The kids were at their grandmother’s for the remainder of the summer, giving us newlyweds some time alone. When they returned, I wanted to have the house in order—warm and inviting, to offset the impending chill I expected to be present when they returned home, thanks to their grandmother’s dislike of Jean-Luc.
I was a woman with a plan.
Jean-Luc’s gaze shot over to the small bookcase in the hall. Handy with a drill, I’d hung three carved plaster plaques, the ornamental and architectural work of an artist named Sid Dickens, over it. Along with pictures of the family I’d placed on top of the bookcase, I found a beautiful wooden ship in the garage. It was about three feet long and one foot wide and impressively detailed, from the planked wooden floor to the sails. Jean-Luc regarded it with pride. “My father built that, every piece carved with his own two hands.”
I ran my fingers across the delicate helm, then the mast. “It wasn’t a kit?”
“Non.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.”
His eyes softened. “No, you’re incredible. I love what you’re doing here. Really, it all looks great. You’ve done so much in so little time.”
Skype flashed on my computer.
I turned to Jean-Luc. “I can call her back later.”
“Answer it,” he said. “It’s your mom.”
“I love you,” I said.
“I know.”
I clicked the video screen open. “Hi, Mom!”
“I’m so excited to see all the work you’ve done to your house. Show me.”
“Hello, Anne,” said Jean-Luc. Although he would spend hours on the phone with my mom, which was something I loved about him, Jean-Luc wasn’t a fan of video. He pecked me on the cheek and waved to the screen before sneaking down the stairs, leaving me to take my mom on a house tour. She oohed and aahed.
A few days later, we picked up the kids at the airport. They were a bit quieter and more reserved, hesitant. But when they opened the door to the kitchen, now painted orange with two Italian paintings adorning once-bare walls and the big silver bowl filled with fruit on the breakfast bar, their smiles widened. When they walked into the living room, their eyes darted back and forth. A rug now decorated the floor. Add the green accent colors of throw pillows, blankets, candles, and plants—all thanks to the wonders of IKEA and the cash we received as wedding presents—and I could tell they were thrilled.
But it was when we went upstairs that the kids saw the biggest change. The IKEA bookcases were put together, the computer and printer sat on the new desk, shaggy burgundy carpet adorned the floor, and the once-naked walls were painted and decorated with pictures of the family. I retrieved an empty picture frame from the bookshelf. It was silver-painted wood with carved flowers. “C’est pour la photo de ta mère.”
“Merci,” Elvire said. “Merci.”
No matter what their grandmother had told them, no matter what they had gone through with Natasha, they both needed to know I wasn’t going anywhere. This was my home now and there was no revolving door. I was there to stay. I knew I’d never replace their mother, but I was now a part of their lives.
“D’accord,” said Jean-Luc. “Range tes sacs. On partira demain.”
We were leaving tomorrow?
“Ah, oui,” said Max. “On ira en Espagne.”
I’d been so busy I’d almost forgotten we had the annual trip with Jean-Luc’s scuba club that weekend. It was time to experience Jean-Luc’s underwater passion, something neither the kids nor I had ever done. The following afternoon, we loaded up the car and drove a little over three hours to L’Estartit, a seaside village located in the Costa Brava region of northern Spain. Elvire, Max, and I would be joining the group for one morning dive—a baptème de plongée. We walked to the dive center, passing by restaurants and numerous shops typical of any European beachside community—the kind selling sunscreens, rafts, sarongs, and tchotchkes, the kind of store Elvire and Max could spend hours in. They stopped in front of one of the boutiques.
“À plus tard,” said Jean-Luc.
Later would mean now. The kids bounded into the shop. Jean-Luc gave them three minutes until he pulled them out.
While my dive-master husband was occupied with his co-workers, the kids and I were placed in the hands of our instructor—a fiery, redheaded Catalan lady who spoke both Spanish and French. But she didn’t speak English and this made me extremely nervous. While I understood the basic concepts of scuba diving, I hoped I didn’t miss anything important. Because I could die. Max was the first to raise his hand when she asked who wanted to go first. Elvire was second. I was last.
