Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
T wo nights ago, the Lavergne vineyard carried an alluring magic in its emptiness. Tonight, sparkly-dressed attendees will populate the candlelit grounds, sipping special reserve rosé and nibbling fine culinary creations while models saunter around in immaculately curated outfits that take inspiration from airline uniforms. Angela’s party planner extraordinaire, Cécile, knows how to throw a proper shindig for multimillionaires. The day of the party, she had delegated me to chaperone the decorators and caterers, making sure everything they put out meets Angela’s specific requirements.
Everything’s nearly ready. The stringed quintet, the event staff, and the saddled horses that’ll carry guests from the car park up the carriage road. Howie had even insisted that the Vigne cater the event. He must’ve been wildly impressed by his meal there a few weeks back.
The sun is about to set, a lavender and orange hue coating the sky.
Emi and I help with setup, assembling carnation bouquets to adorn the tables overlooking the vineyards.
“Pass me some string,” she says, pointing to the spool I’m toying around my fingers. “Tout va bien?” she asks, tilting her head.
“All good,” I assure her. If “all good” accounts for 1) not getting a response letter or even a text from Damien, though he’s surely back in town 2) debating how I’ll explain to Solange that I won’t be writing her supposedly-friendly-yet-rather-scandalous article, now knowing Jamie to be the local chateau’s new owner. Sure. It’s all good.
“Excited to see your mère?” Emi asks.
I nod, picturing Mom noshing on a homemade turkey sandwich at the airport gate. A grin brims on my lips. As much as we don’t see eye to eye when it comes to career and lifestyle, I’m ecstatic for her to visit me in my final week in èze.
“I invited her to the party, but her flight may be delayed coming in.”
“Oh, too bad she won’t be here for the announcement.”
And in light of such a fruitful collaboration, Howie and Angela thought it most fitting to announce the new class of Young Soarers tonight. In fact, the top thirty-five finalists make up most of the names on the extended guest list. And being the ambitious, hungry applicants they are, not one denied the offer to be flown in overnight. Well, one did. But only because I’m already here.
When the last table is set and electric lotuses float in the garden pool, a few violins commence their warm-up prelude, and waiters take direction from the galley kitchen. Emi and I hurry to a private room in the vineyard’s manor to don our gowns and apply fresh faces of makeup.
Guests have begun trickling in by the time we finish. I take a peek out the window to see nearly a hundred people already strolling the grounds, enjoying hors d’oeuvres, and taking group photos in the soft twilight backdrop.
“This is it,” I say to Emi, interlacing my elbow in hers.
“Minou, c’était un plaisir.”
It’s been more than a pleasure. It’s been the breath of fresh air I didn’t even know I needed.
“I’m just glad I got to dress up this time,” Emi adds, sashaying in her lacy lilac gown as we click our heels down the stony hallway and onto the lawn where Antoine and Marie greet us with full glasses of bubbly.
“They like this one, eh?” Marie says, eyeing the guests guzzling down the champagne. “We’ll have to stock more at the Cave. Remember that, Emi.”
Emi swiftly swerves her attention to a server circulating through the crowd and carting a silver platter of tiny bread thins with tapenade piped on top. She excuses herself just as Howie, sporting his branded Continental ascot, approaches Emi’s parents and me with arms wide open.
“Miss Kat,” he exclaims and shakes his head in astonished delight. “My, what a summer you’ve had. I’ve never seen a Chessley au pair accomplish what you have in just a few months.”
“They grow up so fast,” Antoine kids, his eyes going to crescent slits.
Marie rolls her eyes playfully and escorts her husband away when Howie asks to speak to me privately.
“You’ve done a lot for this family, you know. Hell, for èze.”
“I’m glad to have helped.”
“Well, I hope that dirtbag—pardon my language—will right bugger off now.”
I scrunch my brow, but Howie doesn’t notice as he swigs a hefty gulp of brandy.
“Shouldn’t be like this. Not fair to Nick to lose his entire career over some silly headlines.”
“Mr. Gupta, excuse me, but I’m not?—”
“Well.” Jamie steps up to my left and hands me a glass of champagne. “How about a drink then.”
Damn, I almost forgot how nicely he cleans up. His black satin blazer complements his tanned skin.
Rein it in, Kat.
Before I get the chance to ask Howie what the heck he meant by his comment, Angela struts over, swinging her floor-length chiffon scarf across her collarbone and seizing my attention.
“Kat. Your help is... commendable. Cécile thanks you. And so do I,” she says with only an ounce of reluctance.
