Chapter Thirty-six
“It has to be the McLaren,” Olivia says, crossing her arms over her chest.
During breakfast this morning, Olivia asked if we could drive to the village so she could pick up some gifts from Caro’s shop. Naturally, I agreed. I assumed we would take her rental, but she insisted I drive. The moment she saw the McLaren parked in the stall beside the Range Rover, she insisted we drive it into town.
“Olivia, I can’t,” I say, moving back toward the Ranger Rover. “Xavier advised against driving this car.”
“Psh.” She waves her hand dismissively. “He said you could drive any car you wanted, didn’t he?”
“Well, yes.”
“The McLaren it is!”
She opens the passenger door and it swings up.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the metallic silver paint glittering in the overhead lights.
“We are making a statement,” she declares. “You need to claim your spot, show those snooty bitches you are Madame de Maloret and you will not be intimidated by their baseless insults. This car makes that statement.”
I look down at my chest and grimace. “Well, maybe not entirely baseless.”
“Baseless, I say.” Olivia climbs into the passenger seat. “There’s nothing wrong with your sisters, Manderley. They are pert and proportionate—and best of all, they are silicone-free. Now, let’s go! Let’s drive this sexy beast.”
She pulls the door closed with a soft thud, leaving me to stare at the black side vents set behind the door. I have never driven a car with side vents.
Isn’t that the point? I eloped with Xavier because I was tired of living in the narrow confines of my perfectly boring, perfectly predictable life. I wanted to break out of the safe little box I constructed for myself and experience the world beyond the same four walls.
Olivia wants me to drive the McLaren to make a statement to the villagers; I want to drive it to make a statement to myself, a reaffirmation that I am not going to let fear force me into a monotonous existence. I might not be as audacious as Olivia, as determined as Tara, or as beautiful as Emma Lee, but does that mean I can’t work to emulate them a little from time to time?
Walking back to the cabinet housing the keys of all the cars in the stables, I hang the Range Rover key back on its hook and remove the pebble-shaped key marked McLaren.
We encounter our first problem before we have even pulled out of the stables—and it isn’t that the McLaren’s steering wheel is located on the right instead of the left side. I push the round start button located on a console between the driver and passenger seats, where the stick shift is usually located, but can’t figure out how to shift into reverse to back out of the garage.
“Where is the gear shift?”
Olivia googles it and finds a page that describes the “exhilarating experience of driving a supercar.”
“Supercar?”
“A high-performance sports car,” Olivia says, reading from the site. “Supercars are focused on performance with little regard for accommodation or cost. If it weren’t for their advanced safety features, these vehicles would only be operated by professional drivers on a track.”
“Professional drivers? This is crazy!” Panic squeezes my chest and I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. “Let’s just take the Rover.”
“Relax,” Olivia says, patting my arm. “It says the McLaren is designed for touring. We are touring.”
I frown at her.
“We are touring the village.”
“That’s hardly the same thing.”
“Okay, here it is,” she says, reading from the website again. “ ‘The drive, neutral, and reverse engage buttons are located on the center console of the cockpit. The MacLaren has a seven-speed seamless-shift gearbox that can be engaged by using the steering-wheel-mounted rocker-shift paddles.’ ”
I lean sideways and discover plastic levers affixed to the underside of the steering wheel.
“Of course!” Olivia cries. “Why didn’t I think to look on the steering wheel? I test-drove a Mercedes that had gear-shifting paddle thingies.”
Olivia continues reading from the website about the McLaren’s unique features while I quietly worry about shifting smoothly and avoiding potholes in a car with such a low clearance.
“Oh, it says here you can adjust this dial”—she turns a small black and silver nob on the center console–“and it will stay in automatic mode so you never have to shift. Isn’t that spec?”
“Absolutely,” I say, unable to keep a note of sarcasm from creeping into my tone. “When we crash Xavier’s high-performance sports car, at least we will know it wasn’t because I shifted improperly.”
“Drive on, Madame Andretti,” Olivia says.
My legs are shaking before we have even driven past the château gates. Whereas the Jaguar’s engine purred like a contented cat, the McLaren’s engine growls like a ravenous predator. Just turning out of the drive onto the main road happens with a squealing of tires and a spray of gravel. I drive slow, keeping one eye on the speedometer.
