by Anita Hughes
“Then say yes, and I’ll reserve a room at the Carlton.” Chelsea blew a speck of dust from the front of her dress. “Make sure you write me lots of postcards; I’ll put them on my desk and drool over the elegant boutiques and outdoor cafés. I’ve only been there once, but the window shopping was better than sex.”
“Can I let you know tomorrow?” Serena twisted her ponytail the way she did when she was nervous.
Chelsea hopped off the desk and walked to the door. She twisted the door handle and turned around. “Let me know by noon, or I’ll have to write someone else’s name on an Air France ticket to Paris.”
* * *
Serena flipped through the magazine, trying to learn about Yvette. She always liked to know her subjects: Did Jennifer Garner advocate public or private schools for her children? What was Gwyneth Paltrow’s biggest fashion disaster? When she interviewed Katie Holmes, Serena arrived with a box of Sprinkles salted caramel cupcakes, and by the end of the hour Katie had told her everything about Tom Cruise.
Serena closed the last magazine and twisted her ponytail. She knew Yvette loved the ballet, was an ardent admirer of Oscar de la Renta, and detested the use of fur. But she hadn’t revealed anything about her personal life; there was no mention of Bertrand or a cuckolded husband.
Serena walked to the window, gazing at the wide stretch of bay and the sun setting behind the Oakland hills. She imagined sitting on a sun-soaked balcony with Yvette, hearing her stories about legendary French houses: Yves Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Chanel. Then she thought about Chase, straining like a horse at the starting gate to start his campaign, and Chelsea’s veiled warning. She taped the boxes shut and hurried down the stairs.
chapter two
Serena pressed the buzzer and waited for Chase to walk upstairs. She wore a pink-and-yellow Kate Spade dress with a wide leather belt. Her hair fell in a smooth wave and she wore Brian Atwood flats on her feet.
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror and tamed a few loose strands of hair. Chase insisted they eat at local restaurants—PlumpJack, Boulevard, Emerald—at least twice a week. Chase pumped the hands of the maître d’ and the chef and Serena smiled over glasses of Napa Valley chardonnay and plates of grilled halibut.
“You look gorgeous,” Chase said, and kissed her on the mouth. “And you smell even better.”
“You look pretty good yourself.” Serena smiled, musing how Chase’s wardrobe had evolved. The tweed blazers and khakis had been replaced by Brioni suits and hand-tailored dress shirts from Wilkes Bashford. He wore his hair a little shorter and had a wardrobe of fine silk ties.
“I want voters to see me as someone who aims high,” Chase would say, glancing at the tie selection at Neiman Marcus. “Someone who can receive a foreign delegation, woo start-ups, pave the streets of San Francisco with gold.”
Sometimes when Chase slept over and they lay in bed, sweaty and elated from sex, she could almost taste his ambition. She would listen to his heartbeat and feel his arm thrown across her waist and wonder what he would do if he lost. Then she’d glance at his firm jaw and his smooth cheeks and knew that wasn’t possible. Even asleep, he had winner written all over him.
Occasionally she’d thought about asking her mother what it was like to be married to someone who was consumed by his work. She had watched her mother stand at her father’s side at fund-raisers, attend endless ribbon cuttings and hospital openings, always dressed in flawless Chanel. But then she saw her father squeeze her mother’s hand, watched him rub her shoulders at the end of a long day, and knew he loved her more than anything. They were a perfect couple, like ice skaters skating to their own melody.
* * *
Chase drove the silver Fiat down Polk Street and Serena debated how to tell him about Cannes. She decided to wait till after dinner, when they’d be sitting at a window-side table, full of wild mushroom risotto and coconut sorbet. She checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror and felt Chase take her hand. He held it in his lap like a talisman, looking over and smiling his confident, white smile.
“I thought we were going to Greens,” Serena said, frowning when Chase passed the restaurant and continued on Lombard Street toward the Marina.
“Your father asked me to check on his boat.” Chase pulled into the parking lot of the St. Francis Yacht Club. “He left some papers in the cabin.”
