Page 74 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty-Six
For most ofthe drive to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferret, I’m in spellbound silence. Bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, each town and hamlet along the seaside route glows with a luxurious ambience. Morgan points out the home of Bono in Eze, says Beaulieu-Sur-Mer is full of boring Swiss. I can’t get over how beautiful it all is.
“You’re lucky to live here.”
“It’s my favorite part of the world,” he says. “Perfect climate. The ocean.”
“Like LA, only more manageable, less smog, and a hundred times more picturesque.”
He looks at me sideways. “I take it you aren’t missing it.”
“Right now?” I laugh. “No.” The reality is, stepping away has given me some perspective. The beat of life of here is less intense and more my speed. Mind you, it's hard not to see life through rose-colored glasses driving around the Cap. The stately homes are full-blown manors in the Downton Abbey sense with price tags in the tens of millions, if not higher.
“Could you live somewhere else with the work you do?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say. “So much of what I do is about being there. I imagine your line of work is similar?”
“I could be elsewhere and manage,” he says unconvincingly. “Have you thought of developing a European client base?”
“No, but maybe we should.”
The idea is tempting, although I can’t see Vaughn thriving in Europe. He survives on Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, keeps a pistol in his briefcase, and would consider the tiny espresso shots they serve here a joke.
But I could get into a groove here.
Our cruise around the neighborhood slows to a crawl and Morgan stops in front of an intricately scrolled gate. The property stretching behind it is so vast I can't even see a home. During our tour, he’s been name-dropping people I don’t know but who sound important, so I’m curious.
“Who lives here?” I ask.
“My parents,” he says, and rolls down the window to buzz an intercom embedded in the rockwork girding the gate. After an exchange in French, the double-sided gate swings open and the wheels of the Chiron crunch in the pea gravel.
“Be prepared for a tour," Morgan warns. "Maman is all about herjardin.”
No kidding. It's as if we detoured to Versailles. The manicured opulence goes on and on. Flower beds the size of swimming pools are inlaid into a lawn so green it looks fake. I have a vision of Morgan's mother plucking errant leaves from the trimmed boxwood lining the driveway with her tweezers and possibly hair spraying the shrubs after the fact.
"It's incredible," I say. "How long have your parents lived here?"
"The property has been in our family for generations. I used to play endlessly in this yard," Morgan says.
"This is where you grew up?" For some reason, I imagined a smart city home, not a sprawling mansion where aristocrats lounged in the shade and drank Absinthe. (If that's a thing. It feels like a thing.)
"As my father will no doubt remind you, I have yet to grow up."
I smile back. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."
Maison de Rohan-Chabot finally appears, a rambling French Country affair with pink roof tiles and tall rectangular windows flanked with louvered shutters painted a fresh periwinkle blue. A maid dressed in traditional black and white smiles at us from the front steps. Morgan parks and introduces me to Josie, who escorts us inside.
I’ve been to many Beverly Hills parties on some of the city’s most exclusive real estate. I don’t know what it is about Europeans, but they do everything better, including wealth. Morgan’s family home is stylish, without an air of being overly curated. Huge rooms allowed to breathe with simple, modern design.
“Did you do their home?” I ask, admiring a bold chandelier the size of a sedan.
“I helped out with sourcing and a few things. As you might have gathered from meeting my father, he’s very much in charge.”
I hear Alix’s voice before I see him, his laughter drawing us into the kitchen filled with a fatty smell of beef and butter. An elegantly dressed woman stops stirring one of two Le Creuset pots bubbling on the Wolfe range and rushes over to embrace Morgan.
“Bonsoir, bonsoir, ma douce!” She kisses him exuberantly before turning to me. “And you must be Vandana,” she says with a warm smile. “Welcome. My name’s Cèline and please, call me that.”
Blonde, regal, and owning her age, Cèline could be Catherine Deneuve’s twin sister. Together, she and Alix are a beautiful couple. I immediately see how the best of their DNA has shaped Morgan. Cèline’s lustrous, windswept hair and inquisitive tiger’s eyes play softer than Morgan’s versions and Alix’s classic bone structure formed more precise angles on his son, but as a trio, they are equally stunning.
