Seven Letters from Paris

by Samantha Vérant

  I wanted to yell after them, “I’m not just a dog walker. I’m a former art director, just biding my time until I move to France.” No such words came out of my mouth. Rocky, adding to my humiliation, pooped. I pulled out a blue plastic bag from my pocket and picked it up. Covered in sweat, I dropped Rocky back at his home and headed over to the next client’s house to find three teenage girls lounging poolside under a striped cabana, eating strawberries.

  “Oh, that’s the dog walker. Just ignore her.”

  What if things with Jean-Luc didn’t work out? Would I become the crazy dog lady living at home with her parents, shunned by Malibu’s finest? Exasperated, I went home and checked my email to see if there was any good news from Jean-Luc—the brightest light in my life.

  My mother walked into the kitchen. “Are you emailing that Frenchman again? You’ve got to get off your computer, meet more people.”

  “I don’t want to. It’s a moot point. He’s the only one for me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. You might have had a fantastic vacation together, but you hardly know him.”

  I needed to shock her into acceptance. We may have tiptoed around it, but sex wasn’t exactly a taboo subject in my house growing up. At the age of sixteen, I’d asked my mom if I could go on birth controls pills to, wink-wink, regulate my period. My mother, as she would tell me many years later, wasn’t born yesterday. I couldn’t believe what I wanted to say, so I just blurted it out. “He’s an amazing lover.”

  “Lover?” She choked on her English muffin. “What?” A blush crept onto my mom’s cheeks and her jaw went slack. “Sam, I’m the mom. We can’t talk about things like this.” She pinched her lips together and shot me a sideways glance. “So how big was his junk?”

  Coffee flew out of my mouth onto the glass table. His junk? Maybe I’d pushed things too far by even mentioning sex. “Mom, this reaches a whole new level of being so wrong it’s not even funny.”

  But it was. And we couldn’t stop laughing.

  Since my mother and I seemed to share everything now, I decided to show her how Google Translate worked with one of my frog’s French emails. I picked one of the shorter letters, which, at first glance, appeared “correct.”

  My love,

  This morning during breakfast I really thought about you. We have today and tomorrow and I’m wild with joy to have you with me…it is the conclusion.

  Lots of love for my little darling, my naughty little slut.

  (Plein d’amour pour ma petite chérie, ma petite cochonne.)

  My mom glared at the computer screen. “Why in the world is he calling you a slut?”

  After I picked my jaw off the floor, I responded, “What? No, no, nooooo, he’s not calling me a slut. Ma petite cochonne means ‘my little pig.’” Which it did. But there was a sexual connotation when you call a woman a little pig—it wasn’t a literal translation to slut. Thanks, Google.

  My mother wasn’t convinced. “Well, why is he calling you a little pig?”

  “It’s a term of endearment? Oink?”

  “Then you should call him a gros cochon. A big pig.”

  “No, you can call him that to his face. According to his latest email, he’d like to visit in October. Of course, if that’s okay with you.”

  She looked at me like I had three heads. “Mi casa, su casa,” she said. “And you don’t have to ask. I’m dying to meet him in person!”

  In the early evening, I sat on the balcony off my bedroom, Ike by my side, a chilled Chardonnay in hand. Outside, among the trees and birds, I could breathe. Being outside in nature always had a soothing effect on my soul. I loved watching the hummingbirds. What magical, fantastical creatures they were, zipping around from flower to flower, iridescent bodies sparkling in the sunlight, wings moving a thousand miles per hour. And then the most amazing thing happened.

  One of the birds hovered two feet in front of me. His body was electric, a bright sparkling green, his neck a bright red. A little engine purring, his wings fluttered and hummed. The bird tilted his head from side to side, appearing to be just as interested in me as I was in him. I held my breath, not wanting to startle this magnificent creature. Not a moment later, he flew closer, now six inches in front of my face. His wings beat so furiously I could barely discern them. In a quick motion, he darted toward me. Afraid of being poked in the eye with his pointy, black beak, I jumped back. As if laughing at my fear, he buzzed over my head one more time before landing on a tree branch.

  I laughed back.

