Jean-Luc took my bag and we walked to the car. “Ready to go home?”
Home. I was looking forward to seeing it.
“It’s not much,” said Jean-Luc. “But I do what I can. I had to buy it very quickly.” He glanced at the kids. “Right after their mother died.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“There’s a lot of work to be done.”
“I’ll help you.” A do-it-yourself man, Jean-Luc had already prepared me for a few “issues,” like the raw walls in the foyer that needed to be painted and the hole in the shower from one of his plumbing debacles.
“Sam, it’s not at all like your parents’ place.”
“I know. I’ve already seen it.” His eyes widened in horror. “Google Earth,” I said by means of an explanation. “It’s a cream-colored town house with a small front yard—two stories high with a green fence.”
“When—”
“After you sent me the phone, I had your address on the package.”
Jean-Luc was well aware of my curious nature. He called it snooping; I called it research. At least I’d been honest about my Mata Hari–like activities. “Ahh, my little spy. You have been a busy girl.” He nudged my shoulder. “There’s a box you might be interested in at home. I’ll show you where it is.”
We pulled up onto his street, which I immediately recognized from my Google investigations. A woman walking a rambunctious Pomeranian stared at our car. I lifted my hand in a friendly gesture. She glared at me and picked up her pace, practically dragging her dog down the street. Jean-Luc laughed. “People aren’t as friendly here as they are in the States. They’re, how do I put it, a bit more reserved.”
He pulled into a parking spot. The kids jumped out of the car and headed for the white town house with the green iron gate. The small front yard was a bit overgrown with weeds, but I didn’t say anything.
“I need your artistic sense to make the house a home,” said Jean-Luc, fumbling with the keys.
“Didn’t Natasha do anything?”
“No. I did everything—I worked on the house. I did the cooking and the cleaning, the grocery shopping, the decorating. Everything.”
“But didn’t she work?”
“For a while she did. Then her contract ran out and she collected unemployment. I have no idea what she did with her money. She never offered to pitch in for anything. When I’d ask her, she’d scream and cry.”
“Has she called?”
“No, we haven’t spoken since our divorce was finalized two weeks ago. We’ve only communicated by email.”
“Has she reached out to the kids?”
“Not a word.”
I huffed out my disapproval.
Jean-Luc opened the door. I was expecting “man taste”—a black leather couch with a big-screen TV, maybe a wagon wheel coffee table. But he’d been exaggerating about how much help he needed. Sure, the rooms could use a woman’s touch, but he’d done a fine job decorating. The living room had natural-colored grass cloth wallpaper covering one wall, and the bare wall was painted a light beige. The dining room table, a solid, dark wood piece with four chairs, was of Asian influence, as was the sideboard on which the TV sat. The couch was chocolate brown, from IKEA, with just enough space for four. The room was narrow but comfortable and would benefit from some splashes of color—a rug, some art, throw pillows, candles, things of that nature. In the corner stood a Charlie Brown Christmas tree—a pathetic twig with four colored lights and a few pieces of multicolored garland thrown on it. It was clear that he was trying.
“When I bought this place, it had been abandoned. You should have seen it, Sam. It was horrible. Rushed to find something, I only had two weeks to make it habitable before the kids came to live with me. Thankfully, my brother helped.”
I peered into the small kitchen with pine cabinets and a black-and-white checkered tile floor. Everything was spotless. Jean-Luc opened the door leading to the garage where I found a little alcove with a small laundry room. He pointed to the dryer. “I just bought that. For you. Merry Christmas, to my American girl.”
“You’re such a romantic,” I said.
His beautiful lips pinched together in a smirk. “I am, Sam. Be patient. You’ll see.”
As he ushered me upstairs, I wondered what he was up to.
Jean-Luc had covered the entryway and the stairwell leading up to the second floor with brick-like tiles, but the work stopped midway at the landing, and the walls above the brick work were untreated drywall. He motioned to the bare walls and shrugged. “I know it needs to be painted. I just haven’t had time to do anything yet. And I’d like for you to pick out the color.”
I nodded, looking forward to lending a hand. “You’ve done a really nice job with the place. You should be proud.”
