Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I haven’t cried as much as I did last night since my parents divorced when I was ten. All the makeup in the world won’t hide the residual raw nose and puffy eyes.
And as much as I’d rather see Jamie stick his head in twenty feet of cow manure for feigning Damien’s letters and lying to me all summer, I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t bug me to leave here with him thinking the worst of me—that I’d considered selling him out. Still, he’s not off the hook yet. Why did he continue with the letters for so long? Cheap entertainment? No, I know his character isn’t that shitty. He’s not Damien. Regardless, Jamie’s certainly no Prince Charming. And that kiss? To me, it was magic. But for him, was it just as special?
For one of the first times yet, I’m grateful to Angela for dissolving my remaining au pair duties to be with Mom for the rest of the week. I’m still raw after last night’s party. When I get to her room at the Monte Carlo Marriott, Mom swings open the door. Her face is as Mom-like as ever. Her fluffy brown hair layered at the shoulders. The rosy Calvin Klein perfume spritzed from the tip of her Lands’ End tee to the bottom of her khaki capris. She pulls me in for a bear hug, pressing the back of my head into her shoulder as I let loose a howling cry.
We sit out on the balcony, and she listens to my outpouring of details from the summer. I omit some of the steamy moments between Jamie and me, alluding to a fortified connection now broken. It’s new territory for me to discuss romantic inklings with Mom. But the c’est la vie mantra has truly wedged itself into my life.
I sprinkle in the latest events. For starters, I’ve already initiated the Plan B I never anticipated needing: the MBA program at my undergrad alma mater. It’d check the next box and give me some time to reevaluate career next steps.
And I won’t have to worry about running into Jamie again. Apparently, after he surrendered the chateau to Damien, he agreed to join Nick as a full-time partner in Chessley Enterprises as they expand into the American real estate market. They’ll be in morning-to-evening meetings all week. I doubt I’ll see him before my departing flight in a few days.
I mull over countless ruminations. Would things be different if I had stuck to my guns and refused to write the fussy, intrusive chateau article in Conseils ? Or maybe if I’d been a bit more vigilant with Damien? Maybe if I’d seen him as the dirtbag who just wanted to get some action of his own and cast me as the Chessleys’ sleazy nanny, tainting their family name. If I could’ve seen through the spell, then I could’ve been the one to out him as a seedy private detective willing to blackmail anyone to get his way.
When I’ve cried out all the tears left in my body, I blow my nose and give Mom the chance to say something.
“Kat, hon. This isn’t the end,” Mom says, patting my knee.
Really? Because nothing has gone to plan this summer. Not Damien. Not Conseils . And most definitely not Young Soarers.
“You’re a smart cookie. So what if the Young Soarers said no to you? A thousand other companies are out there and will say yes.”
I shake my head and peer over the balcony at the sparkling blue sea.
“I’m just sick of it. I’m absolutely fucking sick of trying to impress the fuck out of people just to end up at rock fucking bottom.”
“You can’t be perfect all the time.”
“Yeah? Doesn’t feel like that,” I mumble, shooting her a look.
“Did I ever give you that impression?”
I close my eyelids and stand at the railing, scraping my fingers across the polished cream stone. “Whenever I talk about any career outside the realm of school or even Young Soarers, you don’t say anything. How the hell am I supposed to read that?” My voice starts to raise, but I bring it back down.
Mom inhales deeply and stands next to me. “I’m sorry it came across that way. I thought it’s what you wanted. What you always talked about.”
“Well, I knew you couldn’t exactly give a thumbs-up to anything else if it didn’t have the same weekly paycheck as the Soarers.”
Mom sighs, bowing her head.
After my parents’ divorce, Mom raised me on her own. I suppose prudence hardwired itself into her brain, and it vicariously trickled down, training me to see the illusory security of living paycheck to paycheck.
“It’d be so easy for me to blame you and everyone else. All the teachers, guidance counselors, even my friends. Part of me wants to,” I admit, my throat tightening. I exhale and look out at the ocean. “But it wouldn’t be fair. It’s no one’s fault, really. We all fell under the same spell. I guess it’s just part of life, to figure out what identity you really want and give up the rest that doesn’t fit.” Which means I have to give myself some grace to move in a new direction.
Before I even hit puberty, and without consciously realizing, I’d fooled myself into thinking I’d be securing my future by assuming someone else’s approach to life: a gig in corporate America. It may be their first step, but it doesn’t have to be mine.
It’s the greatest paradox. A job that dangles “security” over my head, yet keeps me barricaded from my true calling. So the question remains, am I willing to crack the cocoon and spread my wings?
