêpe, ma belle Olivia,’ Alex says before disappearing inside his boulangerie next door.

  After Jacques helps me slather an unhealthy, but oh-so-enticing, amount of Nutella onto the crêpe, he makes me a plate, pulls out my chair and gestures for me to dig in.

  ‘Bon appétit!’

  ‘Merci,’ I say, before taking my first delectable bite of my warm, gooey, chocolaty crêpe. The taste of Nutella immediately carries me back to Sunday mornings in our tiny Ohio kitchen – my mother flipping crêpes, while me, Jules, and Dad devoured them as fast as she could make them.

  I savor this one, though, as I listen to the elegant sound of the French language floating past my ears, and think of how much Jules would have loved this place.

  Three

  It is noon on my one and only day in Paris, and I am standing in the middle of the Champs Élysées, watching the endless string of cars buzz and honk their way down to the grand Arc de Triomphe. The most famous avenue in the City of Lights is bustling with more vitality and verve than I ever could’ve imagined from simply looking at the postcards my mother gave to us as little girls.

  I set off across the street and down the tree-lined sidewalk, noticing at least five different languages twirling around me as hordes of tourists comb the chic designer shops, lugging their heavy bags and snapping photographs in every direction. This is an entirely different scene from the quaint, village-like feel of Montmartre, but as I stroll down this iconic Parisian avenue, I find that I am smitten all the same with the bustling, lively beauty all around me.

  Next on the Jules and Olivia agenda is #2 on the list:

  Buy a pretty French bra on the Champs Élysées (ooh la la!).

  This one was Jules’ idea, as she was always the bustier – and more promiscuous – one of the two of us, but I can’t say I’m not excited to buy a piece of beautiful French lingerie. Now, if only I had a man to wear it for…

  Alex’s sweet smile pops into my head, but I dismiss any thoughts of him quickly, reminding myself that he has that adorable little French woman – Joséphine, he called her – and I was nothing more than his daily tourist flirtation.

  Luckily, I don’t have time to think about Alex or my lack of a love life for another second because I spot my first lingerie store on the Champs-Élysées – Darjeeling.

  Inside, racks of delicate undergarments line the walls, and I am immediately drawn to a gorgeous, coral-colored bra and panty set.

  Just as I am running my fingers over the lacy material, my phone buzzes inside my purse, setting my nerves on edge. Before I even look at the screen, I know it is, of course, Miranda.

  She knows I have traveled to Paris for only one day to accomplish some ‘unfinished family business,’ but that would never stop her from calling me first thing in the morning when she wakes up.

  Hoping it will simply be a quick check-in, I answer my phone.

  ‘Olivia!’ Miranda screeches into my ear. It is only six a.m. on the east coast, but her scary panic voice is already rearing in full force.

  ‘What is it, Miranda?’ I am an expert at staying steady amid the daily hurricanes of Miranda…but today as I stand in the middle of a Parisian lingerie store with four more items to check off my list and less than one day to accomplish all of them, I wish that just for today, Miranda would let me live my own life.

  ‘First of all, I cannot believe you jetted off to Paris without me, but while you’re there, I thought of a few things you could get for me….’

  As Miranda rattles off more than ‘a few’ designer items she would like me to bring home for her in my non-existent suitcase, then launches in on the latest talk show crisis – namely that she slept with today’s guest, a hot young actor fifteen years her junior, and how will she ever be able to face him on set? – I pace in circles around the store, willing her to take just one breath so I can get a word in edgewise.

  But she doesn’t – breathe that is – and I don’t get a word in…not until the end, anyway.

  By the time I have finally managed to talk her down from the ledge and ended the call, I have exited the store and made three laps around the Champs Élysées, wasting close to two hours of my Paris day. Exasperated, I find myself back in front of Darjeeling staring at my own reflection in the window.

  How have I let this go on for so long? Running someone else’s life, and not living m
y own?

  A firm hand on my shoulder startles me from my thoughts, and I turn to find a stylish older woman smiling warmly at me. With an elegant violet scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, a pair of dangling earrings which reach almost to her shoulders and her tousled-but-pretty auburn hair swept back half-way, I am at once struck with her resemblance to Jules…if Jules had been given the chance to grow up, that is.

  ‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ she says in a strong British accent.

  ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’ I ask.

  ‘No, dear, but I saw you in here earlier eyeing that beautiful coral bra, and I happened to overhear a bit of your conversation. I think a touch of French lingerie is just what you need right now. Allons-y.’ Let’s go.

  I don’t argue as she leads me back into the store and fills an entire dressing room with the most gorgeous bras, underwear, and nighties I’ve ever allowed myself to try on.

  Before she closes me in the chic dressing room, she extends a hand. ‘I’m Mary.’

  ‘Olivia,’ I say, wondering where this wonderful woman came from.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Olivia. For the next hour, you must forget all about that horrid job of yours, and simply pamper yourself. I’ll be in the dressing room next door if you need anything.’

  With that, my lingerie angel closes the door and leaves me alone with stacks of lace and bows and bodices to try on. I pick up the elegant coral set I was eyeing earlier, hesitant, realizing that the notion of pampering myself is so utterly foreign to me…and yet it seemed to roll off this woman’s tongue as if there were nothing more natural in the world than treating yourself to something beautiful and luxurious.

  Of course I pamper Miranda all the time, I think.

  Screw Miranda, I hear Jules’ voice echo in my head.

  That’s right. Screw her. I deserve to have a little fun, too.

  An hour later, Mary and I emerge from Darjeeling each holding our own bag of absolutely stunning French lingerie.

  Turns out pampering myself wasn’t so difficult, after all.

  ‘You’re glowing,’ she says with a grin.

  ‘Am I?’ I ask, laughing. ‘Amazing what a little lace can do for a girl.’ I turn to Mary. ‘Thank you so much. I needed that.’

  ‘I could tell. Where to next?’ She gestures down the Champs, as if the entire city of Paris is our oyster.

  She doesn’t know about my list, or my twenty-four-hour time constraint, so I keep it simple. ‘I’d like to eat the best pain au chocolat in the city. Any suggestions?’

  Mary stops walking, places her pointer finger on her chin and ponders as if she is trying to come up with a solution to world peace. ‘The best pain au chocolat, let me think… In a city that has a boulangerie on every corner, that’s really quite a tough question, you know.’

  ‘Well, how about your favorite pain au chocolat.’

  Her eyes light up. ‘I’ve got it! Come with me.’ She takes off down the busy avenue, weaving around gabby tourists and handsome businessmen until we reach the artsy Parisian metro sign.

  We jog down the stairs together, lingerie bags flapping while a gust of wind follows us down into the station. As we board the train, I am hoping that in a crazy twist of fate, she is going lead me back up to Montmartre to Alex’s quaint little boulangerie. But not long after we’ve squeezed onto the crowded train, we emerge at rue de Passy only a few stops later. So I remind myself again that Alex is taken, and I force that utterly adorable smile out of my mind.

  ‘Welcome to my quartier,’ Mary says as we walk up a small hill onto a lively street filled with posh shops, sidewalk cafés and chicly dressed women strutting down the narrow sidewalks. From the brief time I’ve known Mary, I can see that this trendy little rue fits her personality to a T.

  ‘It’s so charming,’ I tell her. ‘Like everything I’ve seen today.’ A pang of sadness hits me as I realize that I only have one evening left in this magical city before I have to head back to the rat race.

  ‘She’s already got you, hasn’t she?’ Mary lifts a curious brow in my direction.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Paris – she’s got ahold of your heart.’

  ‘Oh…yes, I suppose she has. The minute I stepped out of the cab in Montmartre this morning, I was finished.’

  She chuckles to herself, her eyes gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. ‘Once that happens, my dear, there’s no turning back. I remember when it first happened to me, when I knew my heart would always belong to this city. I wasn’t much younger than you, if I recall.’ She pauses for a moment, a wistfulness passing through her gaze. ‘I’d managed to escape my hectic life in London for a weekend all to myself… Well, it wasn’t all to myself of course – there was a Frenchman.’ A mischievous giggle bubbles from her red-lined lips. ‘The first of many…but that’s another story.’

  Taking a quick peek at her left ring finger, I notice she isn’t wearing a ring. She doesn’t seem like the marrying type – too independent, too witty, too fabulous to be tied down.

