Seven Letters from Paris

by Samantha Vérant

Jean-Luc whispered in my ear, “Gilles told me most of these people here are vintners from an area called Nimes. They’ve all been coming here for years.”

  “Vintners?” I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “My kind of people.”

  I took a sip of pastis, which warmed my throat almost as much as my heart had been by this hearty and frenetic welcome. Then it was time to ski.

  Unfortunately, Jean-Luc had confused “I love to ski” with “I can ski” and I ended up falling down, smashing my head, and twisting my knee on what was most definitely not the bunny hill. This did not stop us, however, from later dancing the night away to David Guetta’s “Memories,” featuring Kid Cudi, among other French and American hits, along with Gilles, Nathalie, and a wild crowd of vintners from Nimes—including a man by the name of Henri who I caught sneaking off with a magnum-sized bottle of pastis.

  When the clock struck twelve, Jean-Luc kissed me on the lips while he had the chance. Apparently, in France, you have to kiss everybody in the whole place, and the people from Nimes throw in one more kiss for good measure—the southern French way, you air-kiss the cheeks three times. Right. Left. Right. Or maybe left, right, left. With news of our recent engagement, everybody wanted a piece of us. Jean-Luc and I managed to sneak out of the party early—at three in the morning—so we could ring in the New Year alone before passing out.

  The following morning, we said our thank-yous and good-byes, leaving early to pick up the kids from their grandmother’s and head back home. I was surprised when four people came out of the house to greet us—Thierry, the kids’ uncle, his wife, Cristina, and their two kids, Thomas, who was the same age as Elvire, and Mathilde, who was Max’s age. Jean-Luc and I stepped out of the car and completed the required double-cheek kisses.

  It was through Thierry, who was once a close friend of Jean-Luc’s, that Jean-Luc had met Frédérique. Naturally, after Jean-Luc had left his sister, their friendship had become strained. At the very least, Thierry made an effort to put his feelings for Jean-Luc aside for Max and Elvire, and this made me happy. The men teased each other about their hair, or rather, lack thereof. A final Bonne Année was exchanged, but even with the laughter and camaraderie, the air was heavier when the kids got into the car.

  Max said something quickly in French. Jean-Luc’s eyes darkened.

  “What’d he say?” I asked.

  “He said their grandmother and uncle teased them about you and me, saying my house must have a revolving front door. Which woman is coming? Which woman is going?”

  “Well, hopefully one day, they’ll see the light. You love the children. And you know what? I do too.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’m removing the revolving door. We’re on our way to becoming a real family now.”

  The French and American Paper Trail

  Administratively speaking, we learned from the French consulate in Los Angeles that it would be much easier if we legally tied the proverbial knot in France and then had the family and friends ceremony in Malibu. In France, the only wedding that counted was the civil ceremony, performed at the local mairie, or mayor’s office. An additional church or temple wedding was commonplace but didn’t legalize the union. Before they would give us a date, we would have to supply the mairie with a marriage folder, and only then would they publish what was called la publication des bans, which was posted in a window for the entire town to see in case someone—a vindictive ex, for example—wished to challenge the marriage. A little reminiscent of the middle ages, yes, but it was the law. The paperwork was confusing and appeared to be endless.

  The moment we got back to my new home, we headed straight to the Hôtel de Ville—a fancy way of saying the city hall—to pick up the list of required documents. We stepped into the mayor’s building and sat on a rigid bench outside of the état-civil and patiently waited for our turn to be called. A few moments later, a stout woman with brown hair and dark eyes beckoned us into the office with a wiggle of her index finger. She sat behind a desk and motioned us to the chairs before her. While Jean-Luc explained the purpose of our visit, she eyed him curiously, her brown eyes flickering with recognition. The woman reached into a folder and pulled out an orange piece of paper, placing it in front of us. “Vous avez des questions?”

  Her eyes said what her mouth didn’t: you should know what’s needed. Weren’t you here last year? As we stood to leave, the woman caught a glimpse of my giant, candy-colored ring and glared at Jean-Luc. We were so doomed. I could sense it.

