Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal

by Jo Maeder

  She slid her chair around, put an icy hand in Alyce’s. She assumed it was cold from holding the glass with ice but couldn’t be sure.

  “I’ve never seen him happier. He so wants to be respectably married with children. With men, Alyce darling, timing is everything! He also wants to prove himself in a business venture of his own. And I’m sure getting away from me is a factor. I know I can be a tad overbearing.”

  Alyce needed to get away from her, too. That perfume!

  Glorianna thankfully scooted back to where she had been. She also became even more businesslike.

  “Nelson has talked about various entrepreneurial ideas for some time. His father and I have been encouraging, though we never thought he’d want to try something in another country. If this doesn’t work out, I won’t mind at all if you live close by and get involved in my charities.” She added a hopeful smile.

  It hit Alyce what was really happening. Nelson was asserting his independence and his mother was trying to accept it—or pretend to. Her style of delivery also made Alyce feel like she was watching a BOLD marketing presentation to snare a new client.

  “It’s a lot to think about, Glorianna.”

  “I understand. But really, how can you go back to that tiny apartment in Hoboken and another 9-to-5 job in the city?”

  Was she ever right about that.

  She patted Alyce’s hand. “Have a lovely time in Paris with Nelson. Enjoy every minute.”

  “How can I not?”

  As she paid the check, Glorianna said, “I’m going to skip dinner tonight, dear. I’m exhausted and Luther wants to go out and play. By the way, the meal you made was superb.” With a wink she added, “You can’t go wrong making Nelson another one. Pretend as if you’re already married while Jean-Luc is away. Let Nelson see how wonderful it will be. Be sure to wear sexy lingerie.” Her sly grin faded. “I’m convinced that’s how You-know-who enticed him in the first place.”

  And so, with a new slight fondness for her potential mother-in-law, Alyce and Nelson returned to the cottage.

  Operation Put-A-Ring-On-It was underway.

  20

  Monsieur. The Reality Check, Please.

  Avignon

  Raymond had been Jean-Luc’s editor, dear friend, and father figure for more than 20 years; the only stable relationship in his life. He had discovered Jean-Luc in his teens through a chance encounter in a bookstore.

  He was the only one who knew about Colette.

  At their lunch in town, Jean-Luc noticed how much Raymond had aged in the 10 months since they last met. That was one of the curious aspects of life. One could look the same for years on end, then hop, a steep decline strikes.

  Or your hair turns gray practically overnight at the age of 35.

  Raymond was quite the ladies man when they’d first met: thick black wavy hair, raspy voice, tall frame, aristocratic heritage. Then he married and became a devoted husband and father. His home buzzed with love, activity, laughter, and occasional yelling. Jean-Luc’s life, sadly, was not that different from when he met Raymond.

  His editor livened up when he handed over a check. Jean-Luc did not share his enthusiasm. “I was hoping for another zero on the end of it.”

  “Three thousand Euros to publish an out-of-print title in Japan is excellent in this market. Of course there will be more, if you make back the advance.”

  Their lunch orders were taken, including a side of pâté for the now-gorgeous Didon curled up under the outdoor table. Odalis, Raymond’s Brazilian wife, insisted she be cleaned up before entering their villa. Having nowhere else to go on such short notice, he complied.

  “Times have changed,” Raymond said. “The young editors don’t even want to hear stories of the old days. And ask my opinion on something current? Bah. It is time to retire, my friend. If you write your memoir soon it will be my swan song. Dark, brooding literary fiction is a hard sell now.”

  “You do not think my memoir will be dark and brooding, too?”

  “There will be plenty of fun in it, too, I am sure.”

  Raymond gave him a look that said please give it a try. It was hard to refuse him.

  “When I retire,” Raymond said, “I will sell the Paris apartment and move to Avignon full time. I want to spend my final days with my wife and family. I wish I could tell you it will be easy for you to find another editor.” His eyes were moist.