  ‘It was my first trip to Paris and, my God, I’d never fallen so hard before, not even for a man,’ Mary continues. ‘This city simply swept me away. I returned to London, went back to work and tried to enjoy my life, but within a week – well, quite honestly within a day – I knew we had to break up… Me and London, that is. I gave my notice, packed my bags and headed for the City of Lights. Haven’t looked back since.’

  ‘Wow. You make it sound so simple.’

  She stopped walking for a moment, placing her hand on my arm. ‘My dear Olivia, it is that simple. One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that we are the only ones standing in our way. If you want to come to Paris, come to Paris! You certainly didn’t sound as if you’re in love with that crazy boss of yours on the phone earlier. The one who kept you from shopping, the cow. By the way, another important life lesson I’ve picked up is never to trust anyone who doesn’t encourage you to do a little shopping.’

  At this, she gets a laugh out of me. ‘God, no, I’m definitely not in love with my boss,’ I say, not wanting to think about the barrage of calls that will surely pour in from Miranda after she has to face her most recent sexual conquest on live television. ‘But if you want the truth, my career runs my life.’

  Mary gives a disapproving nod. ‘Never a good way to live, darling. But oftentimes we bury ourselves in work to avoid making the decisions that will make us truly happy, for those are usually the hardest decisions to make. Though I can tell you from personal experience that once they’re made, the rest falls into place quite naturally.’

  A chilly draft sweeps down rue de Passy, carrying with it the delectable scents of butter, cake and pastries.

  Mary takes my hand. ‘Come along now, you’ll forget all about that stressful world of yours as soon as you take a bite into this pain au chocolat.’

  A few moments later, Mary stops in front of a red awning that reads Aux Délices de Passy. The windows of the boulangerie are lined with rows of colorful macaroons and beautiful chocolate tarts, and inside, the chocolaty aroma takes me right back to mouth-watering heaven.

  Mary orders us two pains au chocolat, and just as I am about to open my purse, she stops me.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, hoping she knows that I am thankful for more than the pastries. I am thankful that she has spent her afternoon with me, a perfect stranger, and has made me feel like I am not all alone in this world.

  Outside, the warm spring air has dissipated, leaving a cool wind and an ominous sky in its wake. A few drops of rain fall as Mary eyes the dark gray clouds rolling in.

  ‘I’m going to have to run off in a few,’ she says. ‘But let’s take a bite together before we get drenched. I want you to see how all of your troubles can melt away with one taste of this most magnificent pastry.’

  This time, I don’t hesitate to take her instructions. My first bite is an explosion of melted
dark chocolate, butter – so much butter – and the softest, flakiest croissant I’ve ever tasted. Before I realize it, I’ve closed my eyes and a low moan is escaping from my lips.

  ‘Orgasmic, isn’t it?’ Mary says.

  ‘Totally.’ I open my eyes to find her smiling radiantly at me.

  ‘You’re going to be just fine, Miss Olivia. I can already tell.’ She reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. ‘My contact info. Please get in touch as soon as you’re back in Paris. I would love to see you again, darling.’

  ‘Thank you… Thank you for everything, Mary. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Paris, but I’ll definitely be in touch.’

  She gives me a kiss on each cheek, and before she vanishes, she looks me firmly in the eye. ‘Oh, you’ll be back soon, I can feel it. Or perhaps…you may never even leave.’

  With a wink, Mary takes off down the sidewalk, her auburn hair blowing wildly in the wind as she disappears from my view.

  If only it were an option not to leave, I think as I set off in the opposite direction, my trip to the Eiffel Tower next on my list.

  Four

  The dramatic, stormy view of la Tour Eiffel from Trocadéro takes my breath away. Heavy gray clouds swirl around the tower, threatening to release their downpour any second. I take off down a long staircase, passing by a twirling carousel and reaching the Seine just as the cold drops begin to fall. My walk turns into a brisk jog, but just as I am half-way there, I notice that a few rays of sunlight have broken through the clouds and are shining down on the choppy River Seine.

  I stop running and let the rain soak my hair, my clothes, even the half of pain au chocolat which I have yet to finish…because I know that in a few moments, there will be a rainbow.

  And my sister Jules loved rainbows.

  A few seconds later, the arch of colors appears, stretching over the Seine and ending right at the bottom of the tower. Before I realize it, tears are pouring down my face, mirroring the rain which is falling in sheets around me.