The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  By the time I started college, they had become the only real family I ever had. And, of course, I was an honorary member of Samantha’s and Lauren’s families too. There was not a single day that I took those relationships for granted. That’s how I survived: I had to leave my house to find a home.

  The sunlight against my face no longer feels soothing. I step back inside the room, glance at the mirror across from me, seeing the heavy sadness veil my eyes. It’s all gone now—my big extended family—that precious noise and cherished camaraderie. I’m orphaned once again, back to the unbearable quiet of that lonely kitchen table of my childhood. Don’t go there, I tell my reflection gently. You woke up feeling good. Don’t let the new light extinguish so quickly.

  PERUSING THE SMALL CLOSET WITH MY LIMITED CHOICES, I SETTLE ON A STRAPPY floral sundress—a happy dress—grab my new wide-brim straw hat, aviators, and beach bag. I decide to spend the afternoon exploring Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, the jewel of the Riviera. According to my guide, back in its heyday in the fifties, Cap-Ferrat was the epitome of glamour, the vacation destination for the glitterati. With its magnificent coastline, art galleries, boutiques, and mountainside villas, Cap-Ferrat is known as the “see and be seen” haven for wild parties, soirees, yachting, and fashion shoots. Sounds perfect. I encourage myself to push through the pain I’m feeling. The excursion will be light and adventurous, an uplifting diversion from my dark thoughts.

  But first things first. I sit on the edge of the bed, glance at my phone. Dozens of emails, texts, from my office, questions about exhibiting artists—everyone needing something—had poured in overnight, adding to the slew of messages that I’ve ignored since I arrived in France. Rachel’s last email message reads like an SOS:

  Sophie, call me any time of day or night. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!

  I glance at my phone: 5:15 a.m., Chicago time. I feel a sharp pang tug at my stomach, then I text her:

  SOPHIE: Rach, I know it’s very early there. You up?

  RACHEL: YESS!!

  Of course she is. The girl doesn’t sleep. Rachel, who has been my assistant for the past five years, who knows what I need before I even say it, answers on the first ring. “Sophie, thank god it’s you! I left you like a zillion messages. Are you okay? I got the one message that you were leaving for Paris, and then a second message that you will be spending a few weeks there with Ava. But it’s been absolute chaos here without you. The Berland exhibit, you cannot even begin to imagine . . .”

  Oh, but I can. Renata Berland is the most difficult artist we’ve ever worked with, but one of the best. “I know, Rach. I’m so sorry I didn’t get in touch with you earlier. I’ve had to deal with a personal crisis. And I apologize for calling at this crazy hour.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m up. You know I never sleep. Is Ava okay?” she asks, concerned. Rachel and Ava have always liked each other.

  “Yes . . . she’s okay now,” I say, deciding not to elaborate. “But Gabe and I are separating.”

  The phone goes dead silent. “Gabe? What? No. You two are the perfect couple.” I can hear the shock in her voice. Rachel, like everyone else apparently, had a crush on Gabe. His charm followed him wherever he went.

  “Far from perfect,” I tell her, trying to keep it together. Somehow saying this aloud to Rachel makes it all so real, so permanent. “Here’s the thing . . . I’m, well, I need to take some time off.” I take a deep breath. God, this is hard. “Actually, a lot of time.”

  “How much time?” she whispers, and I can hear her panic rising. The arts festival begins on August 28—in three weeks. We both know this is crunch time, do or die.

  “I know things are tough,” I say carefully. “I know Renata is Renata, and I’m so sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry you are going through hell,” she says, and I know she means it. “But this is our biggest show ever, Soph. Nearly one hundred and fifty exhibitors and yes, Renata is off the chain. Please just tell me what you want me to do.” She pauses to take a loud, nervous sip of whatever it is she’s drinking. I bet it’s a Diet Coke even at this early hour. She drinks at least five of those during the work day. It’s no wonder she doesn’t sleep.

