Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“P ’tit dej!” I call up the villa’s grand staircase in a not half bad accent. It’s been almost a week since Emi and I began the French 101 instruction, and I slipped right back into the language-learning groove I had when poring over flashcards in eighth-grade Spanish.
In the kitchen, I scoop three bowls of thick porridge and arrange them beside jam preserves, honey, fresh fruit, and glasses of orange juice on the table. I detail the morning’s breakfast menu in my journal to record the scents and flavors that hallmark the morning and ring in the new day.
When only Milo and Josie come running down the hall, I inhale slowly and tense my shoulders, preparing for whatever Manon has in store this time. More stolen farm animals running rampant in the house? Maybe she smuggled in Monaco’s royal jewels and planted them in my room.
After I finish tying Josie’s hair into two red braids, Manon saunters in, seats herself at the table, and shines a close-mouthed grin in my direction.
“Alors, qu’est-ce qu’on fait aujourd’hui?” she asks me as I scarf down some breakfast.
My spoonful of milky oats plops back into the bowl. “Um. Pardon?”
I should have seen the eye roll coming.
“C’est par- don,” Manon repeats with an emphatically rough “r.”
Really, she’s gonna harp on my pronunciation? I thought I’d come a long way in just twelve days.
“Quoi qu’il en soit, quel est le plan, huh?” Manon tilts her side ponytail.
Josie nor Milo offer any translation help as they’re quite occupied flicking orange peels at one another.
“Josie, Milo, s’il vous pla?t arrêtez,” I beg, rushing to the table. But I’m a second too late. Josie sends a piece of rind flying in my direction. The second I duck to the side, I regret it immediately. I should’ve let it hit me.
“Joséphine!” Angela’s voice boomerangs around the room. All of us at the breakfast table go quiet. She’s standing in the entryway with arms crossed as tight as her pursed lips. Her thick bracelets clang against the stone tile as she bends over to grab the orange rind. When she rises, she brushes away the minimal wrinkles on her leopard-print blouse. Angela transfers her gaze from her youngest daughter to me. Her eyelids coated in olive shadow send chills up my spine.
“You call this taking care of things?”
“We were fine before, really.” I gesture to the remaining breakfast set up.
Manon stands up from her chair and throws her napkin down.
“C’est une imbécile. Elle ne sait rien.” She throws her hand in my direction. “Nous n’avons pas besoin d’elle ici.”
A sneer lingers on Manon’s face, her body language marinating in the bitterness soaking her words.
Angela nods, acknowledging Manon’s comments, but doesn’t indulge them further. She only beckons me with her index finger.
“If you cannot do the job, it is better I know now.” Her gaze invades my own.
So you can stop sending randos to watch me from behind bushes?
While I’m starving to offer her a little unsolicited opinion that maybe the estrangement-inducing parasite in their family isn’t me, I fear that cluing her in would only shatter her sovereign pride. But like hell am I gonna let this woman paint me to be a conniving man-eater, effectively ruining my reputation and crushing my shot at the Young Soarers.
Enter Kat McLauren, smooth-talker saleswoman.
“I-I can do this. I promise. Please, I want to stay.”
“J’ai besoin de plus de preuves.” My blank stare generates her follow-up. “I need more proof than this.” She gestures to the three kids kicking each other’s legs. Milo, dangling chewed orange rinds over his blond eyebrows, tempts the idea of launching them into Josie’s bowl.
“I’ll take care of it.” With a confident nod, I quickly whip out the first phrase I asked Emi to teach me. “Je suis là pour aider.”
I’m here to help.
Angela leans her head back and lifts a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Est-ce vrai?” She snaps and gestures to me to follow her. “My office. Maintenant. ”
Josie and Milo have resumed their breakfast, bickering while Manon snickers as I trudge down the hall behind Angela.
In her office space drenched in the perfume emanating from the numerous vases packed full of lilacs, she takes a seat at her desk and points to one of the upholstered velveteen sofa chairs.
“Sit,” she orders.
My tongue goes dry, and my breathing deepens.
“This summer will not go well if there are secrets being kept,” Angela says, readjusting her rose-gold Rolex.
Crapcakes. Every brief moment Jamie and I have shared flashes through my mind as I try to think of whatever incriminating evidence has been relayed to her via her spy.
I open my mouth to interject, but Angela quickly says, “Howie tells me you’re considering signing up to be Solange’s editor.”
I let out a small sigh of relief.
“Well. I-I don’t know much about the job, but of course I wouldn’t take it on if it would affect my responsibilities here with the kids.”
“Nonsense.” Angela waves her hand. “I’ve already sent her a recommendation letter for you.”
I dig my canines into the inside of my cheeks.
She what? She’s trying to squeeze me out. Of the house. Of the family circle. Keep Kat and Jamie separate as much as possible.
And since when did I let my fate start being smacked around like an inflatable beach ball.
“But,” I pause to laugh lightly and subdue my burning irritation. “Why would?—”
“You clearly have a lot of energy to expend. And I see you with that notebook of yours, always writing...” Her gaze trails to the leather journal glued to my side.
I brought it with me from the kitchen. There was no way I’d leave it behind, risking the chance that Manon would tear the pages out for origami practice.
“But.” Angela lifts her index finger. “When I spoke to Solange about your recommendation letter, she told me she saw you and Jamie... mingling... in her shop. We have an agreement, Kat. Jamie is off-limits, eh?”
Nervously scoffing, I push the hair out of my eyes, hoping she doesn’t catch the blush invading my cheeks and neck. “Of course. I was just...” I have to come up with an alibi for Jamie that won’t out his gig as the pastry chef at the Vigne. “We were just?—”
“I thought I made my rules very clear,” Angela interrupts. “I’m not blind. And I have eyes everywhere.”