“C’était bon?” I asked Max when he returned from the sea to the boat.
He shot me a thumbs-up.
“Tu as eu peur?” God knew I was scared.
He shrugged. “Non, pas vraiment.”
Fifteen minutes later, Elvire climbed up the ladder, her blue eyes glimmering in the Spanish sun. With a grunt and a nod, a salty man with a stubbly beard called me over. He reminded me of a pirate—all that was missing was an eye patch. First, he put a weighted belt around my waist then he pointed to a pair of fins, which I put on. He handed me a mask and threw the stabilizing vest and tank into the water. “Sautez!” he said.
One flipper at a time, I made my way to the ladder and jumped in the water, treading for a few minutes, waiting for our instructor, who was easy to spot since her wet suit was equipped with red horns on the hood and a pitchfork tail on her rear. She swam over to me, helped me strap on my vest, and in French, told me to put the regulator in my mouth and to breathe.
Hand in hand with the devil, I began the slow descent into the Mediterranean Sea. The first three minutes were absolute hell. My fear wasn’t of the marine life swimming around me; it was of suffocation. I’d always thought the first time I’d try diving would be in a swimming pool. But here I was in open water. The instructor adjusted my vest, making it easier for me to get my bearings. Little by little, my nerves calmed and my breathing became more natural, stable. The sea life was plentiful—hundreds of tiny, fluorescent purple fish, large black-and-white striped fish, little yellow ones, blue ones, and even a couple of starfish. Gripping her hand, I relaxed a bit and enjoyed—or tried to enjoy—the world around me.
Five minutes later, we emerged. I was still alive, felt more than alive. I conquered another one of my fears. Jean-Luc smiled at me from the deck. With love on my side, I realized, I could do anything.
• • •
September eased in and the kids returned to school, Jean-Luc returned to work, and I did my best to settle into this new life as a stay-at-home immigrant stepmom—for now. During the day, I tackled the weeds in the garden and pruned the rose bushes while making small talk with my neighbors through the wire fence separating our properties. A couple in their midseventies, Claude and Paulette, bestowed me with softball-sized coeur du boeuf tomatoes from their garden and homemade foie gras. Although my French had improved, it was still sometimes difficult to communicate with them—but I was trying.
One day, I idly checked my Facebook page. What I found stunned me into a stuttering stupor. My biological father had not only tracked me down, he had sent me a friend request and a message about how lucky I was to live in France and, moreover, how I had a sixteen-year-old half-brother who I should meet someday.
It had been over twenty years since I’d last heard from him. And this? This was what he sent? His nonchalant, laissez-faire attitude appalled me. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling when I told Jean-Luc. I choked back my anger. “I need to end this with him now. I don’t want him in my life anymore, showing up like this unannounced.”
“Sam, I’ve told you this once before, you have to suck out all of the poison in your life. If you don’t, it will kill you.” He squeezed my shoulders. “So do it.”
It took me three days to find the right words:
/>
Dear Chuck:
Sorry, Charlie, you are a complete stranger and my hand in friendship is not up for grabs. No, I don’t hate you or harbor you any ill will, but nobody needs to dredge up painful memories from the past when they’ve already moved on. As for your son, if he or I ever want to reach out to one another, we will. Please respect my wishes and continue on with your life the way it’s been—without my mother or me in it.
Wishing you all the best,
Samantha Platt Vérant
Able to say good-bye on my terms, I finally had the closure I needed. Poof. All my pent-up anger was gone. Even my heart felt lighter. I called Tracey to fill her in on my latest victory.
“Aren’t you curious about your brother?” she asked.
“I am. Do you think we’ll look alike?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Ask for a picture.”
“I can’t, Tracey. In a way, I’m relieved I finally got to say my piece after all these years. I’m happy Chuck is out of my life.”
“You sure?”
“About Chuck, yes.”
“And about your would-be brother?”
