Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (7 page)

“What is wrong, Jean-Luc?”

After a long, soulful gaze, “I should not start your day with bad news.”

“Are you asking me to leave again?” She gruffly reached for her cigarette pack on the nightstand, pulled one out, and brought it to her lips.

“I have changed my mind about that.”

Her hands froze. “Oh?”

He gallantly lit her smoke then rested the tray on the dresser and climbed into bed with her. He joined her in her bad habit.

The red panels draped from the bed’s canopy slowly undulated in the light breeze. The lovers puffed in silence. He watched a black ant crawl up the thick bamboo bedpost. What would be its fate? The males died shortly after mating. The queen lost her wings. He knew a lot of humans who had procreated and experienced the same, metaphorically speaking.

Didon barked outside, probably at a rabbit. The bedroom window’s cream-colored curtains fluttered open, allowing the morning sun to filter in. The spring air was charged with renewal, yet he felt gathering storm clouds moving in.

Isabella put her cigarette out, nestled next to him and slowly, deeply rubbed his neck that felt like petrified wood.

“That’s enough, thank you.”

She gradually pulled her hand away.

How he longed to be alone. The only problem with being alone was that it always led to feeling alone.

He sat up, looked at the clock by his bed. “She’ll be here in two hours.”

“Who? You have hired a maid?”

When he told her about Alyce Donovan, she fumed, “So this is why you wanted me to go! Jean-Luc, you are a beast!”

“No. I told you when Robbie was still here not to stay long. You wanted to break it off with him, I helped you do that. I lost a good friend, too. Now help
me.
Let me write!”

“How will you be able to do that when you’re teaching this woman French?”

“I will do no such thing! With your help, I won’t even notice that she’s here.”

“Ahhh. My help.” She cuddled up to him, pretending she wasn’t mad. Perhaps she wasn’t now that she felt useful. “An American. How could Liliane do that to you?”

He shared with her some of the backstory on his new tenant in the hope that she might be intrigued as well. “She even tried to cook for Solange and burned everything to a crisp because she didn’t realize the oven was calibrated to Celsius degrees.”

“Who is Solange?”

“Then she drove her crazy looking for cheese you
squirt
out of a bottle.”

“Dreadful. And Solange is…?”

“An old friend.”

He stood up and slipped on the buttery soft Italian leather loafers Katrina had given him.

Isabella grabbed at one last straw. “Let’s play a trick on the American girl. Let’s act as though we don’t speak English.”

He mulled it over. “It seems cruel and could be more of an effort than speaking it.”

“Isn’t that the point of a total-immersion experience? We’ll be helping her learn French.”

He knew that she just wanted to keep him away from this girl. She did make a good argument, though.

“
D’accord.
I’ll alert Liliane.”

7

Dream Cottage. Nightmare Hosts.

Once again, it was Monday morning and Alyce was in Liliane’s office. This time her forlorn bags were in a heap instead of neatly lined up.

“Al-
ees
, you have been a spectacular challenge.”

Not even a French accent could make that sound nice.

“Am I going to your brother’s?” Her apprehension was unmistakable.

“Yes. If it doesn’t work out you are on your own.” She eyed her the way she probably did with her boys when they misbehaved. “I suggest you exercise extreme caution in sharing with others where you are staying.”

“No problem. I have no one to tell.” Alyce turned optimistic. “I bet we’ll get along fine. I read novels. James Patterson, Nora Roberts, John Grisham…”

Liliane said, “I suggest you keep that to yourself as well. It would be better you say you don’t read at all than to mention those.”

She was confused. “Don’t all writers like each other?”

Liliane burst into laughter. “Oh, I wish I could watch this unfold!” She looked down at the floor. “I almost forgot. This came for you.”

It was a FedEx box from Nelson. Alyce ripped it open. “An international iPhone!” Inside was a note saying:
Text or email me. xoxox Nelson

He had sent it precharged, too. “What a thoughtful guy.”

Liliane was beaming. “Hang on to him, Al-
ees.
A man like that is hard to find.”

Alyce picked up her new small shoulder bag that had replaced her knapsack. “Is there anything special I should know about your brother?”

“I would say he is a spectacular challenge as well.”

With renewed trepidation, Alyce hopped in the waiting taxi.

The driver said, “You are to be with Jean-Luc Broussard?”

She studied his reflection in his rearview mirror. “Is that a good thing?”

“Eh… Jean-Luc… this is one time, no,
first
time he take in the student.”

Was she about to step into a Stephen King novel? She made a mental note not to mention that writer’s name either.

“I take you to Madame Solange.”

Alyce was in such a distraught state over being kicked out of the Devreaux’s she didn’t recall how she got to Solange’s. “Uh, yes, I remember.”

His eyes danced. “Very beautiful lady.”

French men did know how to appreciate a mature woman. She would definitely consider coming back here
in about three decades
.

“You are Al-
ees.
” The French way sounded much better than the boring American
AL
-iss. He introduced himself as Maurice. They tried to chat, but his English was limited and after another morning of classes her mind was mush.

She admired her new gleaming phone. She was back with Nelson, reconnected in cyberspace. She texted:
Got your gift. Love it! You’re the best. xoxo

No L-word. Too soon.

She couldn’t stop smiling.

She played with the phone until she figured out how to get her email. She was surprised to see a message from her sister Chantilly, the model turned trophy wife.

Congratulations, Alyce! You’re going to be an aunt! The due date is November 6th. Isn’t it exciting? Hope you’re having fun over there. It sounds like a lot of work. But I know you and you’re probably enjoying every minute of it. xox Chantilly

Alyce dove into her bag for tissues. Her 21-year-old sister was going to be a mother. Before her. With her handsome investment banker husband.

