Seven Letters from Paris

by Samantha Vérant

  Before I’d left, I’d tried to convince Jean-Luc to pick me up at some hotel near the airport, where rooms are rented by the hour. Given my situation, I’d wanted to look my absolute best, maybe take a shower. Always a gentleman, he’d agreed to my crazy plan. Then I reconsidered. First, I would have had to take a bus a half an hour away, and with my French, I could have ended up in Timbuktu. And second, because this bears repeating, it was a hotel where they rented rooms by the hour.

  My hair, I decided, had weathered the journey fine—not as greasy as I had anticipated it would be after nearly twenty-four hours of traveling. I smoothed it out with a brush. I touched up my lipstick, checked myself out one last time. Considering I hadn’t slept, and even though I felt like hell warmed over, I didn’t look nearly as bad as I’d thought I would. Tired passengers limped by as I made my way to baggage claim.

  Forty-five minutes passed and the bags still hadn’t made their appearance on the conveyer belt. Too many languages floated in the air. I didn’t understand a thing, and my head felt as if it could explode. I was not looking forward to bending over in a dress to pick up a fifty-pound bag. I was wearing a thong. I was getting angry, impatient, and paranoid. A ringtone startled me. I was so distracted I barely noticed that it was the phone I’d been gripping like a lifeline in my hand. “Hello.”

  “Honey, did you get lost?”

  “No, the bags haven’t come out yet. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to speed things up—” As if it was cued, the conveyor belt churned to life.

  Jean-Luc breathed out a sigh of relief. “I’ll see you soon. I can’t wait.”

  Sooner turned out to be later. My bag was the last one out.

  A sea of saris, bright blues and greens glistening with silver paillettes, billowed around in the hot breeze. There must have been about thirty people milling about, blocking my view, and speaking in a foreign tongue. It wasn’t French and I wondered if I had made a mistake, if I had actually arrived in, oh, I didn’t know, India. Finally, the crowd parted and I saw Jean-Luc standing amid the cocoa-colored bodies. I sucked in my breath. Wearing a blue and white striped shirt and jeans, he was undeniably French. He was also hard to miss, really handsome—much better in person than in pictures.

  His beautiful bow-shaped lips curved into a smile, warm and sexy, offset by charming dimples. He might not have had a full head of hair, but he worked this look well. His nose was imperfect, a little crooked, but this only added to his charm. And I loved the cleft in his chin, the square shape of his masculine jawline, his perfectly sized ears.

  My sister, who had demanded I forward her the pictures Jean-Luc had sent, called the triangle of hair under his bottom lip a “flavor saver,” which was a pretty disgusting term, but I thought his soul patch was damn sexy, especially when combined with the well-manicured sideburns. I walked closer toward Jean-Luc and his smile widened, making him even sexier. My heart jackhammered against my ribs.

  My pace quickened. I was one foot in front of Jean-Luc when my body lurched forward. Before I fell, he took me into his arms, strong and muscular. We gazed into each other’s eyes, his soft caramel with hints of green, dreamy. Needing to end any kind of awkwardness right away, I went for it and planted a big kiss on his lips. It was an instantaneous attraction, a chemical reaction.

  He hugged me tighter. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to let you go, not again.”

  “Correction,” I said. “I found you.”

  “Honey, oh honey, love isn’t a competition.”

  Our lips met again, and then our tongues. Soyez la bienvenue en France with a real French kiss. Lightning struck. It had been so long since I’d been kissed—truly kissed—like that. Jean-Luc wheeled my suitcase and threw my carry-on bag over his shoulder. On the way to the car, we passed a young couple seated on a bench whose lips were locked together. They just carried on with their make-out session, unaware of anybody or anything, just each other.

  Jean-Luc whispered in my ear. “Soupe de langues!”

  “Tongue soup?” I raised my brows inquisitively as I translated his words. “The French really do have a way with words.”

  “That’s not the only thing we have a way with.”

