Chapter 6
Chapter Six
M y unzipped suitcase looms in my peripheral vision. The en suite bathroom, though a marble masterpiece, unfortunately can’t block reality from sticking out like a sore thumb.
I haven’t committed to putting my clothes away yet. I did the same when I spent a semester in Sevilla. Kept piling clean, folded laundry over the unworn items in my bag. Pretty soon I just started wearing the same five pieces that scattered the top of the pile. Somehow, it made the temporality of it all that much more prevalent. It was soothing, and at the time, an antidote for homesickness. That’s not the reason I’m avoiding it now though.
There’s just no good reason for me to stay here. I mean the kids, besides maybe Milo, think I’m Satan in disguise. Angela clearly isn’t too impressed with my Americanness. And Jamie... I can’t get a firm read on him. Sure, he’s devastatingly gorgeous and makes my whole body blush just by glancing my way. But he goes from warm and charming to robotic and indifferent faster than the speed of light. Besides, Angela’s rules prohibit me from getting involved with him anyway; not that I’m convinced that he’s even interested, with his freight train of mixed signals.
But there’s one good reason for me to stay here: the Young Soarers program. How great would it look on my application if I au paired for eight hours before booking a one-way flight home? I’d be cast as a flake before my would-be cubicle had a name tag.
I flop onto the bed. Of course it’s the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever laid on. I rest my head on the pillowcases made of satin-like cotton and stare at the wood beams crossing the ceiling. A small copper chandelier dangles overhead. I figured Angela would put me in the shabbiest room in the house. Assuming she did, this is still Ritz-Carlton level. The tapestry rug, wooden dresser, and boutique blush love seat give it a homely charm.
Out the window, warm twinkle lights on the terrace glisten against one of the large chestnut trees. I poke my head around the drapes, and through the glass is a view of the water assuming the color of the night sky. City lights speckle across the juts of land and on board the sailboats in the bay.
The thump of a shutting car door twists a knot in my stomach. Gentle lantern light graces a stocky man with an indistinguishable face but a head as shiny as if it’s been squeegeed all afternoon. From the driveway, he scuffs under the trellis and toward the main foyer.
How many people are at this family dinner?
I curl my toes as the muffled voices get louder below.
Get your shit together, Kat.
My pep talk draws me toward my suitcase, languidly at first. But the more affirmations I chant, the more semi-temporarily energized I feel.
“You’re not some whiny loosey-gooser.” I climb into my forest-green jumpsuit, pop in some pearls, and spritz the perfume that managed not to spill during its overseas jumble. I eye my reflection in the mirror, snarl, and flex my biceps inward. “I eat kids for breakfast... Okay, too far. Too far...” I broaden my shoulders and tilt my head, my chestnut curls tumbling over my shoulders. “At least I look fucking fire.”
Leaving the cringe behind, I head down the hall with the bottle of wine in hand. The housewarming gift had completely escaped me in the flurry of my arrival.
Conversation bubbles beneath the grand spiral staircase. Leaning over the banister, I spot a few men chatting with Angela. The stocky, bald man I saw outside my window wears a red and white striped ascot. The other, tall with slicked back salt-and-pepper hair, gives Angela a peck on the lips. He must be Nicholas.
The rubber ends of my half-inch Target booties thump over the hardwoods. The men don’t notice, but Angela snaps her head upward. I smack my back against a wall drenched in shadow. Angela, as it turns out, is a nightmare of mine come true. Getting on her good side is like a code even an FBI agent couldn’t crack.
Earlier when I was self-touring the house, I’d found a secret staircase in the easternmost wing tucked behind a pastel-painted door that leads to the kitchen. I’m guessing it’ll look better if I drop the wine off in there first before addressing this yet-to-be-determined group.
The descent down the wooden staircase transports me back in time. Sweet and musky hickory meld with the coolness of the unlit plaster walls. I crack open the door and see platters of food spread over the countertops. Someone grabs the handle on the other side and swings the door open, a fluster of wind attacking my face. It’s a woman about six inches shorter than me and forty years older, resting hands over the apron tied around her hips.
“Bonjour,” I say, my voice wavering.
The woman tilts her head, her silvery strands of hair glistening in the warm kitchen light. She firms her grip on a rolling pin. Her biceps alone could qualify her as an MMA fight.
