Chapter 32
Gustave
Three months!
That’s how long it’s been since I traded my apartment for a suite at the Ritz, foie gras for tamales, bespoke suits for aprons—and the safety of scandal-proof walls for something dangerously close to peace.
Life in Los Angeles has settled into an unexpected rhythm.
I work during the day while Tara is at the Getty. Then she works at the restaurant, and I help her when I can or end up taking conference calls from Juan’s small office slash filing cabinet in the restaurant, while my colleagues around the world wonder where the fuck I am.
But peace, it appears, is a temporary luxury.
The call comes after closing. Tara is behind the counter, pouring coffee, her father humming softly as he stirs tomorrow’s stock.
On the phone, Laurent, my second-in-command’s voice is low and grim.
“Gustave, we’ve got a situation in Hong Kong. The investment partners are threatening to pull out of the heritage project deal unless you’re there in person. They want assurances from the de Valois name, not just the management team.”
“Merde!” I rub my temple, shaking my head. “What they want is a count to shake hands with and smile for the cameras.”
Laurent hesitates. “Oui. But so what? It takes only a little effort on your part, and remember, this deal is worth more than a quarter of our next year’s projected revenue.”
I exhale, already feeling a forgotten weight returning to my shoulders, that familiar mix of duty and frustration that once defined my life. “I’ll talk to Juliette.” Maybe I can fly straight to Hong Kong from LA, and then….
“And you must be here for the de Valois Foundation board’s meeting,” he hurriedly informs me.
“Non.” That will require me to be away from Tara for nearly two weeks. That’s far too long. “I can do it by video.”
“Gustave…you know how these things are; you have to be here.” I can hear the plea in Laurent’s voice. “And you must attend Le Bal des Beaux-Arts.”
The Fine Arts Ball is tied to the école des Beaux-Arts and Parisian art patrons like the de Valois family. It’s a long-running society tradition, glamorous, old-world, and utterly dull.
When I hang up, Tara is watching me from across the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. She doesn’t need to ask. She already knows. “You have to go,” she says quietly.
I nod. “The Hong Kong partners are panicking. They want me there to put out fires.” I’ve been discussing with her the intricacies of my work, including what it takes to make these deals happen. She knows what the Hong Kong deal means to my company.
She looks miserable, but her voice stays even. “Then you should go.”
“Come with me.” I reach for her hand, holding on tightly. “You’ll love Hong Kong.” I know she’s never been. “The art scene there is extraordinary. We could go to the galleries, walk along Victoria Harbor—”
She shakes her head, though her fingers curl around mine. “You know I can’t. I just started the Liotard restoration. I can’t walk out after the Getty took a chance on me. I won’t screw this up.”
There’s pride in her voice, and it makes me love her more.
“Come to Paris then, for Le Bal des Beaux-Arts.”
She frowns. “What’s that?”
I tell her, and add, “It’s your usual mix of aristocrats, artists, and donors—”
“The cre?me de la cre?me of Paris?” she finishes glumly.
“Oui.”
“Gustave….”
“I know, I know.” I lean my forehead against hers. “My world sucks, and you don’t like it.”
She hugs me close. “Say you’ll come back to me.”
“Mon amour, I can’t breathe without you.”
But she knows, as I do, that our way of living is not sustainable.
I can’t continue to stay in a hotel suite.
Aubert is finishing his internship soon and will return to Paris.
Getting my visa situation sorted out, regardless of my wealth, will take the time it takes.
But I can’t ask her to move to Paris, not when I’ve seen her family and how happy she’s here.
“Then go handle things, as fast as you can, and come back to me.”
My throat tightens. “Tara—”
She reaches for me, her fingers threading through mine. “I love you.”
I kiss her forehead, breathing her in. “Je t’aime.”
“I know.” Her smile is soft and sure. “Go fix your empire.”
She comes to the Ritz with me that night, we make love, and after she falls asleep, I go into Aubert’s room.
He’s wearing his headphones, and his laptop is open. He’s tapping furiously at the keyboard.
He’s surrounded by the chaotic order of youth—half-finished fries on a plate, a camera, a pair of Lakers tickets on his desk next to his press badge.
He looks up when I knock on the doorframe.
He pulls off his headphones. “How is she?”
Earlier, we’d told him that I’m leaving Los Angeles in a couple of days. Tara’s eyes had shimmered with unshed tears, her mood muted to gray.
I step inside, hands in my pockets. “Sleeping—finally.”
After making love. After crying.
A breath escapes me. “I’m going to miss her.” I glance toward the closed door of my bedroom. “She’s going to miss me.”
He exhales long and slow. “You both need to find a happy medium that works for both of you.”
“Oui. I know.”
He reclines back in his chair, studying me. “You’ll fix it. You always do. And you and Tara are an awesome team, Papa.”
I smile at that, the quiet faith of a son who’s seen me stumble and still believes.
“I will…we will,” I say. Then, after a moment, “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
He raises a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Depends.” I take the chair opposite him, exhaling slowly. “I’m going to marry her.”
For a long moment, he stares at me, then he breaks into a grin so wide it reminds me of him as a boy. “About time!”
His easy approval disarms me. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
He shrugs. “You’ve known her long enough to screw everything up and still come back, right? That’s plenty of time.”
I chuckle at his assessment.
He sobers then, leaning forward on his knees. “Papa, she makes you happy. You don’t look like you’re carrying the whole family name on your back when she’s around. I like it. I like her.”
That warmth, his blessing, that’s all I need.
“I don’t deserve her,” I murmur.
“Yes, you do.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
I cover his hand with mine. “But Tara in Paris…it’s going to be….” A mess!
“She’ll get used to it. I’m not worried. Tara is tougher than she looks.” He grins mischievously. “I can run interference. Play the charming son. Everyone likes me.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Congratulations, Papa.”
My throat tightens. I nod once, unable to speak for a moment. “Merci, mon fils.”