Both of Jean-Luc’s sisters were drop-dead gorgeous, or éblouissant. Muriel was very slim and fit, with long brown hair and perfect posture. A raven-haired beauty, Isabelle was the curvier of the two, not to say she was heavy at all—probably a size four. Both sisters had that French attitude—a certain je ne sais quoi about them. I supposed it all came down to confidence, which both sisters wore well, and which also included their stylish outfits—effortless and chic, casual yet elegant. Glad to be wearing simple but stylish black boots, jeans, a black sweater, and a black scarf, I almost fit in. Almost. But I was definitely the foreigner. And with so many people talking at once, I was having a hard time understanding any French. My confidence was waning.
Isabelle and Muriel took me on a tour of the house, first pointing out the massive nativity scene in the living room. Some of the terra-cotta figurines, called santons de Provence and crafted right in the area, were hand-painted in bright blues, sparkling yellows, and vivid greens and reds, depicting the various characters of Provençal village life—fishermen, produce vendors, bohemian women, and shepherds with their sheep. All the villagers and animals stood within a beautiful arrangement of buildings and farms and stores, leading your eye to the crèche, where Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus awaited, surrounded by angels and kings and, of course, more animals. Isabelle told me that she and Richard had both been collecting santons for years.
“C’est magnifique,” I said. Admittedly, after I had seen Jean-Luc’s Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I was a bit scared about how the French celebrated Christmas.
The sisters smiled. Isabelle excused herself and returned a few moments later with a small box. “Open. It’s a small welcome to the family.”
Muriel’s grin widened. “From your new sisters.”
I opened the gift to find a thin and very classic sterling silver bracelet from a store called Agatha Paris. While the bracelet was beautiful, I was more blown away by how warm these two women were, how kind everyone was. I was being welcomed into this country, this new life, with air kisses and acceptance.
“You like?”
“J’aime beaucoup, beaucoup, beaucoup. Merci.”
Seeing as they’d never been to the States, both sisters wanted to start planning a trip right away—and ASAP. And the perfect time was the marriage of Jean-Luc and Sam! They planned to come for two weeks, maybe three. It would be the trip of their lives! This was all news to me, and in one fell swoop, I saw my dream of getting married in a French castle vanish. I pulled Jean-Luc aside.
“What’s all this talk about us getting married in California?” I whispered.
“I should have warned you how excited they were to finally have an excuse to visit the States.”
Isabelle shot me a thumbs-up. The two sisters chatted, their voices rising in excitement. I could make out the words “Las Vegas!” “And California!” “The Grand Canyon!” “Area Fifty-One!” My mouth twisted and I sighed. “I’m no dream killer.”
“Honey, if you want to get married here, we can. Don’t change your ideas because of them.” He tilted his head toward his sisters. They were still smiling. Somehow this seemed oddly planned out.
“Whatever. It’s no big deal. I can always make my sister get married in a castle.” I pulled my iTouch out of my purse and opened up the calendar. “When were you think…” I started, cutting myself off.
“My office is closed for two weeks at the end of July, and then I can take more days.”
Wait one little second here. Un instant. Jean-Luc and I had talked about marriage, but he hadn’t actually proposed yet. “But you haven’t asked me—”
Muriel called Jean-Luc over before I could utter one more word. I heard the French words for “dinner,” “help,” and that was all I could discern. I eyed Jean-Luc curiously, but he held up a finger and said he had to look after the sauce.
Eleven pairs of eyes turned to me over dinner. This time in Franglais—a language I was more than familiar with—Isabelle asked, “Do tu and Jean-Luc wish pour les enfants?” For some reason I expected her to throw in the word terrible, but she didn’t. She just watched me squirm in my hot seat, a smile on her face. Ah, what fun! Let’s torture the American.
“We’ve talked about it,” I said, stabbing a grape tomato with my fork. It split open, oozing yellow seeds. “But now is not the time.”