“Qui es-tu?”
While I could berate myself for eternity on why I didn’t bother to practice a bit more basic French on the plane, I have to somehow convince this woman that I’m not a party crasher or a jewelry thief. But someone else takes care of that for me.
“Sylvie,” the raspy voice says.
Jamie. He walks into the kitchen and rests his hand on the cook’s shoulder before gesturing to me. The woman’s eyes light up when she sees him.
I can’t help but stare a bit. He’s cleaned up nicely. Real nice. Navy pants and blazer. Chocolate leather shoes. His hair, wound in a low bun, is still warm from the sun.
“C’est Kat. Notre au pair. She’s from the States.”
“états Unis?” Sylvie returns her gaze to me. “Est-ce que tu parles fran?ais?”
I know that phrase, so I shake my head without Jamie’s translation. Sylvie makes what sounds like a disappointed “hmm” and crosses her arms.
“Sylvie is from Marseille. About a few hours’ drive down the coast. She understands basic English, but she doesn’t speak it.”
“Ah. Um...” I quickly sort through the cobwebs in my mental arsenal of French lingo, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what’s informal and what’s formal and which this situation would be considered. I don’t have time to consult Google or my language learning apps, so I just have to swing for the fences on this one.
“Comment ?a va?” I ask Sylvie. Wrong choice. Sylvie lets out a sigh through her nostrils. But I recover with, “I mean, I mean, comment allez-vous?”
Jamie forces away a grin. He couldn’t be any more transparent. Fortunately, Sylvie seems to appreciate my efforts.
“Bien, merci,” she says. The wrinkles on her face soften as a warm smile pushes through her freckled cheeks.
Sylvie understands when I lift the wine bottle, grabbing it from my hands and thanking me.
“Well I’m glad you’re amused,” I whisper to Jamie, though my voice doesn’t stray from annoyed territory.
“I like that color,” Jamie says, pointing to my jumpsuit. I look down and tug at the pant leg to distract from all the wrinkles that amassed from being shoved in a suitcase last minute.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I like your... hair.”
I like your hair? Really, Kat? Why don’t you follow up with, “that heavenly cologne of yours is making me swoon.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to thank my mum and dad for the genetics.” He smiles.
Okay, seriously. If Jamie Chessley’s main priority is to keep his distance from me physically and emotionally this summer, this flirty side of him isn’t helping us one bit. I wonder if this is how it’ll be. One moment, he’s the easygoing baker Jamie, and the next, it’s the well-rehearsed stuck-up rich-boy act, complete with a bad attitude and no time for anyone, let alone the au pair. I’d rather he just pick a single persona, preferably the option that wouldn’t get me fired, nor get my feelings involved.
A loud clacking sound steals our attention as Angela bustles into the kitchen, flicking her black dress out like a flamenco dancer.
“There you are,” she says to Jamie. “Viens.” She claps at him before readjusting her satin shawl. “You too.” A nod in my direction lassos me with an invisible rope.
Jamie and I follow her out with a wave to Sylvie, who hums along as she finishes up the meal’s preparation. Turns out the pots and pans aren’t just decoration. And by the looks of the plethora of vegetables, meats, fish, and bread spilling over the countertops, I’m starting to think this dinner feeds a bit more than the family of six.
We’re not two steps onto the terrace when I hear someone shout my name. Sitting at a long dining table underneath the trellis’s canopy of wood beams, vines, and twinkle lights is Emi, Antoine, and Marie. Emi hugs me, and I stiffly comply as she kisses both my cheeks. Amid the day’s events, the fact that Emi and Jamie are cousins had escaped my mind.
“?a va?” She looks like she spent the afternoon by the beach. Her skin is golden. She’s glowing. Either from the refreshment of a shower after wading in salty sea water or the fact that she’s wearing a stunning coral-colored maxi dress with gilded stitching.
“Kat, how are you liking the place?” Antoine scratches his fluffy mustache.
“Just fine.”
“And the kids?” Marie asks, sipping her sparkling water. She does a poor job at hiding her amusement.
“Um, well, they’re fine too.” I inadvertently catch Angela’s gaze. “Great, I mean. They’re great. It’s great. It’s all great.”