  This hummingbird, for me, carried a message from a higher power, telling me to be strong, to be patient, to appreciate my world, my new life. Jean-Luc knew my stance on religion; I was a believer, but the kind who accepted and respected all faiths. When I told Jean-Luc, always the scientist, of my experience in the yard, he launched into an explanation of how extraordinary hummingbirds were.

  “They’re an engineering marvel,” he said.

  Patiently, I listened to him explain how for years scientists in the aerospace field have tried to re-create the hummingbird’s flight patterns, and I was amused by his excitement and passion for the subject. He marveled over how they are the only birds on the planet that can fly backward, true specialists in aerodynamics.

  “Yes, yes, that’s all interesting. But what do you think about the bird?”

  “C’est incroyable, mon coeur. Like you,” said Jean-Luc.

  • • •

  October snuck up like a surprise thunderstorm. My only hope was all the storm clouds would pass. Jessica came into town for a long weekend to celebrate my birthday—the big four-uh-oh. Somehow I’d managed to convince myself that forty was the new thirty. Bring on the bubbly.

  My mom, Jessica, and I took the boat out with Ike and had an epic day. We were just cruising along, listening to Jimmy Buffett and drinking white wine, and a pod of at least forty, maybe fifty, dolphins swam up beside us, darting and rolling and playing in the foamy white wake. They were everywhere, swimming underneath the boat on their backs, showing off their white bellies by the bow, playing and jumping, orchestrating a show that would rival any Cirque du Soleil performance. Awesome and breathtakingly beautiful, the dolphins danced and swam, the water their stage. It was magic.

  “Oh my God, do you see that?” screamed Jess. In fact, we were all squealing and pointing and smiling and laughing. But as quickly as they had appeared, the dolphins disappeared into the horizon. That day, I went home feeling content, but a few days later that sentiment would change into a melancholy sadness. This month was filled with too many good-byes.

  I said good-bye to Jessica, who returned to her home in New York. I said good-bye to my thirties. Soon, it would also be time to say good-bye to my faithful companion, Ike. After he’d discovered Pet Airways had just launched, Chris had asked if we could share custody of the furry kid. I agreed.

  I knew the day I put Ike on the plane would be hard and so would the days following it, but nothing prepared me for the pain of letting him go. When I dropped him off at Pet Airways, although I tried to convince myself otherwise, I had a feeling deep in my gut that it would be the last time I would see him. A lump formed in my throat, and it took everything in me not to burst into tears.

  Like an overbearing mother, I warned the front desk about Ike’s laryngeal paralysis. That if he started freaking out to please rub his neck and give him a Benadryl to calm him down. I handed the woman his bag with his food and medicine, his blankets and his favorite stuffed animal—a big brown monkey.

  “His nickname is Monkey,” I said. I pushed my sunglasses down from the top of head to cover my eyes.

  She shot me a sympathetic smile.

  I wanted to turn around and head back home, to forget about the deal I’d made with Chris. After all, Ike was happy. He had an excellent life in California—swimming in the pool, going to the beach, and eating barbecued hamburger
s and hot dogs. But a promise was a promise. Ike was Chris’s dog too.

  I stooped down to give my furry best friend the hug of all hugs, throwing my arms around his neck. He licked the tears off my cheek. With a treat in her hand, the woman led Ike to the back room. Ike’s tail wagged the whole time. And then he was gone. Once inside my car, I let loose. My body convulsed. My hands shook. I gulped back ragged sobs.

  Back at the house, reminders of Ike were strewn about everywhere—stuffed animals, spare leashes, tumbleweeds of black fur rolling around on the ground. Bodhi, the golden retriever, followed me around wherever I went as if to say, “Stop being so sad! You have me!”

  But losing Ike was like losing a child.

  I couldn’t stop crying.

  I hugged Bodhi, the big lug, to my chest. And then I called Tracey. I could barely speak.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I just put Ike on a plane.”

  “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry. You’ll see him again though.”

  “No, T, my gut instinct tells me I won’t. It felt like a final good-bye. He’s not in good health. I should have kept him here. With me.”