I lower my head bashfully, and catch Jamie tossing me a smile.
Angela clears her throat. “Jamie, go say hello to the Blanchets.” She points to a dinner table where an older couple nurses their gin and tonics, while beside them Vivian lavishes doe-eyed young men in conversation. Jamie scowls at his mother with a squabble in his eye until Angela repeats his name with reignited firmness.
After Jamie reluctantly departs, a waiter walks by with a tray of Jamie’s wild mushroom vol au vents, bite-sized puff pastry cups filled with a creamy white wine and garlic sauce. Angela and I sample the hors d’oeuvre.
“Now that’s what I call un morceau de paradis, ” Angela says, wiping her mouth in delight and pointing to the appetizer.
I lift my brow, a warmth growing in my heart. If only Jamie had heard her say it.
Moments after, Howie escorts Angela to the microphone stand on the lawn to introduce the models.
Coordinated with a lively piece from the quintet, a line of men and women decked out in Lavergne’s newest collection stride across the lawn. Spotlights sprinkled along the grass provide a serpentine path for them to follow.
I have to admit, Angela really surprised me with a mix of models of various weights and heights. Even her designs are fresh. Like the cherry pant suit one woman sports. Or the black evening gown featuring gilded pilot stripes on the wrists. Howie made sure his ascot came through on a couple of the ensembles too. Guests gawk and point at the dresses, skirts, and suits, and I make a mental note to have a fair batch of food set aside for the models to feast on at the end of the party.
“Excuse me.” A woman taps on my shoulder. Her English accent makes me wonder if she’s a colleague or a Chessley relative. “Bonjour. Kat, right?”
I nod skeptically.
“Hi,” she says, outstretching her hand. “Lottie Cho-Hayworth. I’m one of Nick’s old colleagues.”
“Ms. Cho. Hi. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Mr. Chessley over there, ” Lottie points to Jamie, who’s nodding along to Vivian’s rave reviews on the salmon puffs, “says you may be exploring a career in the film industry. I’m a professor at London Film School and a producer at BBC Studios.”
My toes clench at the same time that my stomach does. I scratch the back of my neck and pull my hand down to hide the glistening sweat glazing my palm and fingers. Wow, a real person in the film industry. In the flesh. And talking to me .
“I-I, um... I don’t know what he’s told you but, um...” I laugh nervously to stall.
“He says you have a long-standing, spirited interest and that you’re hungry to apply it.”
Well, I guess that is true.
“I’ve read your magazine and seen your docu-shorts online. You’ve got a great eye from the looks of it.” Lottie shuffles around in her purse and hands me a business card. “Let’s stay in touch. I have assistant roles opening up all the time.”
I graciously take the card with a dropped jaw that refuses to reset itself.
“Seriously, Kat. Think about it.” Lottie pats the back of my hand and makes her way to the bar, leaving me to a moment of peace where I can devour a few appetizers while hyper-analyzing the smooth cardstock between my fingers. Biting my lip, I find myself searching the lawn for Jamie. I tempt the idea of wandering to the indoor pool in the back of the manor, figuring he might use that as a private escape as well. But as I take a few steps along the gravel walkway, Emi comes rushing up to me.
“Minou,” she says, nearly out of breath, and grabs my wrists. “Solange printed the next Conseils .”
“What? I haven’t turned in...”
My forehead strains, and I heave a sigh. Something clenching in my throat holds back any words. I won’t do this to Jamie. I won’t reveal his secret.
“What did she tell you?”
Emi continues on. “Nothing much, except that she’s taken care of it. Whatever it is.”
The color drains from my face. I navigate the crowd with my gaze, searching for Jamie. He stands beside the tower of champagne glasses. His eyes are already latched on to me. I’ve got to tell him that whatever Solange put in there, I had nothing to do with it. Maybe she knows it’s him. Maybe she managed to acquire local real estate documents and found out Jamie’s ownership of the chateau. Whatever she wrote, I’ve got to warn him before word spreads like wildfire.
“Em,” I say, gently squeezing her elbow. “I’ll be back.”
I excusez-moi my way through the crowd, but when I meet Jamie, he beats me to it.
“Kat, I want to tell you something, okay?”
“No, Jamie. I need to tell you some?—”
Jamie’s face freezes when he sees someone approaching me from behind. A hand grazes the back of my shoulder. I know that cologne. But it’s lathered on so thick, it burns my nostrils.
“Damien,” I whisper, still facing Jamie.
