Seven Letters from Paris
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Authors: Samantha Vérant
Copyright © 2014 by Samantha Vérant
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Cover design by Laura Klynstra
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This book is a memoir. It reflects the author's present recollections of her experiences over a period of years. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.
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Contents4. I Want a Divorceâand I'm Taking the Dog
6. Hello, Thelma, or Is It Louise?
9. Let the Love Adventure Begin
10. Two American Tartes at Dame Tartine
11. Maybe a Mime Can Point Us in the Right Direction
13. The Train Leaves the Station
14. Le Coup de Foudre Strikes Again
16. So Many Castles, So Little Time
17. The Rekindle-the-Romance Tour Continues
23. The French and American Paper Trail
25. Integration and Perspiration
For Jean-Luc,
mon Prince Charmant, who opened up my heart
and taught me that love isn't rocket science.
Author's NoteThis is a true story. There are no composite characters or scenes; however, I did change the names of select individuals to protect their identities, as well as to thwart the potential threat of having an onslaught of Molotov cocktails lobbed through my bedroom window. Conversations are not verbatim, but reconstructed from my elephant-like memory to the best of my abilitiesâthankfully, there are no quizzes on French conjugations in this book. Some sequences of events were compressed or omitted completely, because they slowed down the pacing, didn't drive the story at hand forward, or bordered on being TMI. (Yes, even in memoir there is such a thing as
too
much
information
.) So instead of going down into the
Guinness
Book
of
World
Records
for the longest memoir ever written, I stick to the pertinent details and facts that led me on a yearlongâand still continuingâlove adventure. And I invite you, dear reader, to join me.
Think of it as a whole long day and a whole long night, shining and sweet, and you will be all but awed by your fortune. For how many people are there who have the memory of a whole long day and a whole long night, shining and sweet, to carry with them in their hearts until they die?
âDorothy Parker, “The Lovely Leave”
PrefaceTonight I'm cooking from the heart, choosing self-belief over fear.
Although I've always been a culinary adventuress, experimenting with recipes ripped from the pages of
Bon
Appétit
and
Gourmet
since the age of twelve, Jean-Luc and I usually prepare this particular meal togetherâhim manning the stove, me the eager sous-chef, slicing and dicing the parsley, shallots, and garlic. Now, thanks to his gentle coaching, I'm a little more confident when it comes to the art of preparing flammable French cuisine. And I can't let a little heat scare me out of my own kitchen.
The time has finally come to conquer my anxiety of flambéingâon my own.
On the first strike, the match hisses to life, trailing a wisp of smoke. I take a step back, reach out my arm, and touch the lit tip into the pastis with a steady hand. Flames flare up and the aroma of the anise-flavored liqueur permeates the kitchen. The blaze settles into a simmer, and I let out the breath I've been holding in. My technique is still not flawless though; to the cat's delight, one plump shrimp tumbles onto the floor. Bella lifts her haunches and pounces on her prey. I may not have the pan flip down, but I have one very happy, pint-sized panther.
After setting the timer, I twist the knob on the burner to low, which will allow the flavors of the pastis to infuse the shrimp just a bit more. Jean-Luc has already set the table outside, and I step out into the garden to join him. “Wine?” he asks.
I nod and take my seat within earshot of the kitchen, noting my husband's handsome profile, his manicured sideburns, and his chiseled jaw with the five o'clock shadow as he uncorks the bottle of Cabernet d'Anjou.
I am just as attracted to him as I'd been when we first met over twenty years ago.
Right as we're about to clink glasses, the timer in the kitchen buzzes. Before I can move a muscle, Jean-Luc says, “Stay. Stay.” He flies out of his chair and into the house. A few seconds later, he rushes back to the deck and places a glossy black paper bag on my dinner plate. I can make out the name of a jeweler:
18k, Montres et Bijoux
.
I point, my mouth dropping open. “But you weren't supposed to get me anythingâ”
“I wanted to.” He shrugs and blows air between his lips like only a Frenchman can do without looking silly.
“But the shrimpâ”
“Can wait a minute. I turned the burner off.” He motions to the bag. “
Ouvre-le
.”
He doesn't need to translate his words into English. With a shake of my head, I reach through layers of hot pink tissue paper to discover a bracelet resting in a satin-lined box. The clasp is delicate, but Jean-Luc manages to hitch it in seconds. The strand twists on my wrist and a small amethyst heart rests on my pulse, its facets glittering in the candlelight. Something about the way the light flickers on the jewel, almost beating, brings on a moment of complete clarity. I look to the starlit sky before meeting Jean-Luc's gaze, trying to find my breath. I can only whisper, “Thank you.”