  “Sam, chances are you’re moving to France—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you love Jean-Luc and he loves you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I know he’s coming to visit you soon, but after that, you need a test month or two. In France. You guys need to stop with the vacation fantasy and try things on for real. You need to see what his life is really like, what his kids are like.” She paused. “And don’t worry about Ike. You did everything you could for him.”

  “I know.”

  I was sobbing hysterically when I hung up the phone.

  October 26 couldn’t come soon enough. Jean-Luc’s kids were staying at their grandmother’s for the La Toussaint holiday, and my Frenchman was coming to town. The moment Jean-Luc exited baggage claim, I ran up to him and he swung me in his arms. Boy, did I miss those arms. I missed his smile. I missed his lips, his touch. We kissed, long, hard, and passionate. Before someone could yell “get a room,” I led him across the street to the car. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to the marina.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “My parents’ boat. I thought you’d want to freshen up before meeting them.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “It’s been two months since we’ve seen each other. I thought we could use a little privacy.”

  I got out of the car and walked to the docks before he could argue. Jean-Luc followed with his carry-on and we stepped onto the boat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a thin, black square box wrapped in a red bow. “Joyeux anniversaire, my love.”

  I tossed the box onto the counter and pushed Jean-Luc onto the bed. “All I want is you.”

  Two hours later, we showed up at my parents’ house.

  Outside the front door, I fingered the necklace Jean-Luc had just given me for my birthday. A beautiful, black Tahitian teardrop-shaped pearl hung from a v-shaped, pavé diamond-encrusted pendant, the chain white gold.

  “Really, you shouldn’t have.”

  “If I got you nothing,” he argued, “I would never have heard the end of it.”

  “You came here. That’s present enough.”

  “Hmmpf,” he guffawed, narrowing his eyes into a teasing glare. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s women.” His upper lip twitched. “I’m feeling a bit awkward meeting your parents.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my divorce hasn’t gone through yet.” I could tell this really bothered him. But besides being patient, there was nothing either of us could do about it. “I would feel so much better if I was able to ask your father for your hand in marriage. Sam, I would rather have offered you a ring than a necklace.”

  My heart did a flip-flop.

  His trepidation was palpable. He waved his hand in front of the door. “I’m a bit intimidated by all this. My house is much smaller than this. Much smaller. I can’t offer you luxury or a pool or a boat. I can only—”

  I kissed him lightly on the lips. “Jean-Luc, material things don’t matter to me. All that matters is you. And I’ve told my parents everything. They understand. They do. I have a feeling you and my dad are really going to hit it off.”

  At least that was my greatest hope.

  Checking Baggage

  Unlike Jean-Luc and my mother, my adopted dad was raised in a life of privilege outside of New York City in a town called Rye. His family came from a line of bankers and lawyers whose history can be traced back to the Mayflower. In fact, two of his ancestors were original signers of the Declaration of Independence. His parents, whom I called Gram and Cracker, were quintessential WASPs. They shipped my dad off to an all boys’ boarding school, Choate, at the age of eleven, where my father excelled in his studies and also learned to rebel. When it came time to choose a college, instead of opting for Yale and joining the Skull and Bones, like the two generations of men before him, he enrolled at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. Unlike Yale, it was co-ed. It was also, gasp, a family scandal.

  But just like Jean-Luc, my dad worked for everything he’d achieved; nothing was given to him. The start of his career was modest. He was living in a small rental apartment when he met my mom and drove an old red Jeep with a hard white top. But he was smart and made all the right moves, and it was no surprise his career in advertising took off the way it did. After all the traveling for his job, my mom refused to move anymore, and they’d settled into this California dreamin’ life.

  I moved to open the wooden Spanish doors with their iron fittings. Jean-Luc grabbed my arm and whispered, “What do I call your dad? His name is Livingston, right?”

  I choked back a laugh. “Nobody has ever called him that. Just call him Tony.”

  “Tony?”

  “I don’t get it either. His dad, Livingston the second,” I said with an over-the-top fake English accent, “was called Peter.”

  “I don’t know, Sam,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”

  And they did.