A lifetime of envy oozed forth like a barely visible paper cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Chantilly the perfect baby.

Chantilly the child model.

Ooh. Aah. Isn’t she beautiful!

She knew she should rise above this and be happy for her. She would. Eventually.

If everything worked out with Nelson.

Once her cry was over, she checked her face in her compact and decided to skip putting on any lipstick. Spending time with nuns glowing with an inner beauty that no makeup could re-create had her wearing less of it these days. She also didn’t want to put any sexy ideas into this Jean-Luc’s head. Thankfully she was covered up in her convent attire.

There were fewer and fewer houses as they headed up a dirt road into the higher part of Marlaison, population 60,000. Her time in the advertising world had taught her that was roughly the size of the readership of
Prosthetics and You
magazine—a highly profitable magazine, by the way.

Alyce’s former life seemed so far away now. In truth, she was restless after the first year in that job. At least she was always learning something new here.

Seeing something new, too. An entire field of lavender appeared on her left! To the right looked like a field of sunflowers coming up. Oh, this placement had to work. It just had to.

Jean-Luc’s
maison
was almost hidden by trees and overgrown vines. It wasn’t huge, but wasn’t small either. Definitely what a real-estate broker would call a handyman special. The beige exterior paint was peeling, curved orange tiles were missing from the roof, and a large, cracked ceramic pot had turned over, spilling dirt on the stone path. The grass hadn’t been cut in some time. Off to the side was a rusted Mercedes two-door convertible with no wheels, and a new silver Lexus SUV. If it weren’t for the birds cooing and chirping, flowers everywhere, and the bright sun hovering above in the deep blue sky, it would be a little creepy.

There was no door buzzer. Alyce lightly knocked on the old wooden door. It opened with a soft squeak into a foyer with a staircase. To the right was a living room with a terra cotta floor, creamy stucco walls, and African masks on vertical wooden beams. Shelves were crammed with books, mostly hardcover. There were many paintings but just as many empty spaces where she could see paintings had been. It looked like a museum exhibit in the midst of being changed.

“Downtown artsy-fartsy,” as Nelson’s mother would say.

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a woman about to climax came from somewhere above them, beyond the staircase. What the hell did women see in this guy?

To a grinning Maurice, she said in as blasé a tone as she could muster, “Please take me to a hotel.”

“You will have much talk when you go to America.” Carrying her bags, he headed toward the back of the house.

“Wait! I mean it. I’m not staying here!”

She followed him through a gorgeous modern kitchen and out a door.

“Maurice! Come back here!”

That dirty dog appeared, barking like crazy.

Then she saw it. About 200 feet from the main house, giving her plenty of privacy, was the most adorable cottage she’d ever seen. With turquoise wooden shutters and covered with vines, it was right out of
Provence Living.
She would have it all to herself!

In between was a swimming pool with a thick black plastic cover on it and a
pétanque
court that she wouldn’t be using anytime soon after the image of Julien’s mother’s blown-up lips popped into her head. There was also a well-used fireplace made of rustic stones that almost matched the terra cotta roof.

As she came closer to the cottage, the scent of jasmine reminded her of expensive body lotion. The deep purplish-blue flowers covering the front were like a kind of morning glory she’d never seen before.

A black wrought-iron bistro table and two chairs were near the front door under a tree with salmon-pink, trumpet-shaped flowers that were so big they didn’t look real. They looked like someone had strung them on like giant Christmas tree lights.

She tipped Maurice, bid him
adieu.
She took her first photo with her new cell: the tree with the amazing flowers. Just as she was bringing one of the large blossoms to her face to get a whiff of their scent, she felt someone standing behind her.

It was Jean-Luc’s long-haired girlfriend (though it was quite tousled now) giving her a penetrating gaze.

She introduced herself to Alyce in French as Isabella.

“
Parlez-vous anglais?
” Alyce asked with optimism.

She shook her head and reeled off something so fast, all Alyce could understand was “
Non?
” at the end of it.

She replied, “
D’accord
,” figuring that had to be safe. “Jean-Luc
parlez anglais?
”

She shook her head no, then pantomimed that she was not to go through the house to enter the cottage but to walk around the side of the main house.

She nodded in agreement. That out of the way, she returned to the big pink flower and took a sniff. It nearly covered her face.

“It smells like love,” she said more to herself. “I can’t wait for Nelson to—” she turned to Isabella. “He’s my boyfriend. He’s coming to visit soon.” Alyce wanted to make sure she knew she was no threat. “Oh, right, you don’t speak English.”

She tried to conjure up the correct French words but Isabella shook her head in disapproval and left. Some reception, Alyce thought. In a way, she was thankful. It was hard enough socializing at school. She would come home to people who expected nothing from her.

The cottage had one of those cute doors that split in two so you could open the top if you wanted, and a kitchen with a round pine dining table. There was no sofa, but two peacock wicker chairs and a coffee table, a double bed with an antique white metal headboard, and a bathroom with a showerhead built solidly into the wall (not a handheld thingie, thank God).

On another wall in the bathroom Alyce noticed a mural of Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus.
The naked goddess, standing on her clamshell, had a cigar in her mouth. The signature in the corner was Jean-Luc Broussard. He was an artist, too? Alyce could barely paint her toenails.

She made sure the lock on the front door worked, walked back outside, and imagined waking up every morning with a steaming cup of coffee at her bistro table next to her Tree of Love with the enormous flowers. Considering she could be in a tiny dark apartment in Hoboken, or pounding the hot, stinking Manhattan pavement looking for a job, life wasn’t so bad.