Forbidden French

The week after I return from New York City, my grandmother thinks it’s a wonderful idea to throw Emmett and me an engagement party. The invitations go out without my knowledge. In fact, I only find out about it the morning of when a bevy of floral designers and event planners overtake the house in preparation for the evening’s festivities.

I catch my grandmother in the foyer, directing the catering crew to the kitchen.

I lead with, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

She completely ignores me, so I’m forced to cut in front of her again and reach out for her hand, demanding her attention.

“I wish you had asked me before doing this.”

She sighs. “It’s tradition. I hardly need your permission to throw a party in my own home.”

“Yes, but perhaps it would be best if we skipped all of this. I just think—”

Her brown eyes level me with a glare of impatience. “Elaine Evangeline…if you think I’m not going to throw my only granddaughter an engagement party, you’re sorely mistaken. In fact, I’m going to throw you and Emmett a party the likes of which Boston has never seen.”

At that, the front door opens to a woman holding up a stack of linens so tall it towers over her head, blocking her vision.

“A little help please!” she begs.

Jacobs swoops in and takes half of the folded items from her before they all go crashing to the ground.

Wanting no part of the party setup, I slip out of the house around lunch time and head for Morgan’s. It’s not my usual day to work, but I’m eager for the distraction the gallery is so good at providing. Collette is there, sitting behind the counter in the main showroom, answering emails. Her eyes widen when I walk in the door.

“I didn’t expect to see you today.”

I smile brightly. “I thought I’d see if you needed help with anything.”

“Umm…hello, don’t you have a party to get ready for?”

My good mood evaporates in an instant. How does she know about the engagement party?

She laughs, sensing my confusion. “Your grandmother invited half the city. I think everyone from St. John’s received an invitation—which, by the way, looked like they cost a thousand dollars a pop. I’m shocked a swarm of butterflies didn’t spring forth when I opened the box.”

Oh god.

“Right. Yeah…she gets a little carried away.”

I sound apologetic, which might be why she eases up.

“They were pretty, really. I’m just still in shock. You and Emmett? Since when?”

And so it begins.

The lying, the deceit, the stories.

No one has coached me on what I’m supposed to say. It would be nice to sync up my version of events with Emmett’s so we don’t sound like fools. Hell, for all I know, he’s being totally forthcoming with the truth. Collette might already know the engagement is a sham.

I open my mouth to answer her, but the words get lodged in my throat.

Her expression softens, and she holds out her hands as if trying to calm a wild animal. “Listen, I for one think it totally works. He’s always been a little dark and mysterious, and you have that misunderstood side to you too. At first, I was shocked, but now I get it. Of course, I want all the details…when you’re ready to share them. Like what is he like behind closed doors? I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with the guy.”

I force a laugh.

“It’s…unexpected,” I say, deciding the best course of action for now is to keep it vague.

“Well if you’re happy, I’m happy. And naturally I’ll be there tonight.”

I smile and nod then set my purse behind the counter.

“Good. Now put me to work.”

I distract myself at Morgan’s until half past 4 o’clock, at which point my grandmother and Margaret insist I need to get home so I can start getting ready for the party. The house is no less crowded when I walk into the foyer. If anything, the madness has only ratcheted up tenfold. Fortunately for me, Margaret has directed my hair and makeup team up to my room so I miss most of the last-minute frenzy.

I sit at my vanity, letting the professionals work. They sense I’m in a quiet mood and don’t press me for small talk. I’m immensely grateful because my nerves have set in. Even resting on my lap, my hands still shake. I try to clench my fists to disguise it, but I worry everyone still notices.

When I’m done with makeup and they’re putting the finishing touches on my hair, Margaret knocks and enters. “Here, dear. It’s lavender honey tea with a little something to take the edge off.”

When I take a sip, it’s so delicious I hardly taste the vodka.

She winks and steps back to sit down on my bed. While they untwist my hair from the curlers, she smiles approvingly but says nothing else. I love that about her—her ability to offer silent support. Just her presence is a comfort.

“Your dress is stunning. Do you like it?”

It’s a white silk draped gown that will hug my figure and dip low in the back, a classic style that would look good on anyone. There’s nothing not to like.

I smile and nod, knowing Margaret had a hand in selecting it for me.

“It’s lovely. Thank you. Help me put it on?”