“Only time will tell.”
Much as I’d rewritten my past with Jean-Luc, I’d also been able to close the book on a haunting history that held me from completely moving on. But had I really let go? Again, there was only one way to find out. I pulled Jean-Luc’s seventh letter out from the blue plastic folder and reread it.
Letter Seven
Paris, November 23, 1989
Samantha,
I’ve never received any news from you, not even a single letter with a “How are you, guy?” I am sure now that my letters surprised you in a bad way. You probably wondered if I was a complete fool and the only way to stop this nonsense is not to answer me. I think you are wrong to behave this way. Of course, we only knew each other for a short time, but we are human beings and we don’t work as machines with a previous program. I don’t regret anything, neither spoken nor written.
I really hope you will answer this letter. I would like very much to get some news of you. Just because there are five thousand kilometers between us it doesn’t mean we have to rub out friendship. I’d like to know the reasons behind your silence.
Perhaps you are right. No matter. That’s life. I won’t write you again if you don’t desire it. So I wish all is all right for you in Syracuse.
Friendly,
Jean-Luc
• • •
I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, thankful I finally garnered up the courage to write Jean-Luc back. I’d found my everything. I tucked the letter back into the protective pocket that separated Jean-Luc’s seven letters from the stack of other letters at least two inches thick.
Who were all these other letters from? And why on earth was I keeping them? No longer did I need to hold on to my past, looking for emotional validation or ego boosts. Not when I had everything I’d ever wanted in the present. Inspiration hit.
Lighter in hand, I booked it to the backyard, ready to purge. Breathless with excitement, I placed a stack of letters on the barbecue grill and lit one corner. Pages crinkled, curling up and turning gray then black, finally settling into a pile of smoldering ash. Plumes of smoke billowed up to my nose. Engulfed in orange flames, souvenirs from past relationships crackled and hissed, and names long forgotten vanished. Vapors of charcoal and dust filled my lungs. I choked back a cough and threw more letters into the pile—saying au revoir to a secret admirer and a final adieu to high school and college sweethearts. My eyes watered and burned, but I didn’t stop the cleanse. I held my breath and threw another old letter onto the flames in celebration. It was the “Play with it again, Sam” card from Chuck.
A strange sense of pleasure flooded my body. I watched Chuck’s card burn until it settled into a pile of ash. Then I threw another letter onto the blaze, tempted to dance around the fire in some kind of bizarre tribal ritual while chanting, “Free at last.”
Jean-Luc came home from work to find me in the garden, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, prodding the fiery blaze with a rebar pipe. His eyes darted to the massive pine tree above the grill. “Sam, what in the world are you cooking?”
“I’m burning all my old letters.” I turned to face him, poker in hand. “Except for yours, of course. And a couple from Tracey.”
His laughter started off slow then it boomed. “But we could have read them together. And we could have laughed.”
He already had all the dots making up my life; he didn’t need to connect them. My brows furrowed. “But I thought it was a romantic, a symbolic gesture…”
“It is.”
Jean-Luc popped his lips, put his hands on my waist, and pulled me in for a kiss. Soupe de langues! The honeymoon period was far from over. I withdrew from his embrace before we overheated. “Do you think it will last? This passion?”
Jean-Luc stifled another laugh. “Sam, like I told you in one of my letters, a life without passion is like a sky without a moon or the stars, like a sea without little fishes.”
“But you don’t write me love letters anymore,” I teased.
“I don’t have to. You’re here with me, right now, right where you’re supposed to be.”
Yes, there I was, in the here, in the now, living in the South of France, married to a man I’d met over two decades before. As my parents had told me shortly after my adoption, love didn’t come from DNA; it came from opening up your heart, just like my real dad, Tony, had done for me. Just like I could do wholeheartedly now. The rest, as they say, was history.
Twenty years ago, I was terrified of love, of letting myself be loved, and I left Jean-Luc standing alone on a platform at Gare de Lyon. But the train had finally stopped at my station. When I let go of anger, guilt, and fear, I finally let love in. For once, my entire life jumped onto the right track, and it was cruising along, moving full speed ahead.
