by Jo Maeder
Just then the sun dipped out of view.
Her ploy to play hard to get was short-lived. Julien’s stepmother encouraged her to go out to dinner with him that night. Julien translated. “We did not expect you and they have made plans. She and my father have an actual date tonight. Dinner and a movie.”
There was an exchange between Mrs. Devreaux and Julien. She gave him a withering look, said something, and walked off.
Soon Alyce was jumping on the back of his red Vespa motor scooter, making sure she didn’t wrap her arms around him too tight.
After a delicious meal of chicken crêpes with a béchamel sauce, wine, and lots of sly gazes between selective soul-baring, she had a different view of him. So what if he was 22? She was in France to have a good time, grow!
And forget Nelson.
They hopped back on Julien’s Vespa so he could show her Marlaison at night. This time she clung to him warmly.
Reaching their destination—the highest lookout point in Marlaison—Alyce removed her helmet. “Julien, you win. I know guys in their 40s who aren’t as grown up as you.”
He broke into a big, dimpled smile. She fought the urge to kiss him by turning to survey the lights of the boats dotting the sea and the houses built into the cliffs.
“The air smells so good here,” she commented.
“Marlaison was a famous spa for the wealthy in the 1800s.” His arm slipped around her waist. “It has magical, restorative powers.”
She easily nuzzled closer. “You may be right.”
Okay. There were only four years between them. No one could call her a cougar.
She soon discovered his lips were as soft as silk. Finally there was light at the end of this long dark tunnel she had moved into for three months with no escape.
“Let’s go back home and listen to music, Al-ees. I have not enjoyed a woman’s company so much in a long time.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It is true!”
When they returned home, his parents were still out. He drew her close again. “You know we are going to make love. This could be our only chance.”
Blame it on the wine, vacationitis, that sexy French accent, or his beautiful green eyes and seductive lips. Or just being angry at Nelson.
“Let’s go to my room and cuddle,” she said. “That’s all.”
It didn’t take long before it was clear cuddling was not going to be enough.
Alyce stumbled into the bathroom (from being inebriated, not from her sore leg—what sore leg?), relieved herself, and spied the bidet. But of course, she had to try it.
One handle was marked “C.” The other “F.” She wondered if “C” came from cold and “F” from a form of “fire.”
Her screams brought Julien to her door. “What is wrong? Are you okay?”
Again she had a hard time walking, but for another reason. Wincing as she slowly sat on the bed, she croaked, “I need some ice. Now!”
His frustration over their thwarted lovemaking dissolved into hilarity. “Al-ees, hot is chaud. Cold is froid.”
A few minutes later, still choking on his laughter, he left her staring at the ceiling with a towel full of ice cubes between her legs.
“It’s not funny,” she yelled out to him. “And don’t you dare tell anyone!”
She knew he would.
Eventually, she hoped, she’d find it funny, too.
A light summer rain began to tickle the windows. She punched her pillow. She fought back tears. Would this loser leopard ever change her dumb spots?
Would she ever learn any French?
Would she ever stop missing Nelson? That seemed the most impossible of all.
And then Claire’s voice drifted into her head with the very first French expression she learned.
“Tout nouveau, tout beau, Al-ees. Tout nouveau, tout beau.”
What is new, is good.
And she remembered it! It was a start.
4
Where’s Wacko?
Alyce was convinced a genius created the teaching system at MEF. Straightforward conjugating verbs on a blackboard would be followed by passing out lyrics to a song. Some of the words would be left out. As the song played, the students had to fill them in. From there they’d do a lesson in the textbook, then watch a video of people talking and try to figure out what they were saying. After 45 minutes, there was a short break and a change of classroom.
The constant variety didn’t make her a better student. It just broke up the misery.
There were letters you didn’t pronounce. Every word was masculine or feminine, adding another complicated layer to short-circuit her brain. Even the numbers were cuckoo. Like, 90 was quatre-vingt-dix, or four times 20 plus 10. Huh? An older, unattractive married guy, whom Alyce befriended only because he was American, said the French did things like that to weed out spies during wars.
With few computers at the school, it was hard to check her email. Was she ever surprised when she finally did and there was one from Nelson! As she read his words, a prickly heat started at the base of her neck and moved up around her ears.
Subject: I MISS YOU
From Nelson Mansfield
Alyce Donovan
My dear, sweet, beautiful Ally,
First let me say I’m so proud of you for what you’re do ing. I’m sure it’s not easy but you’ll be parlay-vooing in no time and it’ll drive me wild!
It’s weird, honey. I can’t stop thinking about you. Mother (who really likes you) said I should see a therapist, that there was nothing wrong with you. It had to be me. I’m making a lot of progress. I see how incredibly stupid I’ve been. And how I’ve let my mother control my life. I have to assert my independence. We even did a session together and she agreed to back off, though she claims she’s just being supportive. Yes, supportive of what SHE wants.
I’d love to come over and see you. Would you mind? I’ll understand if you never want to see me again. I hope that’s not the case.
Junior says hi.
Hugs and kisses?? N.
Alyce clutched her chest, blinked several times. Coming here worked! Just like his mother said it would.