The others pack up their things—the makeup palettes and brushes and hair pins and hair spray—and then they vacate the room so it’s just Margaret and me as I slip into the gown and stand in front of the mirror. She zips it up then drops her hands to my shoulders.

“Look at you. I can’t imagine a more beautiful bride.”

I hate that tears spring to my eyes.

She squeezes my shoulders and then moves away, giving me a moment to gather myself before reaching for my shoes.

By the time I make my grand entrance, the party is in full swing, just like my grandmother intended. It’s a real princess moment as I walk down the steps and smile for everyone. An official event photographer snaps photos of me from the bottom of the stairs, and I make sure to smile and appear as happy as a real bride-to-be.

My grandmother waits for me as I descend, and I’m grateful to have her at my side as she parades me through the party, ensuring I greet everyone, from current acquaintances to people I haven’t seen in years. The crowd skews slightly older, which doesn’t surprise me. This party is as much for her as it is for me.

I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve shaken hands with, smiled at, pretended for when there’s a sudden commotion in the front foyer.

Jacobs appears in the tall arched opening of the living room holding a piece of stationery.

There’s no need for him to collect everybody’s attention. The gasps coming from the entryway have done his job for him.

Still, he clears his throat and offers me a kind smile before reading aloud.

“Your soon-to-be father-in-law is heartbroken that he couldn’t make it for tonight’s celebration, but he wanted to send his well wishes to the happy couple and formally welcome Elaine into the Mercier family.”

At this, he steps back to allow a perfectly synchronized line of men dressed in black suits to waltz into the living room carrying artfully arranged bouquets of flowers. Their arms are each bent at precisely the same angle. Their steps are perfectly timed. Each one carries a bouquet filled with different flowers: garden roses, peonies, orchids, proteas, ranunculus, lilies, tulips, gardenias, hydrangeas…

A laugh of delight bubbles out of me at the over-the-top display, and I hold my hand up to my lips, trying to contain another, as the men walk over and set the flowers onto a table, one after another, arranging them in a way that, once complete, shocks the room by forming two intertwined Es.

The crowd oohs and ahhs, and even I’m touched by the thoughtfulness.

It almost relieves the suffering I’ve been enduring, waiting for Emmett to arrive.

It’s all anyone wants to ask me about. At first, they comment on my dress and hair and makeup, telling me what a beautiful bride I’m going to be, but the conversation inevitably devolves into inquiries about Emmett.

“And where is your fiancé tonight?”

“Did Emmett mention he was going to be late?”

“He can’t keep us here waiting all night.”

I can only evade their questions for so long before it becomes clear something is amiss. One Mercier absence is easy to write off, but two?

If it weren’t for Emmett’s brother, there would be no Merciers present at all.

I was shocked to see Alexander arrive earlier. Beyond a smile and a nod from across the room, we haven’t talked. He’s lingered with a group from St. John’s—Emmett’s friends—and I’ve carefully avoided them all evening. Even with Collette in their midst, it feels like going over to join them would be akin to entering the lion’s den. Surely, Alexander of all people knows the truth of what’s going on.

But he’s here and I don’t get the sense he’s come to cause trouble, though I could be wrong.

We eventually cross paths when I go to get a closer look at the flowers Frédéric had delivered. I’m leaning in, inhaling as much of the intoxicating gardenias as I can manage, when Alexander strolls up casually beside me. I peer up at him, trying for a steadying breath as I prepare myself for the worst. He’s so unlike his brother. Where Emmett’s hair is almost black and always orderly, Alexander’s medium-length hair is a few shades lighter with more curl to it. He has a prominent Roman nose and features more rugged than Emmett’s, though they do share a sharp jawline. Alexander’s just happens to be covered with a beard.

“Hello sis,” he says with an amused smile.

Immediately, I sag with relief.

There’s a lightness to him that’s not so easy to find in Emmett. It doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’ve seen it for myself on occasion, but to the world, Emmett is severe and cold. His brother is the opposite.

He nods to the flowers. “What a display, huh? He could have just sent a dozen roses and been done with it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is. What a shame it’s all pretend, right?”

I blink and look away. It’s better that he can’t read every emotion on my face. I’ve never been good at playing nonchalant.

He leans down and softens his voice. “I meant no harm by that. Just…it’s perhaps better if there’s no pretense between us. C’mon, you’re a real villain…don’t back down now.”