I spin around to see Damien’s slicked-back hair and charming dimpled grin. Jittery nerves charge through my abdomen and into my throat. After more than a month of waiting, our reunion seemed like it would never transpire. Now that it’s happening, it almost feels like an illusion.
He holds up my arms and clicks his tongue. “Wow. Radiant.” His raspy French accent had only been a distant memory until now. “Puis-je dire que tu es absolument stupéfiante.”
“Must be something in the water,” Jamie mumbles. I furrow my brow at him, trying to recollect why that’s so familiar.
“Will you excuse us?” Damien asks Jamie, taking my hand.
I glance at Jamie, and our eyes meet.
“Jamie, wait here. I’ll only be a minute.” Maybe two. I feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of my head as Damien escorts me toward the lawn’s perimeter. At first, I think he wants to take in the view, but he keeps leading me past the manor and into the circular labyrinth of hedges to the west of the indoor pool. I bite my lip, glancing at the natural smolder his face always seems to make. He hides those piercing gray eyes behind thick lashes. My stomach is in knots, though I can’t decipher why. Perhaps our minds have found safety with each other through the letters, and now our bodies have to catch up.
“I waited all summer for this,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulder.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Really?” I stop in my tracks in the gravel path. “Damien, wait. I need some answers, okay?”
“To what?” His chuckle is lighthearted but serious.
“You never got back to me when I asked to meet up this week.”
Confusion spreads across his freshly shaven face.
“Did you not get this week’s letter?”
He straightens his velvet blazer. “What letter?”
“C’mon. Be serious.” His silence sets my imagination running wild. “The letters we’ve been exchanging all summer? You have been getting them, right?”
“Kat, what are you talking about?”
My throat goes dry as the blood drains from my face. I press a sweaty palm to my forehead, scanning the pebbly ground, trying to surmise a possible explanation.
I mumble, “How is this possible?”
Who had I been writing all summer? Who had I been sharing so many secrets with? If not Damien then...
Maybe there’s something in the water.
The second I gasp in realization, Damien steps closer and looks longingly into my eyes.
“Hey, what do you say we just forget the party, huh? Let’s have some fun.” He lifts his dark brows and firmly presses his hand on my lower back, herding me closer to his body.
I shove him away. “No!”
“Quel est ton problème?” He raises his voice.
“What made you think it was okay to just—” But I leave it there. My vexation at being objectified pales in comparison to the betrayal surging through me right now. He’s been lying to me. Not Damien. No. Damien only wanted to get in my pants. This rage is Jamie’s doing.
I part ways with Damien in the rubble of our fallout, leaving him to spit out French curses that I’m fortunate not to be fluent in.
Storming back to the manor, I hear Howie’s voice echoing through the speakers peppered around the property as he gives a five-minute warning for the Young Soarers ceremony. Just as I turn the corner back to the party, Jamie steps in front of me, scanning my face.
“What did he do?”
I scoff sharply. “What did he do?” I shake my head, reciting a line from our correspondence. “‘Something in the water?’”
Every muscle in his face tenses as his cheeks hollow out.
“Were you just making fun of me? This was all a joke, wasn’t it?” I press. “Why did I ever think you gave a damn about me. Seriously, Jamie, what did you expect would happen when he came back?”
“I was trying to tell you,” he says.
“Not hard enough,” I exclaim. Some partygoers turn their heads, catching on to our conversation, so I lower my voice. “Do me a favor, go jump in the ocean and stay there for a while. Oh and when you get back, don’t talk to me.” A pang carves itself in my stomach as I utter the words and turn away from him. The cellos crescendo as I abandon him for the crowd gathering near the microphone stand.
Tears coat my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let one fall over this.
“Kat,” Angela hisses.
What now?
“Viens avec moi,” she says, tugging my wrist.
“But—” I point to the makeshift stage, illuminated in red, blue, and white lights.
“C’est urgent.”
Great, she’s probably firing me. I bet she found out about the kiss with Jamie from her spies.
I spin my head around the property. Okay, where’s the helicopter to fly me out of sight or the human-sized slingshot to fling me across France?
Nestled inside a lush row of grape vines and at least a hundred feet away from wandering attendees, Angela has gathered Nick, Jamie, and myself. Nick’s face is the most frigid I’ve ever seen it, his thin frame hunched over with arms tucked behind his back. Jamie is just as cold, a taciturn attitude rolling off of him in waves.
“What is said here will not go beyond these vines, eh?” Angela whips her index finger around.
