A Wedding in Provence (4 page)

A horn blasted and her hands flew to the steering wheel. She and Gavin were still sitting in the car at the side of the road in some small beach town in France. They had finished their ice-cream cones long before. She reached over and wiped the chocolate at the side of Gavin’s mouth.

“Thank you,” he said. “For telling me all that.”

She nodded. Okay. Time to bring the stranger to the wedding.

“We’re here,” she said, leaning over and pointing to a spot on the map that sat on the gearshift between them. “This is Cassis. Lead me to my mother.”

She pulled back onto the road. Her eyes were tired. She hadn’t slept in a day or two. She shifted gears and then hooked a finger under the sleeve of Gavin’s T-shirt. She pulled him toward her and felt his mouth on her ear. Soft lips, hot breath. For the first time in a long while she felt something like happiness spread through her.

The gate of La Maison Verte was open. They drove up the hill and turned into a small parking lot. Nell had the familiar feeling of being late, of having screwed something up even before the party began. She felt her breath get shallow—years of acting training and yoga had taught her how to slow her breath but now all that was useless. She was in full-on terror mode. Her mother would kill her.

“You’re sure about this?” Gavin asked.

He was pulling his backpack out of the car, throwing it over one shoulder. Where would he be now if she hadn’t invited him along? Hitchhiking at the side of the road? He seemed to come from nowhere and to be headed nowhere. And yet he looked so at ease here, so full of confidence and charm.

“I’m very sure about this,” she told him. “Let’s meet the ’rents.”

They walked up the hill toward the inn. They could hear voices coming from the side of the inn—a shout from a man, a splash in a pool, a woman’s high laughter.

“Did you pack a swimsuit?” Nell asked.

“I don’t need one,” Gavin told her.

She imagined a late-night swim with him. She imagined sex in a king-sized bed, a deep sleep in his arms, more sex at sunrise. She imagined a walk in the woods tomorrow morning. A picnic on the beach. She imagined everything but this: her family. A wedding. Her mother’s questions.

“Let’s do it,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the noise of the swimmers.

They dropped their bags on the lawn and walked around the perimeter of the inn.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said quietly. She had seen photos of Emily’s inn but nothing prepared her for the lushness of the gardens, the quiet, the sense of a world apart.

They rounded the corner and the pool appeared, in the middle of a meadow surrounded by a riot of wildflowers. They both stopped and Nell could hear Gavin, too, hold his breath for a moment.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“Nell!” someone shouted and she saw her mother climb out of the pool, her arms raised as if to hug her from afar. And then Olivia spied the stranger and her brow furrowed as if she were trying to recognize him. She turned, grabbed a white terry robe from the lounge chair and wrapped herself in it.

Nell could hear her saying something to the person in the pool—Brody, she guessed. Nell and Gavin stood there, as if frozen, while Olivia turned and started toward them.

“Your mother,” Gavin said quietly.

“Yes.”

“A woman with a lot of energy,” he whispered as Olivia neared, her face animated, her arms fluttering in the air as if she were already in mid-conversation.

“Yes.”

Nell dropped Gavin’s hand and stepped toward her mother; they threw their arms around each other.

“Welcome!” Olivia called, though Nell was pressed against her. Was she greeting Gavin? Nell pulled away and looked back, no longer sure that he’d even be there.

“Who is this?” Olivia stage-whispered in Nell’s ear.

“This,” Nell said, reaching to pull Gavin closer to them, “is Gavin. My date.”

“Hello, Gavin,” Olivia said, extending her hand. He took it and then held her hand in both of his. “Where did you come from?”

“The airplane,” Nell said quickly. “Gavin, this is Olivia. The bride.”

“So nice to meet you,” Gavin said. He hadn’t let go of Olivia’s hand.

“Come meet the groom,” Olivia said, eyeing Gavin.

He held her gaze and then his hands lifted from hers and a smile spread across his face. “A lucky man, that groom,” Gavin said.

Olivia raised one eyebrow at Nell. “Smooth,” she said. It wasn’t a compliment.

She turned and walked back to the pool, her head high, like the queen of the manor, despite the bathrobe, the bare feet, the wet scrambled hair.