  All of a sudden, Jean-Luc and I were making out like teenagers in the middle of the parking garage. The kiss was so long and so good, chills ran down my spine. Somehow we made it to the rental car with me sitting in the passenger seat, not in his lap. We were driving somewhere. Anywhere. The bizarre, nervous sounds emitting from my mouth were not my own.

  I regarded Jean-Luc, admiring his quiet confidence, his style. With one hand dangling over the steering wheel, the other one on the gear shift, my Frenchman was a relaxed driver, zipping in and out of traffic, coming close to the bumper of the red Deux Chevaux in front of us. Me? I was using my invisible brake in the passenger seat.

  “Does my driving make you nervous?”

  His voice was sexy, low and tender. “No. Why do you ask?”

  He laughed. It was melodic and warm. “You know, there are no brakes on your side of the car.”

  On the highway, Jean-Luc’s hand found its way from the gear shift to my knee. Goosebumps puckered my neck, my arms. I cleared my throat. “So, did you get any sleep last night?”

  He had driven over seven hours from Toulouse to Paris to pick me up.

  “I pulled over at a motel midway and took a rest and a shower.”

  His hand became more courageous, finding its way to my thigh. Silence hung in the air. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears. I couldn’t help but wonder how soon was too soon? We’d been communicating with each other for well over three months, writing hundreds of letters, speaking for two to three hours on the phone a day. Now I was actually with him. “Were you nervous to see me?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  Jean-Luc turned his head toward me and laughed. “Why would I be nervous?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we haven’t seen each other in twenty years.”

  He squeezed my thigh. “Because you never wrote me back—”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Twenty years later.”

  “I can assure you if I had written you back then and we saw each other again, things would be a lot different now.”

  “Because I was…what did you call me?”

  “A player. I called you a player. And from what you’ve told me about your past, it’s true,” I teased.

  “Honey, I have to be honest with you.”

  Here it comes. He was going to drop a bomb, like he had twenty girlfriends, all of whom he loved, all of whom were under the age of thirty. One word squeaked out of my mouth. “Yes?”

  “I was a little nervous to see you, like a school boy getting ready to pick up his first date.”

  My lips curved into a grin. “You were?”

  “Yes, but I’m a man. I’m not supposed to admit fear to you. But we promised we would talk about anything. There will be no secrets between us. Ever.”

  Something deep in my gut told me that Jean-Luc and I would be together for a very long time. I could sense it. This was not our first date. Everything was already so natural between us. We had already professed our feelings for one another, whispered I love yous and je t’aimes during our late night telephone calls. It was then I decided to let my inhibitions go, to drop my guard, and let passion lead me. I twisted my body toward him. His hand stroked my inner thigh, grazing the lace separating flesh from fabric. I gulped. “How long is it to the hotel?”

  “Two hours.” He pulled his hand out from under my dress and grabbed my hand again, squeezing it. “We’ve waited twenty years. Two hours won’t kill us.”

  “Where are we going? Paris?”

  “No, not Paris. You’ve already been to Paris. You’ll see.”

  An Instant Connection

  Perhaps I was suffering dementia from lack o
f sleep. Perhaps years of being sexually repressed had built up. Whatever the reason, we’d barely stepped foot into the hotel room before I threw Jean-Luc onto the bed, straddling him. His fervor immediately matched mine. In a matter of seconds, our clothes were on the floor, and since I’d been starved for love, a feeding frenzy began. I was ravenous.

  Apparently, so was he. When we made love that first time, an intensity shone from his eyes. In fact, his gaze never left mine. Breathless, we lay in bed, me wrapped in his arms.

  “I don’t understand,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Understand what?”

  “Alors, I don’t understand how somebody could ignore you for so long. Did you tell me the truth?”

  I rolled over on my side, balancing on my elbow and stroking his chest with my free hand. “I’ve never, never lied to you. When I told you Chris and I made love six or eight times a year, it was the sad truth.”

  “That’s nothing. Nothing.” He sucked in his breath, stared at the ceiling. “Sam, you’re a very sensual woman, not a piece of furniture. I don’t understand how you let it happen.”

  This was what I was missing out on? “Well, it did.”

