by Jo Maeder
Alyce had found Nelson’s attraction to Carmelita hard to understand, but there was only a 15-year difference, and he was 23 (and drunk) when she seduced him. Solange had to have at least 30 years on Philippe.
“But he’s so young and you’re so ol—”
Alyce clamped her hand over her mouth. She could see by Solange’s expression that it was too late. “Um, does this mean you want your clothes back?”
“Non! I never want to see them or you again!”
5
Get Thee to a Nunnery
Liliane pulled her chair closer to her desk, clasped her hands, and planted them before her with a thud.
“Here are your options, Al-ees. You may stay in a hotel at your expense; at a convent where you will be expected to attend all religious services, be up at dawn, do chores, and be asleep by 9:00, or in my brother’s guest cottage. His property was once a vineyard so you’ll be back in the country. It is a 20-minute bike ride.”
For a millisecond she thought of taking Nelson up on his offer to foot the bill for a hotel, but if there’s one thing she knew about him it was that he hated a woman who burned through his cash like You-know-who did. As did his mother.
Hotel = money I don’t have.
Convent = NO WAY.
Cottage = free.
“Before you answer,” Liliane said, “my brother is a well-known writer. Jean-Luc Broussard. He prizes his privacy and can be quite impossible. I am not sure he will agree to this.”
Alyce drew in her breath as she recalled the face of the rude man with the wild gray hair laughing at her in the antique store.
“Not him! The convent’s fine.”
She cocked her head. “You have met my brother?”
“He’s that old hippie who wrote the book about a guy who falls in love with a horse, right?”
“An old hippie.” Liliane delicately touched her throat. “Amusing. Not to him, I am sure. He is only 38. His hair turned gray while he was writing that novel.”
“He was with a woman with amazing long black hair.”
“Jean-Luc has no shortage of female companions. That is Isabella. She is staying with him. For now.”
While Alyce pondered how women could possibly find her brother attractive, Liliane picked up the phone and began to make a call.
“The convent it is. You can’t get into trouble there.” She broke into her sphinxlike smirk Alyce had come to know so well. “You will have no distractions and they will be very strict about not speaking to you in English. Think of how much your French will improve.”
Alyce sunk back in her chair, shut her eyes and prayed right there. Dear God, why are you punishing me? What did I do to deserve this?
She heard her own inner voice reply: Calling a convent punishment may not be the best approach with the Big Guy, Alyce.
Liliane’s final words were, “I suggest you change into something less revealing. And put on an extra layer or two. The abbey was built a thousand years ago and made of stone. Even on the hottest day it is cool there.”
“Wonderful. Can’t wait.”
St. Pierre Abbey was covered in so much ivy Alyce could barely see the stones beneath the huge 11th-century structure. She shivered just looking at it. She hoped it had been updated with electrical outlets so she could plug in a heater.
Dream on.
A silent nun directed her to a room that was only big enough for a cot-sized bed and a small table next to it. On it was a Bible, a beeswax candle, and a pack of matches. At least she wouldn’t have to rub two sticks together to light it. There was a tiny closet that her luggage barely fit into.
She asked in French where the toilette was.
The nun put her finger to her mouth and nodded for her to follow. Alyce considered the advantages of taking a vow of silence. She wouldn’t have to speak French, would she?
By far the strangest part of her first day was when she was getting ready for bed. Part of her nightly routine was to pop a birth control pill. She stared at the tiny dot sitting innocently in her palm. How could she take this while staying in a convent?!
Maybe she shouldn’t be taking them. Maybe there was a reason she was sent here.
She popped it anyway and crawled into the bed that was harder than her head that got her here in the first place. How could she have said that to Solange? One day she’d be that old.
She tried to see herself far into the future and drew a blank. In the pitch dark she drifted into Spiritual Mode. She shouldn’t just ponder the meaning of her own life. How shallow. What about everlasting life?
She lit the candle and picked up the Bible next to her. It was in French. So much for that. She blew out the candle.
It was so damn quiet the silence kept her awake.
Fantasies about Nelson started. Mixed with a few with Julien. And one with Philippe. Oh, how she wanted to make herself feel good in that little marble slab of a bed. But here? Absolutely not.
She caught herself fiddling with the diamond stud in her bellybutton.
She let out a groan of frustration and pounded her thigh with her fist.
Soon someone knocked on her door and asked in French, “Are you okay?”
“Oui, oui. Uh, mal…” What was the word for dream? “Mal dream.”
The woman’s voice said softly, “Mauvais rêve.”
Alyce repeated it. “Merci.”
About 15 minutes later there was another knock. Alyce opened the door and a nun who quietly introduced herself as Sister Therese stood there with a cup of tea. She leaned in, whispered almost inaudibly, “An herbal tea to help you sleep. May I come in?”
Once the door was shut, Alyce said equally as low, “I didn’t know you spoke English.”
“There is a lot you don’t know about me.”
Alyce couldn’t tell her age, somewhere between 30 and 50. She had the same serene smile all the nuns had. Then she told Alyce she was once a barmaid in New York City!
