Chapter Four
La Plage Barrière Majestic is one of the restaurants attached to the hotel’s private beach club, a posh place with sweeping views of the Mediterranean, a VIP area, a nautical center with watercraft, and hundreds of sun loungers and parasols artfully situated on the narrow swath of sand. Billowy white curtains and potted paradise palms act as a partition, sectioning the restaurant from the rest of the club. Black-and-white photographs of movie stars decorate the walls over banquettes strewn with plump pillows and sleek white Scandinavian tables.
The maître d’ greets me with a closemouthed smile. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour,” I say. “Manderley Maxwell. I have a reservation.”
He taps the home button on the iPad in his hands and slides his finger down the screen. “Had.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your reservation was for 11:45, not 12:02,” he says, shrugging. “I am sorry, mademoiselle, but when you didn’t arrive, we offered your table to another party.”
“Manderley?”
I turn at the sound of my name. Reed and two of the wannabes are crowded around a small table set for two.
My table.
Reed waggles her long, manicured fingers in a Hollywood wave, a smarmy smile curling her heavily painted lips. I apologize to the mâitre d’ and walk over to Reed.
“Good Morning, Reed.”
“Manderley! Do you have a reservation? We were lucky enough to snag this table after the loser who booked it was a no-show. Score, right? So, what are you doing here?”
The wannabes, and several guests lounging on nearby tanning beds, focus their attention on me. Scorching heat spreads from my cheeks to my sandaled feet, an effect not caused by the Mediterranean sun.
“I was going to have brunch”—I ignore the pitying stares of the beautiful lounging people and focus my gaze on Reed—“but it appears I missed my reservation and there’s not a table available.”
“Bum-mer! I would invite you join us, but there isn’t enough room. Sorry.” She draws the last word out, placing special emphasis on the ending ee sound, so it sounds like SOR-eeee. “Buh-bye!”
The wannabes snigger.
My fight-or-flight response kicks in—actually it is only my flight response—and I turn around so fast I collide with a waiter carrying a tray of mimosas. The champagne glasses tip over, spilling their orange liquid down the front of the waiter’s white shirt.
Reed snickers. The wannabes giggle. I want to let the sun melt me so I can slide down to the ground and between the cracks in the patio. I am about to run away when I feel the warm pressure of a hand on the small of my back.
“There you are,” Xavier murmurs in my ear. “I hoped to see you this morning. Come. You will join me, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense.”
His hand still on the small of my back, he leads me over to his table, but not before I catch Reed’s open mouth and wide eyes. He pulls a chair out for me and I sit on the edge of the seat, my back stiff, my hands clutched nervously in my lap.
“Thank you,” I say, once he is seated across from me. “You didn’t need to do that, you know?”
“Do what?” His flinty gaze remains focused on my face and I realize he is being gallant, pretending as if he didn’t hear Reed humiliate me. “Don’t you want to have breakfast with me?”
“Of course I do!”
He smiles and I realize how eager, how naïve I must appear to this urbane Frenchman.
A waiter appears. I order scrambled eggs and a pot of tea. While Xavier orders a cappuccino and toast, I look at his angular face, broad shoulders, and strong, tanned forearms. He is wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boat shorts, but he holds himself with such dignity and self-assurance you would think he was posing for a high-fashion magazine shoot. When the waiter finishes taking his order and bows away, Xavier turns his full attention on me.
“Your friends,” he says, nodding his head to indicate Reed and the wannabes, “they don’t look like the sort of people you would associate with.”
I steal a quick glance over my shoulder at Reed, her glossy, Alex Polillo–styled, honey-blond hair hanging down her back, and self-consciously smooth my side-swept bangs.
“They aren’t my friends.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care to spend my evenings getting drunk on expensive champagne at Bâoli in the hope I will meet someone who can advance my career,” I say, my shyness momentarily replaced by my indignation. “And because I believe a person’s worth should be measured by their morality, not by the amount of plastic surgery they’ve had or the number of designer dresses hanging in their closet.”
“You’re awfully young to be so jaded.”
“Living in Los Angeles can do that to a person.”
“A person of quality,” he says, smiling so that dimples appear on each of his stubbly cheeks. “I am glad you don’t want to spend your nights at Bâoli.”
“You are?”
“Very. I have formed a picture of you and I shouldn’t like it ruined by learning you dance on top of tables to EDM.”
I am suddenly and painfully aware of my simple cotton sundress and my mother’s conservative pearl studs at my ears and imagine the composite he has mentally drawn of me to be drab, boring. A bookish sort of girl in tortoiseshell glasses. The sort you sip tea with, not guzzle champagne with and dance until dawn. Self-conscious, I focus my attention on the napkin lying across my lap, twisting one corner around my pointer finger.
“I meant that as a compliment.”
“You did?” I look up and am surprised to discover him staring at me earnestly, a gentle, almost compassionate smile curving his lips.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His unexpected compliment has the same effect on me as when I stepped out of the air-conditioned hotel lobby into the warm, sultry sunshine. I want to stretch and bask in it, prolong the wonderful sensation. “There is something I must thank you for.”
