Honeymoon in Paris (15 page)

“Thanks, Isabelle. That means a lot.”

She smiled sweetly as she handed me the gift bags. “And to be honest, I’ve never met anyone who’s as in love with lingerie as I am. I think it was fate that brought you to me.”

I laughed. “Actually, it was Luc. Right after we got back together, he bought me a gorgeous piece from your shop, and I’ve been hooked ever since.”

“Well, go home and give that husband of yours a big kiss from me. And make up with him already. You two are newlyweds. You have the rest of your lives to fight.”

I wanted nothing more than to make things right with Luc, but the question still remained: how far would Brigitte go to worm her way back into his life? And how far would
he
go to protect our marriage?

FIFTEEN

After spending the afternoon back at my apartment sending out résumés, I decided to walk back to Vieux Lyon to give myself a little more time to think. Two little white lingerie bags dangled from my arms—one for each of my girlfriends. Hopefully these sexy pieces would bring a little bit of spice back to their bedrooms after the mess we’d made in Paris.

I headed down rue Victor Hugo, a bustling pedestrian walkway that cut right through the heart of Lyon. A young French couple strolled along in front of me, stopping to kiss nearly every ten feet, then whispering sweet French nothings into each other’s ears. The French were never short on romance, but were they
so
romantic that they were incapable of being faithful? A quick glance at the newsstand to my right reminded me that I had a very important question to ask Luc tonight regarding
his
faithfulness.

I jetted past the kissing couple
and
the tabloid shots of my husband and Brigitte Beaumont, made my way through the crowds of French teenagers who’d just gotten out of school, and walked into Bellecour—the giant, red sandy courtyard situated in the center of the city. Storm clouds hovered over the majestic, white Fourvière Basilica, towering over Lyon from its spot high up on the hilltop. Minutes later, a chilly fall breeze whipped past me as I strolled across the sparkling Saône River, which led me to the charming cobblestoned streets of Vieux Lyon.

I was expecting to find Luc waiting at home with an explanation the minute I walked in the door to our minuscule French apartment.

But instead of an apologetic husband, I found Luc’s mother, Michèle, playing penguins with Adeline on our living room floor.

So much for day seven of pure honeymoon bliss.

“
Bonsoir, Michèle
.” I walked over to give my mother-in-law the customary
bisous
on each cheek.

She stood without smiling, without saying a word, then gave me the iciest set of kisses I’d ever received.

Adeline proceeded to pummel me with penguins as Michèle eyed my lingerie gift bags. “Busy day at work, I see?” my chic mother-in-law said in French.

“Oh, these are just gifts for a few friends.” I didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell Luc’s mother that her new daughter-in-law had just lost her teaching position. We could save that fun conversation for another day.

She arched a brow at me, the gaze shooting from her dark brown eyes bleeding disapproval. “You Americans certainly are interesting.”

“Grandma has been playing penguins with me all afternoon!” Adeline jumped up and down in pure excitement, her pretty auburn hair bobbing over her tiny shoulders.

I placed the bags in the hall closet, then leaned down to give Adeline a hug and a kiss. “That’s wonderful, sweetie!”

Adeline trotted off with her penguins while Michèle placed a hand on her hip and continued eyeing me as if I was an alien who’d stormed into her son’s life without warning. To give her some credit, we
had
only just met the night of the rehearsal dinner, and she’d seemed more than blindsided by the swiftness with which Luc and I had tied the knot.

In my experience with French women, it took some time to get them to warm up to you, to trust you. They weren’t as bubbly and fake as American women could sometimes be, but once you’d earned their trust, you were in their good graces forever. As I’d learned from the women in my former host family, underneath that chic, mysterious
façade, French women could be some of the warmest, most genuine friends you could ever make.

Judging by the glacial stare Michèle was giving me, I realized it might take quite a while before I unearthed
her
warm side—if she even had a warm side.

“Where’s Luc?” I asked. “He should be home by now from his first day at the university.”