He grins as if he’s just paid me a compliment.

“I’m not.”

“A villain?” His thick eyebrows arch in disbelief. “Emmett seems sure of it. The way he tells it, you’re single-handedly ruining his life.”

He unfurls a grin, meanwhile I’m growing more angry by the second.

“What an elaborate piece of fiction. Be sure to remind your brother of the part he played in all of this the next time you see him. I’m assuming he won’t be coming here tonight?”

“Afraid not.”

I hum like it’s inconsequential.

“Right. If he’s trying to play games—”

“No games. At least not where you’re concerned. He’s merely trying to make a point to our father. You happen to be collateral damage, though I think he’s convinced himself it’s fine if you sustain a fair bit of blowback along the way since you yourself volunteered for the position of Pretend Fiancée.”

“It still doesn’t give him a pass to act like an asshole.”

“Doesn’t it?”

My spine stiffens. “I see. You’ve been sent here tonight as Emmett’s emissary?”

His devious grin only widens. “I assure you, I’m on no one’s side. In fact, the truth is, this whole charade is in my best interest. You have no idea how nice it is to be the son who’s not at the center of controversy for once. I could get used to this.”

I glower at him as I hum. “Right. I don’t know why you’re acting so smug about this situation. You could be next on the chopping block, you know.”

He shrugs, unruffled by the threat. “Oh, I doubt it. My father doesn’t bother with me. I think for the most part, he’s just happy when I’m not in rehab. It’s Emmett who carries the world. My father expects too much from him, and Emmett, idiot that he is, never ceases to rise to the occasion. I tell him all the time that all he has to do is fuck up a time or two and our father will forget about him as he’s forgotten about me.”

“Problem solved,” I tease.

He laughs. “Exactly. Now, between you and me, I don’t know what all the fuss is about…” He runs his gaze over my dress and doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s blatantly checking me out. “Emmett acts as if he’s been saddled with some ogre. You, frankly, are nothing short of exquisite.”

“I’m also your soon-to-be sister.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, taboo. Things just got interesting…”

I can’t help but laugh at his idiocy. It’s refreshing having a conversation with someone so blunt, and whether it’s his easygoing smile or his kind eyes, I know he’s only teasing me. There’s nothing lascivious about him.

“Truthfully, I appreciate you coming over to chat with me. I was too scared to approach you.”

“Oh yes. Dealing with my father and brother does that to a person. Everyone lumps me in alongside them without realizing I’m the golden retriever of the family. All bark, no bite.”

“Good to know,” I say with a thankful smile.

“Now I feel it’s probably best to wish you good luck.”

“Why’s that?”

He reaches for my shoulder so he can slowly begin to spin me around to face the room.

“Because a distinguished-looking man just walked in, and if my instincts are correct, he’s looking for you.”

I gulp down panic and finish whirling around, expecting to find Emmett.

Instead, it’s Eugene, the man from Leclerc & Co. who visited me in New York, and he’s obviously here on assignment.

“I’m looking for Elaine Davenport,” he says to the room with a twinkle of delight in his eyes.

My panic is wiped out by dread.

Alexander steps away, dropping his hand from my shoulder and giving me center stage as Eugene’s gaze lands on me. He smiles and changes course to head my way, loving the pageantry of the moment as he speaks loud enough for most of the room to hear.

“Since your fiancé couldn’t be here to celebrate with you, he asked me to deliver this.”

A hush falls over the room as Eugene pulls out a black velvet box.

I feel the color start to drain from my face.

To be honest, when I told Eugene to get Emmett’s opinion on the stones, I didn’t expect to see Eugene again. I assumed Emmett would want no part in choosing a wedding ring for me.

But it’s obvious I underestimated Emmett, because when Eugene slowly pries open the velvet box and shows me what’s inside, it’s clear he has sent a message.

Nestled in the ring box is a blood-red ruby, hideously large, positioned with four prongs on a thin gold band.

The crowd rushes forward to get a look.

“Oh, how original!” Diana exclaims.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Collette adds.

Eugene perks up at their interest. “It is quite rare, an heirloom that dates back to the French monarchy. It’s rumored this stone once belonged to Marie Antionette.”