  Jean-Luc and my parents connected instantly, helped by the housewarming gifts he’d brought from France—lavender products and candies and wine. In fact, I’d never seen my dad relate to somebody so well. I watched them talking together for what seemed to be hours, stunned, while my mother buzzed around Jean-Luc like a bee, laughing and smiling and joking.

  With Jean-Luc out of earshot, my dad pulled me to the side. “Sam, you’re really lucky. You must have a guardian angel looking out after you.”

  “I still feel like I’m reeling backward from one knockout punch, but I know what you mean. Along with all the bad came a world of good.”

  “Honey, everything will be fine. Bruises heal.”

  “So…what do you think about Jean-Luc?”

  “It’s nice having somebody I can talk to.” He smiled. “I always thought you’d end up with somebody who had the soul of a poet. He’s a great guy. And he’s really smart. I didn’t know he led a team of twenty-four scientists. It’s very impressive.”

  “Yep, like you, he had to work really hard to get where he is today.”

  My dad and Jean-Luc may have come from different backgrounds, but they had a world in common. It wasn’t like I expected them to be best friends or that I needed my parents’ approval, but it sure was nice to have. Now I just had to have them compete in Trivial Pursuit or Scrabble, games my dad always won—a battle of wits, the American versus the French!

  “If I haven’t told you lately, I think you’re great too,” said my dad. “Whatever it is you want to do, your mother and I will support your decision, no matter what.”

  Should I drop the bomb then? Tell them I was probably marrying Jean-Luc and moving to France?


  “I’m meeting his family over Christmas, Dad. He’s going to book my ticket while he’s here.”

  “He told me.” My dad’s eyes lit up. “The test month.”

  We all knew it was more than that.

  I cringed. “It was Tracey’s idea.”

  As I prepared dinner, a simple barbecue consisting of New York strip steaks and a big salad, my mom snuck up behind me and whispered, “He’s so sweet. Now I know why you fell in love with him.”

  “He’s so good to me.”

  “He’s good for you. Dad likes him too. And don’t forget the dogs! Even Jack likes him. And Jack doesn’t like anybody. Everybody in Malibu wants to meet Jean-Luc.”

  “He’s not a sideshow attraction.”

  “Come on! It’ll be fun. Bring him to the Wine Barrel.”

  Singing karaoke at the Wine Barrel was not an option. I wanted Jean-Luc to see more of California while he had the chance. He had shown me practically all of France, and now it was my turn to play tour guide. The following day, Jean-Luc and I left for Palm Desert to stay with one of my oldest friends, Debra, for one night. After a two-hour drive, we pulled up to her house around noon, a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand.

  “Is this a hotel?” asked Jean-Luc.

  I glanced at the beautiful Moroccan-inspired home. At over seventeen thousand square feet, it was enormous, the landscaping sheer perfection. “Nope,” I said. “And if you think the outside is impressive, wait until you see the inside.”

  Ten-foot-tall carved wooden doors inlaid with brass opened at the press of a button. Debra greeted us. She was blond, beautiful, and with her impeccable taste, she even looked stylish in her beach cover-up. She kissed Jean-Luc on both cheeks. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “Thank you very much for hosting us.”

  “Come in, come in! I’ll give you a quick tour and then we’ll go have lunch at the club.”

  Behind his back, Debra gave me the thumbs-up, her mouth open, her head nodding in approval. Jean-Luc’s jaw also dropped as we walked into her house. We stood in an open atrium, palm trees reaching up toward the sky. What I didn’t tell Jean-Luc was that Debra hired workers from Morocco to build this masterpiece, with all the materials coming from Morocco too. The floors were intricately tiled. The brass lights were all hand hammered. The moldings were finely detailed, white and perfect, like the prettiest of wedding cakes. Jean-Luc took a step forward to peer over the balcony, where, downstairs, a full hammam spa awaited. Toward the back of the home, right off the gourmet kitchen, there was a hookah room, where at the press of a button, a twenty-foot-wide movie screen would rise in front of its stunned audience. Outside, there were two pools—one an infinity-edged lap pool, the other circular with built-in sun beds. It was paradise, a desert oasis of luxurious dreams.