“I did not make enough to support myself and had to rely on boyfriends to survive. It was not a nice feeling to have such a loss of control. I became an alcoholic. Then I decided to devote my life to my Savior. I have no regrets.”
Alyce’s mind immediately went to Carmelita. She had been a barmaid when Nelson met her. She told Sister Therese about her.
“I want to feel compassion for her, but I can’t,” Alyce said. “She hasn’t worked a day since she had their child.”
“Perhaps she is jealous of you because she can’t take care of herself.”
Alyce’s dry response was, “Seems like she can take care of herself just fine.”
“When I was trying to be on my own,” she said in the most soothing tone, “I envied women who did not need a man for money. They could walk away if he did not love her or she did not love him. I was not free until I came here and gave up all attachments.”
Alyce gave her a serious look. “Don’t you miss sex? Come on, be honest.”
She lowered her eyes. “No.” She looked at Alyce directly. “I really don’t.”
“Didn’t you want to have a family?”
She shook her head. “There are many ways to feel fulfilled, Al-ees. Many. You will know in your heart which is the right one.”
All Alyce knew right then was that becoming a nun was surely not one of them.
By the fourth day, Alyce was so sleep deprived from not being able to conk out in her uncomfortable cot and then, just as she did, being woken up by crowing roosters or church bells, she was ready to get in a cab and head to the freakin’ airport.
She had just finished cleaning the breakfast dishes when Sister Therese came and whispered, “You have a visitor.” The sparkle in her eyes made Alyce’s heart pound a bit. Who could it be? Could Nelson have flown over to surprise her?
Julien Devreaux.
“I miss you, Al-ees.”
“Do you see where I am? I should be wearing a chastity belt with no key.”
“Let’s go for a walk. The grounds are beautiful
here. I must talk to you.”
What could happen, she thought. We’re at a convent.
Alyce clasped her hands behind her back as they strolled through the old gardens. He spied a bench and steered her to it, grabbing one of her hands as she sat down. He kissed it twice before she withdrew it.
“I think about you constantly, Al-ees.”
She looked around to see if they were being watched. “How much did it cost to fix the showerhead? I feel like I owe your parents—”
“Forget that. When can I see you again?”
“I’ll never forget that.”
He was so cute when his serious face broke into a smile.
A sister walked by and smiled politely. They smiled back. For the next hour they kept it on a mental level after Alyce made it clear he was too young and she had a boyfriend.
He replied, “But of course.”
They talked about religion, how the universe began, and the power of prayer. It was pretty damn stimulating, and not just on her brain cells. Julien made her feel as though every word that came out of her mouth was fascinating to him.
“I love talking to you,” she said.
“I love writing about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“My greatest ambition is to become a novelist, and you have inspired me. It is about a young Frenchman who meets a mesmerizing American woman.”
The intensity in his eyes as he spoke caused a powerful swoon to come over her that she could not drive away. She would later blame it on vacationitis and her inflated ego. She pulled him behind the closest hydrangea bush. He gallantly took off his loose black T-shirt for her to recline on and in no time her breasts were freed from their pink Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bra.
She moved her lips to his ear. “We really have to stop, Julien.”
“No, it is beautiful, Al-ees. If it was wrong, why did God make it feel so good?”
“So women would be willing to endure childbirth.”
“You do not wish me to use a condom?”
She set him straight on that one. “I’m on the pill. Condoms are for other reasons.”
The sounds of the birds, the scent of spring flowers, the naturalness of it all, made her forget where she was until—
“OW!”
A sharp pain in her right thigh caused her to open her eyes and look straight into the fiery glare of the Mother Superior. She was holding up a long stick.
It was not an olive branch.
“Julien,” she said, as they quickly put their clothes back on, “I think this is worse than the showerhead incident.”
6
The Muse Whispers
Jean-Luc’s affair with Isabella began, indeed, on a high note (after Robbie did, indeed, punch him in the nose). She was a wonderful lover, delightfully mischievous, and quite willing to foot the bill for their whimsies when he assured her a big check was coming and he would pay her back. They were soon frolicking in Corsica; exploring the cliffs and beaches by day, each other until dawn.
He took copious notes to convince himself he was doing work-related research. It also flattered Isabella to no end to think that he might write about her.
He should have stayed put in Marlaison, chained himself to his computer, and written anything, no matter how awful. The inevitable shift in Isabella’s devotion came after they returned home and an exceptional dinner in town ended with her credit card being declined.
The owner politely waived the charge for his old friend, Jean-Luc. “I know you will repay me,” he said.
“We spent 7,000 Euros in two weeks!” she screeched as she drove the Lexus SUV back to his place. She still didn’t know the car wasn’t his.
“Live, Isabella! Think of how much our trip to Corsica inspired your painting. You can write many of your expenses off your taxes. I will give you more than you spent. Be patient. You will come out ahead.”
He delivered the smile and hand-squeeze that always calmed women down.
