French Lessons

  French Lessons

  by Natalie Vivien

  "French Lessons"

  © Natalie Vivien 2014

  Rose and Star Press

  First Edition

  All rights reserved

  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Synopsis:

  Would you have the courage to restart your life--and give love a chance--in a completely different country?

  Vida Toujours has struggled all of her life, working hard for everything she's ever earned, using her all-consuming job as a Chicago doctor to numb herself against the emptiness she carries inside. Overprotective of her heart, Vida pushes people away, and despite her loneliness, she's made an art of remaining detached and disconnected. Then she receives an unexpected letter from France.

  An aunt that Vida never knew she had has died, willing Vida a chateau in the French countryside. What feels like an impossible dream is now Vida's reality: she's an heiress, and the last living member of a family legacy steeped in secrets.

  When Vida arrives at the chateau, there are more surprises in store for her. She could never have predicted the effect that Renee Chanson, the fiery and captivating woman she meets at the chateau, would have upon her. And she could never have imagined how the decades-old mystery of her family's past would, at last, unfold.

  Can Vida learn to trust and open her stubborn heart to the possibility of a French romance? Or will she make the same mistakes her mother made and let the love of her life run away from her, leaving her to nurse a permanent broken heart?

  FRENCH LESSONS is a poignant, passionate novel about coming to terms with the past and learning to love; a tender romance to curl up with. It is approximately 64,000 words long (providing many hours or a few days of romantic reading).

  FRENCH LESSONS

  I squint into the midday sun as I stand, gaping, on the sidewalk outside of Charles de Gaulle Airport. The brown wool beret that the hospital staff gave me as a going-away gift sags over my brows; I shove it back, determined to soak in the vision before me—despite the too-white, eye-burning light.

  France. Paris. I’ve never ventured far from my hometown of Chicago, Illinois, have never traveled outside of the United States—though I longed to, and desperately. For decades, I’ve dreamed and schemed, collecting maps and brochures and tacking them up on the wall of my office, alongside my medical diplomas.

  But something always came up. There was always something more important to attend to than my ever-tapping, itchy foot. There were my years of schooling and interning, followed by various staff positions. There was my failed attempt at heterosexuality: an ill-advised engagement to Dr. Tyler Scopes, which almost resulted in a wedding.

  I shudder now, despite the sunshine, remembering the eager expression on Tyler’s face when I glimpsed him between the half-open chapel doors.

  In a characteristic fit of commitment panic, I stood Tyler up at the altar—running from the chapel in my white bridal suit (pants, jacket, tie) and Converse sneakers—an offense that I’ve been atoning for, but never regretting, every day of the four years since.

  Well, to be honest, I told inquisitive colleagues that my fear of commitment was to blame for the failed attempt at matrimony, but the reality was much more complicated than that, and far more personal than I was willing to admit to acquaintances.

  Tyler was a wonderful man, so patient and undemanding, but I wasn’t in love with him—I was a lesbian, for Hippocrates’ sake—and neither he nor I deserved a loveless marriage.

  After the wedding that wasn’t, Tyler transferred to a university hospital in Florida, and I transferred to a larger hospital across town. For a few months, I punished myself with solitude, passing my nights unaccompanied. But before twelve weeks had gone by, loneliness won out: I created an online profile and began to date local women off and on.

  Still, my schedule was so crammed with work, and my heart was so crammed with self-loathing, that I couldn’t commit enough time or devotion to anyone. So, inevitably, all of my (very short-term) girlfriends left me. They came and went in cycles: I found myself a new romantic companion every month or two, but I never deluded myself into thinking that she would stick around for more than a handful of weeks.

  And she never did.

  Now here I am, alone in Paris.

  I don’t do well alone, despite my tendency to push people away. Given the circumstances, though, my current solitariness is probably for the best. I’ve never kept friends easily, and a transatlantic funeral isn’t the sort of thing you invite a date to—especially if you’ve never even met the deceased.

  I drop my heavy bags as I wave my arm toward the loitering taxis, a hopeful but wavering smile on my face. Hopeful because I’m eager to begin the adventure; wavering because I don’t quite know how to begin it—since I don’t speak more than five words of French.

  During the plane ride, I read a chapter in an Agatha Christie novel and then tried to listen to some French lessons on my iPod, but I had clocked out of my last hospital shift only two hours before takeoff, and exhaustion overtook my good intentions. I downed some wine and closed my eyes somewhere over the lakes of Michigan; when I opened them again, the plane had landed in France. I felt as if I’d been teleported, “beamed up” by a real-life Scotty, but of course hours had passed—and I had failed to cram a word of French into my stubborn head.

  At my mother’s insistence, I had taken Spanish instead of French in school for my language requirements and, embarrassingly enough, barely passed. My brain is a sponge for medical jargon, but it is spitefully single-minded: it deflects non-medical, non-English terminology with the determination of a soccer goalie, kicking all of those boles and balles out of the stadium and into outer space.

  So my French language skills, despite my French ancestry, hover at the Sesame Street-level—bonjour, merci, oui… Croissant. Baguette.

