Dreaming of Manderley by Leah Marie Brown (18)

Chapter Nineteen

Hypothetically speaking, if an American citizen were to move to another country, say, England, for example, would they need to obtain a work visa before traveling there or could they apply for one after they were settled in? Would they even need a work visa if they were planning on starting their own business?

 

Has Emma Lee told you she is definitely moving to England, or is she avoiding it because she knows you will try to talk some sense into her?

 

I return to our rooms after breakfast one morning to find Olivia frantically tearing things out of her dresser drawers and tossing them into her open Louis Vuitton suitcase. High heels, tubes of lipstick, lacy La Perla panties, and pilfered bottles of Fragonard toiletries litter the floor. (Olivia has been asking the maid to leave extra each time she refreshes our room, and now she has an impressive stock of travel-size hotel toiletries.)

“Thank God you are here!” She says, shoving bottles of Fragonard into her sneakers. “We have reservations on the four-fifteen to Paris and I don’t know how we are going to make it. I still have to finish packing, and shower, and put on my face, and . . .”

She sinks to her knees beside her open suitcase and tries to fit the sneakers into an overfilled compartment. I kneel beside her and take the sneakers from her shaking hands. Then I remove a pile of wadded-up T-shirts from her suitcase, shaking them out and folding each one into a neat little square. I put the T-shirts back into the suitcase, turn the sneakers so the soles face away from the garments, and efficiently fit everything back into the suitcase with enough room for several more bottles of pilfered toiletries.

“Our flight isn’t until next week, Olivia.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? We have reservations on the four-fifteen. We are leaving today!”

“What? Why?”

“Didn’t you read my text?’

“What text?”

Olivia reaches into the pocket of her robe and whips out her iPhone. She pushes the home button and holds the screen in front of my face, too close for me to read. I take the phone, hold it farther away, and read the text.

 

Spec news.

 

“That’s it? It just says spectacular news.”

Olivia grabs the iPhone from my hand and slips it back into her robe pocket before hurrying into my room. She returns a few seconds later, breathless, holding more hotel toiletries.

“It is spectacular news. The most spectacular news.” She tosses the shampoo and lotion bottles onto the folded pile of T-shirts and sits down beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Go ahead, guess what it is.”

“You’re in love with Gaspard and you are going to stay in France permanently.”

“That would be divine, wouldn’t it? But this is even better news.”

“What could be better than love?”

“Success.”

“You already have that.”

“Well, we are about to have some more.”

“We?”

“I sort of pitched our screenplay idea to my agent, and he sort of pitched it to a few execs, and now Warner Brothers is talking about offering us a contract!”

“That’s fantastic!”

She claps her hands excitedly. “You haven’t even heard the best part yet.”

“I haven’t?”

She shakes her head and squeals. “They are talking about getting Leo to play the part of the tennis-pro jazz musician.” She doesn’t wait for my reaction. She hops up and begins pacing the length of the room. “We need to go back to LA immediately. We need to meet with my agent and . . .”

Her voice fades to a distant hum. All I can think about is saying goodbye to Xavier. I knew this time would come—it was like a dark cloud hovering far, far away on the horizon, moving closer, closer, each day—but I thought we still had a few more days together. What am I going to do? The dark cloud that has been threatening my happiness for weeks has finally arrived and all I want to do is run to Xavier, wrap my arms his neck, and cry, Please, please don’t make me go. I don’t want to go back to Los Angeles. I want to stay with you!

My iPhone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket.

 

I have a business meeting this morning. Would you like to go for a swim this afternoon? I know a secluded beach not too far from here.

 

Tears cloud my vision. I blink them away and send a text to Xavier telling him I have something important to say. I hit return and hold my breath until my phone chimes again.

 

I just stepped out of the shower, but you are welcome to come up now.

 

I leave my room without telling Olivia where I am going, panic spurring me on, prodding me to run, run down the hall and up the flights of stairs, run to Xavier’s door and into his arms.