The conversation was a little uncomfortable. I threw back my glass of wine. Unfortunately, all eyes still rested on me. With a bemused expression, Richard leaned over and refilled my glass. I could almost read his mind. “Ahh, zis Americane, she eez a drinker!” He may have even said it out loud.
“Quand? Quand est-ce que tu veux des enfants?” asked Muriel.
“Après le mariage. Nous attendrons pour juillet,” I said, mustering up my best French. I sank in my seat, translating the words I’d just uttered. After the marriage? We’ll wait for July? Why was I talking about a marriage that was just assumed? And having children?
The sisters, Richard, Alain, Steeve, Maxime, and Jean-Luc burst out in laughter. Isabelle grabbed her stomach. Muriel couldn’t even look at me. Heart racing, I turned to Jean-Luc. “What? What’s so funny?”
“Honey, you just said you were waiting to have an orgasm.”
“No, no, no, I didn’t say that. I said not until July. July!” My eyes went wide in confusion. The group’s laughter came harder. Their eyes watered. They wheezed and giggled and snorted. I frowned.
Jean-Luc took my hand and squeezed it. “Sam, you didn’t pronounce July right. You said it like the verb jouir, which means to have an orgasm.”
Oh. No. I didn’t.
But yes, yes, and OH YES, I did.
• • •
The morning was dark and stormy, the clouds pregnant, threatening rain. Weather aside, we were on our way to Jean-Luc’s hometown, La Ciotat, located on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. After twenty minutes on the highway, we rounded a corner and Cassis, La Ciotat’s neighboring seaside resort village, came into view. Breathtakingly beautiful, the colors of the magnificent landscape were especially vivid in the stormy light—yellow, salmon, and orange buildings settled among a backdrop of green. The town itself was nestled in a bay, surrounded by sheltered inlets known as calanques.
“Ahhh, this is the smell of home,” said Jean-Luc as he rolled down his window. “Breathe it in.”
The air carried the wet scent of salt and earth, and it was refreshing. We drove over rocky canyons and cliffs with jaw-dropping views of the waters below us toward La Ciotat. Scary and beautiful at the same time, the Mediterranean Sea churned and boiled, a whipped cream and frothy white.
“You must have loved growing up here.”
“I did.” Jean-Luc nodded and pointed to a bluff. “This is the highest point in all of Europe. Oh, we got into some trouble when we were young.” He laughed softly to himself. “I never had to leave the town. Girls from all over Europe…”
“Simmer down, stud.” I eyed the backseat. “There are children in the car.”
“They don’t understand English that well.”
Laughter lit up Jean-Luc’s eyes; I rolled mine.
La Ciotat was much bigger and more rugged than its dainty and charming neighbor, Cassis, but still beautiful. Taking a quick drive through town, we passed the old shipping port, the beach, and countless restaurants and shops—all of which seemed to cater to tourists. Besides the famed calanques, La Ciotat laid claim to housing the world’s oldest movie theater, the Eden, where the first movie screening took place.
“We have some time before my parents expect us,” said Jean-Luc, which meant we were supposed to be punctual but not early. “So we’ll grab a quick café.”
We parked the car in a public lot by the beach and meandered the cobbled streets, eventually finding a salon de thé. We staked out a table for four next to a display of varying tea kettles—all with a very Jap
anese influence. The kids ordered two sodas and cookies. Jean-Luc and I opted for tea. Right after we placed our order, Jean-Luc pulled out his wallet. No cash. Before I could offer a centime, Jean-Luc got up, leaving me with the kids. “Don’t even think about it, Sam. It isn’t up for discussion. I’ll be right back.”
“Où tu vas, Papa?” asked Elvire just as the front door closed.
I held my hand up and rubbed my thumb against index and middle fingers, the universal sign: money. Elvire nodded her head in understanding. Suddenly, a ruckus came from outside, loud music and laughter. The kids eyed me. I nodded. We all jumped up from the table and headed out to find giant walking Christmas trees with big, googly eyes and men on stilts painted up like toy soldiers and giant snowflakes. Men in Santa hats played musical instruments—horns, drums, and trombones—while women dressed up in elf costumes danced. It was madness of the best kind. I whipped out my video camera.