  Jean-Luc’s list was simple enough: his birth certificate, his divorce decree, proof of identity, and proof of residency. Mine, however, was a bit more tedious. In addition to the same documents, all of which would need to be translated by a certified translator, I’d also have to provide one of the following: a certificat de non-remariage or a certificat de coutume. The certificat de non-remariage was exactly that, a certificate stating I hadn’t remarried since my divorce. The certificat de coutume was a legal opinion stating that, according to the laws in my country, I was legally free to marry and hadn’t married since my divorce. “I think we should hire an attorney to provide both of the documents,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Why? It seems a little redundant. I mean, it says or. Or means or.”

  “I just have a feeling.”

  By the way the woman had eyed Jean-Luc at the mairie, I agreed.

  “Have you told Chris about us yet?” asked Jean-Luc.

  “Not yet. Have you told Natasha?”

  “She doesn’t answer my emails or calls. She doesn’t care.” He pursed his lips. “But Chris is still emailing you. It has to stop.”

  “I know,” I said. “But things are different between Chris and me. We were together for almost thirteen years—”

  “Sam, now you’re with me.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. The only thing was that I didn’t know how I’d conquer this fear, how I’d tell my ex I was happy. Finally. Happy.

  While Jean-Luc was at work and the kids were at school, I spent my time looking for any potential freelance design opportunities back in the States only to find nothing, as well as trying to figure out the best way to get all the documents for my impending marriage, and soon. Although the French consulate’s website listed attorneys and their areas of practice, finding one who could practice in both the United States and France proved to be a challenge. Jean-Luc and I gathered his documents together, but we decided it was best for me to collect mine upon my return to the States.

  One week wouldn’t hurt us, right?

  Jean-Luc had promised me a glimpse of daily life with him and the children. And now that the holiday season had passed, daily life was exactly what I got. In the evenings, Jean-Luc taught me how to cook basic French cuisine, a skill he was more than familiar with, having been a single dad for such a long time. I’d open up a bottle of wine and we’d have a glass while he instructed me on the finer points of quiche making—the secret being premade crusts, tiny little pieces of ham called lardons, crème fraîche, herbes de Provence, and dijon mustard—the real kind. I’d cook up the lardons while Jean-Luc whipped the eggs with a whisk, a fouet. We’d meet somewhere in the middle and kiss—over a quiche, or a pot-au-feu, a boeuf bourguignon, or the even simpler “ettes”—raclettes, tartiflettes, or galettes. We worked well together, and I loved the fact that he enjoyed cooking as much as I did. One evening though, Jean-Luc was late coming home from work and I was preparing our meal alone when Elvire came into the kitchen, followed by Max.

  “On mange quoi ce soir?” they asked, their expressions a tad fearful.

  Jean-Luc had warned me about a food experience they’d had with Natasha. Apparently, she cooked a Russian meal loaded up with tons of mayonnaise and the kids refused to eat it, which sent Natasha into a temper tantrum. She ran upstairs crying, slammed a door, and wouldn’t come out of the master bedroom until the next morning. She also refused to ever try her ha
nd at cooking for the kids or Jean-Luc ever again. “Ce soir,” I said with a big smile, “on mange un magret du connard.”

  “Connard?” repeated Max.

  “Oui,” I said. “T’aime le connard?”

  The kids broke out into unrestrained laughter, and I didn’t understand why until Elvire explained connard meant asshole in French, and that canard was duck. Whoops. Although my latest French faux pas had me cringing with embarrassment at first, it was a good one. For the first time, Max and Elvire were really laughing with me.

  Over our duck dish served with a side of rice and French green beans, I glanced at the couch. It needed colorful pillows, some throw blankets. The living room floor needed a rug. Some art on the walls would have been nice too. The designer in me couldn’t help plan everything out; not everything had to be utilitarian. Plus, I needed to put my own thumbprint on the place, to make this house a home. I made a mental checklist of what I needed to bring back from the States and what we’d need to register for. Like dishes and cutlery that matched, pots and pans that weren’t warped, and serving bowls.

