The Summer of Him

by Stacy Travis

  The house sat in a small private cove which was enclosed by high enough rocks that no one would dare try to climb them to get to where we were. Without having to ask, I knew Chris had picked this house for that reason—part of his effort to be normal, which was apparently easier when he wasn’t around other people.

  “It’s beautiful. I can see why you like spending time here,” I said.

  “It’s more beautiful with you.” It was sweet, and it made me blush. “I’m usually here alone. This is… having you here is… a bonus.”

  Again, his eyes flashed with something I couldn’t pinpoint, almost like sadness or regret. He stared off and seemed to lose track of time. I had to say something. “Is everything okay? I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m here. I’m a good listener.”

  “Oh,” he said, his eyes reverting to normal as though he’d responded to a director giving him a note on his performance. “No, I’m okay. Sorry, I guess it’s my turn to zone out.”

  “Did you sleep when I crashed upstairs?”

  “I planned to, but I ended up talking to my manager, and it turned into a whole drama that I won’t bore you with. Then I had to work. There’s a hot script that’s in turnaround, and I need to make a decision immediately. I doubt I’m gonna take the role, but I had to read the script to say for sure, and now I have to think it over.”

  “That’s open-minded,” I said, not knowing how else to respond. This was not my world at all, and he was talking to me like I’d have some idea what it meant to have a script in turnaround. “So, while I was zonked out, peacefully dreaming, you were working? That’s a bummer.”

  “It’s no big deal. It’s just… if I say yes to the film, it would mean I’d go straight from promoting one movie to prepping for the next one. It’s been like that for the past few projects I’ve done—back-to-back, no break. I’m frankly exhausted. That’s why these few days here are such a welcome break.”

  “Lucky me. I caught you at a good time.”

  “The only time. I can’t tell you the last time I had more than a few days off. Not that I can complain at all. I’m exceptionally lucky to have the opportunities to work like this. I’ve got to take the offers while I have momentum—at least, that’s what my agent would have me believe. He always says, ‘If you slow down, they forget.’”

  “Well, he makes money if you’re working, so it’s kinda self-serving, no?” I said. I was pretty sure agents made ten percent of everything an actor brought in. Plus, some of the agencies got other percentages of projects. I’d read that somewhere. Agents weren’t likely to tell their clients to sit around not working.

  “True, it’s just…” He trailed off, and I waited for him to continue. He seemed to lose his train of thought. “I’m an idiot to complain. I’m not complaining.”

  “Everyone needs a break sometimes.”

  He leaned back on the rock, resting on his elbows. “I don’t, not really.”

  He stared off again at the ocean and the conversation hung, unfinished. I had no idea how to prompt him to go on. His problem was outside of my world, so I felt like I was grasping at straws, trying to relate. My job got intense sometimes, but I wasn’t the face of the company. He had a whole different level of pressure when his name was on the marquee. “When was the last time you took real time off?”

  “I just… I don’t do that. I find little pockets here and there to escape. These two weeks are a total fluke.”

  “Again, lucky me.”

  He reached for me and pulled me back, so we were lying side by side on the rock, looking up at the darkening sky. He picked up my hand and grazed my knuckles with his lips. “No. Lucky me.”

  We were quiet for a while and at some point, I wondered if he’d fallen asleep, but when I looked over, he was gazing at me. “So tell me. I want to understand more about how your job works. If you’re acting in one movie, are you already planning the next one?” I asked.

  “It’s a lot of everything all at once. Even if I’m not on a set or doing something to promote a film, I’m running lines in my head for the next project or thinking about a script or researching a character. And even now, during my supposed vacation, my reps have me loaded up with stuff. So if I drift off, it’s not you. It’s me trying to juggle. And I apologize in advance.”

  “Noted. You may recall, I disappear into my head as well. We can be distracted together.” I thought about what the next handful of days had in store for me if he was busy working. Looking out at the view of the peaceful ocean, I realized I could be very happy with a book on a lounge chair and some swimming. “And if you have work to do, just tell me and I’ll entertain myself.”

