Finally, on a sunny day toward the end of June, Jean-Luc and the kids arrived in California. It was a good thing Jean-Luc had over forty days of vacation, because he was using most of them. My parents became instant grandparents, which thrilled them to bits. We went boating and beaching and biking. We ate American-style—classics like barbecued ribs and grilled burgers and hot dogs. Once again time blurred, and the biggest day on this crazy love adventure had arrived. My mom and I lounged by the pool, watching the kids play in it.
“What are they going to call me?” she asked. “How about Me-Me? I like that.”
“Meme is what they call their grandmother.”
“What about Kiki?” she asked.
“Um, that’s slang for a penis.”
My mother’s eyes widened.
Max jumped into the pool cannonball style and splashed Elvire. “Viens dans la piscine avec nous, Sam! Viens!”
I got off my lounger, said, “Be happy they call you Anne,” and dove into the water. When I emerged, I smiled and swam after Max and Elvire, splashing them. “After all, I’m happy with being Sam. I am!”
Soon, we only had two hours before our guests for the “all-American and French barbecue” danced into the garden. Jean-Luc had rolled five of the rental tables out from the garage, which Elvire and I decorated with blue and white checked tablecloths, blue clay pots from the dollar store—each with one little French and American flag—and bright, happy sunflowers. We were expecting forty people that afternoon, mostly out-of-town guests and family, and seventy for the wedding celebration.
For the most part, everything for the “big night” was set. The previous week, Elvire and I had bonded over making all the starfish gifts and decorations, while Maxence, who wanted nothing to do with girly things, swam in the pool and played with the dogs, Jean-Luc hung all the Christmas lights, and I wired the remaining starfish into the arbor and into bushes.
A true garden by the sea.
A friend of my mother’s, Diane Lotny, was a professional musician. As a wedding gift, she would perform with her band after flamenco guitarist Marco, whom I’d booked for the ceremony, cocktail hour, and dinner, finished. No longer having to rely on my iPod and outside speakers for dancing, I was thrilled with the gift. We were going to rock the canyon. Additionally, M. C., another friend of my mother’s and also a professional ballroom dancer, had gifted Jean-Luc and me with private dance lessons. Little did I know that my man could bust a move like there was no tomorrow.
My grandmother and her sister, my aunt Bobby, had pre-tied organza wraps and starfish decorations, so all we had to do was slip them onto the chairs in the morning. My godmother, Diane, who was a stylist, offered to handle all the floral arrangements including decorating the arbor, which Jean-Luc and I would be married under—again.
Tracey and Michael came over early, offering their assistance. They were on a budget and I wanted my best friend staying close by, so I’d set them up with new friends Rob and Edina, who lived at the bottom of the street. Besides enjoying myself, nothing else needed to be done. The caterers would handle the rest. The photographer was confirmed. Everything was going as planned, including my dress which, thankfully, still fit. Okay, it was tight, but it still zipped up.
Jean-Luc and I hired Rayna, my mom’s cleaning woman, and her daughter, Yvette, to work the rehearsal dinner. At the ceremony, they would be guests, members of our family. As a surprise, Yvette, who happened to work in catering as well as going to school, prepared a delicious salad and small pizzas to snack on. The caterers dropped off the dishes—an American French barbecue on a budget of eight dollars a person. While Yvette set up the buffet and Rayna made fresh lemonade, I tied forks, knives, and spoons into red and blue napkins with a white ribbon and put them in a basket. This wedding was truly a community effort.
One by one, the other guests arrived. Jean-Luc’s French contingency—his sisters and Muriel’s husband, Alain, and, save for Anaïs, their children; Gilles, Nathalie, Claude, and Danielle; and Christian, Ghislaine, and their daughter, Anne.
My graceful grandmother, Nanny, and her sister, Aunt Bobby.
Rob and Edina, my neighbors.
My aunts, my uncles.
Lori, my best friend from college, and her husband, Jonathan.
Barbara, my favorite dog-walking client, and Stacy, the owner of the company.
My friends, some old, some new. My family.