Nell and Gavin followed. She wrapped one arm around his waist and kept him close.

“Nell!” Brody called, emerging from the pool. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, then moved toward them, as happy as a groom at his wedding. When Olivia passed
him in the other direction she muttered something under her breath, something that Nell couldn’t hear.

“Don’t mind the water,” Brody said, taking Nell in his arms.

She shrieked and cuffed him; he laughed and tousled her hair as she pulled away.

“You’re soaking wet!”

“Needed to cool you off,” he said, beaming.

She looked down; her blouse was drenched. She groaned. But she liked Brody, had liked him from the start. He was the anti-dad, not that she was looking for another dad. He went easy on her and he seemed to enjoy her tales of wacky life in L.A. Most important, he made her mom happy. Her father had failed on all those accounts. She had no idea what it would mean to have a stepdad but she’d happily give this guy a chance.

Brody offered a hand to Gavin. “I’ll get a bottle of rosé to welcome you,” he said after they’d exchanged names. “Let’s get this party started.”

“I’m plotting revenge,” Nell said, pulling the towel from Brody’s waist, then using it to dry herself off.

Brody headed toward the inn. Olivia called after him, “Two bottles! And tell Emily to join us!”

Olivia had positioned herself at the end of a long wooden table. When Nell and Gavin walked up to join her, Olivia stood and turned to Gavin. “Why don’t you give Brody a hand? You can grab glasses for everyone.”

“Mom, we just—”

“Go on,” Olivia said firmly.

Gavin nodded and headed toward the inn.

Nell slumped into a seat at the table. She put her head in her hands. “I’m exhausted,” she moaned.

“Who is he, Nell? Why is he here?”

“Let’s start with a few kind words,” Nell said, looking at her mom. “Good to see you, Nell. Thanks for coming halfway around the world for my wedding.”

“That, too,” Olivia said, offering a small smile.

Nell put her hand on her mother’s. “You look half your age. You look like a girl on her wedding weekend.”

“Enough kind words,” Olivia said. “Who the hell is he?”

“He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“And polite.”

“Seems to be.”

“Oh, God, Mom. Just cut me a break on this one.”

“You met him on the airplane and invited him to my wedding.”

“Guilty.”

“My intimate wedding of closest family and friends.”

“He’s going to make one member of your closest family a happier person this weekend.”

“You couldn’t manage that yourself?”

“Mom, it’s done. He’s here.”

Olivia closed her eyes and held them closed. Nell imagined fire spreading through her mother’s veins.

“
I’m
here,” Nell finally said.

Olivia opened her eyes. She shook her head and then offered a crooked smile. “You are most certainly here.”

“Besides, Carly’s coming with Mr. Clean. We know Gavin will be far more fun than that guy.”

Mr. Clean was Nell’s name for Wes, Carly’s boyfriend. He was bald and a neat freak, hyperorganized, a little compulsive. No one liked him except for Carly.

“What do you know about Gavin?” Olivia asked.

“They’re coming,” Nell said, gesturing toward the back door of the inn where the men were exiting, balancing bottles and glasses and bowls in their arms.

“You don’t know a thing about him,” Olivia said.

“I know I like him,” Nell countered.

“Okay. We’ll start there.” Olivia stood up and reached for a bottle of wine from Brody’s arms.

“Emily’s working with Paolo,” Brody said. “She can’t join us.”

“Who’s Paolo?” Nell asked.

“The chef for the weekend.”

“I can help in the kitchen,” Gavin said.

“You cook?” both Olivia and Nell said at once.

Nell laughed. “I knew that,” she said.

“I love to cook,” Gavin told them.

Nell beamed. “See?” she said to her mom.

She pulled a chair close and Gavin sat beside her.

“Where are you from?” Olivia asked him.

“Seattle,” Nell said at the same time that Gavin said, “Austin.”

“Welcome to our wedding weekend,” Olivia said, and her eyes seemed to shine bright with anger.

Olivia stood up, dropped her robe and dove into the pool.

“We’ll go get washed up,” Nell said.

“Emily will show you to your room,” Brody said. “I’ll keep the wine on ice.”

