Seven Letters from Paris

by Samantha Vérant

  For this, I counted my lucky stars. Jean-Luc and I could afford the big night.

  My parents’ backyard, even though it was primarily used as a dog run, was a magical place surrounded by wild white rose bushes and, ooh-la-la, French lavender. Overlooking the rolling canyon, Jean-Luc and I would exchange vows under a wooden arbor laden with white California jasmine. As I walked through the garden with my mom, who may have been even more excited than me, I filled her in on my ideas.

  “I’m thinking of the theme ‘garden by the sea’—the colors greens, blues, and whites,” I said. “We’ll keep the flowers simple—mostly chartreuse dendrobium orchids for the bulk and then three giant cymbidium flower heads sunken into vases with a wrapped leaf and a floating candle for the tables.” I pulled out my spreadsheet. “I’ve gotten an estimate from a wholesaler, and if we do the arrangements ourselves, it cuts the budget big time. All we have to do is buy twelve vases from the dollar store, which you can keep after the wedding. What do you think?”

  “Ooh, let’s get submersible LED lights for the bottom of the arrangements. That would be so beautiful at night. And lots of candles. Lots and lots of candles.” I nodded. My mom squealed, “This is so much fun!”

  “I’ve ordered about two hundred Philippine starfish in varying sizes off of eBay to decorate with and also to make the keepsake gift.” I showed her a photo of little silver Tibetan charms I’d also found. “I ordered seven hundred Tibetan charms for about forty dollars. Each one symbolizes something from the wedding—a fleur-de-lis for France, a dragonfly for the garden, a heart with a lock and key, two open hearts for our love, and a starfish and a shell for the ocean. I’m going to glitter paint the starfish and tie seven charms onto each with a silver string. It will also be the seating card.”

  “I love it.” My mom pursed her lips in thought. “You can use my white wooden tray to put them in. We can fill it with sand.”

  “I’m also going to make the wedding invitations. I found blanks online for twenty dollars and we can print them here. With a little ribbon and a starfish charm, they’ll be beautiful.” We walked to the back deck. “After the ceremony, the cocktail hour will be here. I’ve spoken to Jean-Luc and we’ve decided to keep the drink choices down, which will also keep the budget down. So we’re going to make sangria and offer pastis, whiskey, and white and red wine—the same wine we’ll serve at dinner.”

  “What about vodka? Or tequila shots?”

  “Mom, it’s a wedding. We don’t want people to get bombed and then have to drive down the canyon road.” I grimaced. “And vodka leads to divorce.”

  Wherever there was a yin, there was a yang, and nature found its balance. If bad things happened for a reason, so did the good things. I was a true believer in karma now. Finally, my birth certificate arrived. I didn’t know who was responsible for getting it to me so quickly—Governor Schwarzenegger or Senator Pavley’s office—but in any case, I sent them both thank-you notes via email. I also received word from my attorney that my discharge had gone through, the trustee having accepted the revised file. I was debt-free and would be receiving a notice in the mail within the next month or two.

  In addition to this, the biopsy for cervical cancer came back normal, as well as my most recent Pap, and according to the ultrasound and mammogram, the lumps in my breast were fibroadenomas, just like in high school—nothing serious. With the health and money scares put behind me, I could finally move forward without fear. Chest out, marching proudly, I worked quickly to have the necessary Apostille applied onto my birth certificate, praying it didn’t get lost in the mail.

  I called Jean-Luc when I got home.

  “Honey, I’m a free woman. I’m debt-free. I’m cancer-free. I have my birth certificate. And I’m all yours. Make me your wife!”

  A few minutes later, Jean-Luc sent me my itinerary, having used frequent-flyer miles to buy my ticket once again. I’d arrive in Toulouse two days before his birthday. Along with something sexy that begins with Victoria’s and ends with Secret, I had an idea for a perfect gift for him. Something very special that would last an eternity.

  I had less than a fortune to spend, but I purchased both of our wedding bands—the total coming to a little over three hundred and fifty dollars. His was a plain white gold band I’d ordered on Amazon. Mine was also white gold, a delicate X shape encrusted with pavé diamonds, which I’d found on eBay.