“He was offered an extra course at the last minute, so he’ll be teaching nights now too,” she responded coolly. “When he couldn’t reach
you
, he called me to pick Adeline up from the
crèche
. In fact I’m glad it worked out this way because there’s something I need to say to you.”

Michèle peered down the hallway to make sure Adeline was playing in her room, then took a step closer to me, her small frame and rigid facial features exuding a fierceness I’d not yet seen in her.

“My daughter Sandrine brought to my attention the recent mess you’ve made in the tabloids. Luc made a huge mistake marrying that slutty actress Brigitte. All she cares about is fame, money, and sex. Luc has spent the past year working to get Adeline back and build a stable environment for her. The last thing he needs is another flaky, irresponsible wife screwing up the life he’s created for his daughter.”

“Madame Olivier, I’m nothing like Brigitte. I’m in love with your son, and I love Adeline too. What happened this week… if you’ll just let me explain—”

“I don’t care what happened this week. Your behavior is inexcusable. If you want to be a part of
this
family, you will stay away from the Boucher family, and you will do everything in your power to keep Brigitte away from my granddaughter
and
from my son. Luc has a soft heart, and if he thinks Brigitte is sober again, he will let her back into Adeline’s life—and back into his. That woman will ruin your marriage, and she will ruin your life.”

“Luc won’t let that happen. He doesn’t love her anymore.”

Michèle narrowed her eyes at me and let out a sinister laugh. “I love my son, Charlotte, don’t get me wrong. But you mustn’t be oblivious to the fact that while French men are charming, being faithful is
not
their best quality.” She swiveled on the heels of her tall brown boots and headed toward Adeline’s room. Just as she reached the door, she peered back over her shoulder. “Trust me, I know.”

Adeline had already been in bed for a few hours when Luc’s key turned in the door that night. I was curled up on the couch, watching France’s version of
Entertainment Tonight
paint a tumultuous history of Brigitte Beaumont’s stormy relationships—including her dramatic divorce with Luc—and her struggle with drug and alcohol addiction. They concluded the story by posing the question:
Will Brigitte reunite with her ex, Luc Olivier?

Luc’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed the remote and switched off the television.

“What do you think? Will Brigitte win back the love of her ex?” I asked, unable to mask the weariness in my voice.

Luc shook his head at me as he shrugged his bag off his shoulder and walked across the tiny living room. “Why are you watching these horrible shows, Charlotte? They’re only going to upset you.” Placing his bag inside the hall closet, he peered around, then raised a brow at me.

“You went lingerie shopping today? At Chez Isabelle?”

“Don’t get too excited. It wasn’t for me; I bought a few gifts for the girls.”

Luc closed the closet door, then sat down on the couch next to me. “I want you to know that
I
will always buy your lingerie for you. That is my job, as your husband. You never need to buy it for yourself, okay?” While his offer was sweet, his voice was a little too forceful.

I raised a curious brow at him. “That’s nice, honey. But sometimes I like to shop for myself too.”

Luc nodded. “Of course,
mon cœur.
It’s just that…”

“What is it?”

He shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. It is nothing,
ma belle
. Now tell me what is upsetting you.”

I hugged my knees to my chest, overwhelmed with feelings I did
not
want to have so early on in our marriage—or ever, for that matter. What if Luc wasn’t the honest, trustworthy man I thought he was? I didn’t want to call attention to what I’d seen today, but there was no skirting around the issue of the suggestive photograph of Brigitte and
my
husband splashed all over the tabloids.

“I saw the photo, Luc. The one of you and Brigitte at La Cave des Voyageurs. Why didn’t you tell me about Brigitte coming down to Lyon the last night of our honeymoon?”

“Because she didn’t,” he said firmly. “Brigitte stopped by the next morning, like I told you.”

I grabbed my laptop off the coffee table and pulled up the photo. “So how do you explain this?”

Luc examined the picture, his eyes fatigued. Too bad if he was tired. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied to his new bride about where he’d been that night, when he should’ve been with me.