Hurry. Hurry. If you don’t hurry, you might get there and discover he has already left the hotel. You might lose the chance to look him in the eyes, those beautiful Mediterranean-blue eyes that sparkle one moment and hint at darker, enigmatic depths the next. Hurry!

I am out of breath and flushed all over by the time I reach his door. A frantic, frizzy-haired mess of a woman terrified at the thought of missing her opportunity to say goodbye to the man she . . .

. . . loves.

And there it is. The awful, agonizing truth of the matter. I am in love with Xavier de Maloret.

I knock on the door and Xavier answers, his hair damp, a towel around his neck, a smudge of shaving cream on his cheek near his ear. He is wearing pajama bottoms without a top, his muscular chest tanned to a rich brown from all of our days swimming in the sea.

“Bonjour, ma bichette,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. “This is a nice surprise.”

My eyes fill with tears as soon as I hear him call me his little deer. The literal translation of ma bichette is “my little doe,” but I recently discovered it is also a term of endearment, meaning darling or sweetheart. I realize the name might rankle some feminists, but it makes me feel warm inside, like when I used to drink hot cocoa after trudging through the snow from my classes to my dorm room. He notices my tears.

“What’s the matter?” He opens the door and gestures for me to come in. “Have you had bad news?”

I step inside and close the door. “The worst.”

“Come,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to a chic sitting room decorated in tones of gray, black, and white. He gestures for me to sit on a velvet sofa while he sits on the coffee table across from me. “What is it?”

“I have come to say g . . . goodbye.” My voice catches and I have to look away from him before I burst into tears. “We are leaving this afternoon.”

“Leaving? So soon? I thought you were going to be here until the end of the month.”

“We were supposed to be, but Olivia needs to go back to Los Angeles to meet with her agent. She pitched an idea we had for a new screenplay and Warner Brothers is interested. It’s a tremendous opportunity.”

“But that is marvelous, isn’t it? It’s your chance to write the stories you want to tell, instead of editing someone else’s.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to leave.”

He sighs and runs his hand through his damp hair. “Then don’t.”

“I have to.”

“Because you are her life preserver?”

“Well, yes,” I say, shoving my glasses up my nose.

“Stop doing that,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Wouldn’t you rather do something else?”

“Like what?”

He stands up, walks over to the window, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares out for so long I worry he has forgotten I am here. Finally, he turns back around and walks over to me.

“Marry me.”

“Marry you? Are you crazy?”

“Perhaps.”

“I can’t marry you.”

He crosses his arms over his chest again and looks down at me. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t even know you.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, to start, I don’t know your full name.”

“Girard Fortune Xavier de Maloret.”

The panic I felt when I saw the Balmain blondes flirt with Xavier returns, viciously clawing at my frail confidence. My chest itches and it takes all of my control not to scratch. Xavier is a rich, handsome man from an aristocratic family who probably lives in a grand mansion and runs with a grand set. Why would he want to marry me? Plain, socially awkward Manderley Maxwell. Sure, I came from wealthy parents, but I have never been part of a set.

“Unless you do not want to marry me,” he says.

I look up and fresh tears fill my eyes.

“Perhaps you do not find me attractive.”

“Are you serious? You’re gorgeous.”

“Okay then.” He laughs. “Maybe you don’t like me.”

“Like you? I love you.”

My cheeks flush with heat. I look down at my Tiffany-painted toenails peeking out from the tops of my sandals and wish I could call Cut! and redo this scene.

“Did you mean that?”

I look into his eyes and realize this is the time to put it all on the line. I might not have another chance to tell Xavier what meeting him has meant, how it has brought into sharp focus a yearning previously ignored.

“A little less than a month ago, I stood on a cliff on the Côte d’Azur feeling alone in the world, wondering how I would ever find the strength to take my next breath, and then the unimaginable, the unbelievable happened: You stepped up and took my hand and I learned to breathe again.”

“Then marry me.” He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my forehead. “Take a chance on me, Manderley Maxwell. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

“It is difficult to think clearly when you are holding and kissing me.”