  Now a blue taxi eases up beside me, and the driver rolls down the passenger-side window, shouting something indecipherable (i.e. French) in my direction. If this were a cheesy sci-fi show—and I happen to love cheesy sci-fi shows; I even attended some Trekkie conventions during my college years—I would have a handy (though inexplicable) electronic translator to help me speak and understand French without actually going to the bother of learning it. But as it stands, I regard the cap-wearing man blankly, uncertain as to how I should respond.

  Luckily, I remember the true universal language—money—and draw my wallet out of my jeans pocket.

  Instantly, the cab driver steps out of the car, and I take up my bags again, helping him heft them into the open trunk. “Merci,” I thank him too enthusiastically, exposing myself for an American, or at least a giddy, gauche tourist type. But he has the grace to nod and smile, opening the backseat door for me and ushering me inside.

  I rummage around in my shoulder bag until I find the folded page scrawled with my late aunt’s address, and then I hand it to the driver as he situates himself behind the wheel. He reads the words quickly and makes a low whistling sound before turning around to give me an arched brow and a sharp-sounding, and quite lengthy, diatribe.

  “I’m so sorry,” I interrupt him, sliding the too-warm beret off of my head. I smooth a hand over my short-cropped brown hair as I smile ruefully at him. “I only speak English.”

  “English?” He crinkles his nose and puckers his lips, as if he’s just b
itten into something sour. “You are English?”

  “Well…no. American,” I answer sheepishly.

  “Ah, American!” Still, the sour look remains—his lips actually become more puckered—but his gaze shifts to a far-off point, as if he’s considering our verbal predicament. Then he makes an exclamatory sound, claps his hands, and produces a pen from a slot near the radio. After some hasty sketching, he presents me with what appears to be a map.

  I look at it, wide-eyed, then wrinkle my brow. “All right. So this is—”

  “Paris,” he tells me simply, pointing to his more-phallic-than-necessary representation of the Eiffel Tower. “Et…” Then he draws his finger in a long line toward the opposite edge of the page. “Ville Etoile.”

  “Ville Etoile,” I murmur, nodding vaguely as comprehension sinks in. “So what you’re telling me is that we’re very far away from Ville Etoile. All right, but… Can you take me there, anyway? I can pay you. Um…” I show him my wallet again, this time pulling out a thick wad of Euros and offering up my most winning smile. I used this smile to help secure my first staff position at a hospital seven years ago; I can only hope it’s aged well—and that it translates into the cabbie’s native tongue.

  Apparently it does—or I flatter myself to think so. More likely, it was the money, not the smile, that did the trick. Either way, the driver shouts something loud and triumphant toward the road ahead of us, and then, with a screech of tires, we’re off.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, leaning back against the cool, faux-leather seat. Despite the obvious proof—French words on the road signs and billboards, French lyrics crooning from the taxi’s radio—it’s almost impossible for me to believe that I’m in France, that I’m an ocean away from everything and everyone I’ve known. My heart races, jolted by this new, isolating sensation—but there’s something exhilarating about it, too. Here, no one knows me. I can do whatever I want to do, be whoever I want to be.

  To my disappointment, our journey doesn’t take us through Paris itself; we skirt along some crowded side streets and then settle in for a long cruise through greening countryside. It’s spring, or nearly spring: petals of purple and yellow are peeping up from the ground, and the trees glow with unfurling leaves of reckless, newborn jade.

  The driver toys with the radio dial—switches to a news station, I think—and the lilting voices lull me with their slow and rhythmic words. I find it soothing, in a way, to be engulfed by a foreign language. It removes the necessity to listen, to think or understand; instead, I can simply let the sound flow through me, freed from the duty of conscious response.

  Freed. I mouth the word, suddenly overwhelmed. It’s the ideal word, I realize now, for this unwritten chapter of my life, which began the moment that I read the letter sent to me by the executor of Aunt Josephine’s estate. I remove the letter from my shoulder bag and, heart pounding, reread the familiar, tear-stained lines:

  Dr. Vida Toujours:

  It is with deep regret that I must inform you of the death of your aunt, Josephine Calvé, who suffered from a fatal bout of pneumonia. Funeral services have been arranged per her notarized request.

  As the sole surviving family member of Josephine Calvé, you are named in her will as the inheritor of her estate, which includes a sizeable fortune as well as property—a chateau and acreage—in the French village of Ville Etoile.

  Your timely response to this matter, preferably by phone, would be appreciated, and, again, allow me to express my sincerest sympathies for your loss.

  Condolences,

  Georges LeGrande, Esq.

  I refold the letter and put it back in my bag, drawing in a shallow breath as emotions war within me. My mother never told me that she had a sister—though, to be honest, my mother never told me anything about her past at all. She grew up in France; I knew that much. But she had only the faintest accent and always spoke English in my presence. She forbid me to study French myself.

  The only thing I did know for certain was that she and my father had parted ways before she came to America. Forty-two years ago, she crossed the Atlantic—young and alone—while she was pregnant with me.

