At lunch, I watched Jean-Luc work his magic, marveling at his social grace. He didn’t have to try to impress; being personable came naturally to him. When the check arrived, he reached for it. Debra stopped him. “It’s a club. Only I can sign,” she said. “Your money is no good here.”
Jean-Luc glared at me. Debra laughed.
We spent the afternoon taking in the desert sun, listening to music, swimming in the pool, and drinking champagne. Debra and I sat on the outdoor couch, glasses in hand.
“Oh my god,” she said. “We need to have him cloned. Stat.”
“So you like him?”
“Like him? I LOVE him. He’s adorable, smart, sexy…” She grabbed my knee. “Sam, I’ve never seen you so happy. You’ve really hit the jackpot with this one. He’s really a great guy.”
Jean-Luc waved to us from the pool.
“I agree,” I said. “I agree.”
Debra and I clinked glasses.
In the evening, we ate at the local sushi restaurant. Jean-Luc, as usual, was dapper in a smart black linen shirt, a black belt, and jeans. Again, I played observer, just listening in as he and Debra talked and laughed. At the end of the meal, Debra excused herself for the ladies’ room.
“I want to pay for dinner,” said Jean-Luc. “I didn’t like not being able to pay at lunch.”
“Then you better call the waiter over now,” I said, and Jean-Luc did.
His face turned crimson when he found out Debra had already taken care of the bill.
“We’ll just have to sneak out of the house in the morning and buy breakfast and lunch before she can catch us.”
His mouth twitched.
Six days flew by too quickly. I knew that Jean-Luc would return to France and I’d find myself alone again. But rather than feeling empty, I was in high spirits. Soon I would spend one month with Jean-Luc in France—the test period. Who would be testing whom? We didn’t know, although he had said that his kids could be a handful sometimes. That night, we sat on my bed with my laptop. Instead of booking my flight with his frequent-flyer miles, like I thought he was doing, he pulled up a site to Mauboussin, a French jeweler. He turned the screen toward me.
“When the time comes, I can’t afford to buy you a big diamond. But diamonds are a dime a dozen. I’d like for you to have something different. Is there anything here you like?”
Wow. He’d really been thinking about rings. I shot Jean-Luc a sly smile and clicked through some designs. One design popped off the page: the Fou de Toi. It was a six-carat pale pink amethyst—a rose de France—set onto a delicate white gold band, offset by tiny pavé diamonds—a bonbon for any women’s finger, total eye candy. I had no idea what Jean-Luc’s budget was. The cost of this ring was two thousand euro.
“You like that one?” said Jean-Luc.
“I like the name. Crazy for you. Because I am crazy for you.”
Jean-Luc clicked through the designs to another ring. It was white gold with a small diamond set into what looked like tiny butterfly wings, the band also inlaid with pavé diamonds. It was simple and elegant, charming. It also cost three hundred euro less. “What about this one?”
“It’s pretty too.” I read the name of the ring out loud. “Moi aimer toi.”
“You speak French like a cavewoman.” He shoved the computer to the side and pushed me onto my back. “Me love you too.”
• • •
My heart had gone from zero to ninety and all I wanted was to get a move on with my life, with Jean-Luc in it. And now he was gone. We spoke to each other every day, professed our undying love, and tried to support each other as best we could with oceans separating us. Of course, we also talked about marriage, but there were still so many unknowns. Like when would his divorce go through? And would his children like me? It was my greatest hope that they would come to accept me, but after what they’d been through with their first stepmother, they weren’t exactly going to be running into my arms.
I’d thought about this a lot.
One thing I would never attempt to do was discipline Jean-Luc’s children. This did not mean if they did something I didn’t like, I’d let them walk over me. But I refused to play the role of the evil stepmonster, and hopefully they would come to view me as a friend, a person they could trust. I wanted to start working on gaining their confidence. I remembered the children were more brokenhearted over losing Natasha’s cat when she left than they were over losing her. I needed to find a cat, a better cat, and stat. If anything, choosing a new pet together would help me connect with the kids.
A friend of mine had just posted a picture of her new Bengal kitten on Facebook, and the moment I saw him, I knew this was the breed I wanted to introduce the kids to. The search for a spotted, creamy and caramel-colored tiny panther began. After spending hours on Google, I found the name of a few breeders in my area only to learn that the kittens cost a minimum of twelve hundred dollars. Which wasn’t going to happen. Upon further investigation, I discovered the mothers, or breeding cats, were usually sold for two hundred dollars or less, a much more manageable number. I ran the idea by Jean-Luc, and he suggested I discuss my idea with Elvire. After all, it would give us something to talk about woman-to-woman and a way for us to get to know one another.
So I emailed her.
Elvire, a cat lover, knew of the breed. Together, in French, we exchanged excited emails about how getting one for Christmas would be incredible, if Jean-Luc was agreeable. And so the research began. Elvire and I emailed back and forth, suggesting one breeder or the next. A few weeks later, after much digging, I was able to uncover une éleveur in the Bordeaux area—only two hours away from Jean-Luc’s home. There were four kittens left to choose from—two boys and two girls. I asked Elvire to have Jean-Luc call the breeder for more information and then to have her papa call me. The phone rang a few minutes later.