The mood in the courtyard was beyond festive, filled with laughter and, well, walking Christmas trees. A chubby tree covered in bright yellow balls, shiny ornaments, and big red bows bounded toward Maxence. Max’s lopsided smile wanted to say, “I’m too cool for this,” but the laughter in his eyes said otherwise. It must have been the floppy felt star on the Christmas tree’s head. Immediately after this, one of the toy soldiers in candy-striped pants grasshopper-legged his way over to Elvire and stood right over her, his hands on his hips. His face was painted white, in contrast to his large Dali-esque swirling black mustache and goatee. Big round balls adorned his red suit, matching his jester-style hat. His eyes widened comically as he took a lock of Elvire’s auburn hair, holding it high in the air, but not pulling it. Elvire burst into laughter before she ran away. The stilted man pretended to chase after her, dancing and shaking his fingers.
Jean-Luc walked up behind me. “What’s going on here?”
“I have no idea.” I’d been smiling so much that my cheeks hurt. “Is this what Christmas is like in the South of France?”
“Évidemment.”
A few moments later, the crowd of Christmas revelers dispersed to perform their merrymaking act on other unsuspecting persons. Laughing, we all headed inside the salon de thé to enjoy our mid-morning snack.
• • •
Jean-Luc’s parents’ apartment building was old, most likely built in the sixties, and a bit run down, a box without French charm—not quite what I expected, which Jean-Luc picked up on almost immediately.
“My father worked in the shipyards,” he explained, “and was always afraid of investing money in real estate. A hard worker, he hung on to every franc he made. Now, even if they wanted to buy, the real estate in La Ciotat has skyrocketed to the moon, and they, like most of the residents here, wouldn’t be able to afford prices accessible only to wealthy Parisians.”
I shrugged off the initial shock. “Places don’t matter. People do. I’m really excited to meet them.”
The children bolted ahead of us and up a stairwell, their footsteps echoing throughout the corridor.
“There isn’t an elevator?” I asked.
It was all a bit reminiscent of Jean-Luc’s apartment way back in 1989 Paris.
“No.”
“They have a bathroom?”
Jean-Luc grimaced. “Of course. It’s not the middle ages.”
One step at a time, we hiked our way up to the fourth floor. I was winded by the time we reached the top. The lights in the hallway flickered. Jean-Luc’s brother, Michel, threw the door open and we entered a sunny three-bedroom apartment. Michel said bonjour by kissing both of my cheeks and then slunk into his room, closing the door behind him. This action did not go unnoticed by Jean-Luc’s mother, who screamed something in angry French.
Jean-Luc whispered. “My parents are embarrassed by Michel’s behavior.”
I waved my hands. “Non, ça va. It’s okay.” Jean-Luc had already informed me about Michel’s shyness. I took no offense.
Jean-Luc’s father, André, was thin with a head of white downy hair, kind brown eyes, and a mischievous smile. At seventy-six, he looked fantastic, fit, and full of life. Jean-Luc’s mother, Marcelle, came up behind him. She, like Jean-Luc had mentioned, was quite petite with beautiful green eyes, which offered an explanation for the color of Jean-Luc’s—a mix of both his parents. She wrapped me in a big hug, much stronger than I would have given her credit for, and grabbed my face, kissing me on both cheeks. “Bienvenue dans la famille,” she said, and then more rounds of kissing ensued.
It appeared I was on my way to becoming part French. I may have had the kissing down, but it was time to improve those conversational skills. Then again, Jean-Luc hadn’t asked me to marry him; he just assumed it would happen. In July, apparently.
I didn’t even have time to breathe before we moved on again. Gilles, Jean-Luc’s friend since childhood, and his wife, Nathalie, had invited us over for dinner, along with another couple, Claude and Danielle. Isabelle had already agreed to watch the kids. After the topic of conversation the previous night, I didn’t know if I was in the mood to be hazed again, and from what Jean-Luc had told me about Gilles, I was a bit afraid to go. Gilles was the crazy one, the one with the wild eyes, the troublemaker. I was pretty certain we were in for it.
