Faking It (7 page)

WTF? What makes Travis Trunnell think he can just swirl into my life like an F5 tornado and rearrange things? Does he even realize the destruction his reappearance caused? I type my angry response, my fingers jabbing the small keys.

Really? You haven’t seen me in years. You don’t know me.

I hit reply and hold my breath.

Travis’s response is immediate.

LOL. I know you, Vivia.

I am standing in a bathroom stall in France, arguing with stupid old Travis Trunnell. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I am still alone and then type my reply.

Oh really? If Nathan, my fiancé, is not the right man for me, who is?

Sweat trickles down my sides and between my breasts. Talking to Travis makes my pulse race, not in a medically worrisome “grab the defibulator STAT” kinda way either.

My phone blings as Travis Trunnell’s response hits my mailbox.

Me.

My heart flips. I hurriedly exit Facebook and turn off my iPhone. I’ll say one thing for the cowboy; he has balls bigger than a Texas sky at night. I make one last swipe at the dried mascara ringing my eyes and rejoin my shamelessly sneaky best friend and our chic guide.

Chantal leads us out of the train station to a sleek Mercedes S600 idling in the parking lot.

“Fanny has told me about your lost bags,” Chantal says, opening the back door and gesturing for me to get into the air conditioned luxury vehicle.

I feel like a rock star.

“Do not worry. I will call a contact I have at Air France. Your bags will be located. I promise.”

“
Merci, Madame
.”

“Pfff,” Chantal says. “It is nothing. And please, call me Chantal.”

Fanny climbs into the Mercedes, and for a moment we are alone in the posh car. She runs her hands over the expensive leather seat and smiles.

“Nathan might be a sanctimonious douchebag, but he’s a douchebag who knows how to roll in style. This car is amazing.”

The driver’s door opens and Chantal slides behind the wheel.

“Our journey to the château will take approximately seventy minutes. You will find bottles of chilled water and champagne in the compartment between your seats. Please help yourselves. I will, of course, point out any interesting landmarks, but first, we have prepared a short cinematic preview of your impending adventure.”

Chantal pushes a button and the television screens attached to the backs of the front seats flicker.

Fanny looks at me and mouths, “Can you believe this?”

Chantal maneuvers the Mercedes out of the parking lot and through Montpellier’s narrow, congested streets while Fanny and I watch scenes of bikers riding past vibrant lavender fields, charming hilltop villages, and sun splashed olive groves reminiscent of Van Gogh paintings. As the camera focuses on a field of gently swaying sunflowers, I turn to look at Fanny.

“This is going to be so much fun! Relaxing bike rides, picnics in the country. It’s probably just what I need. Thanks.”

Fanny smiles and squeezes my hand.

We look back at the glowing screen just as the sunflower scene fades away and a new scene comes into sharp focus. A line of bikers are pedaling with determination up a wicked steep road, their heads down, shoulders hunched, and calf muscles bulging. In the distance—the far, far distance—a monastery is perched on the edge of a cliff.

I am sick. Greasy burrito and two bottles of wine sick. Credit card statement after binge buying at Saks Fifth Avenue sick.

“Oh—”

“Now, Vivian,” Fanny interjects, “don’t overreact.”

“My—”

“Deep breath, Vivian.”

“God!” The word erupts from me with Vesuvian force. “What in the hell was Nathan thinking? I could barely shift gears on that beach cruiser I rented when we went to Miami. How did he expect me to maneuver a racing bike up a mountain? A mountain! Not a gently rolling foothill. A freaking mountain, Fanny!”

“Pfft…” Fanny waves her hand. “It is nothing.”

“Nothing?” Panic over my impending humiliating and painful plunge off the side of a French mountain sharpens my tone. “Crossing the Atlantic in a canoe is nothing. This”—I gesture at the exhausted bikers still pumping away on the television screen—“is something, Fanny.”

Chantal glances at me in the rearview mirror, jabs a button on the dashboard, and the video freezes.

“Is something wrong?”

I imagine myself careening wildly down a mountain road, crashing into a rock wall, lying broken and bloodied with a group of disapproving French cyclists gathered around me, clucking their tongues disapprovingly and saying,
“American. What do you expect? What do they know about cycling?”

Tears fill my eyes. I am so embarrassed.

Fanny squeezes my hand.