Her father’s boat was his pride and joy, a sleek white catamaran with SERENA written on it in bold red letters. He spent every free moment polishing her wood, grooming her sails, taking her on cruises under the Golden Gate Bridge to the Farallon Islands.
The main cabin had pine floors, soft leather sofas, and a fridge stocked with California wines and bottles of pale ale. There was a large globe and a mahogany table with a backgammon set and an ivory chessboard.
Serena stepped into the cabin and let her eyes adjust to the dark. She smelled the rich, sweet fragrance of roses. Roses were everywhere. They were scattered over the plank floor, strewn on the sofa, filling the sideboard in crystal vases. There were yellow roses in the fruit bowl and a great bunch of peach roses in an empty milk jug.
“What’s going on?” Serena asked, and turned to Chase.
“From the moment I saw you in your father’s study, I knew you were the woman I wanted by my side,” Chase said, and kneeled on the wood floor. “You’re incredibly beautiful, talented, and smarter than I’ll ever be. Together we’re going to do great things, make the world a better place. Serena Woods, will you marry me?”
Serena felt her knees buckle. Her eyes filled with tears and she saw Chase take a velvet box out of his pocket. He carefully pried it open and displayed a large square diamond resting between two emeralds on a white gold band.
“My grandmother’s diamond,” Serena whispered.
“Your father insisted I use it.” Chase squeezed her hand. “I had it reset with emeralds to match your eyes.”
Serena froze, her mind whirring. Their conversations revolved around Chase’s run for mayor, his long hours at the law firm, Serena’s job. She knew when they talked about his plans for the governorship or the White House that it would be as husband and wife. But that seemed far off, as if it would happen to a more mature, grown-up couple sometime in the future.
For a moment she flashed on Chase’s decision to announce his candidacy and a queasy feeling formed in her stomach. She pictured standing beside Chase in front of city hall, the diamond ring glinting on her finger. Could he possibly want the journalists to mention that he was engaged to Senator Woods’s daughter when they printed their stories? But then she pictured the giant bunches of sunflowers that arrived at her office, the texts he sent a dozen times a day. Chase showed her he loved her in a million different ways.
Serena looked at the lines that creased his brow, the dark lashes that covered his eyes, and knew she couldn’t love anyone more. She flashed on her father proposing to her mother thirty years ago and all the places they had lived, the people they had entertained, the events they had been a part of. She saw her mother in her Chanel suits saying how she loved being a political wife.
“You told my father?” Serena asked.
“I had to ask for your hand in marriage,” Chase said, squeezing her hand tighter. “I had to show him I was worthy.”
“You’re more than worthy.” Serena felt round tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”
“Is that a yes?” Chase tentatively stood up. He pushed the ring on her finger and placed his other hand around her back. He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the mouth. He traced the front of her dress, reaching under the thin fabric and brushing her breasts. His fingers stopped on her nipples, squeezing them gently so Serena thought her legs would collapse.
“Yes,” Serena told him, nodding.
Chase picked her up and carried her to the smaller cabin, onto the round white bed. He slipped off his shoes, untied his tie, draped his jacket over the captain’s chair. He slid his hands beneath Serena
’s dress and slipped off her panties. He pulled the dress over her head and stared at her full breasts, her flat stomach, the pink curve of her thighs.
Serena smelled the combination of sweat and aftershave as Chase burrowed his face in her neck. She nibbled his ear, running her fingers through his hair. She opened her legs and arched her body to meet his. He lowered himself on top of her, grabbing her hands and carrying her to the edge.
Serena felt his weight shift, his strength build; his body hurtle toward some invisible finish line. She gripped his shoulders and urged him forward with her hips. She held her breath, waiting for the final moment, the hot burst of light that left her sweaty and sated and hungry all over again.
Serena lay against him, listening to his breathing relax, and stared at the diamond ring on her finger. They were engaged and she still hadn’t told him about Cannes.
* * *
“I thought we could have a combined engagement party and launch party for the campaign,” Chase said, biting into a chocolate torte with pistachio ice cream. “Your father suggested we hold it at their house; we could tent the garden and build a dance floor.”
