Make That Deux

By Julia McDermott

Three American college girls living in an apartment on the Mediterranean. Two boyfriends back home. "The One" (and only), if it's "meant to be" -- whatever that means!
Jenny Miles has three goals: to speak French like a native, to travel all over Europe, and to have a blast. Meanwhile, two men compete for her attention and amour, ici et là. C'est compliqué!
Take 10 months. Add 2 (surprise) transatlantic flights, 2 Greek isles, 1 moped (une mobylette) and beaucoup de lettres! Subtract 1 phone, 1 promise to be faithful, and 1 bikini top. La solution?
Make that...a year that Jenny will never forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia McDermott
• Release date: Oct 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301626649

Julia McDermott

Julia McDermott was born in Dallas, Texas, grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, and earned a degree in Economics from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She also studied French and spent her junior year in the South of France. She and her husband were underwater on their first house in Texas (before being underwater was cool). She loves reading, watching football, cheering on the UNC Tar Heels, France, and all things French. The mother of four, she resides in Atlanta with her husband and family.

Book preview

Prologue

By then, I’d had at least three glasses of wine. I sat down on the bed in his apartment and stretched out. He went around to the other side and lay down beside me.

You know how I feel about you, he whispered.

Then, leaning over, he kissed me. I felt so warm and secure with him, so taken care of, so put-on-a-pedestal. He wasn’t trying to rush me. I was so tired, so I just stayed and kept on kissing him. Then he pulled away and drew back, his eyes questioning. I kissed him again. After a minute, our clothes came off, and then I decided not to worry about anything, for once.

Part One

L’automne:

What’s French Got To Do With It?

Chapter 1

August 1979

I clutched the receiver of a black pay-phone bonded to a wall in Newark Airport. I’m gonna miss you so much, Phil! I stood trembling, tears forming in the wells of my eyes. This was it.

I already miss you, Jen, and it's only been one day. I love you.

I love you, too. I wiped my eyes and looked back toward the corridor filled with travelers. A pilot passed by, glancing at me.

I’m gonna miss staring at your legs this fall when I’m trying to study in the library, he said. I laughed. But don’t worry, it won’t be long before we’re together again.

But --

And the year’s gonna go by fast, he said. Hey -- maybe I can save enough money to come visit you in France at Christmas.

Yes, you've got to! I heard a loud BING and an obnoxious voice booming over the PA system. Oh, no, Phil, they’re calling us to go get on the plane!

Go on then, baby, get on the plane. Write me and tell me all about it. You’re gonna have a blast. You just gotta remember, I’m here for you, Jen.

Write me. And I’ll write you, and --

I’ll write you every week. Count on it. And I will come over there in a few months, I promise.

BING! BING! BING!

I gotta go!

I love you, Jenny!

I love you, too. Bye!

Bye, babe!

I hung up and stood there for a moment, swallowing my tears. I couldn’t help overhearing a blond girl from my group at the next pay-phone saying goodbye to her boyfriend, but not sounding very distressed. I looked her over and realized I’d seen her before. She was tall, pretty, athletic and sexy at the same time. But that wasn’t all. She had that something about her that attracted, well, all men.  A certain je ne sais quoi.  A way of carrying herself, with confidence and sensuality.  I knew right away that I was not going to like her.

I dashed over to the group waiting at the gate, unzipping my purse to pull out my ticket and passport again. Oh God. My ticket was in its envelope, but where was my passport? I thought I had stashed them both in the bottom underneath my wallet, brush, compact and lip gloss. I dug deep, pushing aside my travel itinerary papers and Phil’s last letter. Had I already lost my passport, at the very last minute before I’d be boarding my first transatlantic flight? What was I going to do? Okay, I had to calm down. Don’t panic.

Blinking away the remnants of my tears, I dumped everything out on a low table next to a row of chairs at the gate. This couldn’t be happening. I searched through the items frantically as I repacked them. The last thing was my wallet -- a ladies’ type, long enough for a checkbook, which I didn’t have. I flipped open the wallet and searched its compartments, holding my breath. There was my passport -- thank God! I must have slipped it inside during a distracted moment.