“How much are they?” I asked, worried.
“Nine hundred euro.”
Leave it to me to find one of the world’s most expensive cats. “Honey, I told you. I could buy an older cat here,” I said. “Two hundred dollars.”
“They want a kitten.”
“At a year old, they’re kind of like kittens…”
“Elvire wants to pick the cat out, a female, and thanks to you, she now wants this breed. Maxence too.”
Of course they did. The Bengal was like the rock star of cats. “I’m sorry.”
“Honey, never apologize. Don’t worry. I have an idea and the children have already agreed to it.”
I listened to his solution, biting my nails. The kids, Jean-Luc, and I were going to split the cost of the cat. The children had some savings and they would pitch in one hundred and fifty euro each. Jean-Luc would pay for half. And I would be responsible for the remaining one-fifty.
“Uh, okay,” I said.
“I always thought cats were free. You can find them anywhere on the street.” Jean-Luc’s laughter was met by my silence. His tone turned serious. “Honey, if you can’t afford it, I can pay your portion, but I thought you’d want to be involved.”
“No, no, no. This cat was my idea. I’ll figure something out.” Stupid cat. Me and my big fat mouth. “So what part will I own? The ass?”
A few days later, Elvire emailed me to ask if I had any ideas for names. Thinking of her recent obsession with Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight saga, I suggested Bella. And so we agreed. Bella the Bengal cat it was. Expense aside, I was probably as excited for the cat as both the children were. Plus, it was a great way for me to break down some barriers with Elvire, whose raging hormones were about to kick in. Yes, with two tween-aged kids, I was about to dive into the fire headfirst.
The following morning, Jean-Luc called with incredible news. It wasn’t about the cat; his divorce to Natasha had finally gone through. The drama was over and we could start planning our future—one big happy Franc
o-American family with a ridiculously expensive cat.
With the finalization of Jean-Luc’s divorce, the inspiration to straighten out the rest of my life kicked me into motion. It was time to dig in, get rid of all the problems I’d been avoiding, tackling them head on like a linebacker, crushing the big ones first. One: I needed to meet with a bankruptcy attorney to figure out if chapter 7 was a viable option for me. I wasn’t going to burden anyone with my debt—not Jean-Luc, not my parents, not anybody. Two: I needed to sell whatever I could. There was a jeweler in Santa Monica on Montana Street with a sign stating, “I buy gold,” so I raced there.
The shop was nice, filled with beautiful pieces, all glittery with diamonds galore. A few eternity bands in a black display case caught my eye. But no, I wasn’t there to pick something new out; I was there to sell. The owner of the shop held up a loop and inspected my wedding rings. He was young, around thirty-five, fairly good-looking with long brown hair that came down to his shoulders. He, like most men in LA, wore a funky outfit—two-hundred-dollar “cool kid jeans” and a button-down oxford with an embroidered dragon on the back. He placed the rings on a scale.
“I’ll give you fifteen hundred for both.”
I wasn’t sure if I had heard him correctly. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Some linebacker. I wanted to sink to my knees and vomit and then cry like a baby. “What?”
“First of all, the diamond is pear-shaped. Nobody buys pear-shaped rings anymore. It’s pretty much useless unless I turn it into a necklace. Second, there’s a chip in it.” He pointed to the top of the diamond. “It needs to be sanded down, which will cost me a couple hundred and diminish its size. The platinum setting is only worth its weight. You have thin fingers so—” He cut himself off, probably noticing the tears welling up in my eyes. “How much did you think you could get for them, anyway?”
The words gurgled out of my mouth. “My ex told me the diamond was worth eighteen thousand.”
“Not on this planet.” The jeweler laughed. “While the quality is decent, it’s not that good. Retail? You’d be lucky to get three or four for it.”
“Four is good,” I said. “I’ll take four. Plus the value of the platinum.”
“Honey, I don’t buy retail, I buy wholesale. And as I told you, nobody is buying pear-shaped.” My knees felt like they were about to give out from under me. The jeweler’s half smile was filled with pity. “Look, I saw you drooling over the case. If you want to do a trade-in, I’ll give you a better deal.”
I shook my head numbly. I couldn’t sell my old wedding rings to buy new ones. And although we’d discussed marriage and things seemed to be headed in that direction, Jean-Luc hadn’t technically asked me yet. “No, that would be bad karma.”
“It’s just money,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll buy the rings from you, hand you the cash, and then you give me the cash back and choose something else.”
Was he kidding? Insane? I glared at him. “That doesn’t make a difference.”
“Up to you.” He handed the rings back to me. “Really, I’m not giving you a lowball offer. It’s fair. Think about it.”
I mumbled, “I will,” and headed for the door. My hands shook as I put the keys into the ignition. I visited three more jewelry stores who all told me more or less the same thing. Panic set in. I’d joked about it before, but it finally hit me that I really had nothing but the clothes on my back.
