deal of wine to drink in such a short time.
The Riviera. This hedonist’s heaven pulsed with tourists and traffic. Villas spilled down sloping hillsides toward the sea, where yachts bobbed in the harbor. Clinging crimson bougainvillea draped itself around stone walls, and a parade of palm trees nodded gracefully under an azure sky. All of this was bathed in brilliant light. But the brightest light casts the deepest shadows, and that’s where I fancied Scott and Zelda lingered.
When I was fifteen, I’d discovered F. Scott Fitzgerald while browsing in the Queens County Public Library, Bayside Branch. Why I happened to grab a copy of Tender Is the Night is still a mystery. I’m certain the nuns at Bishop McDonald High School didn’t assign any of Fitzgerald’s novels, not even his classic, The Great Gatsby, which I read in college. I fell hard for Scott and Zelda and their friends, Gerald and Sara Murphy. I pictured them cavorting with the artistic crowd at the Villa America near Cannes. I cheered their extravagant life style and suffered their pain and heartbreak. Such sophistication, such drama, such tragedy. Nothing like that ever happened in Queens.
Terry and I settled in at the Hotel des Fleurs in Menton. “Terry, come look, what a view. I’ve changed my mind about my favorite place. This is it. Definitely. La mer, la mer, the sea, the sea.” And there we were, swimming in our own sea of desire for one another.
“Maybe you should wait for Italy before you decide. After all, it’s the motherland of your ancestors. You should feel right at home. Better yet, why not make it easy and pick your top ten. How about a drink?”
“No thanks. I’ll stick with mineral water. You know, with gas.”
Once again, we lingered in a steamy bath. Once again, he downed several tumblers of scotch. Once again, we made love. One evening, we strolled into the courtyard of an ancient church and held hands as the melody of one of the Brandenburg Concertos soared over the sea toward the stars. As we turned to leave, he offered his arm in a courtly gesture.
“Well Frannie, I do believe that living well is the best revenge.”
“It sure as hell is,” I replied.
The next morning, while visiting the Jean Cocteau wedding chapel in the Town Hall, Terry was silent. Was it fatigue? Was it too early in the morning? Did I say something wrong? Did the proximity to the nuptial chapel unnerve him? At the time, I didn’t recognize that he was hung over. And even if I had, I would have dismissed it.
So what if he drank too much last night? Everyone indulges on vacation. And in Europe, wine is water.
So began my denial and rationalizing, in hope and innocence.
Terry perked up as we ambled toward a crowded outdoor market loaded with fresh fish, cheese, meats, veggies, herbs, and flowers.
“Oh, my God. All of this fresh food. And the variety. It’s nothing like Kroger back home.”
“Frannie, I have to make a pit stop. You go ahead and I’ll meet you at that café across the street.”
Minutes later he reappeared with an enormous bouquet of fresh-cut flowers.
“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”
“Merci, mon amour.”
In subsequent years, Terry often brought me small gifts, especially after he drank too much. A big bar of Toblerone, a bottle of Chanel cologne, or a dozen yellow roses. One time, after days of stone silence, he outfoxed me with a bag of chestnuts.
But all of that was in the far future. I didn’t know then that this was a preemptive peace offering, prompted by his alcoholic’s sense of guilt. No, on that sun-filled day in an outdoor café in the south of France, I simply accepted it as a token of new love, and Terry and I glowed with desire like the snapdragons in my innocent bouquet.
I scrutinized the menu. “Ah, bouillabaisse. Fish stew. Let’s try it.”
When a waiter set a pot of broth and gigantic platter of fish before us, Terry gasped.
“No offense, but I can’t eat anything with dead eyes staring at me. This is definitely not my kettle of fish. No pun intended. Give me chicken-fried steak any day. You want another beer?”
That afternoon, he nursed several scotches as we rested before our planned adventure at the casino. He wobbled as he headed for the shower. However, it wasn’t long before, smelling of scented soap, he emerged refreshed, and dressed carefully in the new sports coat and red silk tie that I’d purchased before we left home. I sparkled in a black sheath covered with sequins.
“Smashing. Don’t you think? We look absolutely smashing,” he said. He bowed slightly and held out his arm. We glided out the hotel door like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers stepping onto the dance floor.
The casino was Old-World elegant: stately women with smooth, tanned skin wrapped in satin and chiffon, their diamond (or maybe they were rhinestone) necklaces shimmering, and their lacquered hair fashioned into elaborate twists or chignons. They were flanked by men in well-cut suits and tuxedos. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover James Bond sipping a dry martini at the bar. The ornate salons glimmered under massive chandeliers. Although suitably dressed, I felt out of place. At the craps table I edged between gamblers who tossed fistfuls of multi-colored chips onto the, green felt. When we managed to secure a spot at the table, Terry tried to explain the combinations, the “Pass,” “Don’t Pass,” “Hardways,” “One Roll bets,” and the like, but the game was too fast for me. So I joined a pack of gamblers at the slot machines. Within minutes the machines had swallowed my meager stack of coins. Meanwhile, Terry checked out the private gaming room reserved for the rich and reckless.
Saving for months before the trip, Terry had squirreled away several hundred dollars, a minimal stake intended to allow him to cavort with the high rollers in the salons privés. He went off to try his luck at Twenty-One and tapped out in less than an hour.
“You lost it all? I’m sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to this.”
“No big deal. Never wager more than you can afford to lose, Frannie. That’s my motto. Besides I have a few francs left. Let’s find a bar and get a few drinks.”
If only his drinking had been conducted like his gambling. He knew when to stop gambling, and he did. If he budgeted five hundred dollars for one evening, he quit when he lost his stake. Most times he won or broke even, especially when he played poker.
“It’s not solely about the money,” he insisted. “I like to be ahead because I can stretch it out. It’s more about having fun and trying to beat the odds.”
“Fat chance of that,” I replied.
Several weeks after we returned to Charleston, I received a postcard in a familiar handwriting—Terry’s—from Bellagio, Italy. The inscription read: “This is paradise. Aren’t we having a good time? Love, T.”
We almost hadn’t ended up at Bellagio. From Menton we’d driven along the coast to San Remo where terraced fields of roses, carnations, and camellias filled the hillsides. Our bliss, however, was temporarily