“I want you to be happy,” Mom adds, wrapping her hand around my waist. “We all have different lives to live. It’s taken me more than a few decades to realize that.”
“And that I’m gonna do things differently than you would,” I affirm.
She sucks in a breath and nods. I rest my head on her shoulder, gazing at the harbor. The headache that was my future starts to wane, and I hug her tightly.
“You are one special woman, Kat. And I’m proud to call you my daughter. Live life for you. Not for me. Not for anyone else,” she says gingerly, rubbing my back.
When we pull away from each other, both of us have freshly moist eyes.
“Did you finish that MBA application yet?”
My shoulders slump. “No.”
“Good. Delete it. It’s obviously keeping you from something more important to you.”
I pull her in for another hug and whisper my thanks.
* * *
We wrap up our breakfast on the patio before heading to èze. I take Mom up and around nearly every café and shop in the village in her hunt for souvenir magnets. We stop at the Cave where Emi is just about to head out the door. I wave and call out her name.
Emi skips to meet us on the cobblestone street, tugging the strap of a packed canvas tote bag on her shoulder.
“You must be Maman McLauren,” Emi says to Mom, giving her a double bise on the cheeks. Mom giggles and concedes.
“See, Mom, you’re getting Frencher by the minute,” I joke before nodding to Emi, who’s wearing a modest cardigan and pencil skirt. “Où vas-tu?”
“I’m going to school.” Emi winks and straightens her spine, barely suppressing the enormous grin sneaking onto her face. “ Les enfants aren’t going to teach themselves,” she quips.
Emi leans in closer, dropping her voice to just above a whisper.
“Apparemment, ma mère says,” she looks over at Marie helping a customer inside the wine shop, “Jamie’s quitting the Vigne for good. He came in for his last pickup this morning. So he really is a full-time Chessley Enterprise employee. I never thought I’d see it happen.”
“Do Angela and Nick know about his time at the Vigne now?”
“Je ne sais pas.” Emi shrugs. “They aren’t speaking.”
“How’s that? Aren’t he and Nick partners now?”
“Maybe so. But Jamie won’t talk about anything if it’s not the Chessley business. He won’t even answer ma mère’s questions. Says it’s not worth bringing up,” Emi explains.
Mom tilts her head. “I’d probably avoid it too if I just left a Michelin kitchen and gave up my renovated chateau. Such a shame. He’s got a good heart, that one,” she says. “Well at least he won’t have to deal with those property taxes, probably exorbitant given its age.”
I stuff my arms across my chest and fixate on her first point. “He’s no saint,” I grumble.
“I didn’t say he was.”
“Did you not listen to any of what I told you about the letters?”
“Of course. But trust me, Kat. No man nowadays would commit to writing a love letter every week if he didn’t actually care. And nothing in relationships is ever black and white.”
I roll my eyes. “They weren’t love letters. They weren’t real.”
“They read like they were,” Emi butts in.
“Besides, I knew he was a good one ever since he started sending me—” Mom stops herself, but I insist that she continues. “Oh well. He asked me not to tell because you were so nervous about it at the beginning. Jamie’s been sending me every copy of the Conseils —is that how you say it? Probably cost him a fortune to ship those overseas every week.”
My mouth gapes open, and Emi presses a hand to her chest.
“Oh, comme c’est précieux.”
“His intentions with you were in the right place. Just the execution...” Mom shrugs and holds her palm out. “But you know. Men.”
“Hommes,” Emi says at the same time.
Leaving Emi to get on her way, Mom and I tick off the places we still need to stop by on our tour: my favorite crêperie in Nice, the Cours Saleya market, and a nature walk on the north end of èze. As much as I try to ground myself in the moment, Jamie lingers in my mind all the way into the late afternoon when I retreat to the Chessley villa to pack my bags while Mom takes her jet-lagged cat nap. There’s a hollowness in my stomach as I take my clothes out of the boudoir drawers and fill my suitcase once again.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It’s a text from Angela.
Meet me at L’atelier Lavergne. Her company’s fashion studio in Nice.
* * *
It’s been almost three months since I stepped foot onto French soil and the first time I’ve walked within half a mile of Angela’s office. Only a few hundred yards from the coastline, it’s situated on a rather calm pedestrian-only street, seconds away from the hustle and bustle of beach-going traffic. The road boasts a refined chic feel. Smoothed obsidian ground tiles, jet-black lampposts, creaseless awnings overhanging shop windows. While Angela’s workshop is on the second floor, the storefront before me on the street is one of the Lavergne Designs boutiques. Chanel and Louis Vuitton are only a couple of her elite neighbors.
