Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
I t wasn’t my intent to get Jamie all hot and bothered. With a hectic week, it just so happened that our drive to èze’s Jardin Exotique made for a few quiet moments to write Damien. The cliffside ocean views occupied the kids’ attention, and while the road should have been doing the same for Jamie, he started squirming in his seat when I pulled out my pen and paper. I caught him glancing but didn’t say anything.
What’s his deal? Does he really despise Damien that much?
Whatever the beef between them, of course I want to know, but I also don’t want to be the one to wedge myself into their quarrel.
One thing I’ve noticed about Damien, through his letters at least, is the passion with which he defends himself and his family. He refuses to have a bad word spoken about them. Regardless of the snobby ignorance their venture capital successes have afforded them, they are good people, he insists.
Funny. I’m sure Jamie would say the same about the Chessleys. If only he and Damien could just air their grievances, I’m sure they’d realize they’re less rivals and more similar than they’d care to admit.
We’ve crossed the neat and tidy paved avenues that wind through upper-class èze to the more rustic, gravelly side streets along the cliffs, and I resolve to finish the letter later when the bumps from the road aren’t as harsh, no thanks to Jamie’s poor pothole avoidance. It’s like he aims for them.
The wind stirs with ocean air, flinging my hair in all directions. I turn back and see Manon’s and Josie’s doing the same, while Milo shakes his new buzz cut like he’s wearing an invisible wig. The back seat drowns in infectious laughter, and the contagion spreads to Jamie and me in the front.
After a few more minutes up a rather steep road, we arrive at the botanical gardens. They expand over the peak of a small mountain, overlooking all of èze village, with Nice and the Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat peninsula off in the distance. The kids dash out of the car for a game of tag, but Jamie and I holler at them to come back.
“Revenez, tous,” we shout.
“Careful on the railings,” I add in, noting the steep descent down the adjacent cliffs.
Part of me wants to drink in this moment, how the view offers the illusion that one could simply step right onto the cobalt-blue expanse stretching from one side of the globe to the other. There is more wispy-cloud sky than land and sea, like we’re just little figurines in a gigantic snow globe.
Then the other part of me—the au pair responsible for three human lives in addition to my own—wants to hold each of their hands. But Manon, being the mature teen-like tween that she is, assumes that task.
“I’ve got it,” she says rather proudly, gathering her siblings while Jamie follows me around the garden’s base with the Canon camera.
Stone and brick staircases wrap around the mountaintop, a plethora of plant species consuming either side of the walkways. Squat cacti plants share cliff space with fuchsia blossoms and five-foot-tall palm trees.
“It’s like the desert had a baby with the Mediterranean.”
Jamie points at me. “Hey, that's a good line. Have you ever considered the writing profession?”
“Haha. Your humor is unparalleled.”
“There’s more where that came from.” He winks at me, and I resolve to make my way up the steps, shoving away any encroaching feelings he’s inadvertently awakened.
I reach my hand out for the camera, and Jamie hands it over. One of many sun-washed Earth goddess statues that populate the Jardin stands tall amid bushels of botanicals. It’s as if she herself admires the all-encompassing view: the sun-burnt terra-cotta roofs against a backdrop of jagged cliffs kissing the sea.
Snap . My camera clicks, capturing the scenery.
So few visitors wander around us. Easy to guess that most tourists are probably soaking in rays at the beach. It’s quiet enough to hear a soft breeze bristle palm leaves together.
Jamie sighs and leans his arms against a railing. “I love it here.”
“Taken the au pairs here before, have you?”
He scrunches his brow. “What?”
I shake my head and continue up the steps. “Nothing, nothing. Just figured you’ve probably shown people around.” I tap my fingers along the metal railing. “No?”
“You really think I’m some sleazy geezer?”
That London accent gets me.
I shrug, but my sleeve tumbles nearly halfway down my arm. Damn these adorably cute shoulderless rompers. I sweep it back up to physically communicate “no, that was not me being flirtatious . ”
“I did at first, but then I figured your night shift spiel had to be true.” I snap another picture of striped lilies.
“How’s that?”
“My third week here. I saw you come in around midnight covered in duck fat from the waist down.”
“Ah, pretty cheeky looking down there, now aren’t we?”
I dagger a glare at him. He chuckles and lifts his palms.
“Kidding. Hey, maybe I really was trying to swoon a lady.”
“Mm. Hot grease. Never been more turned on myself.” I lift my brow and give a smile.