  Rachel is on the ledge. I’ve been there dozens of times with the exhibitors, I get it. “Listen to me closely,” I tell her. “You are beyond capable, amazing at what you do, and I know you can handle it all. Give the shit work to the interns, okay. The deal is, I’m not coming back is what I really want to tell you.”

  Rachel laughs loudly, unnaturally, like a haunted-house actor. “Yeah, right. Is this a joke? The festival is your life, your baby—everyone knows that.”

  Was my life, was my baby. I release a heavy sigh. “Do you want my job—because it’s yours. My life is upside-down right now and I need time to figure it all out. And . . . I need to sculpt again.” There, I said it aloud. It’s official. Another cat let out of the bag.

  “Wait—what? Not coming back?” I can see her shaking that wisp of a blonde ponytail held together by a gaggle of bobby pins, her tortoiseshell glasses fogging up with worry. “You can’t just leave, Sophie. I can’t do this without you—nobody can.”

  “Yes, you can,” I say gently, hearing the sheer terror in her voice, wishing I could hug her right now. “You have been the backbone of the entire center. I’m sorry to do this to you. Timing is terrible, I know. But I need to take care of me. So, it’s all yours, my office, our clients . . .”

  “Soph.” Rachel, bookish and brilliant, begins to cry. “What if I can’t—”

  I interrupt her. “I chose you for a reason. Don’t doubt yourself. Bye, Rach—you got this.” And then I hang up. Just like that. Barely breathing, I fire off a quick email explaining my situation to the board of directors, and then I delete my email account. I erase the part of me that spent the past decade mothering a network of artists, mothering an assistant, mothering a new fine arts center for the community, mothering suburbia’s much anticipated summer arts festival, turning North Grove into Burning Man for one week every summer. An annual festival so hip that even city dwellers make the trek to the burbs without complaining. I delete it all. I glance at my phone just to make sure. Gone, wiped out, finito. The only contact I have left on my phone and all my networks is my daughter.

  I feel an overwhelming surge of relief for a split second, and then just as quickly, the floodgates burst open. Holy shit, I just deleted my entire life. I think of Gabe, and my stomach lurches. No, my life deleted me first. I was forced into deletion. I start to feel queasy and shaky, and I make a run for the bathroom. I loved my life, my assistant, my artists, my festivals—even Renata and all of her pain-in-the-ass demands.

  Perspiration trickles across my forehead and under my arms. I splash water all over me, stare into the mirror at a face I no longer recognize.

  What have I done?

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE DRIVE TO CAP-FERRAT IS JUST OVER FORTY-FIVE MINUTES AND EVEN LOVELIER than I imagined. The scenic route helps lift my mood, and slowly, with a lot of deep breathing, I allow myself to fall under its spell.

  The winding narrow road leading to the center of town is slightly scary in my convertible, and I wish I had one of those vintage Hollywood scarves to wrap around my hair, à la Audrey Hepburn. It’s that kind of look, that kind of day. As I navigate the snake turns, I catch glimpses of sprawling villas behind manicured gardens, and beyond, the azure sea blends into the turquoise sky. The sea air is invigorating and once again I feel ageless, lighter, and surprisingly high on life, determined to enjoy the day.

  Up ahead in the distance, I see a sign pointing to the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild, a palatial seaside museum filled with eighteenth-century art. I decide to check it out—why not? I read about the museum and its long-gone proprietor, Béatrice, the socialite daughter of Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, a banker and renowned art collector. At nineteen, she married a hapless Russian banker fifteen years her senior in 1883—a gambler and a cheat, who gave her what sounded like a severe case
of syphilis, which prevented her from ever having any children. Finally divorcing the scoundrel after twenty-one years of a miserable marriage, Béatrice turned her attention to her greatest passion: collecting art and creating her dream home filled with masterpieces and furniture. A year before her death in 1934, she bequeathed the mansion to the Académie des Beaux-Arts for the purpose of creating a museum.