  After that, I had four hundred and seventy-five dollars left to my name.

  Regardless of my finances, there was so much to celebrate. I looked at my watch. “Mom, we’ve got to pick Tracey up at the airport!”

  Best friend by my side, my world was complete. The second we got back to my parents’ house, Tracey and I pored through the old photo album from our 1989 European adventure. Then we read Jean-Luc’s and Patrick’s letters and her old journal, giggling at all the memories like two giddy schoolgirls.

  “I can’t believe you’re marrying Jean-Luc,” she said.

  “I can’t believe I’m moving to France.”

  “I can’t believe I have another awesome place to visit.”

  “It is awesome, isn’t it?” I smiled and flipped a page in the photo album over to Patrick’s picture. “I wonder what happened to him. Do you?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “But Michael and I are really happy.”

  Michael had been Tracey’s partner for the past eight years. We’d met him in high school, where he’d always had the hots for Tracey. We’d called him her red phone boy. When Tracey’s car would break down, she’d call Michael. If she went through a bad breakup, she’d call Michael. His persistence and patience finally paid off and he got the girl of his dreams.

  “You may not be curious, but I am. Jean-Luc and Patrick lost touch right after they met us.” I opened the cover on my computer. “What was his last name? Maybe he’s on Facebook.” She told me, I searched, and there he was. Still movie-star good-looking, he hadn’t changed a bit. Tracey and I both raised our brows. His Facebook page wasn’t privacy protected, so we were able to view some photos. He looked happily married to a lovely French woman; they had two beautiful kids.

  “I’m sending him a note. Do you mind?” I asked. “I want to let him know I finally wrote to Jean-Luc.”

  “Why would I mind? Write him. I’m kind of curious if he’ll respond.”

  With Tracey looking over my shoulder, I sent a Facebook friend request to Patrick, along with the news Jean-Luc and I were to be married. Patrick responded two seconds later, in French. I pulled up Google Translate in a browser window and pasted the note in:

  Congratulations, it’s really amazing, like when lightning strikes; it leaves traces, even years later. If you and Jean-Luc are ever in Paris, please, look me up. I’d love to see both of you. And please, give my hello to Tracey.

  “Wow, that was quick,” said Tracey. “Lightning fast.”

  “Amazing, the power of the Internet, huh? Do you want me to let him know you’re here? With me now?”

  “Nah,” she said. “I’m already with my guy from the past. But if you ever do see him again, tell him I say hi back.”

  The phone rang, an international call. “Speaking of hellos, answer it. It’s Jean-Luc. I’m sure he’d love to speak with you.”

  She didn’t hand me the phone back for well over an hour. I was only able to speak with Jean-Luc for five minutes, just enough time to alert him that Tracey, my mom, and I would be taking off for the desert in a few minutes to stay with Debra for two days.

  “Is it a party for the bride-to-be?” he asked.

  “No, more like we’re saying good-bye to my old life and hello to my new life with you in France.”

  “Well, then I won’t call you.”

  “You can.”

  “No, Sam, spend some time with your friends. Drink champagne, but not too much. I’ll be waiting for you upon your return.”
>
  And return I did. Two weeks later, I was back in France.

  The moment I arrived in Toulouse, I called the U.S. consulate general in Marseilles to make an appointment to pick up the certificat de coutume and certificat de non-remariage, speaking with a man whose voice was reminiscent of James Earl Jones, deep and unmistakable. I explained my situation, how I’d hired an attorney to draw up both forms but that the mairie wouldn’t accept them, that I was supposed to pick them up at the consulate. He chuckled—not teasingly or condescendingly, but warmly. “Ahhh, the French paper trail! It’s a fun and never-ending path to follow, isn’t it? When do you want to come in?”

  “Tomorrow at one?”

  “That will be fine.” He took down my information. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I was expecting a roadblock. But no, on a four-hour drive, we didn’t even hit traffic along the way.

  Jean-Luc waited for me at a coffee shop while I met the man behind the voice, the consul himself—a burly man, tall and dark, with kind eyes and a boisterous laugh. I filled out the required paperwork and paid. The consul handed me the two certificates. “If they give you any problems,” he said, “you call me.”