  Thankfully, Jean-Luc agreed. He’d wanted to cheer up our home, but with his busy work schedule, he didn’t have the time. I started out small, heading into town and picking up decorative items—on sale, of course—like two mercury glass candlesticks and a carved wooden tray.

  As far as chores went, it seemed like the laundry never ended. Which was what happened when you had a tween-aged girl whose idea of cleaning her room meant dumping everything she owned into the laundry basket. I remembered those days. And I was thankful that Jean-Luc had purchased the dryer. I was an American woman used to modern conveniences, and I couldn’t see myself hanging up clothes or sheets in the backyard in the winter using wooden pins like our neighbors did.

  Friday nights were reserved for grocery shopping to pick up staples and Saturday mornings were spent at the local market to pick up fresh fruits and vegetables. On Sunday, Jean-Luc, the kids, and I cleaned together. Believe me, there is nothing sexier than watching a guy vacuum and mop, especially since I don’t like to do either. I was more of a surface cleaner and an organizer. The only drama came when the children didn’t listen to Jean-Luc or, like typical kids, they talked back. When that happened, I just pretended I didn’t understand them. Until I was more settled in their lives, I wanted to stay out of it.

  There was only one thing missing from our burgeoning Franco-American family unit: our kitten.

  So we loaded up the car, drove the two hours to Bordeaux, singing the theme to Happy Days, to retrieve Bella from the breeder. The moment we all saw her, we fell in love. She was beautiful and her fur was incredibly soft, slick spun silk. She purred like the loudest of engines. Sleek and muscular, her stomach was spotted like a leopard and her legs were striped like a tiger. The markings on her face gave the impression that she wore a permanent smile. Her eyes were gigantic, a beautiful green and yellow, and she looked wise, almost mystical. The kids were beyond excited. I was too. So we may have purchased one of the world’s most expensive cats, but just the sheer fact that it had brought me closer to the kids was priceless. We were like one big, happy almost-family.

  It felt too good to be true.

  And it really was, because once again, time passed by too quickly. We’d only just found our natural groove, the kids were just beginning to get to know me, and now it was time for me to leave. I gazed into Jean-Luc’s eyes at the airport. He insisted on waiting with me in the check-in line, spending every last second with me while he could.

  “Please, you have to tell him about us.” By him, I knew Jean-Luc meant my ex-husband, Chris. “I can see it in your eyes. The guilt.”

  Before we had left for the airport, I’d made the mistake of checking my email to find multiple messages from Chris telling me how Ike’s health was declining rapidly, which was more than worrisome. My gut instinct about my dog had proved right.

  “Not now. It’s not the time.”

  “Sam, I know how you are. You have a warm heart, but he’s a toxin in your life. Poison doesn’t kill you immediately. Little by little, it works its way through your system. You have to cut the poison out of your life before it damages everything. You have more important things to think about. You have me and the kids. You have to let go of your guilt and move on.”

  I knew he was right, but hurting Chris even more than I already had wasn’t on my list of priorities—avoiding conflict was. “I promise. I’ll do it.”

  “When?”

  “I can’t unload this on him now. Ike—”

  “I understand about Ike, I do. But I also think he’s using the dog to keep you in his life.”

  The woman behind the British Airways desk called me forward. Jean-Luc held my hand as I checked in, squeezing it. We only had a few minutes left together before I headed to the gate. A sadness hung over my once happy heart.

  “Sam, I know you’ll do the right thing.” Jean-Luc whispered in my ear, “I need you here with me, fully.”

  “I’ll do what I can. As fast as I can.”

  • • •

  I broke down my life into manageable, bite-sized chunks, which made the issues I faced that much easier to swallow. First, the wedding. In regard to my birth certificate, which was the most important document on the list for the French government to approve our marriage folder, I needed to fill out some paperwork and send it off along with a notarized affidavit stating who I was and a check for fourteen dollars. Easy. I checked that off my list.

