Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
T here’s something bewitching about the salty sea air and plentiful flora enveloping the C?te d’Azur. So enchanting that it stirs me from the cat nap I committed to in the passenger seat. Sunshine cascades over every inch of my body as the wind courses through my hair on each curvaceous turn we take along the cliffside road.
“Ah,” I sigh. “Feels good to be back.”
It’s nearing the end of May, meaning tourist season is just around the corner, leaving a few weeks of relative calm to dwindle around the streets from èze to Marseille.
“Just make sure to look under the bed sheets,” Jamie says, wearing a smirk. “Baa baa.”
“Ha-ha-haaaa.” I tousle his free-flowing hair and stroke the back of his neck. Jamie keeps one hand at twelve o’clock as we interlace our fingers resting on my thigh. My Canon camera sits at the ready in my lap.
A white rectangular sign points us toward èze up the hill. Butterflies race through me as I drink in the pent-up anticipation. It’s been almost a year since I first arrived at the Chessley villa and since Jamie started the chateau’s renovations. After he regained ownership last summer, he split his time between èze—managing construction and preparing for the grand opening—and London—connecting with investors for the venture that sprouted from the initial endeavor. It turns out that sustainable tourism and property renovations caught his attention early on, prompting him to start Le Voyageur Durable. He’s got his eye on a few worn-down cottages in Italy and Spain that he’s hoping to acquire and polish up for property managers to run with the help of local chefs specializing in the regions’ cuisines.
His parents, having never really dabbled in the tourism space, didn’t have strong opinions for or against it. But that didn’t stop them from booking a weekend stay for the grand opening even if their villa sits only a mile away.
Jamie’s godfather, Howie, commended him for it too, saying it was the new wave of the industry, encouraging visitors to participate in preserving the local cultures and terrain. For the èze chateau, that included solar panels, artisanal decorations, and partnerships with vineyards, perfumeries, and dairy farms that’ll allow guests to participate in an afternoon of contribution.
Plus, the crowning name isn’t too shabby.
Chateau de Rêves. Chateau of Dreams.
Rounding a curve, the Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat peninsula slides into view, and I prop myself over the side of the cherry-red door to record the dramatic perspective.
Less than a year into my master’s at London Film School and the internship with Lottie at BBC, I’m one thousand percent certain it was the right choice to turn down the position Howie recommended me for at Ritz-Carlton. How do I know? Easy. If I was laboring away at Ritz-Carlton, I wouldn’t have met Lottie’s son, a VP at one of the largest London-based production studios specializing in documentaries. Now he’s helping finance my own project: La Joie d’èze . Outside the meticulously manicured ten-year corporate career plan, serendipity has a bit more room to run wild. Who would’ve thought? Some may call it spontaneity. I call it intuition.
Plus, it’s a boon to see the rest of the Chessley group for afternoon teas and movie nights at their dwelling in the Cambridge suburbs.
“Nous sommes arrivés,” Jamie says, pulling the car into park at the base of the village.
We trek through the cobblestone streets, arm in arm, hitting up the supermarket to grab some food for our afternoon adventure. Later, we’re headed to the first annual villa dinner of the summer, where I’ll finally get to reunite with Emi in person so she can tell me how the school year finished. Hour-long phone calls every few weeks don’t do the stories justice.
Jamie goes off collecting berries and cured meats while I mosey along the refrigerated aisles. I pick out a camembert rind, and goosebumps crawl over my skin from the chilled air. A raspy, yet gentle voice calls my name. I turn my head and see Solange waving from the yogurt section.
The last time I saw her, I’d turned in my final article and footage roundup for Conseils before heading back to Boston in August, politely thanking her for the opportunity. But I still held a grudge for the unscrupulous tactics she wanted me to employ.
She’s changed her fuchsia lipstick to a more approachable and flattering mauve, though still lacquered on in ten layers.
“Bonjour,” I say as we greet each other with cheek kisses. “Comment ?a va?”
“Bien, Kat. Et toi?”
“Bien.” My smile is genuine.
“Quelle année,” she exclaims.
What a year it’s been indeed. We get to chatting about the goings-on in our lives, our undertakings, and our summer plans. She tells me her customer base has skyrocketed, even in the winter months. She partnered with local businesses that sponsored Conseils to offer discounted specialty packages only bookable through her travel agency. The most popular pack économique includes a tasting at the Lavergne Winery, entrance to the lavender farm an hour north of Cannes, and a discount at a botanical cosmetics store in èze.
“Are you still publishing the magazine?”
“I’ve had a few interns from the Université in Toulon take some assignments in the offseason. There’s a large journalisme program. But you are always welcome to contribute, you know.” Solange winks at me.
“I’d like that.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about Conseils this year. I do miss it. And Jamie’s international ventures have inspired ideas I never knew had been floating in my subconscious, like how Conseils doesn’t have to be isolated to the French Riviera.
Solange walks with me to the checkout counter and expresses her gratitude at least six more times. “If there is anything I can do to repay you,” she says, “you let me know.”
“You do not owe me anything. Really.” My tone turns lighthearted. “But you wouldn’t happen to know anyone with two Twice tickets they don’t plan on using, do you?”
She tilts her head and points her finger in the air. “En fait, my niece was supposed to go next month with her daughter in Paris, but her summer camp begins the same week.”
“Tu veux rire.” I drop my jaw.
Solange shakes her head. “No joke.”
I can’t help but pull Solange in for a tight hug. We part ways with a plan to rendezvous for cafés au lait this week, and Jamie and I head out for the rest of our day’s journey.
We cruise èze’s coastline. Only a smattering of beachgoers drink in the sunshine, leaving pristine stretches of sparkling sand uninhabited. We park in front of a swanky yet relaxed beach bar that reminds me of the one I visited in Saint-Tropez with Emi. But we take our grub and towels and make our way up the inclined street to the base of a steep trail. Spindly shrubs and fluffy squat trees shroud either side of the narrow path until we reach the flat granite landing. Before us on the horizon are miles of opaque waters punctuated only by outward juts in the verdant terrain. In front of steep mountain edges, vibrant dwellings and terra-cotta roofs occupy much of the coastline.
A gust of wind swirls around us, and Jamie takes a few steps toward the edge of the rock landing. Twenty feet below is an equally deep cove without much of a current. It’s a popular place for cliff jumping. My heart’s pace picks up, and I can hear it pounding in my chest as we strip to our bathing suits. Jamie nods and holds out his hand. I take it.
There’s this French quote from Jacques-Yves Cousteau, oceanic adventurer:
“L’avenir est entre les mains de ceux qui explorent.”
The future is in the hands of those who explore .
Now it’s Jamie and I who stand at the helm of our ships, one hand on the wheel, another on the sails. Full steam ahead, not shackled to every treasure we’ll collect or every memory we’ll make. But trusting our inner compasses, our visions on the horizon. Finding joy in the journey itself. And every so often, we drop the anchor, purvey the waters, and dive right in.
Jamie and I share a quick glance. The excitement in his eyes matches the adrenaline coursing through my entire body. He gives my hand a squeeze.
We shout in unison, “Trois. Deux. Un!”
Our feet leap from the cliff. And we’re airborne.