L’amour! Encore l’amour! Toujours l’amour!
Acknowledgments
Sometimes it takes a village to transform a book from a dream into actual publication. I’d like to start by thanking Anna Klenke, my fabulous editor, who picked my story out of the Sourcebooks slush pile and believed in it enough to take it from a mere dream to a finished project. Merci mille fois! Likewise, I’d like to thank the Sourcebooks team. Thank you all so much for believing in my story and in me.
To my parents, Anne and Tony Platt, where do I start? Thank you for your unwavering love and for not letting me sink when life dragged me down. And Dad? Thank you for turning the page at the sexier parts. The same goes to Dottie Thomas, my grandmother. Also, I raise my glass to my two best friends in the entire world, Tracey Biesterfeldt and my sister, Jessica. This story is your story too.
A special shout goes out to all the wonderful writers who have been with me on this journey from almost day one. Thanks to my alpha readers Susan Oloier and Christine Sarmel, whose candor and honest critiques helped my book to grow. Thanks to my army of beta readers: Sara Raasch, Jill Hathaway, the Roecker sisters, Kelly Polark, Jaye Robin Brown, Stephanie Hayes, Rachel Eddey, Pam Ferderbar, Judy Mintz, Colene Beck, Mary Metzger, Robin Tolbert, Stina Lindenblatt, Wendy Forsythe Van Dyk, Stephen Fisch, Diane Lotny, M. C. Callaghan, Debra Wolf, Kim O’Brien, Pam Serp, Stacy Mahoney, Karla Wheeler, Liz Johnson, Meg Vernon, Michelle Cassera, Christina Schmitt, Kristin Gaudio, Judy Ravitz, Karin Barnes, and Edina and Rob Markus. And, finally, thank you to the expert advice of industry pros Stephanie DeVita, Jay Schaefer, Candace Walsh, Victoria Twead, and my aunt, Randi Platt. Whether you delivered a full critique, took my author photos, taught me to mambo, read a few chapters here and there, or just cheered me on, I need for you all to know it meant (and still means) the world to me.
Moving to a new country can be a daunting experience. So a huge and heartfelt thanks goes to the Toulouse “les chicks”—Monique Nayard, Ok
sana Ritchie, Trupty Vora, Lindsey Hebblethwaite, Zoe Levi, and Melissa Hall, who not only read for me but also became instamatic friends.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention all the lovely souls I’ve met thanks to social media—on AbsoluteWrite.com, on Verla Kay’s blueboards, on Twitter, and on Blogger, especially my French contingency of expats—Sara Dillard Sylvander, Sarah Hague, Kasia Dietz, Lindsey Tramuta, Kristin Espinasse, and Aidan Larson, whose blogs provided much needed friendship and advice.
Thanks to Jean-Luc’s parents, Marcelle and André, to his sisters Isabelle and Muriel, and to their spouses and children. To my adoptive French parents, Christian and Ghislaine, and their daughter, Anne; and to all of Jean-Luc’s friends. Thank you all for not placing bets on how long my marriage to Jean-Luc would last.
To Max and Elvire, I am the luckiest woman in the world to have both of you in my life. As for Jean-Luc, I know you wanted for me to tell our story as a fictional account, killing you off in the end! But the truth is always better than fiction. You have my heart in your hand. Je t’aime très fort. Je t’aime.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, dear reader, for joining me on this love adventure. Now put this book down and live and love your life to its fullest—without fear, without anger, and without regret. L’amour! Encore l’amour! Toujours l’amour!
About the Author
Photo credit: Stephen Fisch
Samantha Vérant is a travel addict, a self-professed oenophile, and a determined, if occasionally unconventional, French chef. She lives in southwestern France, where she’s able to explore all of her passions, and where she’s married to a sexy French rocket scientist she met in 1989 but ignored for twenty years.
Seven Letters from Paris Page 24