  “Life isn’t worth living unless there is passion.” He flipped me onto my back, grinning wickedly. His eyes locked on to mine, intense. “We have to make up for lost time.”

  Three orgasms, a toe-curling, leg-shaking, close-to-hyperventilating escapade, and one and a half hours later, I learned that Jean-Luc was an insatiable and very gracious lover.

  “Where are we?” I asked dreamily.

  “In Chartres.”

  “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “Best Western.”

  I knew this brand to be a decent hotel chain in the United States when you were on a road trip and didn’t want to stay in a fleabag motel, but this place was nice. Really nice. With hues of chocolate and beige and white, the decor was cozy and elegant—wainscoted walls, plush bedding, a charming antique desk in the corner, thick carpet and lovely curtains, even a chandelier.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Are they not like this in the United States?”

  “Not even close.” I closed my eyes. Maybe things were just better in France?

  “Just wait and see what else I have planned for you, princess.” He kissed me on the nose and rolled out of bed. His body was perfect, chiseled. “Don’t go to sleep. Get up and take your shower. We have places to see.”

  “But I need sleep,” I pleaded.

  “You’ll mess up your schedule. You have to stay awake.” Jean-Luc walked over to his suitcase and retrieved a few small packages out of it. His butt was cute, round, not flat. Perky. His shoulders were broad and strong, his back angling into a perfect v. “Besides, sleeping girls can’t open presents.”

  “I like presents.” I sat straight up in bed, the sheet draped over my body. “I have some things for you too.”

  From his bag, he handed me gift after gift. A gold-dipped necklace with matching earrings from a village in Provence. A bottle of Violette perfume from Toulouse. A cashmere scarf purchased on his trip to Scotland. French soaps—Savon de Marseille—a rainbow of colors and scents, for my mom.

  This guy was good. Real good.

  The French have a reputation for being the world’s best lovers, which included not just the physical act of sex but everything else that went along with it—the passion, the romance, the whole nine yards. Jean-Luc certainly lived up to the reputation and then some.

  And I had bought him a book on fish, a hat, and a few stinking T-shirts from Malibu for him and his kids? Granted, everything was tied in to his love for scuba diving, but compared to his gifts, I felt like one crappy present giver, save for the sexy black baby doll negligee and hot-pink corset I’d picked up at Victoria’s Secret before I’d left, which of course weren’t really for him.

  True to his word, Jean-Luc would not let me go back to bed after my shower. Instead, we were to head over to the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres, considered to be one of the greatest achievements in Gothic architecture and also the reason we were in Chartres, the town bearing the same name. Jean-Luc took me by the hand, leading me through a park and then through a maze of smaller streets. I didn’t bother asking him how he knew the way. His stride was one of purpose. Stumbling in my wedges, I tried to keep up with his pace.

  After twisting through the cobbled brick streets, passing by restaurant after restaurant, we stopped. I blinked the sleep away from my eyes. There it stood in all its glory, its sand castle–like spires reaching into the blue skies, calling up to the heavens, a direct line to God: Chartres. The sculptures and carvings were magnificent, not to mention the flying buttresses. Oh yes, the terminology from art school was all coming back to me. A tired woman of very few words, I could only mumble, “Wow.”

  The ceiling soared above my head. Stained-glass windows spilled jewel-toned colors onto the floor, offering depictions of biblical stories. I was immediately drawn to the Blue Madonna, wise, regal, and wearing an elusive Mona Lisa smile. I drank in my surroundings, immersed in a world of color and light—magnificent blues, reds, greens, and purples.

  Jean-Luc took me by the hand again. “Do you want to see the tower?”

  I could tell by his schoolboy expression that he wanted to show it to me. So I went with the flow. We purchased our tickets and began the harrowing climb. Right from the first step, I regretted the decision, each step becoming more labored than the next. I envisioned myself tumbling down the hard limestone stairs.

  “How far to the top?” I placed my hands on my knees, stopping to catch my breath.

  “Three hundred steps.”

  I echoed him. “Three hundred steps?”