Before I knew it, the party was in full swing. French music played in the background. People danced and ate and the sound of laughter echoed across the canyon. The buffet table displayed a colorful explosion of salads and drinks. The molasses baked beans, corn on the cob, and barbecued chicken were served in warming trays, while Yvette cooked up hot dogs and hamburgers to order, all the fixings placed to the side. Max didn’t know where to turn first; it was his idea of heaven.
I took a plate and sat down with Lori and Tracey. Stephen, a friend of my mother’s who had offered to take pictures of the event, stood poolside, his professional camera in hand. Gilles ran around the yard handing everybody a pink printout. “Are you ready?” he asked before darting into the house.
They were up to something. I bit my bottom lip and looked to Jean-Luc, who just shook his head in resignation. He knew a little pain was coming our way. A dish best served with humor. I hoped.
“Samantha and Jean-Luc,” said Stephen, waving his hands. “These people claim they have a song dedicated to you guys in honor of something that’s happening tomorrow at seven o’clock. I don’t know what that’s about.” Stephen raised his shoulders. “Is everybody ready?”
“Oui,” came the resounding cheer.
Jean-Luc groaned.
“Cue the music,” said Stephen.
After an un, deux, trois, Jean-Luc’s family and friends, including Max and Elvire, launched into a song hazing Jean-Luc. Sung to the tune of a folk song from their hometown of La Ciotat, a little off-key and in French, they teased him about how he’d fantasized about one of his teachers, how he spoke a few languages, namely Russian and English, only because of girls, and how he grew up by the sea. The last verses, however, were quite sweet and included the children, Jean-Luc, and me and how we would all live happily ever after together.
We applauded and we screamed and we cheered.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my little hummingbird perched on his branch. When I turned my head to face him, he twittered and flew away. I guessed his work with me had been completed.
• • •
There wasn’t much to do on the big day. Shortly after the flowers arrived, I showed my godmother how I’d envisioned the arrangements to look and where the extra flowers were needed around the property. I gave her a free hand, knowing that everything would look fantastic. The scent of flowers filled my mom’s yoga room, which was where all the wedding supplies were being stored. Of course, I had the florist arrange the personal items. I could only imagine the creative mess I would have made of a bouquet.
Elvire would carry a miniature version of my bouquet consisting of ivory roses, freesia, and green cymbidium orchids. My mother, Jessica, Tracey, my Nanny, and Jean-Luc’s sisters would all wear cymbidium orchid and rose wrist corsages. For the men—my dad, Jean-Luc, and Maxence—I’d arranged orchid boutonnieres. I set aside fifteen stems of dendrobium orchids for the caterers, placing them on the kitchen counter with a note: “Please use these as you see fit—on the cake, the tables, and anywhere else! Thank you, the Bride!”
Per my instructions, Jean-Luc had already rolled out the remaining tables from the garage. While Michael and Jean-Luc moved all of the rental chairs to the garden, Tracey, Jessica, and I slipped the organza wraps with starfish ties onto the chairs. After setting up hurricane lamps with battery-operated candles on the back ledge, which took all of two minutes, the only thing left to do was make the sangria.
All the busy work was
completed by ten in the morning. Jean-Luc kissed me on the forehead before he took off with my dad to pick up the cake. As they walked away, Jean-Luc smiled at my dad. “Before, she was a boomerang, but I’ve caught her.”
“I’m holding you to that,” said my dad with a laugh.
With nothing to do but relax, I sat poolside with Tracey and the kids. Since the linens hadn’t been set out yet, I let Maxence and Elvire go mental in the pool. I’d joked with Tracey that she and Michael should’ve tied the knot right along with us. But once she’d mentioned putting the Irish flag into the all-American barbecue pots, right next to the French one, I reconsidered the wisdom of that idea. Not to mention how the extra guests would freak my mother out. I’d had a hard enough time convincing her to let me host both the barbecue and the wedding at the house.
Michael came up behind Tracey and put his arms around her. Tracey smiled. “Do you need anything else? Otherwise we’re going to go explore Santa Monica a bit while we can.”
“Nope. It’s all good. Thanks for your help.”
“It looks really beautiful, Sam.” She gave me a hug.