The staircase ascent leads us to a planked deck enshrouded by raw mountain rock and a human-made waterfall. Wooden lounge chairs invite us to take a seat and feast on the oceanic view. It’s tempting, but my attention darts to getting a visual on the kids. Jamie notices my hasty glances as I try to detect their voices, and he points to our right. A few staircases below us, his siblings are battling over who gets to use the binocular stand.
I follow Jamie as he sinks into one of the wooden deck chairs. The waterfall’s misty droplets and the sweet, earthy poppies take hold of my senses. The tension below my neck I hadn’t even known was there slowly releases.
“So,” I begin, cracking open one eyelid. “Any intel on the Michelin inspector?”
Jamie shakes his head and runs both hands through his sun-soaked hair. “Rien.” He slices the air with a horizontal hand gesture. “Nada. Niente.”
“Well, no matter who they are, I’m willing to put my money on the Vigne.”
Curiosity melts his tone. “Have you been yet?”
“It’s on the list,” I affirm.
“Let me know what day works for you. I’ll reserve a table. Bring Emi, if you’d like.”
I notice he doesn’t mention a certain someone. Well, maybe because he knows a certain someone’s away on vacation, but still. The more I think about it, the idea sounds like a win-win.
“You know, I can do a write-up on it for Conseils .”
He looks over at me. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I’d love to. I’ll keep your name out of it. Don’t worry. But I will be brutally honest, so make sure you bring your A game.” A warm spaciousness swells in my throat, culminating in a little side grin.
“Well, I hope it’s good enough for your standards.” He returns the grin, but it dissolves into distracted stoicism. “I’m gonna need all the good press I can get. If we blow it with this Michelin star, I might as well hand Chef my apron on the way out. Dessert has been our Achilles heel for the last few years.”
“Until you came around and gave the pastry team the boost it needed,” I encourage him.
A small smile graces his lips. “Thanks. I hope you’re right. I can’t drop the ball now, not when I’m so close.” He scoffs to himself.
So close to what?
My eyes search his face.
I assume I know what he’s thinking, at least in part. “Well, say the inspector is missing their taste buds... and the Vigne doesn’t get that third star, Nick and Angela won’t find out, right? You’ve done so well at hiding it.”
Jamie pushes his tongue against his inner cheek. “That’s because there hasn’t been a spotlight on it. Once that review comes out, all eyes are gonna be on us. If it’s good, all the posh neighbors are gonna brag about it. And if it’s bad, they’ll damn it for being the reason they all flock to friggin’ Monaco for dinner.” He pauses, calming his voice. “And the pastry team will either be the MVPs or the culinary equivalents to washed-up gutter rats. Either way, secret’s coming out.”
“We can’t predict the future, Jamie.” But I know what it’s like to want to live in it.
“Can’t we though? Don’t we have some influence?” he challenges.
My cheeks hollow out as I suck them in. “Well... maybe a little bit, but who are any of us to say how it’ll happen exactly.”
“I still think it’s up to us to give fate a little nudge.”
We share a silence, allowing for the pittering waterfall to soften the air. Though my own camera sits in my lap, I swear I hear the shuttering of a lens nearby. I toss my head over my shoulder, but no one’s around. My throat clenches, and goose bumps spread along my skin.
Jamie doesn’t seem to catch on. He stretches his arms out. “So I really gotta put these bad boys to best use,” Jamie says, wiggling his fingers.
Heat races up and down my neck.
I clear my throat and stand up, flicking my palazzo pants backward. “Well I guess you really better get your shit together, then.”
We chuckle together, then depart the little sanctuary and make our way to the kids, who’ve run to the other side of the mountainous garden. Selfishly, I can’t help but think that he was right. If he loses his Vigne shift, he’s not guaranteed the same hours elsewhere. Without a cameraman, I’ll have to resort to vlog-style videos. It’s not the end of the world. But without his help, would I be able to deliver the same quality of content? What would Mr. Gupta say if my work for Conseils wasn’t up to snuff? And would that affect my admission to the Young Soarers?
* * *
YOUR MOST MAGICAL TRIP TO THE LAVENDER FIELDS OF PROVENCE
There’s so much more to these rolling hills of blue-violet flowers than their intense aroma.
How to make your trip even more spécial:
Have a photo shoot on the grounds
Stroll through the adjacent sunflower fields
Visit nearby towns to sample lavender-infused gastronomic specialties like eclairs and truffles. Delicieux!
Pop the question! Gorgeous setting and a bonus, the calming scents may help to quell those nerves too! Win-win.
When to visit:
Capture the blooms starting in late July through early August!
Lavender fields to give a try on your French vacay:
Valensole Plateau
Sault Plateau
Luberon Valley
Book your next trip with Solange Martin!
