Fic: European (Riviera) Triptych I: Sparkling Accents (Triptych Series I) (1/1)
Title: European (Riviera) Triptych I: Sparkling Accents (Triptych Series I) (1/1)
Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters: OC Narrator, Mel/Johnny/Billie
Fandom: Public Enemies
Genres: AU, Slice-Of-Life
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Not really, since things ended up quite differently in this particular AU. ;)
Summary: A Frenchwoman observes three Americans at a hotel on the French Riviera.
Date Of Completion: August 6, 2009
Date Of Posting: August 6, 2009
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Universal does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1205
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Notes: I often use canon as a jumping-off point into other possibilities, though there are plenty of canon stories from this fandom coming up on my ‘To Write’ List. ;) Isn’t it great to be in on the start of a new fandom? :) This story, however, is one of those where events branched off from the movie timeline at some point, and there was a happier ending than that of the events at the Biograph Theater in Chicago on the night of July 22, 1934. If John Dillinger had survived that night, or it hadn’t happened at all, it would make sense that he and the ones who loved him couldn’t stay in America. I haven’t gone into details on the hows and whys, and may only hint at them in the next two installments of this trilogy, but I hope you enjoy this little tale of love ‘undercover’. :)
The entire series can be found here.
July 3, 1938
I have always liked Americans.
Most of my countrymen do not. I know that Mother and Father find them insufferably bourgeois, and I agree that some are, but that is mostly a generalization. Certainly many of the Americans here in France as visitors or ex-patriates are on a sophisticated level.
But even if they were not, I would still find them fascinating.
I am sitting here on the deck of the Excelsior Hotel Regina and sipping a good French wine under a yellow-and-white striped umbrella, shading me from the strong summer sun. I am wearing a floral dress of the latest Paris style, my white hat tilted at just the right angle. I can see the woman of the group at the next table is also fashionably dressed.
She is slender and brunette, with a hat similar to mine and a dress also of the latest style, a pale yellow with short sleeves and lovely shoes to match. A charm bracelet jingles musically when she moves her hand to pick up her lemonade. From her profile I can see that she is quite lovely, with big, brown eyes and an engaging smile.
There are two gentlemen with her. The one to her left is the bigger of the two, his blond hair unruly. I cannot tell what color his eyes are as he’s wearing sunglasses. He has on tan pants and a forest-green shirt, short-sleeved and showing good musculature, an expensive gold watch winking in the sunlight. A straw boater rests on the table next to his glass of wine.
The second man is smaller but an arresting presence. He has cheekbones that an artist would dearly love to paint, and dark hair that is carefully slicked back under a white fedora. His white slacks are impeccably-tailored, a yellow sweater casually tied around his shoulders that are clad in cobalt-blue, short sleeves showing off good muscles. His watch is silver and not quite as bright as the other man’s. Perhaps a family heirloom.
The shade of my umbrella hid my interest, as well as my sunglasses. Besides, they all seem absorbed in each other.
It is a beautiful day here in the south of France, and the Riviera is especially lovely at this time of year. The gardens surrounding the lavish hotel of gold and marble are lush and colorful, flowers and shrubs blooming with a rainbow of colors. The trees are big, venerable, old sentinels that have stood here for centuries. It’s what Europe does best: showcasing the old and the ancient.
America?
She holds her history dear, but often prefers to look toward the future. The new and improved is very big there, according to my cousin Adele, who has visited the United States. It is probably why they are so progressive in so many technological things, though not so much in the social.
The churches have much influence there. The Catholic Church does here, but not as much as they used to, and there it is the Protestant churches combined with the Catholic, and a sprinkling of Jews. They had banned Mr. Henry Miller’s novel, Tropic Of Cancer, in 1934, confiscating copies through the mails. He had to publish it in Paris! Why, there is even a censorship code for their movies now! What a pity. Silly things, like not showing even married couples in bed together or characters swearing or criminals getting away with their crimes, as is realistic in life.
I admit that I am listening to their conversation, enchanted by the accents, sparkling like champagne. I love all manner of American accents. I hear many of the European ones here on the Continent, and as a Frenchwoman am encouraged to disdain the British accent, but I have heard a variety of the American ones. The New England accent is closest to the British, and quite charming on its own, but none of these three have one from that region.
The bigger man has what I have figure is a Midwestern accent, with his slight drawl and certain folksy expressions. The woman’s is similar, but a bit different, so maybe she wasn’t raised in the Midwest. The second gentleman’s is quite easy: it’s a soft, Southern drawl, and very charming.