“Vivia is nervous about riding a bike.”

“
Je ne comprends pas
.” Chantal’s gaze darts from me to Fanny. “Monsieur Edwards said you were a rider
extraordinaire
.”

I can’t contain the snort of disbelief.

“Rider
extraordinaire
? Ha!”

Chantal fixes me with a kind smile before returning her gaze to the road. “Do not worry, Mademoiselle Vivia. The tour will take you across a landscape of colors and light so fob-oo-liss it captured the imaginations of Picasso, Van Gogh, and Matisse. Besides, Jean-Luc will be with you every kilometer.”

“Jean-Luc?”

“Your guide. He has been riding for many years. He competed in the Tour de France three times.”

I imagine the intense drill instructor in the opening scene of
Jarhead
riding behind me, yelling,
“Let’s go, maggot! Get up this hill. Jesus, Joseph, and doggy-style Mary, what is wrong with you flabby Americans? Ride. Ride. Ride.”

Chantal regales us with tales of Drill Instructor Jean-Luc’s otherworldly biking abilities until I can no longer hold back my groan of fear. I am going to die trying to take a hill in the south of France. It will be my own Vietnam.

Chantal looks at me through the mirror again, smiling.

“Do not worry, Vivia. Jean-Luc is very good at what he does. He will know how to ride you.”

Fanny giggles.

“Fob-oo-liss,” I mutter. “I’ve always wanted to be ridden by a French man.”

The movie ends. I rest my head on the leather seatback, close my eyes, and listen to the engine’s soft purr. I am just about to doze off when Chantal begins a commentary, pointing out historical landmarks and areas of interest. Her enthusiasm rouses me. I sit up and stare out the tinted windows.

Thirty minutes later, Chantal turns off the A9 and heads east toward Avignon. The luxury car whizzes by small villages with unpronounceable names, like Estézargues and Valliguière.

Chantal takes a sharp turn onto a narrow drive lined with towering plane trees.

“If you look ahead, you will soon catch your first glimpse of Château de Caumont.” Chantal waves to an elderly man carrying a basket laden with blackish-purple olives. “That is Monsieur Levant. He manages the olive harvest and the production of the
Huile d’Olive de Caumont
.”

“The château produces olive oil?”

“
Oui
,” Chantal proudly says. “We must produce olive oil to help offset the tremendous expense of maintaining such a grand historic estate.”

“What a clever idea.”

“It was my brother-in-law’s idea. He is a—” Chantal looks in the mirror at Fanny and says, “
Comment pouvez-vous dire magicien
?”

“Wizard.”

Chantal snaps her fingers.

“La! But of course!” Chantal smiles. “Weezard. My brother-in-law, he is a weezard with finances.”

I thought about my meager savings account and wonder if Chantal’s brother-in-law could use his wizardry to pad my coffers. I seriously doubt my unemployment checks will cover the cost of rent and my rampant chocolate addiction.

“Did you grow up in the château?”

“
Non
. The château has been in my husband’s family for over three hundred years. It was constructed in the thirteenth century but awarded to Francois de Caumont for his loyalty to Louis the fourteenth, the Sun King. It sits on the banks of the river Durance and is the loveliest estate in the south of France.”

The Mercedes emerges from the shade of the tree-lined road and onto a sunlit circular drive, rumbling over uneven stones. Château de Caumont is breathtaking. Breathtaking has got to be one of the most overused words in the English language, but in this case, it truly fits.

“Wow!”

Chantal pulls to a stop and turns to look at us. “
C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas
?”

Fanny and I nod. The medieval castle is truly magnificent. In the bright afternoon sunshine, the stone walls glow amber and the terracotta tile roof looks aflame.

“Although it was conceived as a fortified structure with thick stone walls, battlements, six towers, and a gatehouse, over the centuries Château de Caumont has been modified to function more as a baronial home.” Chantal’s cheeks flush. “Forgive me. I was an associate professor of architectural studies at Université Montpellier. Medieval structures are my passion.”

“Don’t apologize.” I like passionate people like Chantal. I dig their energy. “I would love to hear more about the château.”

“Really?”

“
Bien sûr
!”

“Perhaps after you have settled into your room, you would like a tour of the château?”

“
Magnifique
!”

