Sugar Babe

(Palm Beach, Florida, 2000)

The bridge started going up when Damien Laurent was three cars from the light.

He swore and looked at the clock on the dashboard. Ten fifty-three. His lessons started at eleven.

Red lights flashed over the road. A bell rang, and the bridge’s steel grating began to lift. Cars backed up in front of him while a white yacht moved through the Intracoastal at a snail-like pace. The yacht had two decks, tinted windows, and a small boat tied to its back. A white-haired retiree stood near the railing in a visor with a fluted drink.

Damien watched him pass.

The man’s shirt flapped in the breeze.

Seven minutes later, the bridge came down.

Traffic started moving before the barrier had lifted all the way. Damien followed the car ahead of him, keeping one hand on the wheel while he checked the MapQuest printout on the passenger seat.

The directions had already sent him on the wrong turn twenty minutes ago. He’d circled back through downtown and caught the light at the bridge at the worst possible time. Now the print-out kept sliding toward the edge of the seat whenever he tapped the brakes.

Shit.

He crossed the water, and the road opened up. Tall hedges ran along both sides of the street. Their branches blocked the view of most of the homes. He caught peaks of them anyway over the tops of the hedges: long driveways that disappeared behind palm trees.

He switched the air conditioner on and heard a low rattle before warm air poured out.

83 degrees. A typical March in Florida.

He sighed and rolled the windows down.

A landscaping crew worked along the road with mowers and trucks full of branches. Farther down, a woman in a tracksuit jogged with a tiny white dog. A Mercedes slowed beside her. She bent toward the passenger window, said something, and then laughed.

Damien drove past them.

Sun damage faded the hood of his car, leaving it a patchy red and metal.

He’d vacuumed his Honda that morning, wiped the dust from the dashboard, and thrown away the receipts that usually littered the floor mats. Good enough.

He made a turn and arrived at a gated neighborhood. A guardhouse was tucked behind a wall. There was no name above the neighborhood’s entrance. A lack of signage that said that if you didn’t know the neighborhood, you probably didn’t belong there.

Damien stopped beside the window.

A bald Black man sat behind the glass. Sweat cast a shine across his bare scalp and soaked through the collar of his shirt. He looked at Damien through the glass, then pressed a button. The panel slid open.

“Can I help you?” He sounded as hot and miserable as he looked.

“I’m here to see Richard Ford.”

“Name?”

“Damien Laurent.”

The guard picked up a clipboard.

Damien checked the time again. Eleven-oh-one.

He could still arrive within five minutes.

“Purpose of the visit?”

“I’m tutoring his daughter.”

The guard found the name and looked up.

“French?”

“Yes.”

The guard cracked a smile. He’d heard the accent. It happened all the time. Americans liked France. Or their version of it, anyway. Cafés, wine, and women who stayed impossibly thin while eating bread. Damien remembered cramped apartments, trains that stopped running whenever the unions walked out, and his mother putting fish back when she saw the price.

The guard brought the glass panel back up and picked up the telephone.

A dark green Jaguar pulled in behind Damn. The driver’s sunglasses covered half her face. She stopped close to his bumper and waited.

Through the panel glass, Damien watched the guard speak into the phone. He caught his own name.

The woman behind him tapped her horn.

Damien looked at her through the mirror.

Fuck off.

She stared back.

The guard hung up.

“Fifth driveway on the left. Park near the fountain.”

“Thank you.”

The gate opened, and Damien drove through.

The road curved by houses with more space around them than his entire apartment complex. Most were behind walls. A few stood open to the street, surrounded by lawns that sparkled green. Every front entrance looked large enough for a church. Bougainvillea climbed over walls. Palm fronds hung above red Spanish tile roofs.

The Jaguar passed him as soon as the road widened.

The woman honked again as she passed.

Damien kept going.

The fifth house appeared around the next bend.

He slowed.