  I park my car and walk briskly toward the museum, then stop and stare. It’s breathtaking. Surrounded by nine gardens and sea views on all sides, the gorgeous rose-colored villa is evocative of an Italian palazzo. I browse my guide for a quick tutorial. The museum boasts a major collection of Sèvres and Vincennes porcelain, Flemish and Beauvais tapestries, and eighteenth-century furniture and paintings. But apparently, the lush exotic gardens steal the show—Japanese, Spanish, Provençal, Florentine, and rose—each with magnificent ornate fountains that are switched on every twenty minutes with a musical accompaniment.

  It’s so beautiful outside that I decide to check out the gardens first. I sit on a remote stone bench outside the villa to take in all the panoramic beauty and read about each garden. There’s no rush. The day is mine. A few minutes later, I hear loud chatter in the distance. I look up and see a group of college students equipped with sketch pads congregating near the rose garden. I smile to myself. I was once them. I remember visiting the Art Institute of Chicago with my class, armed with my sketchbook. I had painted back then, but sculpting was my true love. I remember feeling so important, so cultural, so part of the world I was soon entering. As I reminisce, I watch as the students gather around their instructor and I lean forward in disbelief.

  What? No—it can’t be.

  I take off my sunglasses for a second look. My jaw goes slack. There, standing in front of the students wearing jeans and a royal blue button-down shirt and those same Ray-Bans, looking like George Clooney playing the part of an art teacher, is none other than Olivier Messier. I close my book with a slam. I can barely breathe. Why the hell is he here? And then I remember Ava telling me that Olivier was teaching a seminar at the Université de Provence, and she was supposed to join him before they broke up. Christ, I’ve got to leave this place before he sees me.

  I wait until Olivier turns around, pull the brim of my hat low on my face, and try to slither out of the garden without being noticed. But that man, I swear, has eyes in the back of his head. Somehow, he turns around at the very same moment I sneak behind his students. I keep walking as I hear him tell the students “just a minute,” that he will be right back. His quick steps are approaching and I move faster. Do I run? Do I hide?

  “Sophie! Sophie!”

  Damn, I’m trapped. Just keep going, pretend you don’t hear him. Go where? Anywhere—before he smothers you with that swarthy charm. Before he tries to kiss you on two cheeks. You’re not you right now. You’re this other person—the one to whom strange things are inexplicably happening. I feel his long stride sidle up next to me. There’s no way out.

  “Running away?” He laughs. His voice is husky as he eyes me from head to toe. “What are you doing here? And you look fantastic, by the way.”

  I ignore the fantastic part. “Olivier, what a surprise.” I’m so transparent, so bad at being fake. “I’m spending the day in Cap-Ferrat.”

  “Alone?”

  “No,” I lie.

  He moves in closer. One eye on me, the other on his students, who have now turned to watch us. “I’m teaching my summer course in Aix. Where are you staying?”

  I pause. There’s no way I’m giving him that information.

  “You’re traveling alone, aren’t you?” he persists, looking around. “I know Ava left for Spain.”

  Is she still in contact with this asshole? “I’m meeting someone,” I say. Stay away from my daughter, and stay away from me.

  His eyes glisten. “We should get together.”

  I purse my lips tightly. There’s no chance in hell of that happening. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, forcing a smile. “But nice to see you. I’m going to go check out the museum and you should probably go back to your students.” I gesture to them over my shoulder.

  But he ignores the students, leans forward, his warm breath grazes my neck. “I’m here for just two more days with my class. Nights are free. Why don’t we get a drink?”

  I stop in my tracks. This man is infuriating. “And how is Sabine?” I sneer, tossing in a bitchy reminder. “And the kids?” I throw in for good measure. “No drinks. No dinner. No lunch,” I say adamantly before he can respond.

  Undeterred, he takes a bold step closer. That musky scent of his is overpowering. His mouth sets in a hard line. “It’s just a drink and conversation—not a lifetime commitment. Really, Sophie, I don’t bite.”

  If Ava knew this conversation was even taking place, she’d feel so betrayed. “Yes, actually, you do.”

  He lets out a huge belly laugh, the opposite of my intention. “Think about it.”