Inside, the air conditioning cools the back sweat forming from the August heat. I tug my backpack over my shoulder, striding past clothing racks specially curated to hang only a few complete outfits. Fine satin, immaculate threadwork, and clean lines are Angela’s hallmarks.
An assistant greets me and takes me upstairs to an office space in complete disarray. The hot, sticky summer air sweeps through the space. On one side of the room, design sketches coat the knotty hardwoods. On the other is an immaculately neat desk and a wide-open window where Angela stands in a stretchy cobalt dress, her striking auburn hair frizzy and missing its regular shine and her makeup nearly melting off her face. I’ve never seen her so disheveled.
When she turns around and sees me, the assistant has already fled. Then, Angela Lavergne does one thing I’ve rarely seen her do, let alone in my presence. She laughs.
“Oh, Kat. Quel été nous avons eu.”
I lean my chest back, unsure of how to respond.
“Definitely not the summer I expected,” I say, taking the seat she gestures to.
Angela sits as well in the chair beside me. She wipes the gleaming sweat off her upper lip with a silk handkerchief. “I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done to support our family this summer. And I apologize if my manner toward you was rather”—she bobs her head side to side—“coarse.”
I shrug and sigh. “C’est bon. You were just trying to protect your family, to keep it intact.”
“I assumed, wrongly, that if you and Jamie got close, I’d never see him again, that he’d throw away his responsibilities to the family. But the truth is, in the past few months, I’ve seen more of my son than I have in three years. And he’s never looked happier,” she admits with a pleased smile. “I have nothing against you,” Angela emphasizes. “In fact, I’m in awe of your courage, of all the responsibilities you’ve assumed this summer. You executed each with such gravitas, and I respect people like that.”
My cheeks go a touch red, and I can’t help the burgeoning smile spreading over my face.
Is this really Angela Lavergne speaking?
“And I’m sorry about the Young Soarers program. I’ll have you know I had a long conversation with Howie. As you Américains say, I let him have it.” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “He should have known that knowing him personally would’ve disqualified your admission.”
Again, is this Angela Lavergne?
“Merci, Angela. This means a lot to me. Really. And I hope everything turns out okay with your family after that whole mess with Damien.”
A gentle smile tugs at her lips, her lipstick cracking.
“That’s another reason why I asked you here,” Angela says, crossing her arms. “That Damien might think he can get away with his little stunt, but I won’t have it. My Jamie will not lose everything he’s worked for.”
Her softening eyes and maternal protectiveness warms my heart. Someone shuffles in behind the sitting area. The corresponding voice pipes in with, “Oui. He’s hurt too many people already.”
I turn around to see Vivian standing tall and composed. Her face is stern. She takes a seat next to Angela and me.
“Why? What else did he do?” I ask her.
Vivian toys with the handle of her faux snakeskin purse. “Remember the guy I told you and Emi about in Saint-Tropez?”
“The... connard?” I quickly glance at Angela, but she’s not bothered by my French cursing. Given her eyebrow raise and nod, I’d say she’s actually impressed.
“Oui,” Vivian confirms. “C’était Damien.”
“What?” I scrunch my brow.
Funny. Jamie painted himself as some womanizing half-drunk jackass to shield his entrepreneurial pursuits from his parents, but it’s been Damien all along who qualifies for such a title.
All the befuddling assumptions I’d made about Jamie this summer have turned out so outlandishly off base. Relief and hope course through me, but it evaporates in seconds. Yeah, like he and I have a future.
Angela stands up from her chair. “Now, let’s get to work.”
We discuss the various methods of getting Damien to willingly or forcibly forfeit the chateau back to Jamie. Some approaches are softer than others. With Angela’s wealth of knowledge in the French business world, she hatches a well thought through plan. I’m guessing she’s been drumming this up all day, given the legal statutes she recites by memory and the key piece of information that would send Damien running for the Alps if we go public with it.
“Jamie deserves that chateau,” Angela says, her lip quivering. “C’est son rêve. And he’s worked so hard for it.” She tosses her head side to side. “Je ne peux toujours pas y croire.”
“Can’t believe what, Angela?” I ask, tilting my head.
“That he’s been working at that restaurant in town all these summers.”
“You know?”
“He just told us this week,” Vivian says.
Angela sighs. “I should’ve known. He spent more time in the kitchen than his playroom as a toddler.” She straightens her spine. “My son deserves what he’s sacrificed for. Are we all set on the plan?”
Vivian and I share a smile.
“Bien,” Angela says with an encouraging clap. “Faisons-le.”