A few minutes later, I sank into my seat in the center of the middle section. Not yet recovered from the turmoil of saying goodbye, I took a deep breath. I had to focus on the present. I zipped my purse shut, put it beneath my seat and looked around at some of the other students nearby -- several girls and a few guys. One guy was standing in the aisle to my left, struggling to stash a huge pair of ski boots. I figured he must be from either New England or Colorado. And rich. He stretched to close the overhead compartment, grimacing at no one in particular.

I fastened my seat belt and glanced around for my pay-phone partner but didn’t see her anywhere. The girl sitting on the aisle to my right looked familiar; there was an empty seat between us. She was about my size, tall and slim, her shoulder-length brown hair parted in the middle, just like mine. Unlike me, though, she was poised and under control.

Where had I seen her? I racked my brain. Maybe she had lived in my dorm, or had been in one of my classes? Not in any of my French classes -- they were so small that I would have remembered. Maybe she was more advanced in French than I was. Well, I would just have to do the best I could. I closed my eyes.

Excuse me! the girl called over her shoulder to the stewardess.

I glanced back over, trying to see what the problem was without appearing conspicuous.

MA’AM! she cried, looking back and waving to get the stewardess’ attention. You just spilled a drink on me!

No one came to help the girl, whose cheeks were flushed. She bent her elbows and held her hands in front of her, fingers outspread, as if she was too grossed out to know just what to do next. The stewardess hadn’t even apologized. I watched the girl dab at the top of her head and her shirt with a napkin, trying to make the best of a bad situation. I felt sympathetic but didn’t want to get involved. I just didn’t have the energy. Thank God it hadn’t happened to me. I idly wondered how much longer it would be before we were in the air and I could smoke a cigarette.

I was shaken from my reverie when the girl leaned forward and looked straight at me. Her smile showed that she had resigned herself to the flight ahead with a stained shirt and sticky hair.

I’m Kim, she said. You look familiar. Are you a UNC student, too?

I’d just learned that some of the other students in our Junior Year-in-France Program came from other universities. They had applied for our program because their college didn’t have one.

Uh, yeah. I’m Jenny. You look familiar, too. I was just trying to figure out where I’ve seen you.

Well, I don’t think it was in a French class. Maybe another class, or a dorm?

Or a party?

Coulda been --

Have you ever been to parties at the Carolina Apartments? I asked. I’d met Phil at one of those.

I’m sure I have. Hmmm…

Or, at that place – that house, south of town, called ‘Congested Area’? It was called that, because that was what was on a road sign on the 15-501 by-pass just before the driveway, which was easy to miss.

That doesn’t ring a bell. Kim thought. Oh wait, I know where I’ve seen you. Did you take Calculus first semester? Like, two years ago?

Yeah, I said, remembering it vaguely and trying to place her there.

We were in the same class. Under her breath, she added, I was lost. I made a C.

Me, too. And I was so good at math in high school. That class destroyed all my math confidence. So, I stuck with French, and --

Me, too. At UNC, you didn’t have to take math if you took a language. I took it all through high school.

Yeah, I did, too.

So. Do you know where Montpellier is? Kim asked, referring to the city of the French university we’d be attending. She pronounced it the correct, French way: MONT-pay-yay.

I only know it’s in the south, right on the Mediterranean. At least, that’s what I was told.

I’m sure it’ll be great. I can’t wait.

We settled back to get ready for take-off. I felt weary and drained already. I wondered whether I’d be able to sleep much later on, and my mind began to wander.

I had always dreamed of going to France, but I never believed that it would happen. Back in April when I found out that I’d been accepted to UNC’s program, I was even in shock for a few days. I hadn’t declared a major in French, but I wanted to become fluent in the language. I had come so far, and I wanted to master it so I could feel like I was, well, finished. I liked to finish what I started. I’d been told the only way to become fluent was to immerse myself -- hear it, speak it, and think it. I figured that a school year in France should do it. After all, that was an awfully long time.