  I was about to faint. For once! Someone on my side! I may have called him my personal savior. I thanked the consul profusely.

  The following day, with all our documents in hand, all certified and translated, complete with an Apostille, Jean-Luc and I made our way to the mairie’s office. The woman was beginning to argue about one of my documents, saying something about not meeting Toulouse’s requirements, but Jean-Luc cut her off. In French he said, “We have everything required on the list as far as Toulouse is concerned. I’ve looked. We’ve also spoken with the American consulate in Marseilles. I really hope you don’t force me to get the mairie involved.”

  And that did it.

  She opened up her calendar, looking over the dates.

  “Le sept mai, ça marche?”

  The smile stretched across my face.

  Oh yeah, the day worked. The seventh of May was the exact day I had written the first “love blog” post, a year ago, when I was still unsure about my future.

  How serendipitous.

  While we waited with anticipation for the big day, Jean-Luc signed me up for one month of intensive French classes at the Institut Catholique de Toulouse—every morning, five days a week for four hours a day. It was time for me to integrate into the French culture a bit better and make fewer faux pas, as well as find a better way to communicate with the kids, who laughed at my remedial language skills and only taught me words like dégueulasse (disgusting), nul (loser), and méga moche (not just ugly but super ugly). Surprisingly, I tested into “Elémentaire II,” two notches above beginner, but not quite intermediate. Not so surprisingly, I was the oldest person by twenty years and the only American in the classroom of ten other students—a beautiful girl from Ethiopia, a suave guy from Argentina, and a funny Vietnamese fellow named Paul who flirted with the Japanese girls in class—who comprised the rest of my fellow linguists.

  “Hey,” Paul said, sitting down at the desk next to me. He looked at my ring, waggled his brows. “Tant pis.”

  Too bad? Not at all. Things were looking up. I was able to relearn all those dreaded conjugations and build up my vocabulary, which made it so much easier to speak with Max and Elvire. Nobody challenged Jean-Luc’s and my union, and the publication des bans was taken out of the window of city hall. One week more and we would be legally bound as French husband and American wife. All we had to do was show up on May 7. And all of a sudden, the special day had arrived.

  It was twenty minutes to four and I was ready for the civil ceremony, save for putting on my dress. I ran to the closet and took it off the hanger. It was a simple cream, tiered, strapless cocktail-length dress with a belt with a single rosette on it. The bridal shop I’d purchased the “real” dress from had thrown in this dress for fifty dollars. Who was I to say no? Unfortunately, I hadn’t tried it on in months and I was having problems with the zipper, meaning it wouldn’t pull up and was stuck right at my ribcage.

  Screw the myth about the groom not being able to see the bride before the ceremony. He’d be driving us to the town hall anyway. “Jean-Luc!” I screamed. “I need your help!”

  He ran into the bedroom. “Ouf, honey, maybe you should stay away from the pastries. I think you may have gained—”

  “That isn’t funny.” I turned around. “Help!”

  I pulled the sides of the dress in while he yanked the zipper. “Honey, maybe you should wear something else. We have to leave in two minutes—”

  “I don’t have anything else to wear.” I turned to face him, my voice shaky. “This will work. It has to.”

  “Take the dress off. We’ll try pulling it over your head.”

  So we did just that. And he was pulling and tugging and tugging and pulling. I’d put fresh roses from the garden into my hair, now up in a very messy French twist. Petals dropped to the floor. “Oh no! My hair!”

  “Honey, please figure something out. This isn’t working.” He laughed. “Your dress, évidemment, doesn’t fit and we have to leave now. You might have to get married naked.”

  I sat down on the bed. French women may not get fat, but put an American woman in France with all the lovely breads and cheeses and you have Miss Piggy in the making. Jean-Luc wiped the tear forming in the corner of my eye.

  “Are you sure you want to marry me?” I puffed out my bottom lip. “Because now would be the perfect time to change your mind.”

  “I thought you came with a no-return policy.” Jean-Luc stroked my chin. “Come on, Sam, stop pouting, we have to go.”