Oh Emmett. You could have been more subtle than that…

I don’t move to retrieve the ring, so my grandmother steps forward to pluck it from the box and slide it onto my ring finger. It doesn’t fit. The band is too loose and the stone is so heavy it slips to the side—a bad omen if there ever were one.

“It’s…large. I’ll give him that,” my grandmother murmurs under her breath.

I can tell she doesn’t approve, and it’s obvious why.

To everyone else here, this appears to be a sweet gesture from my fiancé, but it’s not. I can’t stand the sight of the gem, and it doesn’t help that the rest of my night is spent holding out my hand so others can inspect it. I smile at their compliments and do my best to seem in awe of it, but the moment I escape back to my room after the party has ended, I slide it off my finger and let it clatter onto my silver jewelry tray.

It stays there day in and day out, never worn. I half expect my grandmother to insist I wear it, for show if nothing else, but she never mentions it. Eventually, Margaret or Jacobs nestles it neatly back in its black velvet box for safekeeping.

If I could return it to Leclerc & Co., I would.

When people inquire about it, I say I had to send it away to be resized. No one questions my story.

Short of his public display, Emmett and I haven’t seen or talked to each other since the morning after the St. John’s fundraiser in New York. I’m not absolutely certain he’s still in Boston. I refuse to look him up on social media, and the same goes for his brother and any of their other St. John’s friends. If Collette brings him up at work, I’m good at evading questions.

Winter sets in around the city, and my light cashmere wraps are replaced with thick wool coats and Canada Goose jackets. It snows the first week of December, and I trudge through the slush-covered sidewalks on my way to a public lecture given by Henri Zerner, professor emeritus of art history at Harvard. Zerner wrote Renaissance Art in France: The Invention of Classicism, which I read as an undergraduate student. I still have my worn copy tucked into my bookshelf, filled with annotations. In my world, Zerner is a celebrity, and though he retired from teaching in 2015 after educating students for 42 years, I’m not surprised the university has asked him back for their public lecture series.

When I arrive to the auditorium on campus, I find the room less filled than I would have hoped. It’s a pity considering Zerner was such a pioneer of art history, specifically pertaining to the Renaissance. At least there are some of us in attendance tonight, and I’m sure there will be a few more last-minute arrivals as well.

I went out on a limb and invited Collette to attend the lecture with me. She’s already here, sitting in the front row alongside another woman I don’t recognize until I walk up the aisle and catch sight of her profile.

I stop mid-stride. If I weren’t so excited to hear Zerner’s lecture, I’d do an about-face and walk right out of the room.

Collette sees me and waves me over. I slide past a few seated guests, reluctantly taking the free seat on her left.

“Hey! Lainey, have you met Miranda? She’s a friend of mine. I bumped into her last minute and invited her to come with.”

I look over and meet Miranda’s gaze. She’s stunning up close. Her brown eyes are so light, almost caramel. Her blonde hair is sleekly styled, and she wears a pop of red lipstick that suits her complexion perfectly.

“No, not officially, but I feel like I know you from everything I’ve heard.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Oh? Strange. I can’t place you. Are you from St. John’s? I went to Simmons, in Connecticut.”

I find it hard to believe she doesn’t know who I am. I can’t discern whether she’s acting or not, her smile so convincing, but seeing as she was with Emmett the morning after news broke about our betrothal (and perhaps the night of as well), there’s no chance she missed it.

“Yeah, Lainey was at St. John’s, though she’s a few years younger than us. She works with me at Morgan Fine Art Gallery, and oh my god, duh, she’s engaged to Emmett.”

Miranda’s smile doesn’t move an inch. “Yes, of course.” Then she chuckles as if Collette’s just said something funny. “Congratulations.”

My stomach twists as I nod, and then I turn toward the stage.

Throughout the duration of the lecture, my focus is a moving target. I doubt I catch half of what Zerner says, which is incredibly annoying. I’m in a bad mood when he wraps up and invites everyone out into the foyer for refreshments and further discussion.

“I wish I could stay,” Miranda says, fetching her coat from the back of her chair. “But I’m actually headed to a late dinner. I don’t want to keep my date waiting.”

Her taunting gaze meets mine, and her intent is crystal clear; she’s going to meet Emmett.

I ensure my smile is sugary sweet as I reply, “Have a great time!”

But that’s the extent of my ability to pretend. I skip out on the refreshments and instead head out into the cold night, perturbed that it’s started to snow again.