“I spoke to Gilles earlier,” said Jean-Luc, “and he told me something quite funny.” I grunted and he carried on. “On my wedding day to Natasha, he, along with a few members of my family, made a bet on how long the marriage would last.” He chuckled softly to himself. “Half wouldn’t give it six months. The others gave it a year.”
I wondered what his family and friends were really saying about us behind our backs. What kind of bets were they making? I’d find out soon enough.
Jean-Luc stroked the top of my hand with his thumb. The action was nervous. There was something he wasn’t telling me, something else on his mind. I shifted my body to face him. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “The reason the divorce with Natasha went so smoothly was because I had her sign some papers before the marriage.”
“A prenuptial agreement?”
He nodded. “I never trusted her, but I do trust you. I thought she would change when we married, that the stability would make her more reliable. I’d thought wrong. She didn’t get better. She got worse.”
“I’ll sign whatever you want me to.”
“That’s why I know we don’t need this agreement. And when we are married, it will be for good.”
“So we’re getting married?”
“Of course,” said Jean-Luc. “Is there any other way for us?”
“But—”
“Here we are,” said Jean-Luc.
We pulled up to Gilles’s house, large and modern with an infinity-edged pool. The front door opened and Gilles walked forward, his eyes wide, making him look a bit like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I took a step backward, but before I could make a run for the hills, Gilles grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me toward him, kissed me on both cheeks, and then picked me up and spun me around before setting me down. “Hello, Sam! Welcome!” he said in English. “Come eeen and have some champagne! Tonight, we celebrate your engagement! Félicitations!”
Gilles ushered Jean-Luc into the living room, slapping his butt. I followed with an out-of-place laugh. Nathalie exited the kitchen, rolling her eyes. She was dressed to the nines—another one who could pull off the “Who me? No, I just put this old outfit together” attitude. We gave each other a sly once-over, not too obvious but assessing one another nonetheless. Like most of the French women I’d encountered, Nathalie’s makeup was minimal, just mascara, foundation, blush, and a smidgen of lip gloss. I noticed her pale gray suede boots immediately. They were perfection. She kissed me on both cheeks. “Bonsoir, Samantha. Enchantée.”
Then I was introduced to Claude and his wife of twenty-five years, Danielle. We sat on a brown couch—modern a
nd reminiscent of Roche Bobois—and Nathalie served the aperitif—small bites of spiced cheeses, along with kirs. Gilles pulled a camera out from the pocket of his shirt.
“We all want to know why. Why, with all the men in the United States, all the men in the France, all the men in the world, why? Why are you with Jean-Luc?” The room shook with laughter. Gilles laughed maniacally and took my picture. He pointed to Jean-Luc and continued, “Just look at him. He’s orr-eeb-le. A monster!”
In silence, I sat there, not quite sure what to do. Jean-Luc popped his lips. Nathalie and Danielle shrugged their shoulders. Having known each other for well over thirty years, this was all par for the course when these three cronies got together, I gathered.
“No woman in their right mind would marry him,” agreed Claude. He tapped the side of his head twice. Gilles and Claude leaned forward. Gilles retrieved a pad of paper off the glass coffee table, as if to take notes.
“Tell us. Why?”
“I’ve never met anybody like him before. I love him.”
Gilles’s laughter echoed. He scribbled on his pad, and after flailing his arms around, said, “Sam, we need for you to be serious pour un instant. Why Jean-Luc?”
I took a sip of my champagne. I could roll with this, go with the flow, have a little fun of my own. “What’s with all this talk about marriage?” I held out my left hand. “He hasn’t even asked me yet. I don’t see a ring on my finger. Do you? It could be one of those candy rings or plastic, for all I care.”
Bingo.
Gilles and Claude gasped and clasped their hands over their mouths in mock shock. Danielle and Nathalie giggled. Jean-Luc sighed.
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