  “I’d rather be the one to entertain you. I owe you some hostessing,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss. I wasn’t about to stop him if he wanted to hostess that way. “Anyway, there you have it. My dark side. I’m a workaholic.”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth to stifle a smile because I wasn’t sure if he was kidding. “Wait, the fact that you work a lot, that’s your dark side? Because I hate to say it, but everybody works a lot. It’s pretty common.”

  “I’m not sure it’s so common to say I’ll never do anything besides work and I’ll never have a relationship because work comes first. It’s a life of one.”

  I had to admit he took the idea of being a workaholic to a whole new level. I wondered if he was exaggerating. It didn’t sound enviable to do it his way.

  “Well, maybe that’s not common. Do you really believe that?” I asked.

  “Right now, I do. My job is everything. I can’t slow down the pace, or I might not get it back, and that’s okay. It works for me. I can still have a little fun on the side. But then I go back to work, shut the door on everything else, and I’m singularly focused.”

  It hit me that I was his ‘fun on the side,’ and I briefly thought of Johnny, who always wanted to have a good time. He was all about being in the moment and having fun and I’d never been able to make that mesh with my need to live in the real world.

  But maybe with Chris, I could.

  Because we only had two weeks.

  I decided I could do fun in the moment. We both knew exactly how and when things would end, which was manna from heaven for a planner like me. It felt good to know at the outset.

  “And she’s gone again,” he said, and I realized I’d retreated into my head.

  “Sorry. I’m back.”

  “Did I scare you off?”

  “Not at all,” I told him, and I meant it. “I just think you may be selling yourself short. I’ll bet you can get a little closer to a work-life balance than you think."

  “Well, I can say that in the past twenty-four hours, you’ve done an excellent job of helping me with the life part. So thank you.”

  “I hardly think you should be thanking me. You’ve given me a bit of an upgrade over eating alone on my bed in a one-star hotel.” I thought back to the Hotel des Écoles, which was so simple and charming, owned and run by a hardworking family who had been so welcoming to me when I had no idea how my trip would unfold. I almost felt like I’d sold them out by hopping on a private jet and leaving their native city.

  “Please stop saying things like that. My job allows for all of this. I’m sure your job has perks.”

  “Yes, sometimes someone will send a basket of muffins to thank us for handling the fallout of some corporate misstep. I’m not gonna lie—muffin day is a good day,” I said, trying to imagine how there could possibly be equivalency between perks.

  “Okay, so think of this house like a giant muffin basket. And stop thanking me for sharing it.”

  I didn’t want to ruin our time together with my incessant insecurity about how different my life was from his. What would be the point? We only had a finite amount of time together to begin with, so from that moment on, I vowed to shut up and just enjoy it.

  “Okay, deal,” I told him. I intended to keep my promise.

  We stayed on the beach until the s
ky turned the perfect blue I remembered from that night I sat on the banks of the Seine with my plastic cup of rosé.

  “It’s blue hour,” Chris said, watching me stare up at the sky.

  “It has an official name?”

  “L’heure bleue, they call it. That twilight color when all the lights in Paris look a little yellow before it really gets dark. Like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It’s my favorite time to take pictures outside.”

  “I was kind of stunned when I saw the sky turn that color the other night when I sat outside. It figures I’m not exactly the first one to notice it’s a special time to be outside.”

  “Especially in the summer, when it stays light out later. It’s hard to feel as excited about twilight when it happens at four in the afternoon,” he said.

  “True.”

  I could tell the fatigue was setting in for him. He had the same dazed look in his eyes I’d seen in the mirror over the past two days. And even though I’d scratched the surface of feeling normal after my very long catnap, I could easily sleep some more. “Why don’t we do something easy tonight? No big dinner at a hotel. No more bike riding. Just a quick something, and then we can both sleep.”