  It was time to hire the bankruptcy attorney. To get rid of my debt, she’d cost me a hair over two thousand dollars. Before I took her on, I told her about my situation and how I planned on moving to France. This, she assured me, was not a problem. A few days later, I got word that my hearing was set for the end of February.

  “Honey,” said Jean-Luc on one of our daily phone calls. “If your bankruptcy doesn’t go through, I’m here to help you out. We’ll manage things together. I’ll pay the monthly fees until I’m able to sell the studio apartment outside of Paris. I’ve been wanting to get rid of it anyway.”

  No way, no how. I appreciated his offer, but it wasn’t going to happen. Not with my pride. “But that’s your nest egg. It’s your only investment. I’ll take care of my financial mess on my own. It’s not your problem.”

  Jean-Luc didn’t have any debt, never had. When I’d first told him about the amount needed to pay off my credit cards, he didn’t understand how I’d come to owe so much. He’d set the limit on his card to three thousand euro, and every month his card was paid off automatically. Sure, sometimes this left him in the “red,” as he’d called it, but it was never for long and there were few bank penalties.

  “Now I’m investing in you.”

  What a man. He would stick with me in any crisis.

  Jean-Luc’s tone turned serious. “Have you told Chris yet?”

  “He’s last on the list, but I’m getting to it.”

  “I’m proud of you,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Proud?”

  “For being so strong.”

  At the time, I didn’t see myself as strong. The stress was overwhelming and I was beginning to question my sanity. I wondered if I would be able to accomplish everything I needed to do to get my life back on track. My checklist was a mess of illegible scribbles. The more I thought about what I needed to do, the longer the list grew. I called Tracey, needing to hear a friendly voice.

  “Can you come visit me before I move to France?” I asked.

  “When were you thinking?”

  “Well, I’m supposed to go back in April, so March?”

  “I’ll look into the tickets the second we hang up,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re moving to France. It’s crazy.”

  I gulped. This was all so crazy. Reality was beginning to sink in. Moving to another country was a daunting experience, to say th
e least. What was I getting myself into? Since I was in list mode, I decided to make one of all the pros and cons of marrying Jean-Luc and moving to France:

  CONS

  1. I would be far away from my family and friends.

  2. I didn’t speak the language that well.

  3. I’d become an instant parent.

  PROS

  1. I’d spent the last year living at home with my parents, and France was only a flight away. I could always come back home when I wanted to.

  2. I would make new friends. And all of my friends in the States were dying to visit me in France—especially my sister.

  3. I’d be immersed in French society, so obviously my French would improve.

  4. Jean-Luc’s kids and I got along really well. I’m sure they had room in their hearts for me.

  5. Moving to a new country would be an adventure.

  6. I couldn’t imagine a life without Jean-Luc. I loved him.

  All of the pros canceled out the cons, and the revelation I’d had on Christmas Eve slammed my brain. I remembered I was fighting for love. If this was all crazy, let the crazy begin. I could deal with the stress, but the items on my to-do list weren’t going to check themselves off. There was only one person I could rely on to pull me through the sludge of life: me and only me.

  My bank account was just shy of being negative. I really needed money. I called Stacy to let her know I was ready and willing to do overnights, but that I’d only be able to walk Kira, the husky, since she was in my neighborhood and I was turning my car in. After hanging up with Stacy, I left a voice mail message for my recruiter—and then for good measure, I emailed her. I sent a couple of résumés off to a few more freelance opportunities I’d found on Craigslist. I called the bank and alerted them to my misfortune, letting them know I was going through bankruptcy proceedings and I would be surrendering my car. For the rest of the afternoon, I worked on my taxes. Because I’d cashed in my 401(k) early, I watched my return go from being positive to owing three hundred dollars. My stomach plummeted too. Exhausted, I flopped down on my bed. I was just about to doze off to sleep when the phone rang. It was the estate agent who was working on selling my rings.