I swallow hard and inhale a grapey waft. A glass of that rosé would be nice right about now.
Nick clears his throat. “Someone has been watching us this summer.”
Oh, you mean the secret spy Angela let loose on me to make sure I didn’t make out with your son? Oops, too late.
But Nick goes another direction. “Some of Chessley Enterprise’s rather bitter competition figured the only way to squash us was to take the underhanded route,” he says, trading weight on his heels.
I lift my brows, still unclear of where he’s going with this. Jamie mirrors my shock.
“They hired a private investigator to spy on us, the family. Wanted to find some,” he pauses to shrug his shoulders, “inflammatory details. Anything they could use to ruin our reputation, sully our name. They followed all of us looking for any meager scrap.”
“What,” Jamie interjects, “so you’d lose the Netherlands deal?”
Nick bows his head, his silence confirming Jamie’s question.
A weight sinks in my stomach. No wonder Nick had been so anxious about putting his happy family on display.
“I knew it,” I mumble, rather in relief that my suspicions of being tailed aren’t contrived.
“So you saw them,” Nick says.
“I thought it was you two,” I admit, glancing between Angela and Nick. “Checking up on me, making sure I didn’t...” My gaze goes straight to Jamie, whose head is bowed as he scuffs his shoe in the dirt.
Angela rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be so petty.”
Oh, you wouldn’t?
Jamie brushes his hand over his slicked-back hair. “Dad, how could you not tell me? Or Kat?”
“I insisted that it remained between your father and myself,” Angela asserts. “And I couldn’t run the risk of having our new au pair quit within the week, not after the last few summers. That would be evidence enough that the stability of our family was compromised. And Nico’s competitors would outlandishly brand him as having an unstable foundation at home that would only bleed into his business.”
I stuff my arms across my chest and trail my focus to the vines at my side. Trying to decipher what was true and what was pretend this summer would only leave me with a throbbing headache.
“We asked them to meet us here,” Nick states, causing Jamie’s head to snap up.
“Quoi?” Jamie asks. “Them as in... How do you know who they are?”
Nick explains that after no reputation-tarnishing news, his competitors dropped the investigator’s services. But the spy contacted him, requesting a private deal in return for their silence on any details they may uncover now or in the future. It’s like preemptive blackmail.
“Dad,” Jamie argues. “I know you’re trying to protect us, but if those competing firms find out you made a deal under the table, they’ll accuse you of corruption. And whoever the investigator is, what if he takes this all back as evidence that you paid to save your name. He could be testing you.”
I watch Angela lifting her long nose to the sky. Her height gives an advantage of peering around the vines for the expected detective.
And here I was thinking this whole summer that Angela was investigating me. But this reveal does confirm that I indeed wasn’t hallucinating at seeing cameras following my almost every move this summer. Whichever competing company hired the spy on the Chessleys must’ve been desperate to find some dirt since they felt the need to tail the au pair too.
Nick goes on. “Whoever it is, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if this is all a test. So what, then I’ll be slandered for protecting my family from outlandish abuses. And if our partners have a problem with that, they know the door. At least I’ll go down the honorable way.”
“Trust me,” someone says in a heavy French accent. Full branches block his face, but a particular cologne reaches my nose. No. “If this deal promises any good, I’ll make sure the Chessleys are seen as angels.”
Damien rounds the corner at the end of the row. Jamie instantly clenches his fists. A gasp shoots through Angela, and a shudder reverberates down my spine.
The olive skin and thick eyelashes that once lured me in are no longer charming. Instead, I see him for who he truly is: a slimeball. This was just another well-paying gig to him. As if he’s not already swimming in dough. Well, ka-friggin’-ching.
“Je sais, Monsieur Chessley, that you are sure to make a reasonable offer.” Damien presses his fingertips together.
“How much do you want?” Nick asks.
“No more than we agreed,” Angela reminds her husband.
Jamie shakes his head, trying to convince his father to take another route. But Nick has made up his mind.
My tongue is sour from the last sip of bubbly I’d taken only ten minutes ago. I harden my stare on Damien, the Frenchman who entranced me with his devilish charm and suave manners. I move my gaze to Jamie. Anger flushes through me. His betrayal of trust, pretending to be Damien in all those letters, fogs up my brain.
While Damien and Nick haggle, Angela taps my forearm.
“You’re not off the hook yet, Kat,” she whispers in my ear and lifts up the most recent copy of Conseils .
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
Jamie’s gaze wanders from the negotiations to us.
“Not a word is to be written about this family or this investigation. Est-ce clair?”