“What is that?”
“Your gift. The purse.”
“You like it, then?”
“It is lovely.”
“And yet, you are not carrying it.” He fixes me with an unreadable, unnervingly direct gaze. “Perhaps you think it too generous a gift?”
“Well, yes.”
“It would only be too generous if I couldn’t afford it, but I can. Besides, you looked sad last night and I thought a gift might cheer you up.” His gaze alters, his eyes darken and his lips press together in a thin line. “It has been my experience that, no matter how low they may be, a woman’s sagging spirits can be lifted with a gift.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. That statement says as much about Xavier as it does about the women he has known. “Perhaps that is true of some women, but . . .”
“But?”
“But I am not like most women. I know it probably sounds old-fashioned and hopelessly lame, but I am like Marianne Dashwood from Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. I would much prefer a man to read me poetry than buy me hot-house flowers.”
He leans back in his chair and chuckles as if I said something humorous. The sound nettles me and makes me sad all at once. What a bleak view he has of women . . . of me.
“You gave me something far more valuable than a designer handbag, monsieur,” I whisper, my cheeks flushing with heat. “You gave me your compassion and security. For that, I will forever be in your debt.”
He stares at me for several uncomfortable seconds and when he speaks again, the hard edge to his voice has dulled. “No, I don’t think you are like other women, Manderley Maxwell. Not at all.”
A new wave of heat floods my cheeks. I look down at the napkin I am clutching in my hands. My palms are sweaty and my knuckles white. I release my hold on the napkin, spread it on my lap, and smooth the wrinkles away.
“Stop fidgeting,” Xavier commands. “There is no reason for you to be nervous. And, please, stop calling me monsieur.”
“What should I call you?”
“Why, Xavier, of course.”
The waiter arrives with our food.
“Ah, here is our breakfast.”
I busy myself with pouring tea from a small silver pot into my cup and adding two packets of sugar.
“You take your tea sweet?”
I look up. His expression has altered again, rapidly, unexpectedly, like the weather along the Côte d’Azur. The dark clouds behind his gaze have drifted away, leaving bright blue.
“Guilty,” I say, smiling. “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can never take the South out of the girl.”
“You’re from the South? I wouldn’t have guessed. You don’t have an accent.”
“I lost it while I was in New York.”
“What were you doing in New York?”
“Attending college. I graduated with a degree in literature from Columbia University.”
He looks up from his cappuccino and smiles enigmatically. “You are a dark horse, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.” He takes a sip of his cappuccino. “Go on now, eat your scrambled eggs before they grow cold.”
When I have finished my eggs and Xavier his toast, we sip our drinks quietly, staring out at the sea. It’s not one of those awkward silences often present when strangers are becoming acquainted.
Xavier pushes his empty cappuccino cup away and leans back in his chair, staring at me as if I am a puzzle he wants desperately to solve.
“How do you spend your time—that is, when you are not acting as Olivia Tate’s life preserver?”
It takes me a few seconds to answer, not because I am lacking in interests, but because I have spent the last four years living in a narcissistic bubble called Los Angeles, a bubble inflated with the hot air produced by people talking about themselves. Nobody asks me what I like, what I think, what I feel.
“I like to read, watch old movies, and write. I also take photographs.”
“You’re a photographer? Are you any good?”
“Moderately.” My cheeks flush with heat.
Xavier chuckles. “Are you always this refreshingly honest?”
“Of course.”
He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, steeples his fingers, and regards me with open, undisguised curiosity, as if he is not accustomed to conversing with an honest person.
“What about you?” I say, smiling. “What do you like to do?”
“Pfff! You don’t want to hear about me. I live a relatively boring existence.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Why not?” he snaps, narrowing his gaze. “Have you heard something?”
What an odd question. “No,” I say, clutching my napkin. “What could I have heard?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He reaches for the leather bill presenter the waiter left on our table and scrawls his name across the bottom of the check.
“Please, won’t you let me pay for breakfast?” I say, reaching for my wallet. “It’s the least I could do.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He stands suddenly, circling around the table and pulling my chair out. “Shall we?”
We walk back toward the hotel together, crossing through the park. A gilded carousel with painted horses stands in the center. I must have rushed through this square at least two dozen times throughout the Festival—on my way to screenings at the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès—but I never paused to appreciate the festive mood.
I stop walking and watch the carousel spin around and around, feeling wistful for my youth and grateful finally to have a few moments to stop, breathe, and enjoy the moment.
Xavier stops walking, too. “Is something the matter?”
“No.”
“Then come along,” he says, cupping my elbow.
“Not yet,” I say, smiling up at him. “Please.”
He releases his hold on my elbow and we stand side by side, watching the blinking lights and listening to the bubbling Wurlitzer music.
“Have you ever ridden on this carousel?”
“Non.”
“Would you like to?”
He frowns slightly. “How old are you?”