The white stucco mansion spread low across the property, broken into wings beneath gray tiled roofs. Palms stood everywhere, some taller than the house itself. The front doors were made entirely of glass. In the center of the driveway, water spilled out of a stone fish fountain. A red sports car was parked near the entrance. Beyond the roofline, Damien caught a strip of blue water and the tops of several boats.

Damien checked the number on the printout.

This was it.

He pulled in beside the Mercedes and turned off the engine. Heat filled the car immediately.

For one family, the house was ridiculous.

The roof alone probably cost more than anywhere he’d ever lived. They probably had a gardener to keep the palms trimmed. A window washer for the tall panes of glass. A groundskeeper for the lawn and structures.

Damien picked up his folder.

He tutored at the college level, which meant that his student today would be a twenty-something Palm Beach type. Thin, tanned, expensive… possibly on coke.

The driveway was made of diamond-shaped white stone. He passed the fountain on the way to the door. Water ran over the fish’s open mouth and into a basin lined with marble-like blue tile. A few dead leaves floated near the drain.

The door opened before he knocked.

A woman in a gray uniform stood inside. She looked to be in her early sixties, with her hair pulled back in a bun and a simple, gold cross at her neck.

She looked him over and frowned. “Mr. Laurent?”

“Yes.”

“Come in.”

The air-conditioning hit him through his damp shirt.

He stepped into a two-story foyer with a marble floor and a chandelier hanging above a round table. White lilies filled a glass vase in the center. The place smelled of lemon and wood cleaner.

The woman closed the door behind him.

“This way.”

Damien followed her past the table.

Several framed photos stood beneath the flowers. In one picture, a blonde woman—notably not in her twenties—sat beside a tall man with gray at his temples. The same couple appeared again on a boat with two fair-haired little boys. Another picture showed the four of them dressed in white on a beach.

Damien frowned and kept walking.

A child squealed somewhere toward the back of the house. A soft voice answered. The woman leading him didn’t react.

“Here’s the study.”

She opened a door off the main hallway.

“Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t know why.

“Mr. Ford will be right with you.”

Damien nodded.

The room was half office, half library. Dark wood shelves covered one wall. A desk sat near the windows with a telephone, a leather blotter, and several stacks of paper. Two armchairs faced each other beside a table.

Damien put his folder down and looked over the books.

Most were hardcovers. Nothing too interesting. Business biographies. Military history. A row of matching encyclopedias. He paused and pulled out a French novel and found the pages still stiff at the center.

He put it back.

The door opened.

“Damien Laurent?”

Richard Ford came in with his hand extended.

He was taller than Damien expected. A real door hugger. Late fifties, maybe. Tanned face, silver hair, broad shoulders under a blue shirt with folded sleeves. His watch looked plain until Damien noticed the name on it.

Damien shook his hand.

“Richard Ford. Call me Richard.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It was only a minute.”

Richard gestured toward the chairs.

They sat.

“My assistant tells me you’re from Marseille.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been in Florida?”

“Almost two years.”

“You came over for school?”

“Work.”

Richard waited, as though there should be more.

Damien didn’t give him any.

“I’ve been to Marseille once,” Richard continued after an awkward pause. “We stayed outside the city.”

“A lot of people do.”

Richard smiled. He seemed to like that answer.

“We’re going later this summer. Paris first. Then Provence. Pamela wants to spend a few days near the water.”

Pamela. Probably the blonde woman in the pictures. Likely his wife.

“Family trip?”

“Yes.”

Richard leaned back and adjusted his watch.

“We don’t think Eliana is ready,” he added. “She had French for a year in high school. Then took a couple of courses in college, though I’m not sure how many… ”

“What level were the college courses?”

“Introductory.”

“Did she finish it?”

Richard glanced toward the door.

“She came home before the end of her third year.”

Damien waited.

Richard cleared his throat.

“She’s smart. Always has been. It’s just difficult to get her to take anything seriously.”

Damien had heard parents say that before. It usually meant their child was smart enough to know better, but difficult enough not to care.

“What would you like her to be able to do before the trip?”

“Order meals, ask directions, and maybe handle basic conversation.”