Chantal opens the driver’s door and Fanny nudges me with her elbow.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “In France less than twenty four hours and already you’re speaking like a native.”

“Hardly,” I laugh. “However, if you’d like a coffee with milk, I’m your girl.”

Les-bee Honest

I am retrieving my carry-on from the trunk of the Mercedes when a tall, handsome man with a bandaged foot hobbles out of the château.

“
Bienvenue
!” He leans in and kisses my right, left, and then right cheek again. “Welcome. You must be Madame Edwards. Welcome to Château de Caumont and zee beginning of a most remarkable adventure. I am Philippe de Caumont.”

Chantal’s husband speaks with a thick French accent and exudes a bonhomie that makes me almost forget I have come to France on my honeymoon without a groom.

“
Merci, Monsieur
.”

He looks over my shoulder at Fanny and his brow knits together in confusion.

“Euh, but zees is not Monsieur Edwards.” Philippe narrows his gaze on his wife. “
Chantal, ce n'est pas Monsieur et Madame
Edwards.
Tu avais choisi les mauvais Américains
!”

“
Chut
!” Chantal jabs her husband’s side. “
Tais-toi
!”

A confused Philippe rubs his side, looking from his wife to Fanny, and then at me. Finally, his eyes light up and he smiles.

“
Ah! Vous êtes amantes? Lesbiennes, c’est ça
?”

My comprehension of French might be woefully inadequate considering my love of the language, but I don’t need Fanny to translate Philippe’s questions. He thinks we are lesbian lovers.

“Oh my God, no!”

“Eet is no problem. I like zee lesbians.”

Chantal groans and presses a hand to her face.

A pair of poodles bound out of the château and toward us, their tongues lulling and their manicured tails wagging.

Philippe holds his hand up and the poodles skid to a stop.

“Impressive.”

“Do not let zem fool you. Zey belong to my brother and zey are wicked creatures.” Philippe fluffs their heads. “Dumas. Maupassant.
Asseyez-vous
!”

The poodles sit.

“What did you just call them?”

“Dumas and Maupassant.”

“You named your dogs after writers?”

“My brother named zem. He is a
professeur de litt
é
rature
.” Philippe looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “You know Dumas and Maupassant?”

I nod. “Alexandre Dumas and Guy de Maupassant are two of my favorite authors.”

“Vivia
est une écrivaine
,” Fanny says.

Philippe’s smile stretches across his face. “A writer? But that is marvelous! Perhaps we should begin again, Mademoiselle? My name is Philippe. You are?”

“
Bonjour,
Philippe,” I hold out my hand and Philippe shakes it. “
Je suis
Vivia Grant
et elle est mon amie
, Stéphanie Moreau.”

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Caumont,” Fanny says.

“Philippe
, s’il vous plaît
.”

“Philippe.”

Chantal steps up. “Monsieur Edwards could not make it, so Mademoiselle Grant has invited Mademoiselle Moreau to join her.”

“I am sorry for the change in plans. I hope it won’t create too much of an inconvenience?”

“Bah!” Philippe waves his hand. “I should be apologizing to you. I will not be able to guide you on zee tour because of my accident tragique.” Wincing, Philippe gestures to his bandaged foot.

“That looks painful.”

“I will survive, Mademoiselle.” Philippe pauses and emits a dramatic, tortured sigh. “I am only sorry my
accident tragique
has rendered me useless.”

Chantal snorts. “
Accident tragique
!”

“Do not be cruel,
chérie
. Can you not see I am suffering?”

Chantal raises a brow.

Curiosity and fear prod me to interject. “Did you hurt your foot on a bike tour? Did someone crash into you?”

“Ha!” Chantal chortles. “Nothing quite so dramatic,
mon amie
.”

Philippe flushes red.

“My valiant husband was wounded while attempting to uncork a bottle of Calvados.”

“Ungrateful woman! You do not appreciate zee sacrifices I make for your health and happiness.” Philippe sniffs. “Eet was a very heavy bottle.”

Fanny and I laugh at Philippe and Chantal’s lighthearted repartee. They’re obviously in love with each other. I think of Nathan. Did we ever exchange witty, playful banter? I don’t think so.

Philippe pretends to ignore his wife.

“Mademoiselles, I am afraid my wound has taken me out of commission. However, I am placing you in capable hands. Jean-Luc is a superior guide and rider.”