French Coast (14 page)

The lobby was filled with couples drinking predinner cocktails. Serena heard a harpist playing and the sound of ice clinking in cocktail shakers.

“I need to do something nice for you,” Nick said, following her to the entrance.

“You found my phone and saved my diamond,” Serena replied, walking through the revolving glass doors onto the sidewalk.

“Sailors are very superstitious,” Nick said as he put his hand on her wrist. “This is the first good luck I've had in a long time; I don't want to jinx it.”

Serena stopped and turned. His hands were rough and he had long fingers with fingernails like half-moons.

“I was about to explore.” Serena sighed. “You can show me your favorite places.”

Nick's face broke into a smile. He walked to a blue Renault parked at the corner and opened the passenger-side door.

“Where are we going?” Serena hesitated.

Nick walked to the driver's side and squeezed his tall frame into the narrow seat. “Monte Carlo.”

*   *   *

“Monaco is the second-smallest country in the world after the Vatican,” Nick said, his hand poised on the stick shift. “The Grimaldis have ruled the principality since 1297. Prince Rainier and Princess Grace were married in the Cathedral of Monaco in 1956; now they are buried in the crypt.”

Serena thought fleetingly of Grace Kelly with her white-blond hair and blue eyes and perfect pedigree. She remembered her parents watching
To Catch a Thief
and herself dreaming of zipping along the Côte d'Azur next to Cary Grant in a white tuxedo. She pictured the honeymoon she and Chase had discussed: Capri, the Amalfi Coast, Monaco.

*   *   *

Nick drove into Monte Carlo and parked next to the harbor. Serena and Nick strolled past the H
ô
tel de Paris with its creamy white stonework and gray turrets. They climbed the marble steps of the Casino de Monte-Carlo and peeked at the ornate gaming salons.

“The buildings are like birthday cakes,” Serena said as she gaped. Even the boutiques and cafés were housed in elegant structures with black tile roofs and gold awnings.

“Follow me,” Nick said as he took Serena's hand. “We have to catch the sunset.”

They climbed a narrow path that wound above the town. Serena was about to say she needed to catch her breath when she saw a huge stone structure built into the cliff.

“Where are we?” Serena asked.

“You told me to bring you to my favorite place.” Nick smiled. “The Oceanographic Museum was built in 1910 by Prince Albert the First. It was run by Jacques Cousteau from 1955 to 1988.”

Serena turned to look at the view. The sky was turning purple and the roofs seemed to be dusted with diamonds. White villas perched on cliffs and yachts lined the harbor like strands of a pearl necklace.

“Let's go inside. Wait until you see the shark exhibit.”

Serena and Nick walked through a vast room with skeletons of whales hanging from the ceiling. They visited the aquarium, filled with luminous tropical fish and Neptune Grass. Serena saw clown fish and inky moray eels and dazzling sea anemone.

“It's more beautiful than the showroom at Van Cleef and Arpels,” Serena murmured, watching a tiger shark glide between pink and white coral.

“I used to come here all the time. When I was eight I decided I wanted to be a submarine captain.” Nick grinned, his eyes glinting like a schoolboy. “Once I discovered sailing, I knew I'd rather be cruising over the water.”

They walked out into the crisp night air and ran all the way to the harbor. Serena gazed at the yachts lit up like Christmas trees and felt almost happy. Monaco was a jewelry box, filled with wonderful and exotic objects.

“You're smiling,” Nick said, glancing at her curiously.

“I thought you were going to drag me into the casino,” Serena replied. “Instead I got a history and science lesson.”

“I don't gamble; the house always wins,” Nick said meditatively. “My father used to teach me random things. He died when I was fourteen. He was in New York on a business trip; his limousine had a flat tire on the way to the airport and he missed his flight. He caught the next one and it exploded over the Atlantic.”

“I'm sorry,” Serena said quietly.

“He ran out of luck,” Nick said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked along the dock. “Luck is everything. If you're not in the right place at the right time you might miss the person you're supposed to spend the rest of your life with.”

Serena flashed on meeting Chase in her father's study and fixing his shirt. She remembered the way he plotted their future like a game of Snakes and Ladders. She saw him slide the diamond ring on her finger and whisper they were a great team.