At home, my mother suggested I contact an estate sale agent she worked with a few years back, so I called and set up a meeting. In addition to the rings, she said they also could help me sell a silver-plated tea set I’d been trying to unload for years. Even in France, I couldn’t see myself throwing a formal tea party. I’d have to be patient, the estate agent explained, but she thought she’d be able to sell everything for around five thousand dollars, less 35 percent. With no other options, I agreed.
As for bankruptcy, since I didn’t know anybody who had gone through the process, I pored through websites looking for an attorney who (a) didn’t look like Slick Willy the used car salesman, (b) didn’t advertise a chapter 7 special for $795/all the litigation you need, and (c) wasn’t an ambulance chaser. This took some time. Finally, after much research, I settled on a woman named Shannon Sugar who also practiced family law. After I filled her in on my situation and went over the disastrous state of my finances, I asked if she foresaw any problems.
“Well,” said Shannon, “your finances are close to poverty level. You’re definitely under the means. But there are no guarantees.”
“Great,” I said. I was a pauper. Just great.
“So I’ve told you about all the risks and you understand them.”
Yes, I knew I’d ruin my near-perfect credit score, something I was bizarrely proud of. Yes, I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t be discharged from my debt. Yes, I knew my finances were a brand-new shade of pathetic. Yes, I knew it would take about three months from start to finish. And yes, I knew, if I was lucky enough to sell my rings, the funds I’d make would cover the attorney’s services, leaving me with little extra. Yes, I understood the risks.
“When did you want to file?” asked Shannon.
Want wasn’t the exact word I’d have chosen. I didn’t want to do this. Nobody in his or her right mind wanted to do this. I sucked in my sarcastic response. “I’d like to see how things go over the next few months. If my situation doesn’t change, I’ll need to start the process right after the New Year.”
“Until then, don’t use your credit cards. And don’t pay any of your bills.”
I was treading in an ocean of debt. I could do that.
Letter Five
Paris, August 13, 1989
“The pen runs faster than the tongue.”
My heart,
This is my fifth letter. God needed seven days to create the world, so maybe I will need more than seven letters to build something as great as world creation is with you. The days are passing by and I’m still thinking of you with the same strength of the beginning. No news from you since you left Paris. I don’t know, but tonight I am a bit troubled in my mind.
Samantha, even if you are just a shooting star who has crossed my life in such a marvelous way, I will still be able to keep our hours together as jewels. Of course, it is my hope that this shooting star won’t disappear.
I want you to come to Paris soon. I miss you.
Soon, I will put this letter into the mail and I will wonder if I’ve written the best things to you. Perhaps I talked too much and you would be disturbed by my way of telling you my feelings. Perhaps you will take me as a crazy guy, like many “Frenchies.”
But many things in my mind tell me to send you my words because we have to open ourselves up when we feel something so great as I feel for you. When you see your train at the station, you can’t miss it. It could be the last. I do the same for my life. You belong to that story and I hope you felt and still feel the same.
I wish you were here tonight, by my side, giving moments of tenderness. Write me quickly. I need news from you.
Still yours,
Jean-Luc
The Test Month
For months, I did whatever I could to find a job. I scoured Monster.com and Craigslist postings, sending off résumés to here and to there, to basically everywhere. I stalked my recruiter. She brushed me off. There were no freelance opportunities. There were no jobs. There was nothing but my career as a dog walker with occasional overnights.
While taking care of two dogs, one horse, and a Shetland pony and sleeping in a guest room that had a collection of old dolls missing eyes and limbs staring me down from a shelf above the bed, I tossed and turned (flanked by the two dogs), and I reminded myself: at least the job would collect enough money to pay for my portion of the cat. But moving to France wasn’t set in stone. Anything could happen. Jean-Luc’s marriage with
Natasha had gone sour because of her relationship—or lack thereof—with the kids. What if they didn’t like me?
I’d find out soon enough.
December 19 arrived and I found myself back in France. I exited customs, about to meet my biggest critics. Jean-Luc ran toward me and gave me the biggest of bear hugs and an even bigger kiss. Maxence and Elvire peeked over his shoulder, staring at me—the oddity, the strange woman from America. Elvire was a delicate flower, thin with an ivory complexion and giant cat-shaped blue eyes, her auburn hair providing a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. Maxence was her opposite. Small in stature, sure, but sturdy and tough, the ten-year-old’s complexion was more olive toned, his eyes a blue green, and his hair a sandy brown. Both children had their father’s perfect lips.
Before Natasha left, she told Jean-Luc he wouldn’t find anybody to love his two horrible monsters. It may have been because it was Christmastime, but to me, they looked like little angels—nothing terrible about them at all.
“Tu es plus jolie en personne,” I said to Elvire, which immediately brought a big smile to her face. We kissed each other on the cheeks, and for good measure, I gave her a big hug. This process was also repeated with Maxence, but instead of telling him he was pretty, I told him he was très beau. Elvire’s and Maxence’s eyes darted from one to another and then to me. I could almost see their thoughts churning, wondering if I was as “nice as their father told them.”
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