“You’re right,” she said with a sigh and a pout, also perfected over her years. “Perhaps I can work for you and you can make me one of your expenses?”
Merde. Someone to help with the dishes and grocery shopping would be nice, but it would put domestic ideas in her head.
“You should focus on your own work,” he said gently.
She dropped the subject. He wondered for how long.
The problem of how to pay for the next night’s meal was solved when his sister invited them to dinner. “Has Benoit forgiven me?” he asked.
“If you come with presents, he will,” Liliane replied.
He was still ashamed of missing his nephew’s birthday party. Benoit had bragged to all his friends that his uncle would be there to perform magic. Liliane was going to hire a clown, but Jean-Luc insisted it was the least he could do for her after all she had done for him. He truly meant it. The day came and he was felled by a crippling migraine. Instead of making up for it when he was better, he was too embarrassed to face the little boy.
Liliane, wisely, had hired the clown anyway as backup.
Before he and Isabella left for his sister’s that evening, he went into his musty basement with tall ceilings where he used to produce wine. He briskly moved past the wine presses, thousands of empty bottles still in boxes and the long row of oak barrels crowned with glass taps to trap escaping gas.
He opened the cupboard that once held scores of jars of homemade lavender honey. There were three left. He reached for one to take to Liliane.
There would be one less reminder of Colette and the fun they had making it.
“Jean-Luc!” cried Stéphane as he came through the front door.
He lifted up his six-year-old nephew. “You are almost too old for me to do this.”
“Then I don’t want to get old.”
“No one does.”
Three year-old Benoit clung to his mother’s leg while she sliced a shallot and warily regarded Jean-Luc. He made a caramel appear from under his chin and the precious boy grinned.
“A hug, please,” he requested with open arms. “I can’t bear to have you mad at me.”
Soon they were in a tight embrace followed by Benoit ripping open the presents he and Isabella had brought.
The first was a charcoal sketch from Isabella that she had drawn from a photo of him. In it, he was in awe of a butterfly that had landed on his hand. He now melted, not only because it was of him, but that it had been drawn by a beautiful woman who looked at him so adoringly.
Jean-Luc gave Benoit a classic toy, the Slinky. Plus, a long yellow gourd they found in Corsica that had dried out and was an excellent maraca. He showed him how to get different sounds out of it by shaking it in various ways. To everyone’s delight, Benoit ran to the top of the second floor of the house and let the Slinky make its way down the stairs while creating a musical accompaniment with the gourd.
Two hours later, after doing magic tricks for the boys, answering their ceaseless but adorable questions, flattering his sister, butting heads with Simon on politics (Liliane’s lanky, duty-bound engineer husband), and making Isabella feel included, he was back in good graces.
But why had the calculating Liliane invited them over?
After dinner, she asked Isabella to read a bedtime story to the boys. That was Simon’s cue to clear the table and do the dishes.
“Let’s take a little walk, Jean-Luc,” She threw a shawl over her shoulders.
They strolled along the sidewalk of her neighborhood, arm in arm, as though whatever they had to talk about was nothing serious. Oh, but it was. First she broke the news that the royalty check he was expecting was just over 10,000 Euros—less than half what they expected.
“I must give Isabella 8,000 immediately.”
“Jean-Luc, you cannot keep living hand-to-mouth. She is hardly the only expense you have.” She took a few more steps before saying, “It is time for you to sell your property.”
He halted, shut his eyes as if bracing for a terri
ble blow, and whispered, “I am a success manqué.”
“You are a brilliant writer who could make a lot of money if you wrote your memoir. Everyone wants to know the real Jean-Luc. The man behind the myth.”
“I am still in my 30s.”
“Barely.” She pulled him on.
“I would feel like my life was over.” And spending months on end thinking about himself; churning up and dissecting the Colette catastrophe. He would rather drink hemlock.
He argued, “My property will be worth more when the new airport is built.”
“I agree, but that’s at least five years away. And nothing will improve its value without a lot of money to fix it up. If you want to keep your land, write your memoir.”
He wanted to scream. He didn’t have the energy after learning about the check.
“There’s something else I would like to discuss with you, Jean-Luc.”
He stopped again. Now what?
Liliane wanted him to consider having an American student, a young woman in her 20s, stay in his cottage.
“An American? How dare you ask me this!” Then it hit him. “Wait. Is she the girl who stayed with the Devreauxs? Fabien and Fabienne? Solange?”
“One of the worst students in the history of the school.”
Liliane may have been the bane of his existence at times, but he respected her intelligence and instincts. When she coyly said, “I think your Muse will love her” he had to know more. She regaled him with a few stories he hadn’t heard through the Marlaison grapevine. His body turned stiff as a guard dog that just heard a door creak open. She was a goldmine of material!
“She’s been kicked out of every host home, Jean-Luc. Including the convent.”
“What could she have possibly done there?”
“She was caught in their garden in a compromising position with Julien Devreaux.”
He gleefully imagined the scene. “Was she moaning ‘Oh, God’ when she was found?”