  “Honey, we don’t have to go to the top. There are plenty of viewpoints along the way.”

  “No, no, no,” I said, although my tired body was pleading to turn around. “My dad raised me to respect the dollar. You paid seven euro for each of us. We’re going up.”

  Once we got to the top, my gaze leapt from the weathered pale green rooftop to the gargoyles offset by a darkening blue sky to the village and wheat fields below us, hues of yellows and reds. There was history here. Real history. Jean-Luc stood behind me, his breath soft in my ear, his hands on my hips, and standing in this historical site, I felt as if I had known him for centuries. Exactly as he had promised two decades earlier, I was seeing France through the eyes of a Frenchman. The church bell rang seven times, its melody filling the air, reverberating in my body and my heart. It was then I decided seven was my lucky number. I also wondered what else fate had in store for us.

  “We better go before they lock us in,” said Jean-Luc.

  Outside the cathedral, the town of Chartres was full of beautiful winding streets and romantic stone bridges, a surprise waiting around every corner. Music echoed in the streets. We followed the melody and found ourselves in a large square, a band playing center stage—a singer, a drummer, a guitarist, and two accordion players. Like one giant party, a dozen or so cafés surrounded the stage, all with outdoor seating, every table filled with people smoking and drinking and laughing. The band played a dizzying, frenetic song with varying tempos, the players theatrical in their movements. As hypnotic as the music was, people danced feverishly in front of the stage, spinning and clapping.

  “Is this gypsy music?” I asked.

  “No, not really,” said Jean-Luc. “This is music from this region, very old French mixed with a bunch of different influences—some gypsy, some tango—basically folk music.”

  “It’s great.” Tired as I was, I couldn’t help but find my foot tapping along to the beat. Yet as soon as I expended the extra energy to do so, I stumbled into Jean-Luc. He caught me, supporting me by the elbows.

  “Let’s get you some food. And then we’ll get you to bed.”

  With wicked intent, I raised my
brow in what I hoped to be a seductive manner. “I’m looking forward to that.”

  “Tu es une femme gourmande,” Jean-Luc whispered hotly in my ear, his hand sliding up my back. “A very, very, very greedy girl.”

  My knees gave out from underneath me.

  He draped his arm over my shoulders and we made our way to a restaurant we’d passed by earlier. Chic but comfortable, the room was beautifully decorated, romantic even. With the blue and white checkered curtains, the decor was country French in some ways but exotic in others. Moroccan influences were everywhere—beaded lamps, tiled tables, pillows, and scrolled iron partitions. Jean-Luc ordered us a lamb and vegetable tajine, a dish named after the clay pots our meal would be served in, and a carafe of wine.

  There was no need to speak, and I smiled at my good fortune. Jean-Luc stroked my thumb with his. We’d only been together a short while, but we’d already found our groove. In what seemed to be just a minute later, the server placed a very large clay pot in front of us, flatbread resting by its side. A medley of mouth-watering scents enveloped the table. Complex and aromatic, the ingredients tickled my senses—apples, pears, apricots, olive, lemon, almonds, and a variety of spices like cinnamon, saffron, ginger, and pepper. The meat practically melted in my mouth and the vegetables—zucchini, carrots, and onions infused in a tomato-based sauce laced with the flavors of cinnamon, paprika, cloves, and cayenne pepper—were delicious. Dinner was almost as spicy as our chemistry.

  We inhaled our food and headed back to the hotel for “dessert.”

  Usually, I’d fall asleep on the opposite side of the bed as my partner, not wanting anything to disturb my sleep. But nothing about our relationship was usual, and it was as if we had been glued together, my head resting on his shoulder, my leg draped over his body. Even our breath seemed to be in sync. I woke up a few hours later, surprised to find myself still entangled in Jean-Luc’s arms. Jean-Luc stroked my back with his soft fingertips. “You are beautiful, Sam, the prettiest rose in my garden. I’ve been awake for hours, just watching you sleep.” He rolled on top of me, pressing his muscular body against mine, his attraction to me perfectly clear. “I love looking at you.”