Chapter Thirty-three
Text from Tara Maxwell:
Winter called to remind me that the terms of Aunt Pattycake’s last will require that I spend three months living in Tásúildun. I don’t remember hearing that at the reading, do you? What am I going to do? I can’t leave Charleston.
Text to Tara Maxwell:
Why not?
Text from Olivia Tate:
Monsieur X leaves for Dubai today, doesn’t he? I know you will miss him, but spend the time working on your novel. The portion you sent me is spec. Absolutely spec, Mandy. If you get too lonely, call me.
“In French, we don’t say I miss you.” Xavier leans down to kiss my forehead and the spicy scent of his expensive cologne wraps around me like an embrace. “We say tu me manques, which means you are missing from me. That is how I will feel while I am away from you, as if part of my heart is missing.”
I turn my head, nuzzling against his shoulder. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Je suis désolé, mon amour,” he murmurs against my ear. “I would send someone else, but I have been working on this deal for over a year and it is too important to—”
“I know how important it is,” I say, turning my head and pressing my lips to his. “Tu me manques.”
He smiles. “Your French is improving already.”
“Merci.” I yawn and stretch my arms. “Xavier?”
“Oui?”
“What made you decide to end things with Marine?”
“Merde,” he mutters under his breath. “You know I have to leave in a few minutes, Manderley. Honestly, now is not a good time for a discussion about Marine.”
There never seems to be a good time. Why is he so reluctant to open up to me about his first marriage? It’s almost as if he is hiding something.
“But—”
“Go back to sleep now.” He tucks the blanket under my chin and stands. “I will fly back as soon as I close the deal, I promise.”
He kisses me one last time and then he is gone, his confident footsteps echoing down the hallway.
“I love you,” I whisper to the darkness, wishing he would hear it and hurry back to tell me he loves me, too.
A few minutes later, the Jaguar’s purring engine can be heard revving in the stables. I climb out of bed and move to the window facing the stables, pull back the curtains, and watch the Jaguar back out of the garage and disappear around the corner.
Watching Xavier drive away reminds me of the day my father dropped me off at my boarding school in Vermont, the gripping loneliness and irrational fears of abandonment I felt, the hot, salty tears that clogged my throat.
I climb back under the covers and hug Xavier’s pillow to my chest. The last thought I have before falling asleep is how extreme it is to be in love, raised to the heights of pleasure one moment, and plunged to the depths of despair the next.
* * *
Somebody has made a pot of coffee.
It takes me a while to register, and when I do, I sit up in bed, brushing my hair out of my eyes, half expecting Xavier to walk into the room carrying two steaming mugs. The apartment is silent, though.
Ridiculously disappointed, I shower and dress before making my way to the kitchen attached to our apartments in search of the coffee that drew me from my slumber. Coco suddenly appears at my heels, her little nails click-click-clicking on the parquet floor. I scoop her up and carry her into the kitchen, only to find the coffeepot clean and dry. In fact, a thorough search of the pantry reveals two orphaned beans in the bottom of a foil coffee bag. I consider going in search of Madame Deniau, but the sun is shining so brightly I decide I would rather go to town for coffee.
“Want to go for a walk, Coco?”
She cocks her head and her ears pull back.
“Marche?”
She yaps excitedly, her tail thumping against my side.
I find a tiny white harness and a crystal-encrusted Chanel dog leash in the back of a drawer in the chest in the hallway, and set off with my new friend.
An hour and a half later, I walk into the village, Coco fast asleep in my arms, as would be expected of a Chanel-wearing dog. She perks up when we pass a boulangerie, the buttery scent of crusty baguettes and flaky croissants teasing her little nose.
“Behold! Her Majesty Coco has arisen,” I say, setting her back on her feet. “Let the royal levée begin.”
She shakes, stretches, and raises her nose in the air as if to say we are not amused.
In truth, had I known the château was located so far from the village I wouldn’t have brought her. Before leaving, Xavier showed me the cabinet in the stables containing the keys to the cars, each labeled in his strong, sure script, and told me to use whichever I preferred.
“Can you drive a manual?”
“Yes.”
“Bon,” he said, smiling. “The Aston Martin is easy to maneuver on these narrow roads, and a sexy ride, but the Range Rover is more comfortable for longer drives. I would advise against taking the McLaren.”
I am sure the Aston Martin would have been a sexy ride and cut my journey to a fraction of the time, but the less time I spend at the château means less effort to avoid Madame Deniau, or, as Olivia has taken to calling her, Madame Vous.
The village is postcard perfect, just as Xavier described it. The whitewashed shops lining the wharf and forming the main thoroughfare. The chapel with the Celtic cross in the yard, covered in lichen.
Two elderly women huddled together outside the charcuterie are eyeing me suspiciously. I smile as I pass. Their gazes shift from me to Coco and back to me again.
“Scandaleux,” one of them hisses.
Thanks to Olivia, scandaleux is one of the few French words I know, so I assume they are mistaking me for someone else and keep walking.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, stopping the next person I pass, a man in a striped shirt and beret. “Où puis-je acheter le café, s’il vous plaît?”
He stares at me blankly, making me wonder if I have inverted another pronoun and butchered my simple request for coffee, until Coco yaps and hops on his leg.
“Oh, la!” he says, bending over and scratching Coco’s head. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Coco.”
He stands and jerks his thumb at a glass-fronted shop with an old metal sign hanging above the door.
“Merci,” I say.
He nods brusquely and walks away.
The shop appears to cater to tourists, selling handmade baskets filled with picnic items, tins of sardines, jars of olives, wheels of cheese, and bottles of the locally produced chouchen, an alcoholic beverage made from fermented honey and served as an aperitif.