“Great,” Jamie says. He smirks at me.
Angela waves her finger between me and Antoine. “Tell me, how do you all know each other?” Antoine opens his mouth, but Angela cuts him off to ask me. “Did my brother drive you?”
I hardly nod, not sure if that’s the correct response here. Angela pops one of her hips.
“Antoine, if it’s money, you know Nico and I will help.”
“Not everything is about money, Angie.”
“Then pourquoi?”
Marie pipes in. “Conversation.”
“Ah,” Angela says, nodding though unimpressed. “Je comprends.”
Even I comprends . Who doesn’t need a bit of space.
I’ve been fidgeting with a loose string in my pocket long enough as I deliberate where my duties begin and end in the day. Angela and I hadn’t gotten that far. Does she expect me to get the kids? Is that overstepping? Does my role pause when she’s present?
I twist my head around me, examining the rectangular table set for twelve—what is this? A state dinner for the French Parliament?—and start taking a few steps backward.
“Where are you going?” Angela daggers a stare my way.
“Um, the kids.” I point behind my shoulder but lower my thumb as Angela shakes her head.
“Nico doesn’t need help bringing his own children to d?ner.”
I suppress an eye roll, trying not to let the sting shine through. Jamie walks beside me and pulls out a cushioned wicker chair at the table. He gestures for me to sit and then takes the seat adjacent.
“She’s tough on all the au pairs,” Jamie whispers in my ear. “Just wants to test you early. Make sure you’ll last.”
The Jamie I’d met in Antoine and Marie’s shop is returning in waves.
Moonlight sneaks through tree branches and casts itself over the ocean miles in the distance. My stomach howls. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Dinnertime was late like this in Spain, too, so I thought I’d be used to it. Guess I’m rustier than I thought.
Angela takes her seat at the head of the table while voices crescendo down the hallway leading to the terrace. Manon and Milo come bolting out the open door followed by the men I saw in the foyer.
I get a clearer view of Nicholas Chessley this time around. He’s about Jamie’s six-foot stature, though a touch lankier, and they share the same emerald-green eyes, as clear as sea glass. He takes Angela’s hand, and they share a moment’s gaze with each other. Years of love, probably a few turmoils, and the treasures of a family created together all wrapped up in those few seconds.
The second man, a guest I presume, holds Josie’s hand all the way to the table. He’s beefy, but not as rotund as Antoine. His accent is a bit more Cockney than Nicholas’s and Jamie’s posh London vibe. The ascot wrapped around his neck leaves room for a jade pendant and gold chain to shine through. His dark skin and pudgy cheeks look entirely familiar, but I can’t figure out why.
Angela orders her kids to stop playing with the rose bushes and to take their seats at the table. She glares at me as if to imply I should have been the one to summon them before she gestures her arm out in my direction.
“Nico,” Angela says. “C’est Kat.” Her lips tense as she examines me once more.
“Ah, the au pair!” Nicholas walks over with a smile and the same lackadaisical stride as Jamie. “How was your trip across the pond? Bloody turbulent I bet. Always is whenever I fly back east too. What airline did you take?”
“Um, United?”
“United?” The second man bellows, raising his bushy gray eyebrows.
“Ah, allow me to introduce my dear pal, Howie. Godfather to every one of these little rascals.” Nicholas tickles below Manon’s armpit. “Jamie included.”
“Oh, I’m not automatically assumed a rascal, too?” Jamie spins a wide silver ring on his pinky finger.
“Jamie, don’t be fresh.” Nicholas points at his son, who sends an eye roll right back.
“Ah, he’s twenty-six, Nick. Let him be a little fresh,” Howie says, patting Jamie on the back. He extends his hand to me for a shake. “Howard Gupta.”
I don’t do much to lessen my dropped jaw. My future boss.
Good one, Universe.
“You-You own Continental Air.” My voice is on shaky ground.
Angela finishes sipping from her water glass. “My, Kat. You already know everyone here, don’t you?” I can’t tell if that sarcasm is playful or vexed.
Howie tilts his head and smiles proudly. “You must’ve read the write-up the London Times just did for me.” He broadens his shoulders, tugging at his blazer. In person, his features are more aged and sharpened than anything in the media.
