Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
OCEAN CLOUD IV
ATTN: DAMIEN DE DANDENEAU
CABINA #148
84121 SALERNO, SA
ITALIA
So, what do you think of the new and improved Conseils ?? Have you been watching the YouTube videos?? We can’t pump them out fast enough. (By the way, do you have WhatsApp? Maybe we can use it to text when you’re in range of a Wi-Fi signal).
Every day gets better and better. I mean, I’m getting paid to film beautiful places, write about them, and share it all with the world. I think I’m living my dream. I just never imagined my summer taking a turn like this. Emi’s a good influence. She’s got me sporting the carpe diem lifestyle. Your country seems to have better practice at that.
Also, there is something you should know. Jamie’s been helping me with the filming for Conseils . I know you guys aren’t on the best of terms—you can confide in me when you’re ready. But, truthfully, we’re becoming good friends, he and I. And I don’t say that about just anyone. I hope you two can reconcile one day.
How’s the Amalfi coast?
Bisous,
Kat
* * *
KAT MCLAUREN
22 RUE DES FLEURS
06360 èZE
FRANCE
Kat! I just finished reading the latest Conseils . It is perfect. Tu es vraiment incroyable.
I watched your travel guide through Valensole. You really know which shots will capture the essence of a place. Très impressionnant. And you look so natural on camera. Tu es d’une beauté ravissante. Je n’ai jamais vu un visage aussi beau de toute ma vie. :)
And don’t worry about Jamie and me. That’s in the past. Sometimes the truth needs time to breathe, and I wouldn’t want things to get messy. Not now. But do me a favor and ask him what’s got him so shaky when he’s holding the camera. He’s not nervous, is he? Hahahaha. Je plaisante.
Honestly, Kat. Je n’ai jamais rencontré quelqu’un d’aussi originale que toi. You enchant me. I can’t stop thinking about you. My whole world shifted when we met. The way you stand up for your dreams and won’t take no for an answer. I’ve never encountered such conviction in another person. Have you always been this way? Or is it something in the water?
I’ll be back within the month. I’d like to take you out when you’ve finished your au pairing, of course. I’m sure Jamie’s mother wouldn’t want you to get too distracted. It’s been a few months of unfortunate circumstances, eh? Quand même, whatever happens at the end of summer, I want to tell you how special you’ve become to me. Keep being you, Kat. The world needs more of it.
Bisous,
Damien
* * *
“I ls sont partis!” Emi shakes her fists excitedly, nearly whacking her feather earrings out of their clasps.
“Every copy?”
She nods. “Every single one. I checked la boulangerie, la crêperie, et le café with the salade ni?oise that you like.”
My jaw drops, and my hand loses all feeling. I nearly spill my steaming cup of tea all over my notebook and maxi skirt. But I’d rather burn my thigh than get a drop on these plush sofa chairs in the Chessley sitting garden.
“Quoi!” A smile radiates over my face as I lean back into the cushion. I web my fingers behind my neck and lean back, welcoming the shade of the azalea bushes. The garden’s limestone fountain trickles its gentle lullaby. “Is this what bliss feels like?”
Emi plops down next to me, swiping a madeleine biscuit from the tray on the weather-resistant coffee table. “Whatever you are doing,” she starts, wiping off the crumbs from her linen tank top, “it’s working.”
My exuberance subsides as I realize the harsh reality that comes with such success: maintaining it. Not just for Solange’s sake, but for mine as well. The half-filled copy of my Young Soarers application peeks out of the backpack by my legs, taunting me.
But another paper on my lap regains my attention. Emi makes kissing noises when she sees it. Damien’s latest letter. He doesn’t seem bothered that I’d spent nearly four hours a day with Jamie for the past week and would be doing so for the rest of the summer. But that’s just the kind of guy he is. It’s refreshing.
Emi slyly peels the letter off my lap and grips either side of the handwritten note, scouring every line. She gasps and points to the middle of the page. “Que c’est beau,” she comments, pressing her hand to her heart.
A blush invades my cheeks, and I return to the flowery shade, sinking back in the couch cushion. My smile dissolves as I nod in Emi’s direction. “Read the rest.”
The last paragraph had turned the best letter I’d received all summer into the worst one.
Emi traces her finger toward the end of the paper. “Quel est le problème?” she asks.
“‘Whatever happens at the end of summer,’ just means he doesn’t see us working out. Doesn’t it?” I hug a square pillow to my stomach and rest my gaze on the villa’s stucco.
Emi tosses the letter in between us on the couch. “Not necessarily.”
I shrug, but my loosened muscles freeze in place the second I hear those clacking heels against the terra-cotta tile inside. Angela struts out the double glass doors and into the garden. She bats an accordion fan by her neck without pause as she prepares for her miniature speech.