The note of accusation in his question makes me feel like a foolish, wide-eyed child. I start to walk again, but he grabs my elbow again.
“I am twenty-seven,” I say. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six? So old?”
“Ancient as Lascaux,” he says, chuckling. “Go ahead, ask me the significance of the famous shaft scene.”
Most people outside of France probably haven’t heard of Lascaux, the complex labyrinth of caves located in southwestern France famous for their Paleolithic cave drawings. I, however, read The Cave Painters: Probing the Mysteries of the World’s First Artists by Gregory Curtis, so I know the shaft scene is the most famous of the drawings.
I laugh.
“Come on then,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the carousel. “If mademoiselle wishes to take a ride, it would be my pleasure to give her one.”
My cheeks flush with heat even as I tell myself his declaration is not a double entendre.
“That’s okay.” I resist. “Really.”
“Would you let me leave Cannes without knowing the thrill of riding a carousel?”
“Of course not. Only . . .”
“Only?”
“Are you leaving Cannes soon?”
“Why? Would you be upset if I were?”
Truthfully, I feel a strange melancholy at the thought of Xavier leaving Cannes and disappearing from my life. The heat spreads from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. I shift my gaze to my feet, to the slender straps on my sandals.
He chuckles again, as if he read my thoughts, and raises my hand to his lips.
We wait for the carousel to stop spinning and the riders to disembark. Xavier hands the carousel operator the fee. We step onto the carousel. I choose a white horse with a brightly painted saddle. Xavier lends me his hand and I climb on the horse, sitting sidesaddle. Xavier leans against the horse beside mine, crossing his arms and observing me with solemnity.
“Aren’t you going to ride a horse?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I am not sure my arthritic bones could handle the excitement.”
“Oh, Xavier,” I say, pressing a hand to my heated cheeks. “I am sorry for calling you old. I was terribly rude.”
“So you don’t think I am a Neanderthal?”
I look at his thick wavy hair devoid of gray, his sparkling blue eyes framed with laugh lines, and his broad, muscular shoulders visible beneath his thin navy tee. I detect an electrifying vitality beneath his urbane, self-contained exterior, a vitality more powerful than that of men half his age.
“No, Xavier,” I whisper. “You are definitely not a Neanderthal.”
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Have you always enjoyed riding carousels?”
“I don’t know. This is the first time I have ridden one, but I suspect I will enjoy myself. There are so few things in this world that allow one to recapture the fleeting, wondrous days of innocence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He fixes me with an inscrutable stare, and I wonder, not for the first time, what he thinks when he looks at me.
The carousel begins spinning slowly, picking up speed to match the energetic organ music blaring from the speakers. I grip the golden bar and try to avoid Xavier’s intense gaze. We go around and around, until I am dizzy with the motion and with my happiness.
When the ride slows, Xavier reaches up, places his hands on my waist, and lifts me off the horse, as casually as if he had done it a hundred times before.
For a few breath-stealing seconds, we are standing so close I can feel the heat from his skin, smell the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, see the flecks of silver in his dark blue eyes. A shiver of pleasure spreads through my body.
“Did you enjoy the ride?”
His lips curl in a teasing smile and I experience that thrilling, frightening sensation one feels when they are at the top of a rollercoaster, waiting to plunge down, down, down.
“I did.”
“Bon.”
We step off the carousel and follow the path leading to the hotel.
“This is such a pretty square, but I wonder who Reynaldo Hahn was and why it is named after him.”
“He was a composer who specialized in Mozart. He was also a decorated World War I soldier and a close friend of the French writer Guy de Maupassant,” Xavier explains.
“I love Guy de Maupassant.”
Xavier looks at me. “Do you? I do, too.”
We cross the street and make our way to the hotel entrance. Xavier motions for me to walk first through the revolving door and then follows me.
“What are you doing now?”
“Olivia is not feeling well, so I am free for the next few hours. I thought I would stroll along the Croisette.”
“How utterly pedestrian,” he says, grabbing my elbow. “Come along then, we will go for a drive.”
“A drive. Where?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really, only . . .”
“Only what? Are you frightened I will ravish you?”
My cheeks flush with guilty heat.
“You are blushing. How marvelous.”
“I was going to say that I need to be back before Olivia wakes up, in case she needs anything.”
“Olivia is a big girl. She can fend for herself for an afternoon,” he says, steering me toward the elevators. “Go on now, run upstairs and get whatever you need. I will wait for you out front.”
It occurs to me, as I am standing in the elevator, humming the tune from the carousel, that Xavier’s manner is, at times, old Hollywood: Go on now. There’s a good girl.
As a modern woman living in the most progressive feminist age, I should balk at his patriarchal attitude. After all, I am not Joan Crawford and he is not Clark Gable. We are not filming a scene from Forsaking All Others, where I sass him and he grabs me by the waist, tosses me over his knees, and gives me a good spanking.
And yet . . .
If I am being entirely honest, deep down, I like being ordered about by Xavier.