  Jean-Luc felt a distinct change in the room. A heat. A reverberation. Which hurt more? The eventual loss of Raymond or hearing the words spend my final days with my wife and family? Was that damn American girl putting bourgeois ideas in his own head? He felt an unyielding jealousy toward Raymond.

  “This is sad news, for you and me. Who can edit my work like you?”

  “I have someone in mind. I’ll involve him in the next one.” He paused before asking, “Is there another one?”

  Jean-Luc grunted. “I cannot think about writing at the moment. As you know, I am going to be moving, perhaps very soon.”

  “How do you feel about selling your place?”

  He gazed past him. “I will have no debts, less responsibility, and more time to write. What could be wrong with that?” His sigh that followed belied more.

  Their lunch arrived, and before biting into his mozzarella, tomato, and basil sandwich, Raymond commented, “I think a change would be good for you, Jean-Luc.”

  He poked at his penne with roasted chicken and pine nuts in a creamy rosemary sauce. He barely touched his glass of white Bordeaux.

  It prompted Raymond to say, “Let’s change the subject. That is an excellent wine and I cannot bear to see you not drink it. How is it going with the student?” Life returned to his aging eyes. “I know something must be brewing there.”

  Jean-Luc became animated, unable to stop talking. He dug into his food, enjoying his wine, as he rattled off one funny Alyce story after another: being shuffled from host to host, the young men who were after her, being kicked out of a convent when she was found in the bushes with one of them, finding two naked men in the cottage.

  “But she was wearing the most unattractive pajamas! And the ugliness that comes out of her mouth sometimes. She can match me any day. I call her my little sow and I am her big boar. I scared the daylights out of her pretending I was one in the woods. And then there are the baby loirs. She is keeping them as pets!”

  “This is your next book! And it would be therapeutic to do a comedy after The Horse.”

  “I thought so too and started a notebook on her. But now…” He sat back in his chair. “I could not use her that way.”

  Raymond’s food fell off his fork on the way to his mouth. In a hushed tone, he said, “Sacre Dieu. You are in love.”

  He could barely contain his anger. “Do not say such a thing! Me with an American?” He shook his finger. “No, no, no. I am too French. Besides, she is about to become engaged.”

  Raymond broke into a wry smile. “I am sure you could woo her away if you wanted to.”

  “And then what?” The remark prompted him to say in a very different tone, “Raymond, what is to become of me? I cannot believe I am saying this. I suddenly find myself, at times, longing to have my own family.”

  It was obvious Raymond could not believe it, either. He was about to take a sip of wine but was too shocked.

  Jean-Luc clarified, “Not children of my own. I am afraid I will fall short as a father. An older woman whose children are grown would be ideal.”

  “Is the real Jean-Luc stuffed in a trunk somewhere and you are an imposter?” He returned to his wine. “Must be your age. I was approaching 40 when I decided to settle down.”

  Jean-Luc raised his glass in a toast “to change.”

  Raymond responded in kind. “And to Liliane for all of her help. How is she?”

  “Her usual flinty self.” He leaned in more and hissed so as not to be overheard. “I am not in love with Al-ees! I am ready to love, yes, but not her. It would never work. Let us change the subject t
his instant.”

  “I already changed the subject to your sister. You brought it back.”

  “I wanted to make that final statement. Now…” He told him about Julien Devreaux’s novel-in-progress. It had a lot of promise and he couldn’t help but make editorial notes. Raymond was almost as shocked by this news as he was to hear he wanted a family.

  “You are editing?”

  “Yes. I find it much easier to see the bad in someone else’s writing than my own.”

  “Is he paying you?”

  “He offered, but I cannot take money from a writer, only from a publisher. Yet there is not one that would pay me to edit.” He was sure the two women at the next table were trying to listen in on their conversation and lowered his voice again. “Raymond, I must make some kind of steady living beyond my books.”

  “Teach.”

  He groaned. “My knowledge has no relevance today.”

  “That is not true.”