  He nodded, pushing himself up from the rock and brushing fine grains sand off his pants. Grabbing my hand, Chris pulled me to my feet, but he didn’t let go of my hand. “That sounds perfect. The kitchen is stocked. We could have something here.”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering again about the minions who must have scurried about before we got here, stocking the refrigerator and making sure every eventuality had been anticipated. I wondered whether they’d show up in the shadows and make dinner for us then disappear again without a trace.

  We started walking back up the trail toward the yard, the ocean quietly lapping on the shore behind us. “Pasta okay? I’m a typical single guy who eats a lot of takeout, but I can make a pretty decent puttanesca.”

  “I’m kind of a typical single girl who eats a lot of salads. I can make that.”

  “Works for me,” he said, his fingers squeezing mine. Small footlights lit the pathway between the beach and the backyard, which was aglow with tiny twinkle lights in olive trees and landscape lighting that showed off all the pretty plants.

  “Did you do a lot of work on this place?” I asked, wondering whether he’d had a say in any of these details.

  He shook his head. “It was pretty much turnkey. The previous owner bought it to sell, so it has every bell and whistle you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed some of them. Did it come with the mysterious elves who seem to have just been here right before us to make everything perfect?”

  He laughed. “I do have elves. They know I like privacy, so they kind of do their work and disappear. It’s a really nice couple, Henri and Clothilde. They live in the smaller house on the property year-round, so they keep an eye on everything when I’m not here. You’ll meet them at some point.”

  It made sense that someone lived in the smaller house I’d noticed when we first arrived. But knowing the size of Chris’s house, I wondered if it was weird for them to live in the lovely but smaller house that was a shack by comparison to Chris’s villa. Probably not.

  I’d started to understand that the French were different from Americans in many ways, especially the ability to be happy with work and accommodations that were sufficient without always wanting more. Guillaume had told me he’d waited tables at the same café for nine years and loved it.

  Back home, people would be jockeying for a raise or a better job or something that gave them more trappings of upward mobility. But for what? So we could work harder to live in bigger homes that we’d see less of because work took up more of our time? I wanted to examine my life choices in this new light.

  Henri and Clothilde had anticipated our needs perfectly. Fresh tomatoes, garlic, and goat cheese went into Chris’s sauce along with Niçoise olives and capers. I had my pick of fresh vegetables to put in my salad, so I selected greens, tomatoes, corn, and avocado.

  I could tell Chris was either tired or preoccupied because he prepared his dish with perfunctory precision, working quietly next to me. I didn’t mind the quiet. Maybe we were past the phase in which someone always had to be talking. The plain fact was we were both exhausted, barely moved by the romance of eating outside at a stone table next to a fireplace that filled the air with a smoky, woodsy smell.

  We ate and dropped into the bed upstairs. There was a bit of lazy kissing before he wrapped his arms around me and I fell asleep. I don’t even think we said goodnight. But I know I dreamed about him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A New Day

  For the first time since I’d left Los Angeles, I felt awake. It made me realize what a blur the last several days had been, with people and drinks and planes all blending together. That part of the trip seemed like ages ago, the murky past. With a week left in France, I felt energized.

  And maybe it was my newly wakeful state, but Chris was somehow even more attractive than I’d thought possible. He’d come downstairs in khaki shorts and a light-blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a white T-shirt. He’d already showered, and his hair was slicked back, a few pieces falling forward as it dried.

  There was something special about his eyes. They were a different color that day, deeper brown, less grey. Fairy dust must have separated people who were born to be mega-actors like him from everyone else who could only wish.

  “It’s unbelievable out there,” I said. I’d gone down to the beach to look at the calm water while he was in the shower. I couldn’t get enough of the placid blue.

  “Well, then, I think you’ll enjoy the day I’ve got planned. Figured we’d take the boat out. I hope you don’t get seasick,” he said, winking like he had a plan for that possibility.

  “I’m not even sure. I’ve been on a few boats but not enough to really say if I get seasick.”