“You’re too kind. It’s not perfect, but it will get there one day.”
Elvire’s room was wallpapered a pale sunflower yellow and decorated with Twilight posters. In addition to her bed, there was a bookcase, a dresser, and a glass desk. It was total teenage chaos—an explosion of candy wrappers, papers, and clothes on the floor. Jean-Luc shook his head. “I told her to clean up, but she just doesn’t listen.” He yelled, “Elvire, viens ici et range ta chambre!”
“Deux secondes,” came her reply.
Two seconds. I snorted, remembering what I was like at her age. Kids, whether in France or the United States or Zimbabwe, were all the same.
I picked up a photo of a much younger Elvire smiling with a woman with short dark hair. The woman had blue cat-shaped eyes, just like Elvire. Pink and blue confetti covered their bodies.
“Natasha asked Elvire to keep the pictures hidden away. Do they bother you?”
It wasn’t as if they bothered me, per se. I felt like I was staring into the face of a ghost, a difficult feeling to describe—not quite jealousy, but an awareness. A little pit formed in my stomach. “Did Natasha want to compete with the memory of a dead mother?”
“No,” said Jean-Luc. “She competed with Elvire for my attention.”
“I’m more than happy to share you.” Remembering the story he’d told me about his one ménage à trois, I kissed him and corrected myself. “With the kids, that is.”
Jean-Luc ushered me into Max’s room, which was wallpapered in cornflower blue. Unlike Elvire’s, his room was neat and organized. Collectible trading cards were stacked in perfect little piles on his desk. His clothes had been put away. His toys were arranged. I smiled when I saw the blue robot my parents had given him for his birthday, which Jean-Luc had brought back for Max after visiting me in the States. A gray elephant trunk stuck out from under the navy blue duvet.
“That’s Doudou. Max has had him since he was a baby.”
“Oh,” I said. Another remnant from the past. It was then that I told myself to leave snooping to the side. I knew everything about Jean-Luc and the kids that I needed to know.
“I have something else to show you,” said Jean-Luc, guiding me to the balcony, which had been closed in with a big window. He smiled proudly. “I thought you’d need your own closet. I put the floors in myself, put up the walls. All you have to do is pick out the fixtures.”
My heart beat wildly, happily.
Our next stop was the sparsely furnished master bedroom—only a bed and a dresser. “You look a little tired.” He kissed me on the nose. “Take a rest while I prepare dinner.”
I dreamt sweet dreams and didn’t wake up until the next day. We made love in the morning, me trying to keep quiet with Max sleeping soundly right next door. For a while, we just lay there, wrapped up in each other’s arms, legs intertwined.
“Do you think you’ll be able to live here?” whispered Jean-Luc.
I rubbed my hand over his muscular chest. “It already feels like home.”
• • •
Right after br
eakfast, Jean-Luc, the kids, and I were to head to the Christmas market in Toulouse. Nicknamed La Ville Rose, because of all its brick buildings, the “rose city” was the center for France’s aerospace industry—and the reason Jean-Luc lived in the area. I was excited to see the rose city covered in a blanket of white, which, according to Jean-Luc, was very rare.
Dressed up in our winter gear—boots and jackets and hats and scarves—we drove twenty minutes to Le Capitole, the center of Toulouse, passing by snow-covered parks where parents pulled their children on plastic sleds and the Canal-du-Midi, which was now covered in a thin sheet of ice. We traversed up and down narrow streets flanked by beautiful buildings with iron balconies and carved wooden doors, finally arriving at our destination—a large square filled with little log cabins selling everything from clothes and shoes to spices to seafood and sausages. The stalls faced an enormous brick and limestone neoclassical building adorned with impressive sculptures. A bevy of cafés, complete with patrons sitting outside, surrounded the market.
“Once the market is finished, the square is empty. Sometimes performances or other events take place here. That’s the city hall,” said Jean-Luc, nodding to the Capitolium. “On its far right though, there is a theater. Do you like opera?”
The kids groaned. I laughed and said, “I do.”
“And your favorite?”
“Madame Butterfly.”
“One day, maybe we can see it together.”
“I’d like that.”
