Page 97 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Actually,” Sebastien says as we cross the lobby, “the hotel knows who we are because our driver called when we landed at the airport to let the hotel staff know we were on our way.”
“Too bad. And here I thought we were getting celebrity treatment because we really were VIPs.”
We take the elevator to the top floor. When Jean-Phillipe reaches our door, he unlocks it and opens it wide. “This will be your apartment. I hope you find it to your standards.”
Apartment?
I gasp as I step inside, because I was obviously wrong about not having VIP status. The apartment is how I imagine a chic French home looks, multiplied by ten. Sunlight beams in through floor-to-ceiling windows framed by gray silk curtains, the bottom halves of the drapes folded back like origami to reveal an elegant crimson underside. Velvet furniture clusters around a fireplace intricately carved from white marble. Sconces mounted on curlicue wrought iron adorn the walls.
Beyond the living room, there’s a dining room, complete with fresh orchids in a crystal vase in the center of the long table. A mirrored drink cart waits next to it, stocked with what look like bottles of champagne but turn out to be nonalcoholic sparking grape juice made in the vineyards of Burgundy. (Sebastien obviously had a hand in requesting specialty drinks for the pregnant lady.)
There’s a kitchenette, two bedrooms, and the coup de grâce: aprivate rooftop terrace with panoramic views of Cannes, all the way to the sea.
“Oh, Sebastien,” I say as I toss open the patio doors and breathe in the warm, salty air. “It’s absolute perfection.”
Jean-Phillipe takes his leave, and Sebastien and I wander out onto the rooftop. There are chaise longues out here, and umbrellas to shade us from the summer sun. The view of Cannes and the Mediterranean extends for miles and miles.
Sebastien wraps his arms around me, pulling me into the shelter of his embrace.
“A euro for your thoughts,” I say.
“It only costs a penny for thoughts,” he says.
I shrug. “Inflation. Or maybe your thoughts are just more valuable to me.”
He laughs softly. But he doesn’t answer my question.
Instead, Sebastien bends down and kisses me, long and deep. Then he gets down on his knees, dips his head under the hem of my dress, and liberates me of my panties.
“Bienvenue en France,” he says.
SEBASTIEN
Afterward, Helene drowses in thesun. She’s more beautiful than ever, her belly starting to round just a little with the life within. As much as I’m afraid of the curse, the evidence of our baby thriving is one of the greatest sights I’ve ever seen.
I rest my cheek against Helene’s stomach. She reaches down and strokes my hair. “Tell our baby girl a story about us,” she says, her voice languid.
“Since when have you decided we’re having a girl?”
“It’s just a feeling,” Helene says. “Mother’s instinct, I guess.”
I can’t see her face from where I’m lying, but I can sense her smile in the way she says it.Mother’s instinct.
“Tell her a story about us,” Helene repeats. “But give it a happy ending.”
I tense at this request. Romeo and Juliet don’t have happy endings. The weight of all our tragedies casts its yoke around my shoulders again.
Helene seems to realize this, because she pushes up on her elbows and looks at me. The sea breeze ripples through her hair. “Hey,” she says gently. “Have faith.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know. But think of the story as encouragement for our daughter. She’s going to change our destinies. And she’ll also grow up knowing her mom and dad’s incredible history.”
I close my eyes for a moment. Tacking on a happily ever after would be disingenuous. For Helene’s sake, I’m trying to believe the baby will break the cycle of the curse, but I won’t pretend the past didn’t happen.
At the same time, what kind of monster tells horror stories to their unborn child?
I decide to compromise.