“Hit it, Vin Diesel. Let’s get fast and furious!” Olivia says.
“I am not getting fast and furious,” I snap, palms damp on the wheel.
“Come on! A Mini Cooper passed us.”
I give the McLaren a little gas, the engine growls, and we shoot forward, gaining on the Mini Cooper in a matter of seconds.
“Whoo-whoo!” Olivia hollers, punching the air. “That’s what I am talking about. Get it, girl. Get your speed on.”
“Stop it,” I say, easing off the gas. “I am not getting my speed on. When did you turn into such an adrenaline junkie?”
I take my gaze off the road just long enough to shoot her a grow up, please look, but she just grins a toothy grin, and I intuitively know what she is going to say next.
“What can I say? I feel the need.”
I groan and roll my eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“The need for speed!”
I have become accustomed to Olivia’s frequent movie references in the eight years we have been best friends—I even occasionally enjoy them—but I don’t appreciate the reference to Top Gun, a movie about fighter pilots, especially since, as I recall, one of them dies in a crash.
By the time the sign appears announcing our arrival in Saint-Maturinus-sur-Mer, I am a trembling, nauseous, sweaty mess. I drive to Caro’s store, but there aren’t any parking places wide enough for my comfort.
“There’s a spot,” Olivia offers.
“Too narrow.”
I put the directional indicator on, slow down, and turn onto a less congested road.
“There’s a spot.”
“There’s a puddle.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t want muddy water to splash onto the paint.”
Olivia groans. “Just let me out and circle the block.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I pull closer to the curb and push the hazard lights. Olivia hops out.
“I won’t be long,” she says, opening the passenger door. “Circle the block a few times, but roll the windows down and turn the radio on to a noticeable level. Make it EDM or something you would dance to at a club.”
“Go!”
She closes the door and I drive off.
Forty minutes and dozens of laps around the block later, Olivia emerges from Caro’s store, grinning, a reusable bag flung over her shoulder. Maneuvering Saint-Maturinus’s narrow roads might not have given me the confidence of a race-car driver, but my nerves have definitely relaxed.
She hops in, clutching her purchases to her chest.
“Find a place to park,” she says, reaching behind her and stowing the bag in the shallow boot behind our heads. “We need to talk.”
“I will drive back to the château.”
“No! Not there. I don’t want to risk Madame Vous overhearing what I am about to tell you.”
I follow the main road out of town for several kilometers until I see an Esso and pull into the service station, parking away from the pumps—far, far away.
“Okay,” I say, killing the engine and turning to look at my best friend. “Let’s hear it.”
“We are going to find where the bones are buried before this day is out, I promise.”
“What are you talking about? What bones?”
“Marine.”
“That’s not funny, Olivia,” I say, my protective instincts for Xavier roused. “You have to stop implying Xavier murdered his first wife. We have no proof Marine is dead, let alone that she was murdered by my husband.”
“You’re right,” she says. “I am sorry. I meant it more metaphorically. I had a lovely little chat with your new British friend and she told me some things about the first Madame de Maloret that have answered a few of our questions.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Caro said Marine was popular in town. Girl from a humble family who marries local royalty and uses some of his fortune to host lavish parties and festivals at the château. Apparently, the locals still talk about a Christmas a few years ago when she invited all the village children to the château for a winter carnival.”
“Great,” I say bleakly. “How is this information supposed to make me feel better, exactly?”
“Caro didn’t like her, though, and apparently she wasn’t alone in her dislike. She wouldn’t elaborate. She would only say Marine made her uneasy.”
I am a moth to the flame, drawn to Olivia’s gossip despite my common sense. I want to know more, so I move closer to the flames, hoping what she tells me next doesn’t singe my wings.
“What else did she say?”
“She said Xavier used to visit her shop periodically to purchase Marine’s favorite chocolates and that he was always charming and friendly. She had the sense then that he was very much in love with Marine, but he changed.”
“Changed? How?”
“Caro said he stopped buying the chocolates, and when she would encounter him around town, he seemed burdened, as if he were struggling with a matter so weighty he couldn’t expend the energy to engage in pleasantries. She said many times he appeared to be angry.” Olivia pauses long enough to pull an Altoid out of her purse and pop it into her mouth. “That’s when the rumors started.”
“What sorts of rumors?”
“Infidelity.”
“Whose?”
“Xavier’s.”