“What makes you think I’d wr?—”
Angela flicks to the page displaying a wide shot of Jamie’s chateau.
“Seeing that she’s having you do things like this.” She smacks the page titled “Les nouveaux propriétaires.”
Jamie’s jaw drops as his eyes lock on the photo.
“Jamie,” my voice croaks. My head is spinning. “I didn’t... I promise I didn’t...”
“Didn’t what?” Angela presses.
Nick and Damien pause the negotiations at Angela’s raised voice. Jamie lets out a heavy exhale, wiping his hand across his face.
“Merde. Cat’s outta the bag now, isn’t it,” he grumbles.
“Quoi? Did you buy that dump?” Damien asks, pointing to the article.
“Of course he didn’t,” Nick assures, but Jamie’s cold silence suggests otherwise.
Angela’s raised brow matches Nick’s.
“Why are you so surprised?” Jamie asks his mother.
“Your name isn’t in here.” Angela holds up the magazine. Instantly, Jamie’s fiery eyes soften toward mine.
“Now,” Damien says, wagging his finger like someone made a fascinating point. “ That sounds like a good deal.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asks.
“Money is nice, but property, that’s something worth fighting for. And I got a nice look at it the other night. Charming place. Jamie, Kat, don’t you agree?” A devilish grin plays on Damien’s lips. My eyes widen, and my palms go clammy. There was a photographer that night Jamie and I kissed. And it was Damien!
Before Angela presses on his snide comment, Damien clasps his hands behind his back, taking a step toward Jamie. “I’ll take it for a hundred euros.”
Jamie paid eight hundred times that. Ten years of savings, gone.
“It’s not for sale,” Jamie says, taking a step closer to Damien. Their heights are nearly identical.
Damien shrugs. I want to tell him to wipe the smug smirk off his face.
Cracking his knuckles, Damien sighs. “Suit yourself. But I’m afraid that’s my last and final offer.”
Jamie curses at Damien a few times.
“Jamie, no,” I press. “You can’t sell the chateau.” Jamie looks at me, holding me in his gaze for a few seconds.
Angela examines the article’s photographs of the chateau. Tears well above her lower lash line. “Pourquoi as-tu gardé ?a secret, Jamie?”
Jamie runs his hands through his hair, loosening the low bun.
“I’m waiting,” Damien says impatiently.
“Jamie, you don’t have to do this,” Nick urges.
Exhaling slowly, dejection lingers in Jamie’s voice as he says, “You know what’s at stake if I don’t. You’ve spent half your life going for this Netherlands deal. I won’t let him take that away from you.”
Jamie eyes a proud Damien.
“He’ll ruin everything you’ve worked for. And it’s not just your reputation and mine. It’ll be on Manon, Josie, and Milo when they’re grown. The Chessley name won’t be worth shit.”
Nick sighs, but Jamie points at the magazine in Angela’s firm grip.
“I know what you want to say about that. That it was a crap choice, and I threw my savings away. I know you want to say it.”
Flaring his nostrils, Nick protests. “No, I don’t.”
“Were you ever going to tell us?” Angela interjects, her eyes softening in a way I haven’t seen all summer.
“Does it matter now?” Jamie turns his palms up. “I know what you’d have said if I told you right from the start. You know what you’d have said.”
Nick steps closer to Jamie. “We just don’t want to see you making mistakes.”
Jamie scoffs and shakes his head. “My fucking intuition doesn’t make mistakes, all right? And screw it, while we’re on it, you know what else?” His voice is fiery and getting louder with every word. “You don’t have to like the choices I make, but that’s the point. The fallacy is believing you ever had control over my life. Yes of course you want the best for your kids, but can you try and fathom the idea that what’s best for us might not be what you had in mind?”
Simultaneously, Nick’s and Angela’s shoulders sink. Angela mutters to herself, “How did our family become so broken? Suis-je vraiment un échec d'une mère?”
Even with my gripes against her, seeing Angela so afraid that she might’ve corroded her own family relationships makes my heart sink.
Jamie calms himself. Turning to Damien, he raises his hand, waiting for Damien to shake it.
“It’s a deal. I’ll have the key to you tomorrow,” Jamie says without a drop of emotion.
“Bon choix.” Damien’s lips curl into a devious smile.
“Jamie,” I mumble. His eyes are somber.
Damien walks closer to me. “I should have asked for you too,” he says, leaning in closer than I’d ever like him to be. “Gift wrapped.” He winks.