The kids ran ahead of us. Jean-Luc put his arm around me and we followed, giving them their space to explore but keeping an eye on them all the same.
Among the old and the young, we sauntered through the market window-shopping, just simply enjoying all the sights, smells, and sounds. There was a slight breeze, not enough to bring on chills, just enough to ensure the tip of my nose was cold. Max and Elvire ran up to a bonbon vendor, practically drooling over the sweets. Jean-Luc handed them each a couple of euro. Would they buy the sparkling, sugar-encrusted fruits—peaches, apples, and strawberries? Or chocolate?
“Honey, do you want a wine with spices? It’s a specialty here.” Jean-Luc tipped his head toward a stall a few feet away. I nodded an eager yes. He walked away, his strut confident. Again, I watched him yuck it up with the vendor. Jean-Luc was so easygoing; he made everybody smile.
Our eyes locked as he handed over a paper cup of vin chaud, and the scents of Christmas permeated my nostrils. I took a sip, the liquid warming my throat. Delicious. The kids soon rejoined us, crystallized sugar sparkling on their lips, and we walked on.
“Do you like the market?” asked Jean-Luc.
Like it? I loved the market. I loved the smells, the spices, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeating the air this time of year along with the freshly baked bread. Some of the vendors wore Santa caps and sang French Christmas carols, and the general feeling was one of festivity. The novelty of my new situation didn’t look nearly as intimidating as it had upon my arrival.
Maxence pulled on the sleeve of my coat. “Regarde! Un petit cochon!”
In a box to our left, a small piglet ran around in circles squealing, the high-pitched sound sending dozens of pigeons into the air. The vendor was selling some sort of candy—the baby pig was obviously a ploy to attract younger customers. I smiled down upon Max. “C’est toi?”
“Non, c’est notre dîner,” said Jean-Luc.
Elvire’s eyes went wide. Maxence’s laughter subsided. I punched Jean-Luc softly on the arm. “We are not eating piglet for dinner.” I winked at the kids. “Ton père, quel blagueur!”
What a joker!
Maxence ran up to pet the pig. Jean-Luc placed one arm around me, the other around Elvire. “Mes deux filles,” he said, and I smiled. Elvire’s long eyelashes blinked the snow and any signs of mistrust away.
Miniature lace doily flakes covered the ground in a thin blanket of white, melting under our footsteps. The way the children looked at Jean-Luc, wide-eyed and worshiping, made my heart swell with pride, an overinflated water balloon about to burst. It was a winter wonderland. My wonderland. I was so happy I had to stop myself from spinning in circles in the middle of the street, arms flailing, tongue out to catch snowflakes, like the kids. We walked back to the parking garage with a bag of roasted chestnuts, leaving footprints behind us along the way.
It was time to meet Jean-Luc’s friends.
Jean-Luc put on a classical CD and started up the car. The kids popped their earbuds into their iPods. “I’ve worked with Christian for about fourteen years now. He and his wife, Ghislaine, are as close to me as my own family is.”
“What have you told them about me?”
Jean-Luc popped his lips. “Sam, you have nothing to worry about. I’m sure they’re going to love you as much as I do.”
But in typical Sam overthinking mode, I was worried. I clasped my hands together, imagining catastrophe. Like what if the kids told Jean-Luc’s friends they couldn’t stand me, couldn’t wait for me to fly my American butt back home where it belonged? What if, instead of a straw, I asked for a blow job again? What if his friends were uptight, reserved folks who wouldn’t get my sense of humor? What if we were being served pot-au-feu de la mer and I had to chug my glass of wine to wash it down?
Jean-Luc rang the doorbell. The door opened.
Turned out, my fears weren’t justified. At all.
Christian had sparkling blue eyes, a huge smile, and like Jean-Luc, he came complete with an infectious laugh. He spoke a few words of English, which instantly put me at ease. Ghislaine, his wife, had a warm and cheerful face, cropped blond hair, and wore funky glasses with orange frames. Both of them, I guessed, were in their early sixties. With a rush of hand gestures, they ushered us into the living room.