Damien nodded. “Three months should be enough.”

“Good.”

Damien’s head turned at the sound of footsteps down the hall.

“Eliana?” Richard called.

The footsteps stopped.

“Eliana, Mr. Laurent is here.”

“I know.”

Her voice came from the hall.

Richard frowned.

Damien turned as she reached the doorway.

The young woman stopped under the entryway of the study. She had a warm, light-brown complexion, full pink lips, and a dark spiral of curls she’d pulled into a ponytail. Low-rise jeans rode her hips.

“Eliana,” Richard said.

She looked at her father. “What?”

“This is Damien Laurent.”

“Hi.”

Nipple piercings peeked through the fabric of her tank top.

Damien sat straighter.

Her lips twitched at the corners.

She’d noticed.

Damien stood and offered his hand.

“Damien,” he said, and immediately felt stupid because Richard had already said that.

She came farther into the room and shook his hand.

Her grip was light. Her fingers were warm.

“Eliana.”

She looked directly into his eyes while she said it.

Richard watched them.

“Where are your books?”

“They’re somewhere here.”

She reached behind the open door and picked up a workbook from the floor.

Richard glanced at the book, then at Eliana.

“Try to cooperate.”

Eliana smirked. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You know what I mean.”

Eliana’s face dipped, and the amusement left with it.

“We’ll be fine.”

Richard stood.

“One hour. My assistant will arrange the next session if this works out.”

Damien nodded. “All right.”

Richard left.

Eliana waited until the door shut. She dropped into the chair her father had used. She folded one leg beneath her and placed the workbook in her lap. The waistband of a blue thong peeked over her jeans.

“Did he tell you I was stupid?”

“No.” Damien sat across from her. He said you don’t take things seriously. Why would anyone come to tutoring dressed like that?

“He thinks I’m going to make you quit.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided.”

She opened the workbook and handed it over. “Here. Done.”

The first pages had been completed in neat blue handwriting. Most of the answers were right. Several corrections had been written in red.

Damien raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had more than introductory French.”

“High school.”

“How many years?”

“Four.”

“Your father said one.”

She shrugged. “My dad doesn’t know what classes I took.”

“I read better than I speak,” she added.

Damien turned another page.

“Then read this.”

She glanced at the paragraph.

“Out loud?” she said.

“Yeah.”

She began reading.

The first sentence came out clumsy. She pronounced every letter that should have disappeared and put the stress in the wrong places. By the third line, Damien knew she was doing it on purpose.

He let her finish.

“Again.”

“I just read it.”

“You pronounced the same word correctly two lines earlier.”

Eliana looked down at the page.

Then she laughed through her nose.

“You were listening.”

“That’s what I’m paid to do.”

Her eyes came back to him.

“How much?” she asked with a twitch of amusement.

Damien uncapped his pen. “Start again.”

“How much does he pay you?”

“That isn’t part of the lesson.”

“Seventy-five?”

He looked at her.

She smiled. “I saw the invoice on the desk.”

She bent over the workbook.

A small mole sat in the corner of her bottom lip. Damien hadn’t noticed it until now. He realized what he was doing and looked down at the page.

He could smell her perfume from across the table. The scent drifted every time she moved, warm and sweet and close to her skin. Maybe vanilla?

She looked up at him. “What?”

“Let’s work on some writing exercises.”

For the next twenty minutes, she made more of an effort. Damien worked through verb forms, travel phrases, and a short conversation from the book. Eliana picked things up quickly when she wanted to. She watched his face carefully whenever she made a mistake, as if the correction interested her less than his reaction.

He moved them to a basic conversation.

“Introduce yourself.”

“You know who I am.”

“In French.”

Her eyes rolled to the ceiling in thought.

“Je m’appelle Eliana. J’ai vingt ans. J’habite à Palm Beach avec mon père, ma belle-mère et mes deux frères. J’aime nager, danser et dormir jusqu’à midi.”

Damien crossed his arms over his chest.