She walked along the harbor to Nick's car. She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. She leaned against the upholstery and let the tears roll down her cheeks.

*   *   *

Serena walked into the Cary Grant Suite and saw Zoe perched on a love seat, eating a bowl of sorbet. Her hair was softly layered and she wore a red silk dress and taupe pumps.

“Where have you been?” Serena asked. “You changed your hair, it looks gorgeous.”

“I feel like Wendy in
Peter Pan,
” Zoe said, touching her neck. “But the stylist at Sergio Valente said it brought out my eyes.”

“You went to Rome?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

“Rome and Milan and Paris.” Zoe licked her spoon. “My father introduced me to Tom Ford and Valentino. When Valentino kissed my hand I almost died—I promised I'd never wear any color besides red.”

“Red suits you,” Serena said, smiling. “Where's your father's girlfriend?”

“Don't call her that.” Zoe shuddered. “She's back in Yugoslavia or Transylvania or wherever
Sports Illustrated
models are from.”

“The last time I saw you you looked like you wanted to drive a stake through your father's heart.”

“We walked along the beach and he told me everything,” Zoe replied. “Then we went back to the Carlton and told Verushka to pack her Louis Vuitton cosmetics case and catch the first flight. After she left he ordered a private jet and we flew to Milan. We had a private tour of Valentino's offices and dinner on Lake Como. Fresh scampi and risotto at an eighteenth-century palazzo in Bellagio. The next morning we flew to Paris and met Tom Ford.”

“Chelsea would be jealous.” Serena eyed the dress boxes piled on the dining-room table. “Does this mean you're going back to Sydney?”

Zoe's eyes darkened and she put down her spoon.

“My father loves my mother, but it's more complicated than I thought. He's afraid she won't forgive him.”

“What are you going to do?” Serena asked.

“You're going to help him,” Zoe said. She stood up and smoothed her hair. “He's waiting for us at the Carlton Restaurant.”

“How am I going to help him?”

“You'll see.” Zoe grabbed her purse. “He'll tell you the whole story.”

*   *   *

“Zoe told me so much about you,” Malcolm said as he stood up and extended his hand. “It's not often I meet a woman masquerading as a salesgirl at an exclusive jewelry store.”

Serena blushed and sat at the round table next to the window. She glanced at her white linen dress and flat sandals and felt underdressed. Other women wore shimmering cocktail dresses with four-inch stilettos and heavy gold jewelry.

Serena remembered the drive back from Monaco, Nick driving too quickly and Serena hunched against the door wishing she hadn't come. She was still too raw, her eyes too quick to fill with tears, to spend time with someone else.

Malcolm put on his reading glasses and consulted his menu. He had salt-and-pepper hair and clear gray eyes and finely lined skin. He wore a light wool blazer and beige slacks and leather shoes with tassels.

“I'm glad you did.” Malcolm nodded at Serena. “I hate to see Zoe hurt, it's never what I wanted.”

Malcolm ordered lobster rigatoni and chateaubriand and plates of risotto. Serena tasted the fresh tomato and mozzarella salad and realized she was starving. Nick had wanted to stop at a bistro, but Serena pleaded a terrible headache and ran straight up to her room.

“After the kidnapping, my wife wouldn't talk to me,” Malcolm began. “She ate her meals in her room and we were only together on public occasions. I slept in the study, spent all my time at the office, made sure I was home at night to be with Zoe.”

Malcolm drank the full-bodied red wine and looked out at the harbor. “Laura doubled security on Zoe and wouldn't let her out of her sight. Every time the wind shifted she thought someone was in the house or following her on the street. After four months she said she couldn't take it anymore. She wanted us to move to her parents' sheep farm.”

Malcolm paused and cut thick slices of steak. “I was miserable, but I didn't think the answer was to hide at a sheep station in the middle of nowhere. What kind of life would that be for Zoe? She was almost a teenager! She needed to be distracted by boys and clothes and makeup—not listen to the rain on a tin roof and have her schoolwork delivered by a biplane.