“Bon! I don’t want you to think clearly, ma bichette.” He brushes his lips over mine and I inhale the clean, soapy scent of his shaving cream. “I want you to be mad with passion, reckless in your desire. I want you to follow your heart where it is telling you to go.”

“You want to marry me?”

He chuckles. “Oui. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you hardly know me.”

“I have seen glimpses of your soul and those glimpses were beautiful. You are kind, honest, and selfless. Everything else is distraction. Everything else I will learn over time.”

“But . . .”

“What?”

“Aren’t there things you want to know before you ask me to marry you?”

“I have already asked you to marry me, ma bichette.” He grins. “However, I will ask you a few questions if it will make you feel better.”

“It will.”

“Besides fidgeting with your eyeglasses, do you have any bad habits I should know about?”

“Each morning, I make a comprehensive to-do list and I cannot go to bed unless I have checked off every item.”

He frowns. “You’re organized and driven. That’s hardly an annoying habit. Try again.”

“If I am reading a book or watching a movie I don’t find enjoyable, I won’t stop reading it or leave the theater. I have to finish it. Also, I steal socks.”

He laughs. “You steal socks?”

“My feet turn icy at night if I don’t wear socks to bed. But, I have this thing about wearing the same pair of socks two nights in a row. So, if I run out of fresh socks, I will take a pair from my family, friends, or boyfriends. There is always a pile of discarded socks beside my bed.”

Xavier whistles. “That is serious.”

“See?”

He laughs. “I don’t think you will have to worry about cold feet when you are in bed with me, my love. Nevertheless, you have my permission to borrow my socks whenever you want. Better yet, we will sail to Ireland and I will buy you enough woolen socks to last a lifetime.”

I cast my gaze across the sitting room to the bedroom beyond, the king-size bed with the rumpled sheets, and my pulse quickens.

“Thank you,” I say, heat flushing my cheeks at the thought of sharing a bed with Xavier. “What other questions do you have?”

“Do you want children?”

“Yes.”

“Bon.” He hugs me tighter. “I wouldn’t want you to sacrifice one passion for another, so will you promise to continue to write the screenplay with Olivia? I am sure it can be accomplished via the internet.”

“I promise.”

“Bon. I don’t have any other questions right now. Do you have any for me?”

“Only a million.”

He chuckles, lifting my hand to his lips. “Start with one. We have a lifetime for the rest.”

“Why didn’t your relationship with Marine work?”

“You don’t really want to hear about my relationship with another woman, do you? Wouldn’t you rather talk about what we want out of our marriage?”

“My father remained alone after my mother died. I asked him once why he didn’t date. He said when he married my mother it was forever, that death hadn’t altered his affections. I want that kind of love. How do I know you will be as committed to me as I will be to you?” I drop my head to his chest and listen to the thud of his heartbeat against my ear, seeking courage in the strength of the sound. “Divorce is not a path I ever want to tread.”

His body tenses. He puts me back on the couch. I worry I have pushed him too far.

“Do we ever know another person, really? I would like to promise you that we are a perfect match and we will make each other so deliriously happy, so content, we won’t ever think of divorce. I can’t promise that, Manderley.” He leans his elbows on his knees, reaches for my hands, and looks deep into my eyes. “I can promise I won’t ever betray you. Remember when we were at La Grotte and you said you wished you could be more audacious? Wearing a scandalous designer gown and guzzling champagne is not audacious, ma bichette. Following your heart when your head is telling you to take a different direction is audacious. Be audacious.”

Be audacious. If I were writing the script for this scene, I would have typed those words for Xavier to say. Does he know how lonely I have been living in the shadows, watching everyone around me reap the spoils of their daring? I want to be daring. I want to be reckless. I want to step on the tightrope even if I fall. Do it! Take a risk. Otherwise, you are going to die in the shadows, yearning, unfulfilled, and alone.

“Okay. I will do it! I will marry you.”

I do want to marry Xavier, even if there is a little maggot of doubt wriggling inside the tender, developing fruit of our love, a maggot that could so easily be squashed if only Xavier would tell me about my predecessor—Marine.