  “At least I’ve gained pounds of happiness,” I muttered, a solution to the problem coming to mind. The dress was somewhat on, and Jean-Luc was able to hitch the top eyelet. I bolted back to my closet and grabbed a little black jacket with a black rosette from Forever 21 to hide the fact the zipper was open midback. Not what I’d had in mind, but the dress wouldn’t fall off, and it would have to do. Then I ran to the bathroom, smoothed out my hair, puffed up the crushed flowers, and reapplied my lipstick.

  “Honey, we have to go,” cried Jean-Luc. “We have two minutes to get to the ceremony.”

  I threw the rings in my purse, and Jean-Luc and I raced to the car. The kids were at school. We’d decided to only torture them with one wedding—the special one in July.

  Jean-Luc floored it the three blocks to the mairie. My head lurched backward from the speed, crushing the flowers in my hair again. He dropped me off in front of the hall where Christian and Ghislaine, our witnesses, were waiting and screeched into a parking spot. Ghislaine greeted me with a wide smile and handed over a beautiful bouquet—white roses, lilies, and freesia, with elegant greens.

  This, I was not expecting.

  “Merci,” I said. Her kind gesture turned what was supposed to be an administrative day into something really special. We headed inside the marriage hall where Jean-Luc joined us a few minutes later.

  Today, the deputy mayor of our town was performing the ceremony. He wore a gray suit with a blue, white, and red sash over it. We took our places in front of a large wooden table. Ghislaine sat next to me while Christian snapped picture after picture as the French civil code was read. Five minutes later, Jean-Luc and I signed the marriage booklet, which Ghislaine and Christian signed as well.

  Was I married?

  “Les bagues?” asked the deputy mayor.

  The rings. These were about the only two words I understood throughout the whole ceremony. I pulled the box out of my purse, opened it, and slid the white gold ring onto Jean-Luc’s finger. I took off my engagement ring and set it on the table. Jean-Luc gingerly took me by the hand and a wedding band soon adorned my left ring finger. After sliding my engagement ring back in place, I raised my hands in victory, pumping them up twice
. Everyone laughed.

  Ahh, Americans! We were such an amusing species.

  Et voilà! The deputy mayor handed Jean-Luc the Livret de Famille, a thin red booklet, and then presented another bouquet of flowers—a congratulatory gift from the town. “Félicitations, Madame et Monsieur Vérant!”

  “Félicitations!” echoed Christian and Ghislaine.

  After months of stress, now, now it was over? I looked at Jean-Luc, relief flooding my whole system. “What did I just sign?”

  “I now own you. You have to do whatever I say.” Jean-Luc pulled me close to him. “So kiss me, Madame Vérant.”

  Letter Six

  Paris, August 16, 1989

  My sweetest Sam,

  Tonight I wanted very much to write you some words, the sweetest I hope in order to communicate my feelings. I am listening to Bach, a beautiful piece of classical music. It takes you to tears, shows that your hidden feelings can be awakened in your conscience by the beauty of sound. You want to forget everything for a while, the only thing remaining you and your thoughts. Can my thoughts reach you as arrows to open your heart to mine?

  Every word I write to you is as fresh as the air I breathe in. Water and air are the basis of life. And so is fire. You still burn deep in my skin when I think of you. Sometimes I wonder if the stars are sparkling or if it is the light of my eyes stimulated by your memory, projected to them. So when you will look toward the sky, and when you see the stars, maybe at the same time I will be looking at them too.

  Lovely,

  Jean-Luc

  The Third Time’s the Charm

  Since I couldn’t stay in France longer than three months in a six-month period thanks to travel restrictions, I was forced to return home at the end of May. I’d spent a lot of time being a boomerang, bouncing back and forth from France to California. This time, when I returned to France, it would be for keeps—at least that was the plan. I now had my long-term visa as the spouse of a French citizen, a gift from the French consulate in Los Angeles. It had been over a month, and I was missing my husband and the kids something fierce. To thwart impending insanity, I set up a blog, The Frog and a Princess: Life, Love and Living in France, as a distraction, having decided blogging was a good way to meet other expats and share bits and pieces of my new life with my friends. I posted a link on Facebook to my first post: “Looking for Prince Charming?” He wasn’t a rare, elusive creature lurking in a pond; he was real. I found him.