  “I was kidding,” he said, and my heart sank with the realization we weren’t going sailing. The idea of being on the water sounded glorious after gazing at it longingly since we’d arrived. My face must have fallen because he lifted my chin and kissed me sweetly. “What I meant was, put your sunscreen on, because we’re going sailing. But you don’t have to worry. No one gets seasick on this boat.”

  It was hard to wrap my mind around the drastic turn my week had taken, but for once, I chose not to think too hard about it. I took a sip of the coffee Chris handed me, from a Nespresso machine just the like one in the Paris apartment. It had a splash of soy milk, just the way I liked it. It might not be that hard to get used to living like this, with every fantastical whim anticipated and fulfilled before I had a chance to think.

  He then produced a plate of warm croissants and a bowl of sliced peaches. “I recall you like a specific kind of fruit.”

  It was sweet. And he was correct. “They’re my favorite. But only in summer. I never buy any of those hard peaches imported from the other side of the equator in the dead of winter.”

  “Farm to table. I get it. That’s a very European concept. This region pretty much pioneered the idea of eating what’s seasonal.”

  “Probably why I instinctively like it here. So when are we going on the boat?” I couldn’t hide my excitement.

  He looked at his phone for a confirmation of the time. “I told them we’d be down there in an hour. How long will it take you to be ready?”

  “If all that’s required is a bathing suit and some sunscreen, I’d say five minutes.”

  He nodded. “Low maintenance. I’m impressed.”

  Maybe I was missing something. I wondered how long it took most people to be ready to sit on a sailboat. Then I recalled my vow to stop worrying and enjoy my vacation, and I smiled. “Glad I can impress you.”

  He pulled me onto his lap and kissed me. It was a good kiss, ending with him nibbling on my lower lip. “You are impressive in many ways.”

  “Back atcha, sir… So tell me about this bo
at.”

  “Okay. She’s a twenty-meter sailboat with a four-meter beam and nearly a two-meter draft. Her name is Mary Celeste.” He looked at me with a crooked grin, knowing that would make zero sense but enjoying messing with me.

  “Okay. I didn’t really mean I wanted the boat’s measurements,” I said. My brain was still trying to calculate from the metric to figure out how many feet forty meters was. My rough calculation had it at over a hundred feet, which was a damned big boat. “So it’s a sailboat. Cool. And just so you know, that’s about all I know about sailing—that sailboats are cool.”

  “You’ll learn. I promise.”

  “Does that mean I have to pull ropes and swab decks and stuff?”

  “No to the deck swabbing. We have a crew at the marina that maintains the boats. But if you want, you can get a little experience with the ropes, which are called ‘sheets,’ by the way.”

  I didn’t need to hear more. I would pull ropes—sheets—or whatever I needed to do if it meant getting out on the aqua Mediterranean Sea in a sailboat. I went upstairs to what had become my third-floor dressing area in the sunroom and dug through my bags for a bathing suit, just hoping my plain black bikini would cut it on the French Riviera.

  Fortunately, I’d overpacked, and beneath the jeans and T-shirts were a couple of dresses, one of which could double as a beach cover-up. It was lightweight white cotton with huge blue swirls, which were actually flowers if you spread the whole thing out, and it tied at the waist. When I put it on with flip-flops and looked in the mirror, I realized I looked ridiculous, like I’d just come from a Mother’s Day tea and needed to put on comfortable shoes because my high heels had hurt my feet.

  I switched into a plain white cotton T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. They weren’t the nicest shorts I’d brought, but what did it matter? I wasn’t destined to look glamorous on the high seas.

  When I went downstairs, I found clothing I didn’t recognize laid out on the white couch—a wide-brimmed straw hat, dark-brown sandals, and a cute pink knee-length beach cover-up alongside an expensive-looking high-cut black maillot swimsuit with cutouts on the sides and strings crisscrossing the back. Chris was reading through something on his computer and didn’t seem to hear me at first.