“Laura argued that the safety of my family wasn't as important to me as the latest shipment of swimwear and my winter collection.” Malcolm's gray eyes flickered. “She was wrong; I'd already made enough money for several lifetimes. I didn't want the kidnappers to win, I didn't want them to take our beloved mansion on Sydney Harbor, Sundays at Doyle's in Watson's Bay, picnics in the Botanic Gardens.

“We saw a therapist and finally agreed to send Zoe to boarding school in Surrey. Laura had cousins there and the name Gladding wasn't anything special.

“I thought things would get back to normal. Laura loved to entertain; we used to have fabulous dinner parties: the prime minister rubbing elbows with Judy Davis and Hugh Jackman and Baz Luhrmann.” Malcolm speared a roasted potato with his fork.

“She attended her charity functions and society events. She even moved back into our bedroom so the maids wouldn't gossip, but she wouldn't let me touch her.” Malcolm looked at Serena and his eyes were like cut glass. “I hadn't kissed a woman in thirteen years.

“I'm fifty-two years old; I want to travel, see a sunset in Africa, explore the grottoes in Capri. And I want to do it with someone, I want to touch a woman's hair, smell her perfume.”

“How am I going to help?” Serena asked. She looked at her plate and realized she hadn't touched the crunchy Mediterranean sea bass or the medley of spring vegetables.

“I bought Laura a beach house in Palm Bay, her own racehorse, a wardrobe of couture clothes, and it didn't change anything,” Malcolm said, and pushed aside his plate. “I want to publicly admit that I was wrong, that I should have sold the business, moved to Yarra Yarra or wherever the hell she wanted. I want you to write a feature story for
Vogue
telling her how much I love her.”

“You want to apologize to your wife in front of millions of readers?” Serena repeated.

“Laura doesn't wear her emotions, she never has a hair out of place or a creased hemline,” Malcolm continued earnestly. “I want to show her I'm willing to bleed in public.”

“Do you think it will work?” Serena asked doubtfully.

“I'm too old to learn new tricks,” Malcolm replied, leaning back in his chair. “I want my wife back and I don't know how else to get her.”

*   *   *

Serena sat in the living room of the Cary Grant Suite watching Zoe unwrap Godiva chocolates.

“I don't even like caramel,” Zoe said with a sigh, tossing the wrapper on the coffee table. “I wish room service would stop leaving them on my pillow.”

“Do you think your mother will forgive him?” Serena asked.

“It was my idea,” Zoe said, unwrapping another chocolate. “I can't bear to think of my parents divorced. My mother might be as stiff as a poker, but I know deep down she loves him.”

Serena thought of her own parents, always showering each other with attention. Her father would surprise Kate with a bottle of Dior, tickets to a new play, one perfect orchid. Every morning Kate made Charles two poached eggs just the way he liked them. She made sure his coffee was waiting and his newspapers were neatly folded.

Serena tried to imagine her father sitting at another breakfast table with a dark-haired woman and two small children. She pictured him cutting their toast, pouring their milk, reading them stories.

“I want my parents to be happy.” Zoe interrupted her thoughts, tossing the chocolates in the garbage. “And I can't imagine having a stepmother who'd make a perfect villain in a James Bond movie.”

 

chapter thirteen

Serena gazed out the window at the glittering Mediterranean and felt a twinge of excitement. Attendants in crisp white shirts and shorts carried beach chairs and fluffy white towels. Serena watched fishermen push their boats out to sea and yacht captains polish the decks of their floating palaces.

She jumped out of bed, slipped on a cotton dress, tied her hair with a blue ribbon, and took her laptop into the living room. She poured a cup of creamy French roast coffee, cut a ripe peach, and sat down to work on Yvette's story.

Her phone rang and she picked it up.

“Please don't tell me you're sitting on the beach in a bikini,” Chelsea's voice came over the line. “San Francisco has been socked in for days. I'm wearing cashmere and drinking hot tea.”

“I'm not at the beach.” Serena smiled, gazing at the white sand filled with chaise lounges and striped beach umbrellas. “But the weather is gorgeous.”

“I knew I shouldn't have become editor in chief,” Chelsea sighed. “I answer to bureaucrats in pin-striped suits while my features editor works on her suntan.”