Two weeks later, the warm afternoon light filters in through the curtains in my grandmother’s sitting room. A fire crackles calmly in the fireplace. Jacobs pours tea for four using my grandmother’s solid silver antique Reed & Barton tea set, which she purchased at auction last year for an amount equaling a small nation’s entire GDP.

We’re entertaining guests. A short while ago, Diana arrived at my grandmother’s house with her granddaughter, Victoria, in tow. Only a few years older than me, Victoria is everything my grandmother would love me to become. On paper, we share many of the same qualities: boarding school bred, Ivy League educated, worldly, sophisticated, polished—but Victoria exudes confidence. Where she goes, the world follows. She’s always right in the thick of things at the parties and soirees we attend, running the show, whereas I’m so often hanging on the fringes. Our paths rarely cross, though she’s nice enough on occasions like this when we’re forced into each other’s company because of our grandmothers.

For the last fifteen minutes, Victoria has been chatting away, regaling us with stories of her life recently. A silly mishap with a London milliner. A horrible blind date she endured with a Swedish shipping heir. An “amazing” spiritual workshop she just finished in Bali. Her friend, Kate Hudson, invited her to attend.

I listen and sip my tea, nodding when appropriate, trying and failing to give a damn.

Perhaps she can sense the fact that she’s losing me because she leans in and waggles her brows. “Oh! I can’t be-lieve I haven’t told you this yet—do you know who I saw last night?”

A pregnant pause follows, and I realize I’m supposed to actually guess.

“K-Kate Hudson?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, silly. Emmett was at Number 9 Park with a lovely blonde. I was sitting just one table over from them, but I didn’t catch his companion’s name. Maybe you know her? She was on the taller side, and I feel like I’ve seen her around town lately. She was slender, with short hair. She had this great vintage Chanel bag that I almost asked her about. Anyway, is she a friend of yours?”

I shake my head.

She is definitely not a friend.

Her smile falls, and a faint blush colors the tops of her cheeks as she looks toward her grandmother for backup. “Ah, well. I’m sure they’re only acquaintances. You know how it is…”

What she means to say is among the upper crust, it’s not uncommon for men and women to step out of their marriages, or in this case, their fake engagements. Usually, it’s done with discretion, but not always. There are no paparazzi to capture scandalous moments—we’re too discreet for that—but gossipmongers like Victoria take it upon themselves to source every salacious detail so they can spread the news like wildfire.

She’s hardly the first to inform me of Emmett’s comings and goings. Over the last few weeks, it seems to be all anyone wants to talk to me about.

He was with a gorgeous woman at the Somerset Club last night.

There was a woman on his arm at the Boston Public Library auction.

I thought I saw him with someone outside Sorellinas yesterday evening, but perhaps I was mistaken…

Though I wish I could grow a thick callous around my heart, it proves impossible not to feel wounded. Each story is as painful as the last. Emmett seems intent on parading around town with as many women as he can manage, and I’m sure it doesn’t stop there. I press on my wounds by imagining him taking them home at the end of the night, crawling up and over them just like he did to me on the pier in Italy…his mouth slanting over theirs, his heavy body caging them in against the bed…

When Diana and Victoria leave, my grandmother stands, and all the careful grace and elegance she exuded for the last two hours melts away in an instant.

Her expression is murderous when she turns to me.

“He makes a fool of you!” she hisses, looking on as if hoping I’ll share her vehemence.

I reach forward and carefully set my half-finished tea on the coffee table, avoiding her gaze.

My voice is flat when I reply, “He’s free to do as he likes. We aren’t married.”

“You’re betrothed and the whole world knows it! Never mind about the actual ceremony or some silly marriage certificate.”

“I don’t think it truly matters—”

“It does, and you’re too young and too naive to see that. Or perhaps you just don’t care, but you’ll do as I say and bring him to heel.”

I almost laugh. “You have a great deal of misplaced confidence in me if you think that’s possible. Emmett doesn’t answer to anyone but his father.”

I’m wrong to assume that will end her tirade. If anything, it only makes it worse.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to have a word with him.”

I cringe and stand immediately, trying to catch her before she leaves the room. “No, please—”

But she’s already made up her mind. I have no doubt she’s on her way to give Frédéric a call this very minute.