From the moment we arrived, they didn’t stop smiling. The aperitif—a sparkling wine—was poured. The kids entertained themselves with a book of magic tricks. Sitting by the fire, we ate small bites—cheeses and tortes—and made our best attempt to get to know one another through the language barrier. Jean-Luc translated when I didn’t understand. I pantomimed helping Ghislaine in the kitchen, but she quickly declined.
Over dinner, a spicy Bordeaux wine was served. Jean-Luc recounted our 1989 romance, and how we reconnected twenty years later, and of our future plans to get married. I piped in here and there, speaking only in the past and the present in French. Nobody corrected me, because I was trying. We spoke of some of our troubles in our past relationships, him with Natasha and me with Chris. When we were finished, Ghislaine had tears in her eyes.
“Je suis très contente,” she said and nodded her head toward the kids. “Et je pense qu’ils sont heureux aussi. Ils ont besoin d’un morceau de bonheur.”
It was then I noticed the children were smiling at me. I realized I didn’t need a cat to give them what they’d been searching for, un morceau de bonheur—“a slice of happiness.” All they needed to be surrounded with was love. Yes, all of us, we were all très content. Very happy.
In an attempt to warm me up even more to the regional specialties, tonight was all about le canard, or duck, and the various ways in which it was served. For starters, we indulged in foie gras, which I’d never tasted before and which was produced in this region of France. It was delicious, a delectable, buttery treat, and was followed by the main course, a confit de canard, leg of duck, served with roasted potatoes. Our hosts smiled and asked me if I liked the meal.
Indeed, I did. “C’est fantastique!”
No French dinner party would have been complete without a salad, a variety of cheeses, and fresh fruits, which, one course after the other, were served right before the dessert—a to-die-for chocolate tart decorated with candied kiwis and strawberries. By the end of the meal, I was stuffed and dizzy from all the rich flavors. Then fatigue set in. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I fought the urge to yawn. It was only ten o’c
lock, but after our busy day marketing and my jet lag, it felt like two in the morning. Jean-Luc eyed me and explained that I’d just flown in the evening before and he thought it would be a good idea to take me home. After all, we were leaving for Provence early in the morning.
“No problem! We understand!” our hosts exclaimed. A flurry of good-byes and double-cheeked kisses ensued.
On the car ride home, I couldn’t help but think how much Christian and Ghislaine did, indeed, feel like family. I’d only spent a few hours with this fabulous couple, but their warmth and kindness made the notion of moving to France a whole lot less terrifying.
Rules of Engagement
If meeting Jean-Luc’s friends had been nerve racking, it was nothing compared to how nervous I felt about meeting his sisters. Sisters were protective, the gatekeepers to the family—Lord knows mine was. We were staying chez Isabelle, the elder of Jean-Luc’s sisters but younger than him by three years, setting off early in the morning.
Once again, I sat in the passenger seat, wringing my clammy hands.
An hour into the four-hour drive from Toulouse to Marseilles, the kids started arguing in the backseat, needling each other, punching, screaming, and yelling. Jean-Luc told them we wouldn’t get the cat after the New Year if they didn’t cut the crap. Either that or he would pull the car over. This last threat worked like a charm. He turned on the car stereo to a Top 40 station playing dance music—from both the United States and France. Elvire and I sang along to one of Lady Gaga’s hits, “Poker Face”; Jean-Luc didn’t quite retain his. He grimaced.
“Les deux? Vous chantez comme une casserole. The sound is worse than banging pots.”
Elvire and I continued singing. Max put on his headset. Jean-Luc sighed.
Three hours and many songs later, we arrived at Isabelle’s house. I was introduced to Richard (Ree-chard, soft on the d), Isabelle’s partner of seven years, and her two sons, eighteen-year-old Maxime, twenty-three-year-old Steeve (with an extra e), Steeve’s fiancée Laura, and, of course, Isabelle. Then I met Muriel, the youngest of Jean-Luc’s sisters, her husband Alain and her two children, twelve-year-old Arnaud and eighteen-year-old Anaïs. Two large boxers, Leo and Juju, and a gray cat, Dolly, soon joined the party. Everybody, with the exception of the animals, kissed me on both cheeks, the introductions taking well over half an hour.
Seven Letters from Paris Page 17