“You’re my boss. I-I mean. You will be.” I pause, scoffing nervously for fear of coming off obsessive or threatening. Jamie’s knuckle nudges a glass of water next to my plate, but I ignore him. “I’m interested in the Young Soarers, sir.”
“And look at you, here for the summer.” He leans one arm against the back of a chair and gestures to the villa with the other. “A real traveler’s spirit indeed. Kat, we’d be lucky to have you aboard.”
He winks, and I swallow harshly.
Angela clears her throat, and, as if by hypnosis, it summons the kids and the men to take their seats. My eyes remain locked on Howie as he takes the chair two spaces away from me.
My soon-to-be boss. Here. Godfather to the Chessley kids. Wait a second.
The clanging of silverware as we unroll our napkins masks my hoarse whisper to Jamie on my left. “Why didn’t you tell me he...” I pause and nod to Howie, “...would be here.”
“Figured it’d stir the pot a little,” he says with a wink.
All the seats are taken except for the one to my direct right, leaving a clear view of my future boss. It takes everything in my power not to devour the bread basket in front of me. But Jamie rips off a piece of baguette and places it on my plate. My blush evaporates as soon as he dispenses more bread to Manon and Emi.
“Sylvie.” Angela raises her voice. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Among the six or seven on the table, she lifts the wine bottle nearest her. When Nicholas inquires what the problem is, Angela insists that Sylvie must not have seen the chardonnay she had picked out to go with the bouillabaisse. Sylvie only points in my direction. I grip the tablecloth hovering over my knees.
“You brought this?” Angela’s voice is as rich as the butter tabs beside the bread, but stern as a dictator’s.
“That’s thoughtful,” Nicholas says, ripping a piece of bread between his teeth. “Your favorite, Angie. Bourgogne.”
Angela hardly lifts her mouth to a smile. “Hmm, lucky guess...” She stretches her gaze to my left.
It’s Jamie’s turn to grip something. He opts for crinkling his pants. But Angela continues trailing her sight to her own brother.
Antoine lifts his hands and says, “Wasn’t me. The girl knows her wines.”
Angela politely grunts as Sylvie continues on with the dinner courses. All seven of them. Fortunately, Jamie explains the order, starting first with an apéritif to stimulate digestion. Like a liquid appetizer. Following the others’ leads, I take small sips of the dandelion-gold liqueur. Either it’s supposed to taste like this or the bottle has gone rancid, because as soon as the sweetness dissipates, I’m left with a grassy aroma permeating my mouth. I reach for my water glass to get the dry taste out of my mouth, but Manon, who was watching my entire reaction, snickers at me. To spite her, I push my water back to its place and slug the rest of the aperitif only to regret it two seconds later as I cough against the fireball scorching my throat.
Manon: One. Kat: Zero.
The starter is a chilled veggie ceviche featuring green peas, cucumber, herbs, and local goat’s cheese. After we gobble up the introductory plate, Sylvie serves small portions of the bouillabaisse soup. Saffron, fennel, white wine, and a hint of orange zest infuse the chunky pieces of poached rockfish floating in the bowl. The conversation pitters as we dunk our baguette pieces in the luxurious broth.
Howie asks Angela how her fashion line is doing. To her credit, it’s been deemed the most sustainable luxury French brand, and they’ve just exceeded their fiscal year’s goals. The feat turns heads, but her modesty squelches any praise that might follow. Rather, Angela dons the glory to Sylvie who’s delivering our main course: braised lamb shank over a bed of truffle risotto and grilled garden vegetables. As a finishing touch, she drizzles the aromatic red wine sauce that tenderized the cooked meat.
“Délicieux, Sylvie!” Antoine lifts his glass of wine in her direction. She only bows bashfully before returning to the kitchen.
“How do you like your food, Kat?” Emi asks, popping a piece of eggplant into her mouth.
“Délicieux,” I say without much confidence in my accent. Angela’s eyes burn into the right side of my cheek. Her spot at the head of the table is fitting, where she can see everything and insert herself into conversations that she deems fit to intervene.
“There’s more where that came from,” Emi says.
Angela clears her throat. “Mmm, the French know food.” She continues massacring her lamb shank with delicate silverware cuts.
Howie wipes his mouth. “Ah, you mean you don’t like a good old Olive Garden meal when you visit the States?”
