Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“S mell this one,” Emi says, thrusting a bottle of peony-colored fragrance at my nose. Earlier this afternoon, she’d insisted that we visit the perfumery on the mountainside overlooking Nice, and much to my apprehension, she swayed me.
It’s not that I don’t want to admire the stacks of freshly made bar soaps or try my hand at concocting an eau de toilette. Rather, I don’t want to run into Damien, whose parents own the perfumery. Even if all logic points to the fact that he won’t be popping in when he’s on a family vacation, I maintain a steady gaze over my shoulder.
“Why are you so nervous to see him, eh?” Emi pokes my forearm, and I push the wicker basket holding our bath goodies hard against my waist.
“I’m not nervous.” Ha! Tell that to your churning stomach! “It’s just... I’m not ready.”
Emi takes a whiff of a lemongrass lotion. “For what?”
“It’s so easy for me to write to him. He picks up on the littlest of nuances or what I might be feeling even if I don’t put it into words.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“No. That’s the problem.”
Emi furrows her brow, leaving me space to explain.
“On paper, it’s like we’re in symbiosis. But whenever I’ve spoken to him in person, I go on like a babbling idiot without a stop button.”
“Trust me. The heart knows what it’s doing. Your mouth will follow.”
“My mouth?” The thought of our lips touching—like they almost did on the casino roof before someone interrupted—sends chills up my spine. But it’s a mix of tantalizing excitement and pure dread.
“You know, your words,” Emi says.
My shoulders loosen. “Oh.”
As we exit the shop, Emi begs me to read some of Damien’s latest letter, which I accidentally let slip that I tote around in my backpack.
“Mademoiselle Kat,” Emi reads, but Damien’s velvety voice overlays in my mind.
Apologies for my delay in getting back to you. Désolé. While the Amalfi Coast may tempt me greatly, it hasn’t taken my mind off you. So it seems your summer hasn’t been without its share of adventure. As for the magazine, I admire you for it. Not every person would be brave enough to take an opportunity like that. But it might just be your blessing in disguise. Your spirit is undeniable. And what transfixes me all the same.
I toy with the straps of my backpack, eyes glued to the verdant cliffside view of the dazzling C?te d’Azur.
Emi continues on to the part where he recommends steering clear of touring the nineteenth-century prison or else Manon might try to lock me inside. A small chuckle tumbles out of my nose as my eyes melt into the view, a warmth caressing my shoulders from the gleaming sunshine and a tingling at the crown of my head from his words.
Somehow, the universe was looking out for me when I bumped into Damien that day in Nice. It was fate. La destinée.
* * *
Of course of all the times to catch a case of writer’s block, now it decides to show up in full force. Manon had drawn up a list of three bistros, two boutiques, and a smoothie place for us to visit and review. Sure, treating ourselves to loads of coffee (me) and pain au chocolat (Manon) wasn’t difficult. No, the horrendous part was the collection of words that needed to pour out of me piping hot and into a pristine, cookie-cutter format. But every sentence I form, I eventually cross out for being too flowery or too abrupt. It’d be easy—well, easy ish —to stick to the facts. Year founded, owners, what it offers. The basics. Plain, simple, informative, with no room for my rebellious creativity to nudge its way through.
Resolving to take this approach, I hunker down in the villa’s library after making dinner and putting Milo and Josie to bed. Manon says she doesn’t need to be part of the actual writing process. For that, I’m quite thankful. The excess judgment would only inhibit me further, not that I should care what an eleven-year-old thinks of me or my craft.
At this point, though, she wouldn’t have much to judge. A blank laptop screen stares back at me. My cursor blinks persistently, awaiting the first sentence, the first word, a single letter. Another open tab taunts me. My half-completed Young Soarers application. With the clock ticking at T-minus thirty days until I need to hit submit, I’ve lost my momentum in getting around to the second portion. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to teleport myself into corporate American lingo when I’m basking daily in the awe and beauty of the C?te d’Azur.
I turn my attention back to the magazine contents due by midnight. If I’m going to wow the Young Soarers admissions team, the publication has to do well.
I’ve already notified Solange that I’d be omitting the gossip piece on the crummy chateau’s new owners without enough time to get a real lead. Her response email had reluctantly expressed her temporary leniency.
The computer churns heated air onto my open-faced notebook, the pages only containing a few scratches of in-the-moment descriptors on each business. I lean my forearms over the cool wooden desk. The few lamps sprinkled around the room cast a soothing glow over the plush sofa chairs.
Oh, how I’d much rather pluck a book off of the well-stocked hickory shelves and cozy up under one of those faux-fur blankets draped over the cushioned seats.
A knock on the double glass doors stirs me from my procrastinated haze. Jamie enters the room with two large mugs of tea. He smiles and hands me a cup. My tensed shoulders drop.
“Chamomile,” he says. “No milk, no sugar.”
“You didn’t have t?—”
“I wanted to.”
We exchange soft glances before a playful smirk spreads across his face.
“Even if it’s sacrilegious to drink it plain,” he says, glancing toward the translucent liquid in my cup. “But hey, I’m not judging.”
Because I’ve already spent thirty minutes “looking” for a dictionary only to confirm that there aren’t any bugged microphones or security cameras, I play back.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m not actually here to au pair for your siblings. I’m here to teach you all the correct ways to drink tea.”
We snicker into our chests. My hands wrap around the ceramic mug, allowing the herbal steam to kiss my face. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be angry with him or if we’ve remediated our toils. It’s been a roller coaster ever since I met him last month. There’s something about the villa’s confines that makes him a bit more relaxed, and it seems to be where we get on the best.