Angela’s arm comes out of nowhere and hurls a stinging slap across Damien’s cheek.
“Agh,” he cries, rubbing the spot. When he removes his hand, a throbbing red palm shape paints his skin.
Angela throws her scarf over her neck and broadens her shoulders, stepping beside me. “Quitte cette maison tout de suite,” she tells Damien in a tone so deep, it makes my gut spin. “Et ne reviens pas. Jamais.”
“I’d do what she says and get the hell out of here,” I say firmly.
Damien still can’t help himself, shooting us a leery smile before sauntering out of the vineyard. Not four seconds of silence pass before Howie’s voice booms again from the party.
Hands on his hips, Jamie sighs, tilting his head toward the sky. Angela presses two fingers to her lips in trepidation, hesitating to reach for her son’s arm. I sneak a glance at the chateau article in the newest Conseils that Solange had written.
Howie’s voice bellows through the speakers across the lawn once more, inviting guests to the stage area for the Young Soarers reveal. Flooded with frustration, betrayal, and some guilt of my own, I hurry myself back and try to soak in the moment without my worries berating my brain.
Was Jamie putting on a show for the investigator? Is that why he was so nice to me? So caring? Was he planning on using the letters as proof of “good character”? The ideas running through my head are relentless, but they lack validity. No matter the circumstance, I’m not going to let this summer’s mess ruin something I’ve been working toward for a decade. The lies and secrets of the past few months would suffocate me if I try to digest them now.
Emi finds me in the crowd and wraps her hand around mine. “Here we go,” she says with a big smile.
Manon, Milo, and Josie gather at my right, noshing on a plate full of raspberry, white chocolate, and blueberry macarons.
Howie stands proudly on the stone patio “stage.” Fifteen blue, white, and red balloons float beside him. His voice rings out through the microphone. “I would like to ask all of our candidates to gather at the front.”
Emi pats me on my back as I nudge my way from the rear of the crowd until I’m side by side with thirty-four other hopefuls. I wonder if they’ve been as obsessed as I’ve been for too many years to be proud of.
Howie disperses a sealed notecard with our names labeled on the front. He instructs us not to open them until his signal.
“Our advisory board has deliberated for many hours and would like to thank each of our finalists for the outpouring of effort. If we could induct you all, we would.”
I see Jamie approach the crowd in the corner of my eye.
“On my go,” Howie continues. “You will open your cards together. Is everyone ready?”
A few murmurs ripple around our group.
“Everyone else, are you ready?” Howie bellows. Whistles and claps return his question. “All right, all right. Freya,” he says to a young woman on the switchboard. “Can we dim the lights?”
When the crowd has settled, Howie begins his countdown.
“Three...” His pauses draw out a lengthy tenure. “Two...”
Hurry up!
“One!”
Tape tears ripple around me, followed by excited gasps, unfiltered yelps, and dejected sighs. The smile on my face doesn’t move an inch as I read my card. My stomach drops.
“We regret to inform you...”
This can’t be right.
I did everything. I got the grades, the internships, the references. I flew to friggin’ France to au pair for one of Europe’s most elite families. Launched a damn travel magazine. Became buddy-buddy with Howie Gupta.
How did this happen?
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Continental Air’s twenty-fifth class of Young Soarers!”
The last of the confetti cannons explode in tandem with the spotlights radiating every inch of the patio. I watch fifteen qualified new graduates take their place on stage while the crowd roars with applause and cheers. This time, the tears stream out, and I don’t bother to shove them back in. I pick up the bottom of my dirt-soaked dress, high-tailing it into the manor. My vision’s completely blurred by the salty droplets.
I hear my name called behind me more than once and by a smattering of voices, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. My feet pull me to the familiar and a wave of chlorine invades my stuffy nostrils. Dropping to the cement floor, I dunk my feet, heels and all, straight into the pool.
The reflection ripples across the surface. A young woman stares back. She stands confidently, with her head held high and her shoulders back, her sun-kissed skin complemented nicely by the champagne sequins glittering on the gown she wears. She’s not the same person who stepped off the red-eye from Boston’s Logan airport. She wouldn’t have been so self-assured or relaxed in a dress like this.
I catch my breath as my sobs subsist. A door behind me creaks open. I’m torn on whether I actually need human support or if I’ve expended all the words I can speak tonight. Estelle takes a seat beside me, following my lead and thrusting her tie-dye sandals into the water. She tugs my shoulder to hers, and we rest our heads on each other’s, drinking in the needed calm until someone else appears in the doorway.
Mom.