* * *
THE ESSENCE OF EASY LIVING IN MONACO
Show off your chic at the Café de Paris Monte-Carlo.
Where? à la Salle Empire de l’H?tel de Paris Monte-Carlo.
Oui oui! Add some dazzle to your day & embrace the moment.
Wear a sunhat, don some fine linens, pop on some red lipstick
Let your inner royalty shine as you indulge in the fancier side of life
Editor Kat’s favorite bites:
Braised Beef
Salmon Tartare
Fruit & Custard Tart
Chocolate Glacier
Book your next trip with Solange Martin!
* * *
The kids are fast asleep in the back of the convertible, leaving me to pen the rest of the week’s write-ups with them fresh in my mind. It’s been a half-month-long whirlwind since the Conseils revamping and our trip to the Jardin, and I’ve gotten my writing rhythm down pat. I try my best—ish—not to take too many glances at Jamie in the driver’s seat. But damn. I can’t resist admiring his sun-washed locks dancing in the wind and the golden hair on his tanned forearm glistening under the cloudless sky. We’ve actually kept les hormones under control. Not too many flirtatious gazes or incidental grazing of our hands. The icy exteriors melted to a neutral playing field.
Over the cliff, the cobalt sea exudes a vibrancy that never gets old. I rest my eyelids for a moment, and my mind slips into a daydream, replaying the afternoon we just spent gorging on ice cream and fine French cuisine in Monte Carlo.
We had just wrapped up filming the café’s exterior: a palm tree-lined patio in front of the foaming fountain across the street from the casino. We strolled and recorded plenty of clips capturing my in-the-moment food reviews. Jamie may have signed up to be cameraman, but I gladly took on the role of director, coordinating all the shots that we’d eventually tie together. As per Solange’s orders, I also had to be the star of the travel guide series for Conseils ’s YouTube channel, much to my hesitation at first. I suppose my comfortability on camera has been increasing day by day, as I’m not so quick to cringe when I hear my recorded voice anymore.
At the table, Jamie laughed as I made a big show of deleting a clip of me running from a swarm of bees in the lavender fields a few days prior.
Then, Milo successfully smeared the entire perimeter of his mouth and the rim of his shirt collar in chocolate ice cream while Josie neatly spooned raspberry sorbet like royalty in training. Manon was busy downing the rest of her sparkling lemonade.
As I dabbed a wet napkin over Milo’s shirt, Jamie said, “Kat McLauren, world-class au pair by day, media mogul by night.”
I tossed him a sarcastic chuckle.
“Damn, wish I had someone to clean me up when I make a mess like that,” he added.
I hadn’t detected any following cameras around us, so I conceded to flow with the flirt. Angela wouldn’t know.
“Didn’t realize you were so dirty.” I winked.
He grinned coyly. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The kids didn’t notice our exchange. Before my cheeks could get too scarlet red and my palms too sweaty, Jamie abruptly pulled back in his seat, the humor and lightness disappearing from his eyes. I couldn’t understand. He had started it. Either this is how people flirt in Europe or he’s surely keeping me in the dark. If anything, he’s consistent in his inconsistency. Just when I think we’re verging on friends, we get kicked right back to square one.
I’m pulled out of my reminiscing when a sleepy Manon tugs on my sundress from the back seat.
“Kat. Can we go to the chateau? Maybe the new owners are home.”
“Maybe later, Manon,” I say.
Jamie snaps a glance my way. “What’s the deal with that, anyway? Solange still wants the gossip article?”
“Mmm. Oui. But she’s not getting it anytime soon. I’m not TMZ,” I affirm.
“That’s good,” he agrees. “Glad to see you putting your foot down.”
“Well, merci. Hopefully I can keep it there. I can’t risk upsetting Solange and losing the gig that’s pretty much the golden ticket to my Young Soarers application.”
“Well, let’s hope things’ll stay as they are,” Jamie says, keeping his focus on the road. Though, his tightened grip on the leather steering wheel makes me curious what’s gotten him so invested. When we arrive back at the Chessley villa, it only takes Jamie three seconds to bolt inside without so much as a wave or glance in our direction.
“What’s the rush?” I shout after him.
“Nothing, nothing,” Jamie says. “I just. I’ve got to meet...” He looks off toward the harbor, stopping himself from revealing this supposedly precious information.
My tongue goes dry. Just say it. It’s Vivian.
I get that he’s trying to stave off Angela from picking up anything between us, but does that mean he has to forfeit all sense of cordiality? He does every time we return from a Conseils excursion. Frankly, it’s peeving me off.