“Thanks.” I squeezed her tight. “I’m so glad you guys are here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” She laughed. “What a story. I’m thrilled to be a part of it.”
So was I.
They left, and I decided to walk the dogs to diffuse my nervous energy. I was in the garage putting away the dogs’ leashes when my dad and Jean-Luc drove up in my mother’s SUV. Jean-Luc sat in the backseat, licking his fingers. And…
Oh my god! The cake!
I ran up to the window and peered in to find Jean-Luc’s hand covered in white frosting, a smidgen on his nose. He regarded me wide-eyed, probably expecting me to go ballistic. “We went around the corner and it slid. I tried to stop it, but—”
“Sorry, Sam,” said my dad. “It’ll still taste good, right?”
I burst out into hysterical, uncontrolled laughter.
By the worried expression on their faces and the way neither of them were able to meet my gaze, I could tell they both felt terrible. I surveyed the damage. It wasn’t that bad. Just some smudged frosting and a couple of indentations from Jean-Luc’s hands. My laughter came harder. Stuff like this? ’Twas only a cake wound. Life was filled with much bigger problems. “The caterers just got here. They’ll be able to fix it.”
In a matter of minutes, one of the chefs worked his magic. I thanked my lucky stars I had ordered the extra dendrobium orchid stems. The flowers were placed on each of the three tiers, surrounding the bottom. A few cymbidiums covered up the major damage. When the chef was finished playing doctor, there was no sign of injury.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’re a real cake saver.”
“No worries. We’re used to this kind of thing happening all the time.” The chef placed the cake topper—a porcelain princess holding a small green frog in her hand. It was perfect. He pointed to me and then to Jean-Luc. “Ahhh, I get it. You’re the American princess and he’s the French frog.”
At four o’clock, it was time for us girls to get ready. Jessica, my mom, Elvire, and I scurried to my parents’ room, bringing along a bottle of champagne and taking it over as the bridal suite. Elvire took a sip from my glass. By the way she smiled, I knew she loved being included, feeling like one of the grown-ups, one of the girls.
My ivory-colored dress hung off the armoire. Designed by Maggie Sottero, it was less of a bridal gown and more of an evening dress, and the highlight was the back. Ruched gossamer chiffon, the bodice was fitted with crystal-encrusted halter straps which joined together at the nape of the neck into one sensational bar back treatment; it was sexy and glamorous and, even better, since it was a sample, it was cheap. My hair was styled into a simple half up-do—a bit reminiscent of the sixties and Brigitte Bardot—and held in place with a beautiful starfish and pearl comb.
Elvire’s dress was a brand-new, navy blue, empire-waisted, silk chiffon BCBG dress I’d found on eBay that had silver paillettes around the bust line—and she looked stunning in it. My mother’s strapless silk chiffon in teal with a small rhinestone detail at the waist fit her perfectly. And Jessica’s dress was a sexy blue jersey with crystal-beaded details reminiscent of mine. An ocean of blues for a wedding in a garden by the sea.
Pam, a friend whose father studied with Ansel Adams, knocked on the door and offered to do some sexy boudoir shots of me while the girls got ready. I poured her a glass of champagne. Soon, I was half-naked, lounged in a white armchair, my arm draped over my chest. Elvire raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t say a word.
“Here’s to sexily ever after,” said Pam, lifting a glass.
Little did she know.
Our nondenominational ceremony was less about religion and more about celebrating love and was supposed to start at seven sharp, but we were running a few minutes behind. Five minutes before the hour, I sent Jessica to the back porch to get everybody seated in the garden and to grab Maxence and my dad. It was a race against the clock. Or maybe I’d put too much thought into this? I ran over the coincidences in my head.
Seven was my lucky number.
Jean-Luc and I were seven years apart in age.
He’d written me seven beautiful letters.
I’d written my seven-post blog.
Our civil ceremony was held on May 7, exactly one year after the first “love blog” posting. We met on July 24, 1989, near the end of the seventh month of the year, exactly twenty-one years earlier. Did I dare tell a skeptical rocket scientist that I suspected fate had played a hand in getting us together?
