Add to it the fear of falling overboard, or drifting in a large expanse of sea with no land in sight, and they just weren’t a vehicle I spent much precious mental bandwidth thinking about. But now my pulse began picking up its pace. I tried slow breathing exercises.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes slowed to a roll over cobblestone streets and came out between a small row of clothing boutiques on one side and what looked like the Hermes flagship store to my right.
“What town is this?” I asked.
“St. Tropez,” Evan responded.
We glided slowly through throngs of holiday makers gawking at the yachts lined, stern-to, along the quay. They towered like hulking monoliths, glaringly white with gleaming metal and sparkling glass. It was an almost gross, but breathtaking, display of the mega wealthy trying to one up each other. If the port in St. Tropez was anything like the coveted berths in downtown Charleston, these spots alone would pay for the national debt of several small countries. Below almost every name was the word Valletta. I’d have to ask about that. To our right, cafes and restaurants had appropriated some of the street for their tables. Waiters in white shirts and aprons darted around holding trays aloft. I sucked in a joyous breath. I was here.
Dauphine was chattering away to Evan and her father in incomprehensible French. It seemed she was excited. We slowed to a stop in front of a gate arm, guarded by what I assumed was a policeman, complete with an AK-47 slung around his neck. I swallowed. The gate arm rose, and we surged forward down a long private quay with much larger boats than any we’d passed until we stopped next to a gangplank made of teak wood and steel.
I ducked my head to look out the window and gulped at the sight.
No one made a move to get out.
Evan made a quick phone call.
The boat wasn’t exactly like the others, rather it was a shining marine navy on the hull with several white layers stacked above. It wasn’t the biggest of the boats on the private quays, but my apartment in downtown Charleston could probably fit into the square footage of one level twice over. The name of the boat Sirena gleamed silver in the sun.
My view of the yacht partially disappeared behind the torso of a strongly-built man with a bald head and dressed in a white uniform consisting of a short sleeve button down and slacks. The Mr. Clean lookalike wore a name badge that read Paco. He had an earpiece in his ear similar to Evan’s and approached us down the gangplank, looking left and right. Then he spoke to his wrist and approached the passenger side. As he opened Monsieur Pascale’s door, Evan opened the driver’s side door, got out, and immediately opened mine.
I looked up at him.
“Just nip onto the boat, I’ll grab your things.” He looked past me. “Dauphine slip out this side too please. Hurry.”
My pulse rocketed at his all business manner, so different to the affable fellow who’d loaded my luggage.
I clambered out and then took Dauphine’s hand and helped her out. She let go, pushed past me, and ran up the gangway.
“Attention, Dauphine!” Monsieur Pascale cautioned after her.
She leaped onto the boat and disappeared inside two dark gray glass doors.
I followed her route, my eyes glued to my running shoes, making sure I didn’t misstep and holding the warm metal railing. It swayed, and I almost lost my digested baguette. I wasn’t able to cross any expanse of water without holding on for dear life. God, why had I agreed to this again? What if I got seasick and vomited for six straight weeks? I didn’t think I got seasick, but I hadn’t had much experience to find out. This nausea, at least, was probably just nerves.
An attractive woman, also dressed in a white uniform, perhaps a bit older than me, with an athletic physique and blonde hair slicked back into a tight bun, had emerged from inside and now reached for my hand to help me.
Grabbing on to her gratefully, I stepped off the gangplank on to the spacious boat deck.
“I’m Andrea, the chief steward. You’re the new au pair, right?” Were all his employees British?
“I am.” I held out my hand. “Josephine Marin.”
“Miss Marin, lovely to meet you.”
“Actually, call me Josie, please. Long journey, my mouth isn’t connected to my brain right now. ”
“I’m sure.” Andrea looked past me with a smile. “Monsieur