“A what?” Angela raises her brow.
“I fancy their breadsticks,” Nicholas says.
Angela rolls her eyes.
We polish off a few more bottles, but I don’t feel the regular topsy-turvy tipsy I do when I have more than a glass at home. Perhaps the food’s just soaking it up. And amazingly, I’m not even full by the time Sylvie brings out the fourth dish.
“You’re gonna like this,” Jamie says to me with a sly eye.
“What is it? Snails? I’ve tried escargot before you know. Doesn’t bother me as long as I chew quickly... and don’t look at the plate.”
He chuckles. His attention feels like sunshine.
“Le trio de fromage,” Sylvie announces, placing a platter before us with three cheeses.
A long cylinder of goat cheese sits between a wedge of Roquefort, speckled blue cheese, and a circle of Camembert.
Cheese? After dinner?
My scrunched brow widens Jamie’s smile.
Howie leans across the empty chair and says, “Don’t worry, I thought it strange myself the first time I tried it.”
“It is not strange,” Angela sighs. “It is a delicacy, and if we had it earlier, it would’ve spoiled our meal.”
“That’s why you don’t like mozzarella sticks, right, Maman?” Manon says, proudly looking quickly at Jamie to reciprocate her giggle.
Angela grunts in disgust.
“If only Maccy D’s had those, Manny,” Nicholas said, high-fiving his daughter.
The few bites of cheese actually do settle the meal quite nicely. And for the finale, we have Tarte tropézienne. After the piercing glare Angela sent Howie for calling it cake, I hesitate to call it anything but a sweet bun filled with a layer of cream. And either the wine is catching up to me or it’s the fact that it’s almost eleven, but this tarte transcends me to a whole other world. The light-as-air brioche melts in my mouth, leaving the luscious orange cream to be savored.
The feast has intoxicated me so entirely that I hardly catch on to Nicholas pouring the pièce de résistance, a twenty-year-old cognac. The knots in my shoulders and upper back have unwound themselves throughout the meal, and I slump back in my woven chair, swirling around the dark amber brandy. The licorice and vanilla notes perfume my lips.
“Enjoying yourself?” Jamie asks. His eyes have relaxed too, his shoulders dropped. Even the once-tight low bun has loosened, pulling out his wavy side bangs.
Before I can expand on my smile, Nicholas hijacks Jamie’s attention.
“Jamie, are you ready for Amsterdam on Thursday? Did you read those contracts?”
I can tell by the way his knuckles whiten as he crumples his napkin that it’d be days before I see his presence at calm again. “Yeah, Dad,” Jamie grumbles, avoiding eye contact with his father.
“Can’t you sound a bit more enthusiastic? You of all people know how long it took to make this deal. We don’t always host sales celebrations.”
Jamie cocks his head. “So why the need for one now?”
“James.” Nicholas’s voice cools. “We are a family business. So we’re going to act like one. I think you can take two days off from the clubs and the girls for a trip with your colleagues from Chessley Enterprises.”
Jamie mockingly smiles and raises his glass. “Always business or bust, isn’t it, Dad?”
Nicholas mumbles his stern response. “Yes. Now more than ever.” He adjusts his collar. Jamie, now engaged in a game of sugar cube table hockey with Josie, doesn’t seem to be paying much attention.
Angela twists her head to her husband. “Nico, quel est le problème?”
“Nothing, mon trésor.” He pats her hand and takes a swig of cognac, but Angela’s pursed lips tell me she isn’t convinced. Howie takes the opportunity to shift the subject, though Angela and Nicholas remain disposed in their own side conversation. I keep my ear open to it, so that if it’s about me, I can quickly prove their disappointments wrong.
“Speaking of properties,” Howie says. “Sure are a lot for sale ‘round here.”
His declaration only allows me to catch the tail end of Angela and Nicholas’s semi-private chat. “It could ruin everything. Maybe this’ll set the record straight.”
What does he mean?
No one else seems to notice. Antoine, Emi, and Marie are dozing off. Sylvie is close by, but her focus remains on clearing plates.
Nicholas addresses Howie, hammering on about the area’s real estate market. How tourists flood the streets of Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo and can’t seem to break the spell that the French Riviera has over them, so they resort to purchasing any and all property they can.