  Though I had begged her countless times to tell me about my father—anything at all: his name, his hair color, his favorite food—she was more stubborn than the proverbial ox and never gave up a word. I didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, whether she had hated him or loved him. I didn’t even know if they had been married; Toujours was my mother’s family’s name, she told me once.

  Somehow, Mom ended up in Chicago, and after my birth, she supported us on her waitressing checks—waiting tables at three different restaurants—while the landlady babysat me. When I was old enough, I took odd jobs around the city so that I could contribute toward the grocery bills and save a bit on the side for my educational future. Turned out, though, that I qualified for a special program geared toward low-income students with exceptional high school records. The guidance counselor called me into her office one day to tell me this shocking news and to discuss my dizzying options—options which, she was eager to point out, included not only full tuition toward a traditional four-year degree but also toward the entirety of a law or medical school program.

  I could be a doctor. I had never considered studying medicine before—to be honest, I was more interested in the arts; writing, especially—but I had aced my AP Biology class, and, if I were a doctor, I would earn more than enough money to support both myself and my mother. Mom would never have to work again. My stomach clenched a little at the thought of the staggering responsibility: mending all of those fragile, beloved human bodies. But the financial reward was too tempting, and I shoved my misgivings aside. I’d been poor all of my life; now, finally, I could live comfortably, and repay my mother for the grueling hours she had worked in order to keep me fed and warm.

  It was a Dickensian twist of fate, far too good to be true, but I never let myself question it, too afraid that wondering would make the opportunity vanish, like a dream. If this scholastic foundation wanted to reward me for my studiousness, I would accept their generosity with open arms—and take full advantage of the financial windfall.

  Some memories imprint upon your heart as permanently as the deepest, most painful scars: my mother baked me an angel food cake—my favorite, and her specialty—on the day that I received my medical doctorate. I still remember how the fluffy sweetness felt on my tongue. I still remember the pride beaming from my mother’s strange, forest green eyes…

  She died six days later in a bus accident that claimed three other lives. It was quick, her death; I took comfort in that, at least, though my grief was so deep that I thought it would drown me. I wanted it to drown me. Instead, I nearly drowned myself in wine, though I’d never been much of a drinker before. One afternoon, I arrived for my shift so drunk that I fell over a gurney and gashed open my temple—and still attempted to attend to my duties. But then I fainted in the hallway and knocked myself out; when I woke, I was a patient, and I had a team of disappointed doctors and nurses glowering over my bed.

  Given the circumstances, they let me have another chance to prove my mettle. I’m ashamed to admit that I almost resented them for it. I found myself staring bleakly into a future that I had never really wanted. Orphaned, without family or any lasting friendships, I was really and truly alone.

  Still, I had little patience for wallowers, and I refused to become a defeated soul: I smashed my remaining wine bottles on the balcony floor, swept up the broken glass and pooling red liquid, and ordered myself to face the cold, hard facts of life. I could either stay in Chicago and honor my hard-earned medical position, or I could follow in my mother’s footsteps and run away.

  I decided to run away.

  I was too lost, exhausted, frazzled. Depressed. Every day blurred into the next, into the next… I had no sense of time, no sense of perspective. I packed my bags, and I bought a train ticket to New York. Not because I particularly wanted to visit New York, but because
New York seemed like a good starting place. For, well, anything.

  But during my final shift at the hospital—I watched the wall clock so slowly ticking—I met a little girl named Lily. She’d come into the hospital with a wracking cough, bronchitis, and I was standing in the examination room with her and her mother, filling out the necessary prescriptions and offering low-voiced advice.

  Between coughs, Lily placed her small white hand on my cheek and whispered some raspy words that I could barely hear, so, smiling at her, I leaned down and asked her to repeat them.

  Thank you for making me better, she said.

  I straightened, gazed down into her glassy blue eyes—and my destiny, in that moment, became a fixed point.

  They were simple words from a simply polite little girl, but they brought me back to life—or, maybe, they brought me to life for the very first time. Because I knew, then, that I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t run away to an uncertain life when, here, I had a purpose. Here, I could help.

  Maybe medicine wasn’t my great passion, but it was worthwhile; it gave me meaning and focus. I hadn’t been able to take care of my mother as I’d hoped, but I could take care of other people—hundreds of people—and maybe, someday, I would finally feel as if I’d done enough.

  When Monsieur LeGrande’s letter arrived, I felt the grief of my mother’s loss all over again, and the pain of failing her. I had never given her the easy life I’d wished her to have; she died too soon. Had all of her years been sad and hard? Had she ever known joy at all? Her past was so fraught with suffering that she flew across an ocean to escape its grasp, but its fingers had, somehow, in the end, grabbed hold of me.

  Gazing at the letter now as the lavender fields roll by, I experience a time-out-of-time feeling: I’m the last living member of my family line. All of the unfulfilled dreams of my ancestors weigh heavily upon me, as if I have inherited them, too, along with my aunt’s worldly possessions. How did I become the caretaker of so many lost memories? How can I resurrect a past that I never even knew existed until a week ago, when the fateful letter arrived?