Last spring, even though I was excited, I’d been uncertain of whether I’d be able to go because of the expense. My parents had just finished paying for my older sister's degree at a private university, and since we lived in Georgia, they were paying out-of-state tuition for me. Both Trish and I had worked in college to help cover our expenses; she'd had a job in the university library and I'd been a waitress in Chapel Hill. I knew the total cost of this study-abroad program in France was high and money was tight for my parents.

But, to my surprise, tuition for the year was going to equal what it would be for an in-state student at UNC. Meals, housing, fees and books were said to be pretty cheap, at least as cheap as they were in the U.S. I would only need one round-trip plane ticket, which would be purchased with a group discount. A few weeks after my parents received my acceptance packet in the mail, they gave me the astonishing news: they could afford it.

So, we haven’t met, said a hippie-looking girl in the aisle seat a few seats down on my other side. A mass of stringy, strawberry-blond hair reached down her back. I’m Karen. I’m from the University of Tennessee. Me and Mary, (she was pointing to a mousy-looking girl across the aisle from her who was looking at me) both are. We were roommates last year.

I glanced at Mary. Oh. Hi.

So, what’s your name? Karen said.

Sorry. My name’s Jenny.

Her eyes widened. Oh! That’s my sister’s name!

Did I care? And weren’t there about a zillion Jennys, anyway? I looked at her for a few seconds; she shrugged and started talking to Mary. Had I just been rude? I wanted to meet people, but I wasn’t looking forward to the whole what’s-your-name-where’re-you-from thing. Not that it wasn’t necessary, but right now I wanted to focus on what lay ahead this year. We still hadn’t left the ground, and I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. What had I gotten myself into? What was I, well, doing? This was real, after all. What if I got to France and couldn’t master the language, or worse, couldn’t even understand enough French to survive?

More important was that underlying all my fears was serious angst about being apart from Phil for almost an entire year. That feeling was stronger than any anxiety I felt about having to speak French. Phil and I had met during the winter of my freshman year but, despite his attentions toward me for months, we didn’t start dating until the beginning of the next year, just one year ago. For the last twelve months, we’d been crazy about each other and just about inseparable: meeting after class, walking around arm in arm, studying together every weeknight and going out on weekends when I got off work. We could talk for hours and hours and never get tired of each other. I’d moved into his apartment last November, and since then every day was wonderful and every night was romantic. I had never felt this way before.

I pictured his gorgeous blue eyes underneath his long lashes and sighed. I loved his slim physique and tennis-player legs, and the fact that he was only a couple of inches taller than me. He was so gentle with me and so adoring, as if he couldn’t fully believe that I’d fallen for him. How could I live without him for a whole year?

My stomach dropped as the plane took off over the Atlantic, and I reached below my seat for my purse. I fished for Phil’s letter, sent from his home in Winston-Salem to me at summer school in Chapel Hill. He’d worked during the week at home but had come to visit me every weekend. I took the notebook paper out of its envelope, unfolded it and skimmed down to the last part. The best part.

. . . I was lying in bed the other night alone, tired and thinking of you. I miss lying beside you listening to you breathe, I miss trying to drag you from bed in the mornings and I miss seeing you wake up beautiful. In a phrase, I love you.

Love,

Phil

I folded it up, put it back in my purse and told myself to snap out of it. Then I looked around to see if the No Smoking’ sign was off yet (it wasn’t) and pulled out my pack of Virginia Slims and my lighter.

The reality of our situation settled in my mind. Phil was one year older, a senior this year. Would we keep in touch all year long? Would we be faithful to each other? (We hadn’t talked about that, but it was understood that we would.) Would we still be as much in love when I returned next summer? Or -- would our love fade?

As I sat there, considering these questions for the umpteenth time, I tried to shift my focus to Phil’s promise to come visit me. That would happen, for sure. During the months until then, I would have a great time as a college student in the south of France. I felt grateful that everything had worked out so that I could go, and told myself not to be anxious about what might happen between Phil and me.

Even though I was.