20. She lived in Palm Beach with her father, stepmother, and younger brothers. She liked swimming, dancing, and sleeping until noon.

Simple enough.

“You left out studying.”

“Sorry. I thought we were being honest.”

Damien flipped a page in the workbook.

“What happened with college?” he asked.

“I stopped going.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t like it.”

He jotted something down. “What do you want to do?”

Eliana exhaled a soft sputter through her lips.

She crossed her arms over her abdomen.

“I dunno.”

“You must have some idea.”

“I want to leave Palm Beach, that’s for sure.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere people don’t ask what my father does before they ask my name.”

The answer surprised him. Before Damien could ask more, she looked back at the book.

“How do I say, ’I want to be left alone?”

He blinked. “Laissez-moi tranquille.”

She repeated the sentence, then shook her head.

“Sounds too polite.”

“You could add a few words.”

“Teach me those.”

Damien laughed. “No.”

“Why?”

“Your father hired me to teach French for travel.”

“I may need to curse someone out while I’m there.”

“You can do that in English. Most people will understand.”

Eliana smiled. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

She shrugged. “Introduce yourself.”

“You’re the student.”

“What if I need an example?”

Damien gave her a short introduction in French. His name, his age, and where he came from.

Eliana listened closely.

When he finished, she said, “Twenty-five?”

“Yes.”

“Young.”

“You’re twenty.”

“I know.”

Damien waited.

“I thought you’d be older,” she said.

“How old?”

“Old enough to be annoyed by everything.”

“Funny. I’m already annoyed by several things.”

Eliana laughed.

It came out warm and louder than the room called for. Damien smiled before he caught himself.

“Ask me where I live,” he said.

Eliana asked in French.

“West Palm Beach.”

“With your family?”

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“I’m practicing conversation.”

“My roommate.”

She glanced at his left hand. “Girlfriend?”

“Fiancée,” he corrected.

The answer came out more quickly than he intended.

Her expression changed. The smile stayed in place, but the ease beneath it shifted.

Eliana’s eyes returned to his face. “In West Palm?”

He looked away. “Marseille.”

“Oh.”

She picked up the pen and turned it between her fingers.

“Pretty far.”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss her?”

Damien pointed to the next sentence. “Ask what I do for work.”

Eliana looked at him for a second.

Then she asked the question. “Que faites-vous comme travail?”

She had noticed the boundary and let him keep it. Damien appreciated that more than he’d admit.

He answered, and they continued.

Here and there, something in the lesson would remind her of a story. A terrible meal Pamela had ordered at a French restaurant. A boy in high school who used to spit when he pronounced words. A French college course she barely passed because the professor was especially violent.

“She used to throw the dry-erase at us when we got an answer wrong.”

Halfway through the lesson, she moved her chair closer to Damien’s to see his corrections.

Damien corrected a verb.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked.

“You changed the tense.”

“Fix it.”

He wrote the correct form under it.

Eliana watched his hand. “Your handwriting is terrible.”

“You still seem to read it alright.”

“Barely.”

She turned her face toward him. They were closer than Damien had realized.

His heart slammed in his chest. He moved the workbook between them and pointed to the next exercise.

“Finish these.”

Eliana smiled to herself and picked up the pen.

The door opened several minutes later.

A blonde woman stepped inside, carrying a small boy on one hip.

Pamela.

He recognized her from the pictures. She looked younger than Richard, early thirties at most. Her hair was straight and shoulder-length, her skin tanned, and her white blouse tucked into capri shorts. The boy had one hand wrapped around a Hot Wheels truck.

“Oh,” Pamela said. “I didn’t realize you’d started.”

Her eyes moved over Damien.

He stood.

“Damien Laurent.”

“Pamela Ford.”

They shook hands.

Her smile warmed when she heard his accent.

“Richard said Marseille.”

“Yes.”

“I love the south of France.”

“Have you been?”

“Twice. Years ago.”

The boy twisted in her arms and reached for the workbook.

Pamela caught his wrist.