I take two bags of coffee off a shelf and walk to the cash register, queuing up behind two women who look to be about my age. They don’t notice me until they have finished paying and turn to leave. One looks down at Coco and frowns.
“Êtes-vous Madame de Maloret?” she asks sharply.
“Oui.”
The women exchange glances.
“Tu te moques de moi,” the other one says, staring at my chest. “Elle est plate comme une limande.”
She is flat as a dab.
“Chloé!” the cashier gasps.
The one named Chloé rolls her eyes at the cashier and they both start talking at once, a rapid fire exchange of words I can’t comprehend. The women give me dirty looks and leave the store.
“Don’t mind them,” the cashier says in a British accent. “Chloé and Vivienne are a pair of daft cows.”
“You speak English?”
“Whenever I can.”
“Thank God,” I say, dropping the bags of coffee on the counter. “I am Manderley Maxwell. I mean, Manderley de Maloret.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
She laughs. “I don’t know where you are from, but this is Saint-Maturinus, luv. This fishing village might have Wi-Fi and a Carrefour Express, but the residents are stuck in the Middle Ages. When their liege lord returns from the South of France with a new wife, it creates a stir at the well.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. It never occurred to me what people might think about the hastiness of our wedding. I don’t like knowing people are viewing the most important event in my life through jaded lenses.
“My name is Caroline Gaveau, but my friends call me Caro,” she says, running the bags of coffee over a bar scanner. “I own this shop along with my husband, Yves.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Caro. What brought you to Saint-Maturinus-sur-Mer, if you don’t mind me asking? It seems far from the beaten path.”
“A man,” she says, laughing. “What else would motivate a woman to leave her home in favor of life in a medieval fishing village?”
“A medieval fishing village with Wi-Fi,” I say, ironically.
“And a Carrefour Express!”
We laugh.
I pay for the coffee and Caro gives me back a handful of coins. She reaches under the counter and pulls out a reusable sack, sticks the bags of coffee inside, and hands it to me.
“I didn’t pay for the sack.”
“It’s a gift. They’re made locally using seagrass and recycled paper. You might want to remember to bring it when you come to the village because none of the shops give those plastic bags you Americans are so fond of.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, luv. Stop in if you get lonely.”
“I will.”
The bells on the door tinkle and a man with a camera strung around his neck walks into the store. I turn to leave and then stop.
“Caro, what did Chloé say about me?”
She inhales and the air whistles between her teeth. “You don’t want to know, luv.”
“I do.”
“She said elle est plate comme une limande. It’s a French saying, which, roughly translated, means she’s as flat as a flounder.”
A tingling heat sweeps up the back of my neck and over my cheeks. I thank Caro for telling me and hurry out the door, scooping Coco into my arms, and not stopping until I have a stitch in my side.
Back in our apartments, I unhook Coco from her leash and lean against the door until the pain in my side goes away.
I am putting Coco’s leash back when I notice a photograph on the floor near the chest, which wasn’t there when I took the leash out of the drawer. I pick it up and gasp when I see it is a photograph of Marine. She is sitting cross-legged on a bed, a sheet covering her private areas, her black hair hanging over her bare shoulders, a seductive expression on her face as she stares into the camera.
An ache begins to build deep in my chest.
That’s when I see the little white dog curled up on the pillow on the bed behind Marine. Coco! I look down at the sweet dog spinning circles at my feet and the pain shoots to my heart with the speed and devastation of a bullet.
I hear Xavier’s voice in my head. I did not name Coco. She was . . . abandoned by her previous owner.
It barely registered at the time, but now I think about the way Xavier hesitated before saying Coco was abandoned, as if he weren’t being truthful.
I look at the photograph again and my vision blurs with unshed tears. It never occurred to me Marine might be Coco’s owner. Xavier had described Coco’s previous owner as heartless, and, indeed, it would take cold person to abandon a helpless little dog, but . . .
. . . but something doesn’t feel right. There are hundreds of puzzle pieces to this picture and I feel as if I am missing most of them. I have been trying to fit the wrong pieces together, hoping for a clear picture.
The woman in the photograph doesn’t look cold. Her eyes are sparkling. Her cheeks are flushed. Her swollen lips are parted in a smile. Her seductive gaze suggests a deep desire for the person taking the picture.
I feel sick.
I take the photograph into the living room and toss it into the fireplace. With trembling fingers, I light a long match and toss it onto the picture. The corner curls black and I feel a stab of guilt. I pull it out of the fireplace and blow on the corner, crying out at the futility of the situation. If Xavier is still in love with Marine, burning a picture will not change his feelings. It just marks me as a jealous, insecure girl.
Marine has been the ghost between us, and I don’t think she will be exorcised anytime soon.
I toss the picture into the liquor cabinet, beside the bottle of scotch, and close the doors as if I am locking the ghost in the closet.
I go into the bedroom to get my iPhone.
Olivia answers on the second ring. “You can’t be missing Xavier already,” she says, laughing. “Girl, you got it bad.”
I don’t say anything.
“Manderley? What’s wrong?”
“I am having a bad day.”
“Tell me about it. Life is tough when your château is too big and your prince is a handsome millionaire. Don’t let the tiara weigh you down, darling, it’s just one of the burdens of the blessed.”
The tears I have been holding back spill down my cheeks and I draw a jagged breath. The words spill out of my mouth as fast as the tears spilling down my cheeks. I tell Olivia about the women in the village—all of them. I tell her about Coco and the photograph. I confess my doubts.
“What do you think?”
“It is rather strange,” she concedes. “Usually couples fight over custody of their pets. I’ve never known a woman to walk out on her man and her dog. Maybe . . .”
Olivia let’s her words trail off, but I know the direction they were headed.
Maybe Marine didn’t walk out on her man and her dog. Maybe she didn’t walk out at all.