Chapter 2

We arrived in Paris the next morning around nine o’clock, but it felt like the middle of the night. I was bleary-eyed and weary as I followed the other students up an escalator toward Customs and Baggage Claim. I hugged my purse to my side and looked up through a dirty skylight to a hazy French sky casting a dull glow. Disoriented, my mind flashed to the practical matter of changing my money. I'd have to do it soon, though I already had a small amount of French francs, thanks to Madame Z, the program directrice. Signs written in French bombarded me from all directions and airline workers babbled in the background as I moved on auto-pilot. Our group gathered to retrieve our luggage and eventually boarded a bus to our hotel. Once there, we dropped off our bags in the lobby and the girls set out together to find the nearest café.

We found one just around the corner and sat down at two adjoining tables. My pay-phone partner sat on my right side. Karen plopped down on my left, Kim across from her.

So, are you majoring in French, Kim? It is Kim, isn’t it? Karen asked.

Yes. But no, I’m a Psychology major. It’s just, I’ve taken French forever, Kim said.

Your name’s Jenny? asked the girl across from me. She had shoulder-length shiny black hair that fell together perfectly and effortlessly.

Yeah. What’s yours?

Christine. I go to Duke, she admitted. Everyone was aware of the Duke-UNC rivalry, so she was semi-apologizing for going to the enemy school. Christine regarded my pay-phone partner. Lisa, you said you were from Boston. Why do you go to Chapel Hill?

My father’s an alum, and he always wanted one of us to follow in his footsteps. So, since my two older sisters didn’t, that’d be me. And I love it, but hey -- it’ll be there when I get back.

I wondered if her last comment also applied to her boyfriend.

Right, said Christine. Conversation had died down at the other end of the tables, and Christine spoke to everyone. Does anybody know the guys from our program?

Yeah, I know John, said a girl whose name I didn’t know.

Which one is John? asked Lisa. Oh, and by the way, what’s your name again?

The tall skinny one. And it’s Denise, again.

That guy who’s already going bald? asked Christine, laughing. He did have a receding hairline.

Yeah. He was in a French class of mine last spring.

What about the other two? said Kim.

I sat next to the short guy on the plane. His name is John, also, said Mary.

The one with all the ski equipment? That guy? asked Christine.

No, the other guy. The thicker one, Mary said, and we all snickered. That John wasn’t fat, he was just stocky, like a wrestler. But his face was covered with acne.

He said he goes to UNC, too, Mary added.

Well, said Lisa. Two Johns. Maybe we should all call them Jean. Or, no, that’s wrong. I’m gonna call the short guy, John #1 and the tall guy, John #2. If I have to call them anything at all!

So, that leaves the ski-guy, said Christine. I didn’t catch his name.

I think I heard him talking to somebody about going to college out in Colorado, said Karen after a moment. He’s kind of cocky, don’t you think?

Everyone laughed, and we all began murmuring. You knew you weren’t going to get cute guys studying French. Plus, most American guys were too macho, in their own minds at least, to take a romantic-sounding language like French. So most of them, cute or not, took Spanish.

* * *

Our few days in Paris flew by.

That first day after the café, we changed our money at Credit Lyonnais and then ventured around on foot until jet lag overcame us. The next morning, the guys joined us to make a pack of ten walking around sightseeing all day, and I found myself gravitating toward Kim. Our first stop was the Notre Dame Cathedral, then the Louvre and then on through the Jardin des Tuileries and the Place de la Concorde.

Walking along the Champs Elysées, our group broke up into twos and threes. The guys took off and Mary and Karen took a side street with Denise. The Arc de Triomphe stood victoriously in the distance and the Eiffel Tower soared over to the left. Lisa and Christine announced they were going to the Tower, and Kim and I hung back to window shop. Paris supposedly wasn’t crowded right now, since it was August, the official national holiday month, but people were everywhere. Small cars sped by, taking the roundabouts without bothering to stay in any particular lane. I was fine with just looking in the windows and not going inside the cool shops we passed. First of all, my budget wouldn’t allow a purchase, and second, I was afraid of making a mistake speaking French and being scoffed at or dismissed by the Parisians.