“We are going for a family outing. Nico, myself, and all the children.”
I lean forward, packing my backpack. “I’ll make sure dinner is ready when you get back.”
Angela inhales as if her next words were already implied. “You are coming with us. We are going to Nico’s favorite... pub. Emi, your father said that you are working at the Cave tonight. Otherwise, you would be welcome.”
I shift my attention to Emi, who after thanking her aunt looks down, her dark orange curls shielding her eyes.
The situation rattles me. In my nearly two months at the Chessley villa, not once has there been a group outing of any kind.
“Are we celebrating something?” I ask.
Wrong question, Kat. Angela’s nostrils flare.
“We do not need to celebrate to be with each other, eh?” She swerves around and shuts her fan, jolting it above her head as she walks back inside. “Dix minutes.”
I crane my neck to Emi. “What’s this about?”
Emi’s reply is only a one-shoulder shrug. She insists that she needs to be off, preemptively avoiding my eventual question on why she keeps picking up shifts at the Cave.
So rattled by the letter I’d received, I hadn’t known how to reply to Damien, and it had delayed my scheduled 8 a.m. dropoff in the post box. Now with this Chessley escapade stealing the rest of my afternoon, I have to condense my letter writing time from sixty minutes of thought-through cursive to ten minutes of rushed scribbles two notches above chicken scratch.
And with the local post taking a week off for their holiday, this letter can’t wait. After all, I couldn’t have Damien thinking I’m ghosting him, not after he poured a few precious words straight from his heart. No, if I left him high and dry, he’d probably figure “might as well make some moves on these gorgeous Italian women.” Well, maybe not. Knowing what I do about him, from how he carries himself—from how he writes, really—he’s probably among the men with the highest integrity traipsing across the Amalfi Coast.
I condense my own feelings down on the sheet of paper and add a final line without filtering it through my “too flirty, too forward” scale. Nearly slicing my tongue as I lick and seal the envelope, I plop on the stamps and check my phone. Just a minute past noon.
The slap of a metal box’s thin lid rattles.
No. Crap! The postman came early.
Abandoning my things in the garden, I charge barefoot through the house, scrunching up the skirt that had seemed like the perfect decision four hours earlier.
I barely catch garbled Chessley conversations in the living room as I bolt out the front door and off the marble steps. I quickly regret not putting shoes on as each gravel stone pricks the bottoms of my feet. But that doesn’t matter now.
The postman is about to take a hard left out of the driveway on his yellow moped.
“Wait!” I wave my hands.
He turns around and flips up his helmet’s visor, allowing me to meet him at the villa’s gate.
“J’ai une lettre.” I hold up the note for Damien.
“Kat!” A voice shouts behind me. It’s Jamie, running down the driveway, his mouth set in a firm line.
I return my focus to the postman, lifting up the letter. “C’est très important,” I say. “Comme les autres.” Really though, it’s more important than the others, but I don’t have a moment to finagle that sentence out.
The man tilts his head. “Quoi?”
Was my French messed up? Did I say it wrong?
“Here,” I say, holding out the letter. Just as he opens the box fastened to the seat behind his, Jamie’s footsteps reach a crescendo. He stops next to me, taking a moment to catch his breath.
“Kat, wait. No.”
I scoff and cross my arms. “Seriously, are you that bothered by me writing to him?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “N-no, it’s not that.” His eyes avoid me and search the mail hamper on the moped. Jamie gives a slight nod to the postman before returning his focus to me. “That won’t get to him for another week. They may be collecting the post today, but it won’t be dispatched until the week after. One of the chefs at the Vigne lives over the border in Ventimiglia.”
“Italy?” I say.
Jamie nods, a few of his wavy hairs falling out of the low bun. Now noticing his fresh-pressed button-down, I surmise he’s also joining the Chessley excursion. Odd for him.
“I can have him drop it in the Italian post after his shift is over tonight.” My wary eyes cause his to soften to that gentle emerald I know well. “He won’t read it, promise.”
Day-one Jamie is back, at least for a moment. Despite the friction between us this summer, I can’t deny that he’s been there for me. With the lamb in the bed, with Conseils . I don’t have any incriminating evidence to prove his intentions to be malicious. So I nod my agreement, and we walk back to the villa after we say our “au revoir” and “mercis” to the postman.
“Bonnes vacances, Monsieur,” Jamie says with a final wave.
A warmth localizes near my lower back, but it dissipates as soon as it arrives. It was Jamie’s hand. I catch him swiping it back and scratching the back of his neck. He clears his throat, clearly embarrassed, like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.