I eyed the clock in the bedroom. It would have to wait.
Maxence ran up in his blue slip-on Converse sneakers, looking adorable and very California-casual in his long blue shorts and untucked white collared shirt. The same went for my dad, who was wearing sage linen pants and an ivory shirt, his face adorned with day-old scruff.
We exited the house out of the front door to the gate that would lead us to the garden.
After checking out the arbor, which carried a sense of enchantment with the orchid and starfish decorations, I caught the guitarist’s eye and nodded. After a quick transition, Marco launched into a beautiful strummed rendition of Bach’s Air on a G String. My mother and my sister made their entrance, followed by Max and Elvire. The officiant, Greg, stood under the arbor, Jean-Luc to his left.
I glanced at my dad’s watch. It was seven past seven, and I could live with that.
My dad escorted me to Jean-Luc and then took his place next to my mother and my sister. Jean-Luc took both of my hands. We gazed into each other’s eyes and he mouthed, “You look beautiful, the prettiest rose in this garden.” Jean-Luc was more handsome than ever, wearing a cream-colored shirt with black pants and black shoes.
Greg commenced with the service. “Friends and family of Samantha and Jean-Luc, welcome and thank you for being here on this special day…”
In a daze, I faced Jean-Luc, holding his hands, smiling like a fool. Before I knew it, Greg was saying, “Vous pouvez embrasser la mariée.”
Jean-Luc placed a hand on my back and dipped me, planting a huge kiss on my lips.
The crowd cheered.
The rest of the evening passed beautifully. Everybody was impressed with both the flamenco guitarist, who switched from Sting to Gipsy Kings flawlessly, and the appetizers served during the cocktail hour. The caterers offered chili-herbed shrimp with a Thai dipping sauce, filet mignon on canapés, goat cheese and fresh fig turnovers, tuna tartare on a phyllo pastry, and Belgian asparagus spears with a blueberry balsamic glaze. People sipped on pastis or sangria or made-to-order mojitos, enjoying each other’s company. Even the jasmine-scented air smelled of magic.
For the main course, we moved to the poolside tables. I sat Jessica at our table, along with Isabelle, Muriel, and Alain. The ch
ildren were happy sitting with their cousins. The floating candle and cymbidium orchid displayed in the center was aglow, small tea lights surrounding it. Each napkin had one dendrobium orchid resting on it.
Along with a delicious Pinot Noir, we enjoyed an organic field green salad with grilled pears and caramelized walnuts, followed by an organic boneless chicken breast with fresh mango salsa, accompanied by fingerling potatoes, haricots verts, and ginger-glazed carrots. Before I could blink, Diane Lotny and the band took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jean-Luc and Samantha Vérant to the floor.”
The music kicked in.
Jean-Luc took me by the hand, leading me to the dance floor for our song: Van Morrison’s “Moondance.” We’d chosen this particular piece because the lyrics resonated with us, and also because I couldn’t think of a better song to dance to under the stars with my rocket scientist. Thousands of stars dotted the sky, one sparkling constellation after the other. And then, just as if I’d ordered it for the occasion, a full moon rose big and bright right over our heads.
Jean-Luc spun me around and pulled me back toward him. I whispered, “I finally found the space station, the brightest point in the sky.” I nuzzled up to his ear. “It’s always been right here with you. It’s in my heart and it has been there ever since we first met twenty years ago.”
With one hand planted firmly on my back, holding me to earth, Jean-Luc dipped me under the stars.
A Rebooted Heart
Life took a magical turn and suddenly everything just flowed. A reprieve from the eighty-degree weather typical of summer in southwestern France, there was a nice breeze. I opened the volets off the kitchen wider and locked the heavy wooden doors into position with an iron latch, carefully pushing the branches of my favorite rose bush to the side. Bursting with at least a hundred scarlet clusters, its vines climbed up the rustic beams on the back of our townhouse and nestled onto the small terra-cotta-tiled roof protecting our kitchen from the sun. The heady scent of lavender and roses filled the air. Oddly, all the flowers had bloomed a second time. Like me.
Seven Letters from Paris Page 23