During the next couple of days, Kim and I explored the city on foot, Lisa and Christine joining us to make a foursome. The other two groups -- the guys and the Mary-Karen-Denise trio -- went their own way. On our last day in Paris, our group visited Versailles with Madame Z. It was cool, yet somewhat creepy just knowing what had taken place there. That night we were scheduled to see La Cage Aux Folles, new and widely acclaimed, and both Madame Z and her assistant Mr. Y were very excited. I’d been to plays before, but seeing one in French would be a new experience.

On the way there, Lisa led the charge to ask Madame Z for a synopsis, since we all knew by now that we’d most likely get lost trying to understand the rapid dialogue.

You’ll understand it! Don’t sell yourselves s-sort. But I will tell you zat eet’s a comedy, wiz some physical humor, too. So what you don’t get right away, you’ll soon understand. Zat is all I’m going to say. No more questions!

Short, sassy little Madame Z had mounds of red curly hair piled on top of her head. I’d heard that she was Brazilian and didn’t teach at UNC, and I wondered what the heck she was doing as our directrice. But when we arrived at the ticket office, her fluent French gained my instant respect. Somebody whispered that she was divorced from a Frenchman and taught at some college on the east coast. Her assistant Mr. Y, by her side, was a graduate student at UNC and was even more animated than she was tonight. He was newly married and had had to leave his wife behind because she was finishing her graduate work this fall. The quintessential twenty-something grad student-hippie with long hair, his droopy eyes gave him a sheepish look, and his big lips poked out between fuzzy, unkempt facial hair. I felt sorry for him and slightly sympathetic because of how much I missed Phil. But I certainly wasn’t interested in befriending Mr. Y.

Our directrice had been right. We did understand the play, for the most part, and we found it very funny. Our conversation afterward filled in the holes of the story for me. It was cool to be discussing a play we had just seen performed in French, groundbreaking for all of us. I felt a little closer to being considered an adult.

Madame Z had chartered a boat for a fancy dinner on the Seine, and as we traveled down the river the lights of Paris sparkled all around us. Tuxedo-clad waiters served glasses of wine as we stood huddled in groups. Tables covered with white tablecloths shone in the moonlight. For the first time, I evaluated what I’d chosen to wear: my best peasant style skirt and a white cotton blouse, and the white, flat sandals that I’d been walking all over the city in. Some of the other girls had donned more of a cocktail dress/sorority girl look, so I was thankful that Mary and Karen were casual like me. Mary was especially hippie-ish in her own unique way tonight, with her sunken eyes and thick black hair that looked as if it had never been blown dry.

The evening was proving to be the highlight of our introduction to France. I took a deep breath and looked about me at the lighted streets and the bridges crossing the shimmering river. The lights glittered and sparkled under the late summer sky, and now that the temperature had dropped, the air smelled luscious with scents particularly Parisian: fragrant flowers, delectable pastries and warm bread. Taking a deep breath, I decided that Paris was for lovers, not for college students. It was definitely the most romantic city in the world. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go on your honeymoon here someday? I felt that no other place on earth would do.

I was almost finished with my first glass of wine when Madame Z raised her voice in French, telling us all to sit down for dinner. There were two round tables of six and seating wasn’t assigned, so I made sure to sit beside Kim. Mr. Y, John #2, Christine and Lisa sat with us, leaving the rest of the group to sit at the other table: Madame Z, Colorado-guy, John #1, Mary and Karen. Glancing around, something seemed off to me. Then I realized that somebody was missing. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it until now.

Where’s Denise? I asked Kim.

She looked around, puzzled. Apparently, Kim hadn’t noticed the lack of Denise, either. I don’t know.

Oh -- Didn’t you hear? Lisa said, sitting on Kim’s other side. She’s gone home!

Home? I asked, incredulous. Why?

She’s got an ovarian cyst!

Wow, said Christine, on my other side. The four of us were leaning in toward each other now. She just found this out?

Evidently, said Lisa. She has to have her ovary taken out. At home, not over here. Because it could affect her fertility.

We four just looked at each other for a second.

Don’t you have two ovaries? I said. I mean --

Jenny! Lisa said. The guys had stopped talking and were listening now. "Mary told me she had seen a doctor before she left, but he didn’t diagnose the cyst until this week. So, she