All this talk of buying and selling has reeled Jamie’s attention back in.
“Whoever snagged that shabby little chateau a few miles down the hill”—Howie points in the direction of where Jamie, the kids, and I took our picnic—“has their work cut out for ’em.”
“Pardon,” Angela says, reengaging with her guests. “But what idiot would buy that dump?”
Howie rubs his shiny head. “Beats me. They’re gonna have to pave the whole road to even get to it. To each their own, I suppose.” He sips his cognac. “If it were me, I’d spend that kind of quid on enough pottery to fill my four houses.”
Humblebrag. But a fan of the arts. Interesting.
“Ah,” Antoine says, batting his eyes open. “But it has potential, no?”
“Only you would think so,” Angela responds, clasping her fingers together.
Antoine smooths out his peppery mustache, leans back in his chair, and smiles wryly at his sister. “You and your standards, Angie.”
Angela scoffs. “Well, where would we be without them, hmm? Certainly wouldn’t have had the meal we just enjoyed or the view we see now,” she says, sweeping an arm toward the harbor in the distance. “Il ne faut rien laisser au hasard. Pourquoi prendre le risqué.”
Jamie’s cheeks hollow out at the word risqué .
“Leave nothing to chance,” Nicholas translates.
Marie pipes in with, “Comme avec la nouvelle assistante.” She winks at Angela, who swats her hand playfully and toys with the pearls adorning her neck.
“Ce n’est pas vrai. C'est juste une rumeur,” Angela defends.
Emi sees my befuddled expression and explains.
“Tante Angie allegedly set a private detective on her new assistant last year to make sure she wasn’t selling trade secrets.”
“Oui,” Angela affirms. “Allegedly.”
“And she was let go soon after. For undisclosed reasons,” Marie adds. With a sly grin, she pokes fun at her sister-in-law. “What was it for, Angie? Not punctual enough?”
“Maybe because she wore a leopard blouse with striped pants,” Emi jokes.
The chuckles sprinkling around the table aren’t enough to convince me whether or not Angela is telling the truth. Regardless, the idea has ingrained itself in my brain. Angela spies on her employees, looking for a reason to fire them. Lovely.
The conversation returns to the crusty old chateau across the field.
Antoine crosses his arms. “I suppose you think these buyers then are hoping any leftover ghosts will tile the salle de bains and install a toilette.”
Nicholas stretches his arm over his head. “Whatever their intentions, they better hope those ghosts charge a fair fee for the new furnace and flooring,” he says.
Laughter sputters throughout the table as Angela and Emi tack onto this place’s list of dire refurbishments. Marie doesn’t add but chuckles along. Jamie straightens his spine and takes a final swig. “Windows could use some glass, too,” he says.
I blurt out, “Mmm, to block the manure downwind.”
Howie bellows deep-belly chortles and reaches out to shake my hand. “If you can roll with the punches of this lot, well, you’re going to do just fine at Continental, Ms. McLauren.”
A twang in my abdomen sobers me.
I have to stay in èze. I can’t quit. I can’t get fired. My future depends on how well I do with the Chessleys this summer. It could make me. I could be best friends with the Continental Air CEO before I even get accepted into the Young Soarers program, or if I completely fail, I’d be doomed from the start. There is no going back. My vision board isn’t going to manifest itself without a little elbow grease.
This is fate. This is serendipity. Like hell will I let it pass me by.
And according to the ten-year plan, I’m well on my way to attending the Young Soarers alumni brunch in eight Septembers, reminiscing on my brief but brilliant tenure before transitioning to world-renowned filmmaker—route to get there, TBD, but I’ll narrow it down eventually.
As the conversation peters out and yawns catch like wildfire across the table, Milo walks up to me, his eyelids heavy under the mop of dusty blond hair. It’s my cue to get the kids in bed, and soon, the others follow with hazy goodbyes.
I melt onto the mattress, my body nourished. Though what occupies my mind is a resolve to get on with the show. But without warning or reason, another thought lingers in my head. His room resides in the opposite wing of the house, yet its distance does little to squelch my instinctive interest in his presence. When I see him next, will he be the warm, inviting Jamie I met in the village or the cool, debonair Chessley he affronts to his family?
I scoff and turn off the lamp. Doesn’t matter to me.