She also couldn’t believe he was standing up to her.
Glorianna never called people by their nicknames (God forbid someone called her Glo or Glory). She never referred to the mother of Nelson’s son by any name at all, other than You-know-who. After Alyce tried to be nice to Carmelita and received hostility in return, there was no love lost on her end, either. But Nelson loved his son, was a good father (even if he did spoil the kid rotten), and she reasoned everyone’s going to have something unpleasant to put up with — after she thoroughly grilled him that he wasn’t still sleeping with Carmelita.
“Why does every woman I go out with think that,” he said, wounded. “Strap me to a lie detector. Junior is the result of one night of drunken sex when I was young and stupid.”
Nelson was an account exec for Music World magazine and often called on Alyce’s boss, Bernadette. For years, neither Alyce nor Bernie knew he had a son. One day, Alyce went into an ice cream shop in her Hoboken, New Jersey, neighborhood, and there he was—with an out of shape, well-endowed Latina woman in a tight zebra-print top, short skirt, and dangerously high heels. Between them was a young boy.
Who looked like the perfect blend of Nelson and this woman.
Alyce’s heart pounded with joy over seeing him (as it always did) and fear that all was lost.
The boy said, “Dad, I want another scoop.”
Yep, all was lost.
Nelson looked embarrassed for a moment. The woman smug.
“Uh, yes. This is my son. Nelson, Junior.”
The woman said, proud as a peahen, “I’m his mother, Carmelita.” Car-mah-leeeee-ta.
Alyce quickly shifted gears. “You know, the line is long and I’m in a hurry. Nice to meet you. Bye!”
The next day at work she consul
ted Bernadette. Bernie had fixed her up on countless horrible blind dates in an attempt to get her over Nelson.
“He comes from a lot of money,” she’d counseled early on. “He only dates heiresses, preppie girls, and six-figures babes.”
When she heard about Carmelita—after closing her gaping mouth—she said, “That explains why he’s still single. Where’s Wacko.”
Bernie said that whenever she met a guy who seemed like the perfect catch, she’d start looking for the nutcase lurking in the wings, like the way kids looked for Waldo in the Where’s Waldo books. They usually had one because those kinds of women always went for nice guys with deep pockets.
Her cue to run was the words: “I can’t seem to get rid of her.” Or “She won’t leave me alone.”
“He doesn’t want to be left alone! It’s too gratifying to his ego.”
As for Carmelita, Bernie shook her head a long time.
“She’s got his kid. She’s not going anywhere. And look at me. I’m 50, still single, and now wishing I’d put up with that skinny hemophiliac with the stutter who wanted to marry me. Go for it, kid.”
Did she ever. As soon as Nelson was sure Alyce could look beyond Carmelita, he was Prince Charming. When she lost her job and was expecting a commitment, he turned into a royal toad.
Now in France, she waited a whole day before responding to his email.
Hi sweetie,
It’s so great to hear from you. Of course I’d love to see you.
Now I’m in the home of the Devreauxs. Their Mediterranean villa is stunning—the complete opposite of the farm I was on. I’ve become good friends with the oldest son, Julien, who’s 22 and seems much older. His mother died when he was a teenager and his father remarried and had two more kids. He feels pretty left out, I guess. He thinks I’m funny because I’m so un-French. He speaks English so who am I to complain?
Love to Junior.
Yours, Alyce
P.S. You would’ve had a big laugh over my using the bidet and burning myself because I thought “C” stood for cold. It was for chaud (hot).
Subject: LMAO
You can be a real hoot sometimes. Remember when we went to the MTV awards and you drank all that punch you didn’t know was spiked and almost threw up on Justin Timberlake? And when you accidentally ate those doggie chocolates at my parents’ house? Or what about the time…don’t want to get into that in a company email. You know. In the Hamptons.
Anyway, I’d put you up in a hotel, but staying with a host family is key to learning the language. Just don’t let Julien give you any “private” lessons. I’d write more but it’s closing week for the magazine. I’ll work on dates to come see you. Can’t wait! Send me photos.
Love, N.
Subject: LMAO—NOT!
Oh, Nelson, I do love your emails, even if they’re short. I’ve been crazy busy, too, between school and ANOTHER switch in hosts. What happened at the Devreauxs? I went jogging with the father and he forced a kiss on me after staring at me while I did some stretching exercises. His lips were only on mine for a split second before I pushed him away so hard he fell, but it was long enough to catch that he tasted like an ashtray. And I told him.
Then I ACCIDENTALLY hit his wife in the mouth with a pétanque ball. They weigh about two pounds. I told her some women pay a lot of money to get their lips puffed up like that.
Then I ACCIDENTALLY pulled the showerhead out of the wall and that was the last straw. I’m not used to those wand thingies you hold. Especially while thinking naughty things about you ;)
I’m now in the apartment of a widow named Solange. She must be in her 60s but still looks great and is very stylish (she talked me into cutting my hair to just below my ears). Well, have to run. Classes are starting. I’d send a photo if my cell worked here. You’ll just have to use your imagination, darling. Alyce xxx
She did not mention that when she pulled the showerhead out of the wall she was really having naughty thoughts about Julien since he was standing right there. Another attempt to make love went, literally, down the drain.