“This is Andrew.”

Damien nodded toward him. “Hello, Andrew.”

The boy buried his face against Pamela’s shoulder, shy.

Pamela looked at Eliana.

“How’s it going?”

“Beautifully.”

“Eliana.”

“What?”

Pamela’s smile stayed in place.

“Your father is trying to help.”

Eliana crossed her arms.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

Pamela turned back to Damien.

“We’re very excited about the trip. I may sit in on one of the lessons.”

Eliana’s face froze.

Damien noticed.

Pamela continued. “My pronunciation is terrible.”

“I can arrange a separate hour,” Damien said.

Pamela looked surprised.

“Oh. I don’t know if that’s necessary.”

“It may be easier. Eliana already has a foundation.”

Eliana looked at him.

Pamela shifted the boy higher on her hip.

“We’ll speak to Richard.”

Damien nodded. “Of course.”

She smiled again and left.

Eliana waited.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.

Damien shrugged. “It would slow the lesson down.”

She kept looking at him.

Damien pointed to the workbook.

“We have ten minutes.”

She got back to work.

Richard returned at the end of the hour with a white envelope in his hand.

“How did she do?”

“Better than expected.”

Eliana leaned back in her chair, a half-satisfied smirk on her face.

Richard gave her a brief look.

“Oh?”

“Her pronunciation needs a little work.”

Damien glanced at Eliana. “Right?”

Eliana nodded.

Richard handed Damien an envelope.

“I appreciate you coming.”

Damien took the envelope and put it inside his folder. Richard did not mention having him back. Well, the work had been easy, and he needed the seventy-five dollars.

“I appreciated being here.”

Eliana looked between them.

“We’ll be in touch once we decide how we’d like to proceed.”

Damien knew what that meant. He had heard some version of it after enough job interviews. “Thank you.”

Richard nodded.

“Anita will show you out.”

“I can do it,” Eliana chirped.

Her father looked at her.

“It’s not—”

She stood and picked up Damien’s folder. “I know where the door is.”

Richard gave a small shrug.

Damien followed Eliana into the hall.

She pressed his folder against her chest. The black tank top shifted lower, showing the tops of her breasts.

He reached for the folder.

“I can carry that.”

“I know.”

She kept walking.

They passed the family photographs in the foyer.

Damien wanted to ask why she wasn’t in any of them, though he had already guessed why. He swallowed. Eliana glanced at the photos. Her shoulders stiffened before she looked away.

He kept the question to himself.

At the front door, she handed him the folder.

“Ask him for a hundred.”

“Why?”

“He’ll pay it.”

“I agreed to seventy-five.”

“That’s because you didn’t know what he pays everyone else.”

“And you do?”

“I know everything he pays for.”

She opened the door.

Heat rushed into the foyer.

Damien stepped outside.

Behind him, Eliana said, “Hey.”

He turned.

She leaned against the doorframe.

“Au revoir, monsieur,” she said.

“Au revoir.”

“You’re supposed to correct me.”

“You said it correctly.”

“I meant monsieur.”

Damien understood.

She wanted him to tell her to call him Damien.

She wanted to remove some of the distance.

“Thursday,” he said.

His Honda’s faded hood shone in the sun. Damien opened the door and felt a warm blast of air. He rolled down a window and threw his folder onto the passenger seat.

He refused to look until he buckled his seatbelt.

He did.

She was still there.

Bare feet on the pale stone. Her dark curls lifted in the breeze. The white mansion stretched behind her.

Eliana raised one hand.

He started the engine.

The car coughed.

Her eyes moved toward the sound.

Damien looked away, embarrassed, and backed out of the driveway.

He opened the envelope once he reached the gate.

Three twenties, a ten, and a five.

The bridge was down when he reached it. Traffic moved steadily toward West Palm Beach. In the mirror, Palm Beach disappeared behind hedges and palms before the water took its place.

Damien drove toward the gate with Richard Ford’s money beside him.

And Richard Ford’s daughter stuck in his head.