Jean-Luc's hands clasp onto mine. “Sam, you never, ever have to thank me.”
Oh, but I do.
Three years ago, when I left a loveless marriage, filed for bankruptcy, became a dog walker, and moved back in with my parents in Southern California, I thought things couldn't get any worse. But then, in a moment of longing and memory, I used the Internet to track down Jean-Luc and rekindle an unfinished romance from decades before. Tonight is our second wedding anniversary.
This is the story of how I rebooted my life and restarted my heart.
Seven LettersI didn't know how I'd survive the wreckage.
As the latest casualty of a company-wide layoff, I was an out-of-work art director in Chicago, and new employment opportunitiesâfreelance or otherwiseâwere hard to come by. The big bad wolf of credit card debt had huffed and puffed and blown any kind of financial freedom away. Anger and resentment had taken its toll on what started out as a happy marriage. For eight years, I'd been sharing the guest bedroom with my dog, Ike. It was no wonder my husband Chris and I didn't have kids, save for one furry “replacement child.”
My fortieth birthday loomed around the corner, and I didn't know in which direction to head when all roads seemed to lead straight to rock bottom. So on the evening of May 6, 2009, I met up with the one person I'd hoped could shove me onto the right path or, at the very least, lift me out of my funk.
Tracey listened to me bitch and moan and groan for a good half hour. Then her lips curved into a catlike grin. She grabbed the bottle of Pinot Noir off the bar and filled our glasses to the top. Before red wine spilled everywhere, I grabbed my glass, eyeing her with suspicion. No yellow feathers stuck to her lips but, having been her best friend for over twenty-five years, I knew she was up to somethingâalways scheming, that Tracey. “Spit it out already, Sylvester.”
“Nineteen eighty-nine. Twenty years ago. Paris.”
And just like that, the tune of our depressing conversation switched from a song titled “Stormy Nights” to “Happy Days,” and we reveled in our past, reliving each moment by glorious moment in a wild romp down memory lane. We sounded a lot like the two middle-aged women in that legendary commercial from the eightiesâthe one where they reminisce about their trip to Paris over a cup of coffee. One woman said, “I loved that waiter,” and they both giggled and sighed. “Jean-Luc.”
Then again, our 1989 Parisian adventure couldn't be compared to a mere coffee commercial; it was the dreamiest escapade we'd experienced in our lives, our biggest adventure.
La
vie
en
rose
, Paris seduced our souls. Not only did we become bewitched with Paris's breathtaking architecture, culture, and art, Tracey and I both found romance on her historical streets. But
my
Jean-Luc wasn't a waiter; he was a sexy rocket scientist, who spoke near-perfect English, thanks to his job within the aerospace industry and international collaborations. And we would have been totally remiss if Patrick (his equally handsome friend) didn't play a major role in this lively conversation.
I am still thankful that Tracey and I hadn't fallen for the same guy.
A spark lit Tracey's dark brown eyes, a brow lifted high. She leaned forward and whispered, “Do you still have Jean-Luc's letters?”
She knew full well I had them. “They're packed up somewhere at home. Why?”
“Because we're going to create a blog called
The
World's Most Beautiful Love Letters
. People will submit their letters to us, and we'll reject or accept them by comparing them to Jean-Luc's. His letters will set the bar.”
As a distraction from my disaster of a life, her idea piqued my interest.
We finished off our bottle of wine and discussed possibilities for the blog. I agreed to give it some serious thought, but I wasn't totally convinced by Tracey's enthusiasm. Posting Jean-Luc's love letters on a public forum and comparing them to others would cheapen them. I hadn't communicated with the guy in twenty years. And what if he somehow stumbled onto this “love blog” and recognized his words? Wouldn't that be just a tad humiliating? I definitely didn't want to humiliate
myself
. What I needed to do was track down those letters, give them a good read, and then make a decision. It was after midnight and I was all talked out. Perhaps it was from the way I'd tapped my fingernails on my wine glass that Tracey finally picked up the hint.
“Do you need a ride home?” she asked.
“No, the walk will do me good.”
“Up to youâ”
“Really, I'm fine.”
“Think about the blog, Sam.” Tracey set her glass down, gave me a big hug, and then shimmied her shoulders out of the restaurant, singing, “The love blog is a little old place where we can blog together. Love blog, baby. Love blog, bay-beeeeeeeee.”
Leave it to my best friend to bastardize the B-52s for the sole purpose of making me laugh. With a bounce in my step, I booked it out of the restaurant and raced the two blocks home, unearthing Jean-Luc's letters priority
numero
uno
.