With Nelson talking about coming over, it was just as well she was out of there.
The widow Solange was forever turning off lights Alyce wasn’t using and reprimanding her for leaving them on. Still, she was sure she’d found the perfect host. Her English was good, too. The word she seemed to know best was shit. Alyce thought it hilarious to hear this well-preserved, chic woman say it with her French accent—until she used it to describe everything about Alyce. She was particularly harsh when she had a glass of wine in her, which she drank at every meal except breakfast.
“The way you dress is sheet.”
“Your French is sheet.”
“Your cooking is sheet.”
Alyce found that drinking right along with her made her much easier to take. Also, she was right in her assessments. Perhaps Solange would be like the old count in Sabrina who took Audrey Hepburn under his wing?
Soon the widow was rummaging through her closet and insisting Alyce dump her “gym clothes” and wear her cast-offs. Most were summery dresses Alyce never would have bought for herself but she had to admit looked fabulous. Solange took her shopping for new shoes and showed her how to walk in them.
“One foot directly in front of the other, like you are on a tightrope. It moooves ze ass more.”
When Alyce was drawn to an item that didn’t meet with her approval, she uttered a curt, “As you wish.” It was an oft-used phrase Alyce now knew meant “I think you’re crazy, but go ahead and make an ass of yourself.”
Alyce refused to part with the diamond stud Nelson had given her that pierced her bellybutton.
“It is vul-gahr,” spat out Solange, catching the last syllable on the back of her throat.
“Maybe so, but it might be the closest I ever get to an engagement ring.”
“As you wish.”
When Solange deemed Alyce presentable, she dragged her out on the town—what little town there was—and gave her advice on how to get Nelson back.
“Keep making him jealous. If he does not respond it is a lost cause.”
In one café they saw the writer she’d encountered with Yves at the antique shop. He sized Alyce up again with a look of interest and distance. Solange lit up when their eyes met. When she realized he was with a woman with amazing long black hair they were soon out the door.
Alyce blurted out, “Did you go out with him?”
“That is a very rude question!”
Alyce took that to mean yes.
“Do you know Jean-Luc?” Solange asked as her thin legs and high heels pumped so fast Alyce could barely keep up with her.
“I only know that he’s some writer I’ve never heard of.”
Solange stopped in her tracks. “He is not some writer. He is a great writer! He wrote Taming the Black Sun when he was 16. It is pure genius! And his last one was even more sublime. I hear the English translation is sheet.”
“What’s it about?”
“A tortured writer who cannot love a woman but falls for a horse. Then the horse… I will not tell you the rest. You must read it.”
“That’s okay. Doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”
The renovated Alyce nearly skipped to school each weekday morning in her short dresses and chic sandals. On the day that she learned they were having a dance class and they weren’t teaching the minuet, she was ecstatic. She loved to dance. Not only that, their instructor was gorgeous.
Philippe wore skintight jeans that showed off his firm ass and long, strong legs; a form-fitting top left no question that he was in excellent shape.
Had to be gay.
She and her fellow students followed him to the cafeteria where the tables had been moved to create space. Pop music thumped. Alyce learned how to say “bend,” “spin,” “lunge,” “slide.”
At one point, Philippe grabbed her and they danced together—no words at all—in front of an audience that now included the cafeteria staff.
Their expressions ranged from delight to bafflement. More than once Solange’s feminine dress flipped up to reveal Alyce’s new pink lace panties.
It was the first time she paid no attention to the clock on the wall.
Could he be straight?
The class ended too soon. Philippe motioned toward the hall. “Come with me to my office, Al-ees. Oh, I am bad to speak to you in English. Français, Français!”
He took her to the side of the building. There was a door. He held it open.
She rolled her eyes after peeking inside. “It’s a closet full of tools.”
He grabbed her waist. “Your fantastique dancing has aroused me. I must kiss you.”
Stunned, she acquiesced. For a moment.
She worked her way out of his grip and walked away that instant.
“We can dance anytime, but that’s it. I have a boyfriend.”
“You must come see me. I am a Super-Mec!”
She turned around. “A what?”
“Chippendale dancer. I am Le Gentil Gendarme.”
“A cop?”
He leaned seductively against the wall. “You will be very happy to see what is under my uniform.” He told her where he performed and added, “You have not seen the last of me.”
She returned to Solange’s and wasted no time flopping on the sofa and giddily telling her about Philippe.
“We have to check him out. What else is there to do here? Could he dance! And is there a ring on my finger? How do I know Nelson is being good?”
She had not noticed Solange had turned unusually quiet.
With narrowed eyes, her hostess said, “I already know his routine, Al-ees. He is my boyfriend.”
“Wh-wh-huh?! Boyfriend or boy toy?”
Solange crossed her spindly legs in the other direction and sat up straighter. “We do not have the boy toy in France. A lover is a lover!” She continued to glower at Alyce. “He did not even notice that was my dress you were wearing? The little sheet.”