My jaw clenches. So she has been watching me!
“He was just showing me around,” I say, shrugging.
Angela’s eyes go to thin crescents. “Hmm. Ask Emi next time. Jamie doesn’t need any more distractions. It’s time he steps up at Chessley Enterprises.”
I nod fervently, and she clears her throat.
“We wouldn’t want to give Howie the wrong impression of the type of employee you are, now would we?”
I sharply inhale through my nostrils so fast it burns.
Oh, so she’s playing that game . Noted.
Both of us catch the echoes of Milo and Josie fighting over the last glass of orange juice.
Angela nods toward the door and says, “Well then, as my husband would say, tout suite.” She offers me a polite smile as I head out the door, my hands shaking.
* * *
With Angela keeping one eye on the situation until she has to leave for work, gathering the kids and washing up the breakfast dishes brings on stress levels I can only imagine Olympic athletes have to endure. Though I haven’t been able to confirm if there are secret cameras hidden in flower vases or bookshelves, erring on the side of caution seems to be the best option, so I make sure to wear an extra wide smile in every communal space.
After a long morning of sibling bickering and temper tantrums, I figure I’ll take the kids into the village to say hello to their aunt and uncle. Really though, it’d give me a chance to find respite with Emi. Walking over the villa’s gravel driveway, I can’t help but notice the lack of Jamie’s convertible. He hasn’t been home in days. Probably with Vivian after work at the Vigne’s restaurant. Not that I care. Just observing.
Narrowly avoiding a verbal badgering from the sandwich shop owner after Milo scarfed down every tomato mozzarella baguette sample slice, I find out the disappointing news from Antoine and Marie at the Cave. Emi is out of town for a graduation party and won’t be back until tomorrow. Antoine promises to entertain the kids while I run down to the corner market for some cans of San Pellegrino. I hand over a few euro bills at the checkout and pay for a bag of chocolate cream cookies, knowing that the kids will want a snack in an hour.
Look at me, already anticipating their hunger pains. I tuck the treats into my newly purchased wicker purse.
Taking the long way back around the corner to the wine shop, I rustle around my bag for my notebook and pen. Some of these details are too immaculate not to document. The echo of the ocean washing over shoreline pebbles. Cobblestones still wet from last night’s rain. Yeasty leavened bread. I duck into a stony tunnel that brings me to another windy street. The pastel green window frames adorning the former bookstore catch my attention as much today as they did the first day I saw them. I now know the shop belongs to Solange and is currently under renovations to become a travel agency. Overgrown vines dangle above the main entrance. Most of the boxes I had perused with Jamie seem to be gone, but with the sun glare against the window glass, it’s difficult to make out the rest of the interior’s state.
I practically press my eyes up against the window. Where there were once tables now sits a large desk and two loveseats facing it. A singular bookshelf has a few rows stocked. There’s also an espresso machine hooked up in the far corner. I’m curious if the prior contents had been moved to the loft upstairs. When I glance to check, I find another set of eyes peering back at me.
I inhale sharply.
The eyes belong to a petite woman with frizzy brown hair half clipped back. Rectangular glasses sit at the very tip of her nose in the middle of her elongated face. It must be Solange.
I lean my head back quickly and “accidentally” drop my pen. My acting needs improvement, that’s for sure. Not two seconds later, the woman yanks open the door in front of me.
“Qu’est-ce que tu veux, huh?” Her nasally voice nearly batters me down.
“Je suis Kat.” I press my sweaty palm to my torso. “Je suis la au pair de la famille Chessley.”
That information doesn’t change her sour expression, like the corners of her mouth are stuck in an ever so slight frown.
“Je sais,” she says. Expectedly, the woman introduces herself as Solange and leans her shoulder against the door.
“J’apprends encore le fran?ais,” I say before she lets out another word.
“Bien. Then I can practice my anglais.” Solange’s fuschia-lacquered scowl thaws to neutral. Nodding to the journal in my hand, which I quickly stuff back into my bag, Solange tilts her head. “What do you write in there?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say, though a pang in my stomach twists. I would’ve peeled off the “Write Like You Mean It” sticker if I knew it’d be such a conversation starter.
“Do you like to...” She makes scribbling motions with a closed fist.
I shrug. “I guess.” The pang gets tighter.
“Are you good?”
Scuffing my sandal against the cobbles, I avoid eye contact.
“I mean, I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Would you like another job this summer?” She tucks her chin down, looking over her glasses and piercing me with her sapphire eyes.
“I, um... I don’t know if...”
“I’ve heard good things about you. Angela provided a glowing reference.”
Glowing? She must really want me out of the house if she’s going to embellish her remarks about me to another potential employer.
“I’m starting a travel magazine about C?te d’Azur to accompany my new travel agency. But I need someone to write les articles en anglais et take les photos,” Solange explains.
I furrow my sweaty brow. Who’d be this trusting of a complete stranger’s credibility without even a glance at a portfolio?
“But you haven’t seen my writing,” I press.
“You speak English. You write English. You évidemment like travel and the C?te enough to stay with those Chessley children.”
“Well I’m still not?—”
Solange takes out a rectangular business card from her pocket. “Here, my email is there. I’ll need your answer by next week so I can stay on schedule. Hmm?”
I thumb the ivory cardstock bordered with lavender sprigs. Before I have the opportunity to accept or reject the opportunity, Solange retreats inside and shuts the door.
A few thoughts stir in my mind. The overarching one is how I will juggle being a first-time editor with my au pair duties. But will I regret giving up the chance to write for a magazine?