  Raymond gently worked on him and by the end of the meal Jean-Luc agreed to attack his memoir while he was staying with him for the week.

  “Only so you will stop your harangue about teaching.”

  At that moment he heard in his head Alyce mewling from the bottom of his stairs: “Just treat your writing like a job! Start at the same time every day. I read it in a magazine!”

  “What are you laughing about?” asked Raymond.

  “Nothing,” he answered, “nothing at all.”

  Marlaison

  The Mansfield Mafia rendezvoused in the Hôtel Marlaison lobby one last time. They’d all had quite enough of acting like they adored each other. After lackluster air kiss-kiss-kisses were exchanged they went in search of a local café for their farewell breakfast. Glorianna refused to eat at the hotel due to their “ridiculous price gouging.” She was carrying a pink parasol that matched her suit, sandals, and toenails.

  Luther did not bother to hide his foul mood. He’d fallen head over heels for a young man who worked at a pâtisserie. Not only was he spurned, he’d gained more weight inhaling delicious cakes and pastries as an excuse to see him.

  They agreed on a café and sat outside. Alyce’s inner thighs were so sore from lovemaking she had to sit down gently.

  “Are you wearing sunscreen all the time, darling?” Glorianna asked as she perused the menu. “It’s so important to preserve your youth.”

  “I thought a shot of Botox was all you needed these days.”

  She leaned into Alyce. “Don’t ever go to one of those Botox parties. Only see a real doctor in a real office.”

  Alyce stroked Nelson’s leg with her foot under the table. “I’d never put anything like that in my body, especially if I’m thinking about having children.”

  Speaking to everyone at the table, Glorianna said, “Oh, fiddle. They tell you not to take an aspirin when you’re pregnant these days. When I was carrying Nelson, I’d get together with the other expectant mothers at the country club and we’d have a contest to see who could balance a martini on her stomach the longest.”

  Luther lightened up after that anecdote. When he looked over the menu, though, his glowering returned. “How do they stay so thin here?”

  Alyce contributed, “My theory is they walk or bike a lot, only eat quality food when they’re hungry, and consume just enough to fill themselves—which is about three bites.”

  Even more cranky, he said, “Give me one of those yummy mushroom crêpes. And what’s taking so damn long for our mimosas?”

  Despite the champagne in their drinks, breakfast was strained.

  After their final au revoirs (and making sure Glorianna was out of sight), Nelson and Alyce ran to his convertible.

  Revving the engine, he said, “Sweetie, let’s throw a few things in an overnight bag and drive to Paris this instant.”

  She thrust her arms into the open air above her. “Wheeeee!”

  “No,” he corrected her, “Oui!”

  His cell rang. Carmelita caught Junior smoking cigarettes in his bedroom.

  “What! Of course he’s acting out. He’s just going to have to accept the situation. Take him to a new therapist… I’m having a great time, finally. Mother just left… Yes… Yes, of course. Bye.”

  He said to Alyce, “I didn’t expect this kind of trouble from him until his teens.”

  Alyce was thinking the same thing. Junior was barely 10.

  “Children have a hard time with change,” he said. “His mother isn’t taking it well, either. But I can’t stay in this holding pattern forever.”

  Alyce had that hinky feeling again. Ah, screw it. They were heading to Paris. Nothing was going to bring her down.

  21

  Paris, Hypothetically

  They hadn’t yet spied the Tour Eiffel and Alyce could already feel the energy and congestion of a major city mounting around them. Then there it was. Looming above the city as though it had been placed in the wrong diorama.

  “Paris, Ally!” He clutched her hand.

  “Paris with you. I’m in heaven!”

  They checked into an ultra-fancy chambre supérieur at Le Royal Monceau and lustily attacked each other. As always since arriving in France, he insisted she speak French when they made love. It turned him on so much she didn’t mind, though she often recited grammar lessons.

  Once they hit the streets, it was like the early days of their romance when they would stroll around Manhattan peering in shop windows; exploring new restaurants; seeing movies. All that mattered was passing the time together.

