Page 75 of The Cruiser
“Thank you for having me,” I say. I have the kiss thing figured out and execute like a pro on both her and Alix. “Your home is beautiful. And it smells delicious in here.”
“Beef Bourguignon is Morgan’s favorite.” Cèline’s tone suggests I take note, her accent stronger than Morgan’s. “You eat meat?”
“Oh, yes. And I have a healthy appetite.”
This pleases her. It pleases every mother I’ve been introduced to. But behind her smile is the appraisal Morgan warned me about. I wore the white eyelet dress with a knee-length flared skirt for this very reason. Demure, not flashy. Paired with a headband and black flats, it strikes the right tone. She’ll never suspect her son spent most of his Sunday afternoon buried between my legs.
“Morgan mentioned you’re an avid gardener.”
“Oh,” she says, sharing a look with him. “You like to garden?”
If paying my gardeners to visit twice a week counts, then yes. “My thumb isn’t as green as yours.”
“While they prepare aperitifs, would you like to see my roses?” she asks.
“I’d love that,” I say, while Morgan masks a smile of I told you so.
“What would you like to drink, Vandana?” Alix asks. He looks very fatherly today in a short-sleeved dress shirt and pressed pants. But he carries himself with confident, outlaw energy. I bet he and Vaughn would get along like a house on fire.
I touch Morgan’s arm. “What did we have in Genoa that I liked?”
“Aperol spritz,” he says. “We’ll start with a round of those.”
Cèline glances at Alix with a sly smile before herding me out of the kitchen and onto the sprawling patio that overlooks a little slice of heaven. Birds of paradise and hibiscus plants in full bloom surround a turquoise pool the length of the house. Beyond that, a verdant lawn stretches down to the rocky shores of the Mediterranean. With the heat, humidity and the smell of jungle greenery, I wouldn’t be surprised if a peacock or streak of tigers showed up.
“Is this all you?” I ask. The maintenance here is seven days a week, for sure.
“Mostly, but where we would we be without a little help, no?” She smiles and her hand is warm enveloping mine. “Come, we’ll go this way.”
From the elevated patio, a stone staircase spirals down to pool level. I follow Cèline’s lead to a hard-packed dirt path meandering us past the pool to a hidden garden teeming with vegetables, herbs, and rows of fragrant roses. She chitchats about varieties and fertilizers and weather concerns and when that line of conversation peters out, she makes her move.
“How did you and Morgan meet? Alix mentioned you work in Los Angeles?”
“I believe his Vice President Olivier found my firm. He set up the meeting.”
“Mon Dieu,” she mutters. “We’ve been encouraging Morgan to get rid of him for years.”
“I thought they were old friends?”
Her mouth flattens into a disapproving line. “Olivier’s made sure they’ve remained friends. He’s been riding on Morgan’s coattails far too long. But there’s only so much parents can say, no?” She stops to smell a wide-petalled rose in shades of pink and canary yellow, offering the bloom to me.
“Wow.” The scent is rich and complex, layered and sweet. “It’s like perfume.”
“Roses are my hobby,” she says. “They keep me busy. Sounds like your work keeps you busy as well. Now that Morgan’s a client, will you set up an office here?”
Here we go. “He’s our first European client, so it’s early days. Something to consider though.”
She thinks on this, goes for strategy number two. “It must be hard on your husband and family if you’re traveling all the time.”
“I’m recently separated and don’t have children. I never felt the pull of motherhood.”
“Ah, I see.” She’s careful to keep any judgment in check, but I can tell it’s one point for being single and two demerits for not wanting kids. And a gold star for me, letting it all hang out. It’s getting easier to say words like separated, and one day my chest won’t tighten. “Yes, well, Morgan feels the same about children,” she adds. “I blame myself and his father for that.”
“How come?”
She pauses at an immaculate bush and squishes a decent-sized bug between her fingers, flicking away the carcass. A ruthless killer dressed in a silk tunic and Valentino kitten heels. “We were at sea for much of his early life,” she says. “He never had a lot of interaction with other children. Became very singular and focused as a result. Those qualities help in business but he’s never had much success with relationships.”
“He’s very talented,” I say, steering clear of her minefield. “You must be proud.”