I was a woman on a mission. I nearly killed myself pulling the first plastic container out of the storage closet. It fell to the floor with a resounding thud, narrowly missing my head. Thankfully, my husband was out of town on business so the noise wouldn't bother anybody save for the downstairs neighbors and my dog. Ike, curious about the commotion, plodded into the hallway, his breath a green cloud hanging over my shoulder. No matter. Stroking Ike's velvet ears with one hand, I flipped the top of the container open with the other. Photo albums. Childhood modeling photos. Random memories from my past.
Six containers later, I was still coming up empty handed, and I was about to give up when I counted the boxes scattered on the floor. Seven. The exact number of letters I'd received from Jean-Luc. It had to be some kind of sign.
But surely, I was setting myself up for disappointment.
At first glance, the last container didn't look promisingâit was filled with files, tax returns, and old employment stubs. But then I held my breath, removed a few binders, and hallelujah, my quest for momentary happiness was fulfilled in the form of an aqua blue plastic folder filled with old letters. With careful fingers, I pulled Jean-Luc's letters out and inspected them closely. In pristine condition, they appeared to have been written only yesterday, even though thousands of yesterdays had since passed. All the pages were beautiful cream parchment embellished with black ink. Compared to my chicken scratch printing, Jean-Luc's handwriting was poetic, artful. I stacked the letters in order, curled up on my couch, and I read:
Letter One
Paris, July 28, 1989
My Sweet Samantha,
I really don't know how to begin this first letter, not because of nothing to say, but rather, I've got so many things to lay on this paper I can't find my thoughts. I have no dictionary here to write perfect Shakespearean English, so excuse the mistakes I have made and the ones I will certainly make.
Please don't think it's easy for me to express my feelings in a letter, but when your heart beats for somebody, I believe it's best not to hide it. Perhaps you believe it is too quick to declare my feelings. Perhaps most people would think that it is, but I don't care about the way others live, because I'm doing what I need to do to express myself to you. None before you opened my heart in so little time, but with you, all my barriers exploded into a thousand pieces.
Sam, I know it will be difficult for us to keep a strong relationship, but in my life I've learned “where there is a will, there is a way,” and I believe in it. I found in you a girl with kindness, so many qualities which can make a man happy. I liked your way to be funny, your kind of foolishness, your passion for art, but mostly I loved your presence by my side. I miss your voice. It still sings in my head like a sweet bird filled with plenty of happiness. You put thousands of suns in my mindâ¦like a fairy. So thank you for the time we shared togetherâfilled with both tenderness and joy.
It would be a disaster if we stop this passion between us. And I am a man who cannot live without passion. It's the nerve of my being, the best we can do. I felt it that evening at the restaurantâan unspoken connection. I had to communicate with you, or I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't know the outcome. So for this passion, I'm going to try my best to save it. I really want to live something exceptional with you.
When your train departed the station, I didn't ask where you would be staying in Nice. You made me crazyâcrazy for you, of course. I would have been able to join you over the weekend. My head was in the clouds and today, all day long, I was very angry with myself for being so stupid. You told me to come with you, but I didn't think about the weekend. Sure, Sam, I would have done that for you.
I really desire for this story to be greatâboth romantic (yeah!) and erotic (hmmm!) at the same time. I wanted to give you so many pleasures in order for you to keep me deep in your mind, and I'm a little frustrated not to have done it. Still, you remain my pretty girl, the girl I care a lot for. We have so many things in commonâboth intellectually and physicallyâand it's hard to find both attractions in the same person. So when you find her, you don't want to let her go. I really want to be with you, even if it's complicated. We have to move forward togetherâhand in hand, heart with heart, skin on skin.
I can't finish this letter. It's crazy. I'm crazy too!
⢠⢠â¢
Jean-Luc's words were an aphrodisiac, food for the love-starved. Reading them was better than bingeing on chocolate, and I consumed his letters with a voracious appetite, each page more beautiful and poetic and romantic than the next. His words were exquisite, full of passion and promise. Much as he'd written, I felt my heart beating on every word. It had definitely needed the jump start.
I admired his courage. I'd never been one to express my emotions. Not like him. And God, at that point, what I would have done to have just one measly ounce of passion in my life. But there I sat on the couch, wondering what had happened, trying to figure out the point in time when everything I'd once dreamed for had just gone wrong. I had nothingâjust debt and a dead marriage, guilt and fear. Where was my everything? I held onto Jean-Luc's letters.
Tracey's idea to use these letters as some kind of love barometer, well, her concept had sprouted wings and flown right out the window, and I found myself gripped by the strong hands of guilt and regret. In 1989, Jean-Luc had written me seven beautiful letters in an attempt to keep the spark between us lit.
And I never wrote him back.
Not one word.
Pas
un
mot
.