“So.” Jamie takes a seat in one of the chairs. “How’s it going with the first issue?”
I chuckle without a drop of humor attached. “Getting there.” I twirl my loose ponytail and fall into a deeper self-denying chuckle. “Jamie, I have no fucking clue what to do with this.”
My honesty spurs his own amusement, and we share a few hearty chortles.
“No one said you had to come in and be the next Condé Nast.”
I lift my eyebrows.
“What?” Jamie asks.
“Just kind of surprised you know what Condé Nast is.”
“Hey, a well-rounded businessman has his toe dipped in the waters of all enterprises.”
“You sound like your dad.”
“Good. I’m practicing.”
My eyes return to the aggressively blank screen. “I don’t know what these people want to read. And Solange wants to take this to YouTube... I just. I can’t.” I lose the words to the rest of my ramble.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect on the first go ’round,” Jamie offers. “Take what comes naturally. Change from there if you need to.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
Jamie scrunches his brow and leans his elbows on his quads. “Why can’t it be?”
“Because, this has to go right. I can’t afford the trial and error.”
Boss man—that’s what I’m unofficially officially calling Howie Gupta now—said it himself when Manon and I ran into him in the village. These earliest publications would be the pinnacle of my Young Soarers application.
Jamie sits back, keeping his focus on me. “You’ve wanted this for a while, the Soarers program, haven’t you?”
“I call it my healthy obsession.” Even if I’m properly avoiding the very application right now. The neat, clean, monotonous paragraphs I’d have to pen for the written questions aren’t the sexiest way to spend my night.
“Well,” Jamie says, nodding to my laptop. “I vote that you write that magazine from your gut. It knows the way.”
I smile.
“And if you decide to go the video route, I’d gladly volunteer as cameraman.”
I tilt my head, and he hurriedly swallows a sip of creamy beige tea. “You sure Angela would be okay with that?”
“Probably not. But you’re always representing the family. The better you do, the better we all do.”
“Why though? Who’s she trying to impress?”
Jamie shrugs, glances to the left, and says, “It’s the way it goes.” He sips and quickly reroutes the conversation, but I can tell there’s something more. “Besides, Chef says I gotta work on my food shoots. Figure a little practice with the camera can’t hurt.” He shines a dimpled half grin.
“Noted. Thank you.” I take a sip of my correctly prepared tea. “How’s everything going down there?”
“Where?”
I thought it was obvious. “The Vigne?”
“Oh, right,” he says, casting his gaze toward the window. “It’s going. Really going now.”
“Care to share?” I push the laptop to the side and devote my full attention to him, sipping my warmed tea.
Jamie scratches the back of his neck. “Rumor has it a Michelin inspector’s comin’ to the hotel this month. The place already has two stars, but it lost its chance at a third a few years back.”
“Really? What didn’t they like?”
“The dessert.” Jamie’s eyes go stoic as he opens up to me. “If I can help secure the Vigne’s third Michelin star, it’d be my break out of the Chessley Enterprise shackles.”
He falls silent at the admission. So this is it. The accolade would be his trophy, proof of finding success outside of the business world.
“Jamie. Hey.” I try to stir him from his self-purgatory. “It’s going to work out the way it should.” He doesn’t move. “From what I know about you, you don’t half-ass anything you really care about.”
He lifts his head. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I fiddle with my mug’s handle, breaking eye contact once I feel the rush of butterflies swarm around my stomach.
“And if it doesn’t work out,” a grin spreads across my face, “I’ll hire you as the kids’ personal chef.”
A laugh tumbles out of his mouth, and he rests his hand on his reverberating abdomen.
“See, Kat. You know exactly what to do with your words.”
Our eyes lock for a few seconds before my phone nearly vibrates off the desk. At first I think it’s Damien, but then I remember from our letters that he wants to keep it strictly old-fashioned to magnify our in-person reunion. Such a romantic, I know. But he is French after all. Then I remember it’s ten o’clock on Wednesday, which means Mom’s calling for her weekly check-in.
“Do you mind if I...” I lift up my phone, and Jamie waves his palm.
“Of course, of course.”
I send him a smile before answering. I get up and walk toward the window, gazing out at the lantern-lit sea beyond the cliffs. Jamie removes himself from the sofa chair in the process, making his way to the library’s double glass doors.
Mom and I cover the niceties of how the week went. She gives me the low down of who went to church, what the choir sang, and what she got at the farmers market. I give her the cliff notes version of how I’m doing, circling around the same descriptors. Good challenge. Never a dull day.
And maybe it’s the conversation I’ve just had with Jamie that’s spruced me up about the magazine, but I finally share the news with Mom about my editorial position. I bite my lower lip and play with a houseplant’s leaves on the windowsill, acknowledging the fortuity in getting to run a travel magazine on the French Riviera.
But that lightened feeling comes to a screeching halt. “Are you sure you’re going to have time for that?” She belts through the phone as usual because she doesn’t realize I can hear her regular speaking volume just fine.
And now I’m dealing with the exact reason I didn’t want to tell her in the first place.
I exhale through my nose. “Seriously. Why do you always do that?”
“What?” Mom says. “Look, Kat, I just want to make sure you’re not spreading yourself too thin.”
“Will you let me be the judge of that?” I try not to raise my voice too much. “I don’t know why I even bother telling you.”
“Kat—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s fine. Mom, it’s late here, and I’m gonna go to bed.”
I hang up the phone and turn back around to the desk. Footsteps shuffle down the hall. Did he hear all that? Great, not only do I get to go to bed with refreshed embarrassment, but as I shut the blank laptop screen, my impending deadlines—one for the magazine issue and the other for the Young Soarers application—rear their little heads once more.