“Thanks, Brody,” Gavin said and he slapped Brody’s shoulder as if they were old friends.

Who are you, Nell thought, and what are you doing here?

She followed him back to the inn. She knew that both her mother and Brody were watching them. She slipped her arm through Gavin’s, leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked.

“Save me,” she whispered.

Gavin ran his fingers lightly over Nell’s skin as if he were teasing her, testing her, awakening her senses. Her body felt alive, feverish.

“Don’t move,” he said when she arched toward him, wanting more of him.

She opened her eyes. He was watching her, perched beside her, his chest lean and hairless. His face was serious as he studied her body.

Good, she thought. She was proud of her body, which was fit from yoga, thin from unemployment. She had once been a body double for a sex scene and the director had told her: That body is made for film.

“I can’t keep still,” she whispered. “You’re killing me.” She reached for him.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice loud, resonating against the stone walls of the small room.

She fell back on the bed and closed her eyes, caught her breath. She felt a rush of heat through her crotch; her heart pounded, warning her. You don’t know him. Her legs inched open, inviting his hand between them.

“My God,” she murmured when he touched her. Already
she was wet. She fought against the urge to wrap herself around him. Don’t move. It echoed in her head, it kept her flat on her back, it kept her heart pulsing in her skull.

But his fingers ran circles through her pubic hair and she began to lift her hips, to press herself into him.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, his mouth in her ear. He grabbed her wrists and held them above her head, pinning her down.

Please, she thought.

“Don’t say a word.”

She could come. She couldn’t come. She couldn’t move. She wouldn’t look at him. He was nowhere and everywhere, one finger inside her, one hand on her neck, the pressure coming from both hands, from thrill and fear, heat and ice. She felt a surge of panic and then a wave of something else—give it up to him.

His finger probed the deep space inside her. His hand slid down to her chest and his palm, flat and wide, pressed her into the mattress. He’ll break me in half. And then he pulled his finger out from inside her and ran it against her clitoris, teasing her, thrilling her, his voice in her ear: “Don’t move.”

She came without moving. It blasted through her body and she felt every pore on her skin break open, every muscle tense and release, heat and ice colliding, breaking her apart from the inside.

“Good girl,” he said and he lay down next to her.

W
hen Carly came downstairs with her suitcase, Wes was on the phone, walking in circles around the dining-room table, his own suitcase on top of the table, open and half packed. Or was it half unpacked?

He wouldn’t look at her.

The limo was due in ten minutes.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice and drank it standing in front of the sink, her back to Wes. She could hear the urgency in his voice—his work was always urgent—and she knew, even before he got off the phone, that he was not going to come to France.

God damn him, she thought.

“I’ll be there in a half hour,” he said into the phone. It was six o’clock in the morning.

She turned to him, steeling herself. She wouldn’t argue. It wouldn’t change anything. And she wouldn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in a long time when he canceled a trip.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to—”

“Spare me the details,” she said.

“You know I’d rather get on a plane with you. Go to France.”

He didn’t say any more. Because next he would have to say: “Go to your mother’s wedding.” Her mother hated him and he knew that. He so didn’t want to go to her mother’s wedding.

“Why did you even pretend?” she asked and cursed herself for asking. Go. Walk out and wait for the limo in front of the house.

“I wasn’t pretending. Does this look like a pretend suitcase?”

He would have never half packed. The guy never did anything halfway. Except commit to love.

“Yes,” she said.

“Carly.”

She shook her head. “I’m taking the newspaper,” she told him on the way out. He would be angry about that. He was the only guy she knew who wouldn’t read on his iPad. She slammed the door behind her.

Even after hours of flying, hours of sleeping and waking and remembering, Carly hadn’t settled herself well enough to face her family. The airline had put an old man in Wes’s business-class seat on the plane. The man smelled of cigarettes and something else—rotting fruit? Decay? When he asked where she was going she said, “I don’t speak English” in perfect English.
He watched movie after movie, drinking gin and tonics until he finally fell asleep, snoring riotously.

Now, in her rental car, she glanced at her Google Maps app and ignored the turn-off for the inn. Instead, she followed the signs to
CASSIS CENTRAL
, hoping to find the port or at least a good bar.