  “I don’t need to think. It’s a hard no. But enjoy your time here.” I take a step sideways, but before I can walk past him, he grasps my arm gently with an unmistakable glint in his eye.

  “I will call you.”

  Is he delusional? Did Gabe use those same scripted lines? I feel my face burning up. Just go. Leave, and pretend this run-in never happened, but I can’t. I turn to face him squarely. “You can’t possibly believe that I am interested in you. And if you do, it makes you some kind of monster. Ava is part of every decision I make. But even if Ava were not in this picture, this”—I wag my finger between us—“still wouldn’t happen. You see, I’m not very French and apparently not very American these days either, but Sabine exists for me—arrangement or no arrangement.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut as though physically wounded by my words. A little dramatic, but for a man who lives by a code of pleasure, it’s rejection, which I bet rarely happens to him, if ever.

  “I am not a total bastard.” His pained look turns puppy dog. “I do have a moral compass. Not often, but it’s there.” He glances over at his students, who are staring at us as though we are a telenovela. “I also follow what’s in my heart. As wrong as it is, and I’m sure you’re going to hate me for saying this, but I was attracted to you from the very first time I saw you. It was as if Ava had walked into my life as a fully formed woman. Sexy, bold, experienced . . .” His eyes gleam like new pennies, and it takes all of my restraint not to slap him. “It’s no coincidence that we are meeting again. I felt we connected at the Rodin and—”

  My hands ball into tight fists at my sides. “There was no connection, do you hear me—zero. I asked to meet you alone only to make sure you ended it properly with my daughter. It was a get-out-of-her-life conversation. That’s all—no more, no less.”

  Olivier shakes his head. “You’re overreacting. All I was suggesting is a harmless get-together. One drink,” he persists.

  “Jesus Christ—no fucking drinks!” I shout loud enough not only for his students to hear, but all of Cap-Ferrat. “Not now, not ever.”

  On that note, I bolt out of the garden, past the musical fountain, the museum, the tourists waiting in line, and head straight to the parking lot. Trembling and out of breath, I lean against my car for support, but the hot metal scorches me through the back of my dress. And fuck you, Gabe. I scream inside my head, like a wolf howling at the moon. For making this my life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  EXHAUSTED AND STILL TRAUMATIZED BY THE OLIVIER INCIDENT, I PULL INTO MY hotel around 7 p.m., deciding to order room service and just detox from the day. As I round the driveway to drop off my car, Jean-Paul walks out of the hotel in his tailored suit and tie and slicked-back hair, his colorful tattoos carefully concealed. When he sees it’s me behind the wheel, he smiles broadly and I perk up like a wilted flower doused with sugar and water.

  “Bonsoir, madame,” he says with a naughty grin as he opens the car door.

  “If you call me ‘madame,’ I will have t
o kill you,” I whisper seductively, feeling the instant electricity between us.

  “You look beautiful,” he says under his breath as he assists me out. The doorman nearby is watching us. “Where were you?”

  “Cap-Ferrat for a bit . . . and then I drove to Monaco and walked around.”

  “So touristy.”

  “Well, I’m a tourist.” My mouth curves into a half-smile as I hand him my car keys. I inhale his spicy aftershave, which smells like a cross between cardamom and cloves. Immediately, the rated-X memory of the other night floods my brain, easily drowning out the Cap-Ferrat fiasco. “You have a better suggestion?” I add demurely. In a split second, I’ve morphed from me to Jenna Jameson.

  His eyes narrow in, his bottom lip distends slightly, eyeing me in the same predatory way he had in his bed when he pinned me down. “Maybe, yes.” With a sly smile, he gets into my car and drives off to the private parking lot.

  What was that?

  I look back, but he’s already gone. As I head up to my room, my whole body tingly, I try to decipher “Maybe, yes” and its myriad meanings. The way he looked at me, stripped me with his eyes, was enough material to get me through the night. I remove my clothes, order room service, turn on the TV, and try to decide between two faves that I’ve seen dozens of times—Bridget Jones’s Diary or Under the Tuscan Sun.