“I haven’t been to La Cave des Voyageurs with Brigitte since we were married,” Luc said. “This must be an old photo that they used again, just to create drama.”

I crossed my arms and raised a questioning brow at my husband.

Luc sighed. “I’m telling the truth. Adeline was sick, and I was home taking care of her that night, just as I told you.” Luc pointed at the photo. “Look at that awful, tight black T-shirt I’m wearing in the photo. Brigitte always wanted me to wear those kinds of clothes. I would never wear that now. And Brigitte isn’t wearing that black dress you both had. She’s in a skirt.”

I leaned in to get a better look at the incriminating picture. Luc was right. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a shirt that tight.

But even more so, he wouldn’t have taken Brigitte out for a drink, and he wouldn’t have lied to me about spending time with her. I felt ridiculous for even questioning him.

“Ugh. I’m sorry, Luc. I just saw the photo and freaked out,” I said quietly. “When was this even taken?”

“This must’ve been taken back when we were married, when we’d come down to Lyon to visit my mom and sister.”

“Why would they print it now?” I asked.

“Charlotte, these paparazzi are vultures. They don’t care about our lives. They don’t care that we’re real people, trying to have a healthy, happy marriage. The more drama they can fabricate, the more material they’ll have for the future. It’s sick.” Luc closed the web browser and laid a hand on my knee. “The only way we’re going to get through this rough patch is if we trust each other. I would never go out with Brigitte alone without telling you. I don’t love her anymore. No matter what these papers and TV shows are making you believe, I don’t love her. I love you.”

I thought about what Luc’s mother had said to me earlier—about the Frenchman’s inability to be faithful. I had a nasty history with cheaters. In fact,
every single man
I’d dated before Luc had cheated on me. But he was different from all the rest. I was certain of it.

And I didn’t care what his mom had said—Luc would never betray me.

I laced my hands around the back of Luc’s neck and looked into his handsome eyes. “I know you love me, Luc. And I feel awful for even questioning you about this. I’m sure having Brigitte back in Adeline’s life isn’t going to be easy for either of us, but I’m in this for the long haul, so I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to help you through it.”

“Thank you,
mon amour.
Let’s start by ignoring the tabloids, no?”

I giggled as I kissed him on the cheek. “We will be a tabloid-free house from this day forward. You have my word.”

As Luc leaned in and brushed his soft lips over mine, I felt a little bit of the tension in my chest releasing. And as he cradled the back of my head in his hand and traced his fingers up my neck, I remembered once again the way it felt to be in his arms, to trust someone with every fiber of my being.

Even though
I
was more than willing to let go of all of the drama that had happened these past few days and move forward in our new, exciting life together, I knew that Luc’s ex-wife had other plans.

As I ran my fingers through Luc’s hair and kissed him back with that intense passion I’d
only
ever felt with him, I reminded myself that Mademoiselle Brigitte Beaumont
clearly
didn’t know what she was up against.

SIXTEEN

Friday morning marked day eleven of honeymoon “bliss” and day five of unemployment hell.

I still hadn’t heard a word from Beth Harding, the editor at
Bella Magazine
in New York who I’d contacted in the hope of securing a long-distance staff writing position. As a result, I’d spent the past four days hiding out in my apartment submitting résumés to every English teaching and translating position I could find. Unfortunately, though, the pickings seemed to be exceptionally thin.

In my breaks between online job hunting, I’d spent one too many hours gossiping with Isabelle among her shop’s lush racks of lingerie. Okay… I
may
have broken down in a weak moment and bought myself the most gorgeous raspberry-colored bra, but I could only go into that store so many times and walk out empty-handed. In addition to my lengthy gossip sessions with Isabelle, I’d also spent time every day writing ideas in my Paris journal for my
Girl’s Guide to Tying the French Knot
book. I’d certainly learned my lesson from the disasters my blog had created, so instead of including personal stories, I was envisioning it as more of a humorous commentary on French weddings, French honeymoons, French in-laws, and French husbands. I would need to interview more women to have a complete picture of course, but so far, I was having a blast writing it.