Serena pushed her fork around a plate of blueberry upside-down cake. She hadn’t been able to eat the first course of wilted spinach salad, and only finished two bites of the mesquite-grilled brochettes. Even the side of polenta and herb butter lay untouched.
All through the meal, as the waiter refilled their glasses of Chateau St. Jean, Serena kept trying to bring up her assignment in Cannes. She saw her career buried under political fund-raisers and wedding planning, and her stomach felt like it was coated in lead.
“Chelsea came into my office today,” Serena said, putting her fork on the plate. “Yvette Renault is writing her memoir and is looking for a ghostwriter. She read some of my pieces and offered me the assignment.”
“Who is Yvette Renault?” Chase asked, scraping up the last bite of torte. He kept picking up Serena’s hand and rubbing the ring as if it were a magic lamp.
“Yvette was French Vogue’s editor for twenty years,” Serena replied. “She was the doyenne of French fashion and rumored mistress of Bertrand Roland.”
“Sounds like a great opportunity.” Chase nodded.
“Yvette is staying at the InterContinental in Cannes; I’d be gone for a month.”
“Cannes?” Chase sat back, wrinkling his forehead.
“She promised exclusive excerpts for American Vogue. I’d have a byline on the cover.”
“Cannes,” Chase repeated, folding and refolding his napkin. His face took on the expression he used when he was poring over casework or considering tactics for the campaign. He ran his fingers over the rim of his wineglass, gazing out the window at the darkened bay.
“Did you know that women control sixty percent of the vote in a local election?” Chase said finally. “Their own vote and the votes of their fiancés and husbands. If a guy votes for someone his wife doesn’t approve of, their lovemaking drops to once a week.”
“They have studies on that?” Serena raised her eyebrow.
“They have studies on everything,” Chase said, nodding. “Voters are twice as likely to vote for candidates who eat oatmeal for breakfast than cold cereal. Oatmeal reminds them of the breakfasts their mothers made, and makes them feel safe and protected.”
“I’ll get rid of my boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios.” Serena laughed, taking a large gulp of wine.
“I think going to Cannes is a wonderful idea.” Chase sat forward. “What could be better than having my fiancée’s name on the cover of every woman’s bible?”
“You do?” Serena asked, her stomach churning with some new, strange uncertainty.
“We’ll have the engagement party when you return,” Chase said, and poured the last drops of wine. “It’ll give me time to wrap up things at work and focus on the campaign.”
“I’m glad you agree.” Serena gazed at the square diamond flanked by two emeralds. Suddenly she wanted to ask Chase why he chose now to propose, but the words stuck in her throat. Then she glanced at Chase’s chiseled cheekbones and decided she was being childish. Of course he thought in terms of his career, that was one of the things she loved about him.
“I knew we’d be a great team,” he said, and squeezed her hand, the diamond chafing between her fingers. “Let’s run up to your parents’ house, I promised I’d stop by so we could celebrate.”
* * *
“Cannes,” Serena’s mother repeated when they were all seated in the grand salon.
Serena sat on the brocade sofa, feeling Chase’s fingers press into her back, and a warmth spread through her chest. She glanced around the vast space with its dark wood floors and antique furniture and felt like the luckiest girl in the world. She had all the people she loved in one room, gathered to toast her happiness.
“Of all the places,” her mother murmured, sipping her champagne slowly. “We haven’t been there in years.”
“Do you think this is the best time to go?” her father asked, sitting in a high-backed leather armchair. “There’s so much to do.”
“Your father’s right.” Kate wore a Chanel shirtdress and red Gucci pumps. Her strawberry-blond hair was curled in a smooth pageboy and she wore a string of freshwater pearls around her neck. “Planning an engagement party is as complicated as planning the wedding. We need to arrange the caterer and the band and order a cake. We could have a nautical theme. We’ll serve oysters and fresh scallops and have goldfish as centerpieces.”