  Her ability to understand a lot of what was being said to them, and even more of what was written, was a fantastic feeling.

  When he suggested they visit the Eiffel Tower, she wondered what it would be like to see Paris with Jean-Luc. No doubt full of surprises in off-the-beaten-path places. If he owned a cell phone she would have called him for ideas. She wondered where he went. What was he doing? Who was he with, was more like it.

  They walked by a large bookstore. Nelson said, “Let’s see if Jean-Luc’s books are here.” He wasn’t expecting to see an entire shelf devoted to him, nor was Alyce.

  “See? He is a big name here.”

  He was suddenly deep in thought. “You’re right.”

  Nelson’s cell rang. Alyce braced herself for another Junior calamity. It was his dear mother. After a minute of him patiently listening to her, he interjected about Jean-Luc’s popularity, then handed the phone to Alyce.

  They had a perfectly superficial conversation. “There’s a simply divine restaurant by the Louvre. Be sure to go to Hermès and buy a scarf. Don’t forget to take photos. Au revoir!”

  They strolled on. A pretty summer dress in a window caught her eye. Nelson bought it for her on the spot, along with a beautiful black straw hat that sloped down just below her right eye.

  “I’ll always cherish it, honey. It’s my Paris dress.”

  He kissed her hand. “The first of many, my queen.”

  After a lifetime of feeling inferior, she finally felt the opposite.

  When he spied a store that sold luggage, he pulled her inside, quickly picked out a very expensive set to replace hers and had it sent to the hotel.

  She could get used to this. Already was.

  They checked out a store filled with fun gadgets. She thought it was sweet when Nelson tried out every electronic sound machine that helps you sleep. He wanted to see if one mimicked cooing doves—their new signal to each other when they wanted to make love. None did. He couldn’t find anything he wanted to buy. He already owned a personal groomer, portable pant press, automatic tie rack, electric shoe buffer, and turbo massage chair that cost over a grand.

  She saw one like it and stretched out in the display model. When the hidden mechanical fists inside started rolling up and down her back, she said, “I bet Jean-Luc would love this. I mean, I think any writer would after sitting at a computer all day and night.”

  “We should get him something for being our host,” he said. “What about th
is?”

  Nelson brought over a shiatsu neck massager, about a foot wide. Two padded balls sprouted out of the middle and slowly gyrated. He turned off the chair Alyce was in and slid the massager behind her so the balls were on either side of her neck.

  “Ohhh, that’s amazing. How much?”

  “About a hundred bucks. I’ll get it.”

  “That’s very generous, Nelson.”

  “Generous is my middle name, baby.”

  They walked out of the store holding hands. “Do you know how special you are?”

  “No. But never stop telling me.” They easily fell into an embrace on the street. He said, “I feel zo Franch. Now tell me about Jean-Luc’s love life.”

  “Non! Ze French women are nev-eh indiscreet.” She momentarily caught the last syllable of “indiscreet” on the roof of her mouth. It had taken a long time to get that nuance right.

  He wasn’t so playful when he said, “I see how he looks at you. He’s in love with you, Al-eeeees.”

  She pulled back. “With me? Hardly. A woman broke his heart and he never got over it. He’s in mourning.” She gave him a peck on the lips. “Besides, I love you.”

  The moment they returned to their room she taught him the term sieste crapuleuse.

  A few hours later, grumbling stomachs pulled them out of their lovemaking stupor. They went in search of a restaurant for dinner that the concierge assured them was elegant and romantic.

  Their waiter was an older gentleman who didn’t speak English (or pretended he didn’t) and had made this his life’s calling. He had an air of effortless efficiency as he refilled a water glass or slipped in the proper knife without anyone realizing he had done it. He wouldn’t dare rush his patrons.

  She caught a look on Nelson’s face that did not bode well. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “If I’m buying a place here, I better start learning French, too. I’ll check out the Alliance Française when I get back.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Not to mention a tax write-off.”