“Timing is everything in politics,” her father agreed. “In a month it’ll be summer, people will leave for their cabins in Tahoe or their houses in Napa.”
Serena pictured Yvette Renault’s silky black hair, her large brown eyes, and imagined the stories she had to tell. She flashed on the wide boulevards of Cannes and Chelsea threatening to write someone else’s name on the plane ticket. She glanced at Chase, silently willing him to support her.
“Serena’s career is very important to her.” Chase grabbed her hand, curling his fingers around hers. “Isn’t the first rule of a happy marriage giving your wife everything she wants?”
Serena let Chase refill her champagne glass, and the tightness in her shoulders relaxed. She heard her father and Chase discussing new energy policies and watched her mother fill silver dishes of macadamia nuts and felt the last traces of doubt disappear. She had picked the perfect partner and their lives were going to be full of exciting people and places. She saw the diamond ring reflected in her champagne flute and sipped the sweet, effervescent bubbles.
chapter three
Serena stepped out of the taxi onto the Boulevard de la Croisette. She had been to New York Fashion Week and the runway shows of Paris and Milan, but she had never seen so many exquisitely dressed people in one place. Slender dark-haired women with sleek chignons wore white Courrèges slacks and crocheted tops. Their waists were cinched by bright colored belts and they wore gold sandals on their feet. Men wore silk shorts and leather loafers and their dark hair was slicked with oil. Everyone talked in rapid French, puffing cigarettes, sipping espresso, pulling apart buttery, flaky croissants.
It was the last week of the Cannes Film Festival and the main boulevard was like a human parking lot. No one seemed in any hurry to get anywhere; they loitered in front of Christian Dior and Yves Saint Laurent waiting for a glimpse of Angelina Jolie or James Franco. Serena saw a dark-haired man with a gold earring descend from a motorboat and was sure it was Johnny Depp.
Serena paid the taxi driver and gathered her bags, turning to look at the bay. The Mediterranean was a shimmering turquoise lake dotted with luxury yachts and peeling fishing boats. In the distance she could see the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the curve of highway leading to Nice and Antibes.
The last week Serena’s stomach had been tied in knots. She kept staring at her diamond ring, wondering if she should take the assignment. Her mother kept calling the office asking whether she wanted lilies or peonies, Sonoma or Napa wine
s, red velvet cake or vanilla custard, at the engagement party.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving all the decisions to me,” Kate said when Serena said she had two stories to file and no time to think. “This is one of the loveliest times in your life; you’re engaged! You should be relishing every minute.”
Serena would hang up and click on Vera Wang or Valentino on her computer, studying the satin dresses with wide tulle skirts, the long Greek tunics with intricate beading, and think her mother was right. She wanted to choose the most elegant shoes, the sweetest-smelling bouquets, the prettiest bridesmaid dresses. But then she would glance at the piles of tear sheets and photos on her desk and know she made the right decision. She and Chase wanted a year’s engagement; there would be months to plan the wedding.
* * *
“I don’t understand my parents,” Serena had said, frowning, when Chase arrived to take her to the airport. It was Saturday and he wore navy slacks and a striped polo shirt. His blond hair was damp and his cheeks glistened with aftershave. “All through college they asked me how I was going to use my English degree. When I was promoted to features editor they took me to Fleur de Lys and my mother gave me her signed copy of Rona Jaffe’s The Best of Everything.”
“Your parents are of a different era,” Chase replied, perched on her bed. “Maria Shriver worked for NBC News until Schwarzenegger became governor, and Michelle Obama was an executive director for the University of Chicago Hospitals. I love seeing you excited about your work, it’s incredibly sexy.”
Serena stopped folding sundresses into her suitcase and kissed Chase on the lips. “I love you, I’d vote for you any day.”
Chase pulled her toward him, unbuttoning her Free People blouse, and unsnapped her bra. He lifted up her cotton skirt and stroked her panties with his fingers.
“I’ll miss my plane,” Serene murmured, feeling his fingers move in deep, confident strokes. She clung to his back, willing him to dig deeper, push farther, make her wet and slick and fluid.