“Are you going to play tennis this afternoon?” asked the woman to the blond man.
His smile was lopsided but charming. “Sure, darlin’. My racket is all strung up and ready to go. Right, A.J.?”
The Southern man drawled, “Sure, Jack. Strung real tight.” Jack laughed, an infectious sound.
“I have a tennis date with Mrs. Cotter Wharton.” The woman’s voice was very haughty, then I realized she was putting on airs for fun.
Jack grinned. “Oh, that’ll be fun, Willa. Mildred will catch you up on all the Yankee gossip.”
“Suh,” came A.J.’s voice.
“Sorry, General Lee,” teased Jack.
“Oh, you Yanks aren’t so bad.” His smile was teasingly affectionate.
Willa’s eyes sparkled as she regarded her companions. Affection was deep in her regard, and that was when it hit me all of a sudden, like a photographer’s flash: she was in love with both of them.
I took a sip of wine and pondered. Was she married to Jack or A.J.? Or the girl of one? American women weren’t supposed to be in love with two men at the same time.
I watched their body language, Jack grasping her hand and squeezing, and a lovely smile appearing on A.J.’s face. Her sandaled foot gently swung back and forth and brushed A.J.’s leg underneath the table.
It could have been a mistake.
It could have been deliberate.
Now that ratcheted up the level of interest considerably. A ménage a trois? My people had invented the term, and Americans generally were one-man, one-woman people.
Their reputation for the puritanical was well-earned. ‘Middle America’s values and sense of propriety was the stuff of jokes here in Europe. Goodness, they even put fig leaves on their naked statues!
So it was surprising to see a genuine threesome. I could be wrong, but my instincts were screaming at me, and they were in French.
“Willa, sweet, would you be so kind as to make reservations for us tonight in the dining room?” asked A.J., sipping his drink.
“Of course.”
Jack gently nudged A.J.’s foot under the table. “Ready for a game, sport?”
A little shiver of delight went up my spine. Of course, with threesomes consisting of one woman and two men, often the two men were more than amenable to each other in the bedroom. Images flashed through my mind that made my mouth dry and my palms damp. I quickly took a sip of wine.
A.J. finished his drink. “Absolutely. Oh, Willa, dear, is the hotel still holding that party tomorrow?”
Willa nodded. “All red-white-and-blue, honey.”
He smiled, dark eyes alight. Standing up, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then brushed past Jack, who grinned and also stood. He leaned over, too, and kissed Willa on the lips, then joined A.J., flinging a companionable arm around his shoulders as they walked toward the hotel to get their tennis rackets.
Willa watched them with that loving smile again.
I had a smile on my face, too.
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Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters: OC Narrator, Mel/Johnny/Billie
Fandom: Public Enemies
Genres: AU, Slice-Of-Life
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Not really, since things ended up quite differently in this particular AU. ;)
Summary: A Frenchwoman observes three Americans at a hotel on the French Riviera.
Date Of Completion: August 6, 2009
Date Of Posting: August 6, 2009
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Universal does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1205
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Notes: I often use canon as a jumping-off point into other possibilities, though there are plenty of canon stories from this fandom coming up on my ‘To Write’ List. ;) Isn’t it great to be in on the start of a new fandom? :) This story, however, is one of those where events branched off from the movie timeline at some point, and there was a happier ending than that of the events at the Biograph Theater in Chicago on the night of July 22, 1934. If John Dillinger had survived that night, or it hadn’t happened at all, it would make sense that he and the ones who loved him couldn’t stay in America. I haven’t gone into details on the hows and whys, and may only hint at them in the next two installments of this trilogy, but I hope you enjoy this little tale of love ‘undercover’. :)
The entire series can be found here.
July 3, 1938
I have always liked Americans.
Most of my countrymen do not. I know that Mother and Father find them insufferably bourgeois, and I agree that some are, but that is mostly a generalization. Certainly many of the Americans here in France as visitors or ex-patriates are on a sophisticated level.
But even if they were not, I would still find them fascinating.
I am sitting here on the deck of the Excelsior Hotel Regina and sipping a good French wine under a yellow-and-white striped umbrella, shading me from the strong summer sun. I am wearing a floral dress of the latest Paris style, my white hat tilted at just the right angle. I can see the woman of the group at the next table is also fashionably dressed.
She is slender and brunette, with a hat similar to mine and a dress also of the latest style, a pale yellow with short sleeves and lovely shoes to match. A charm bracelet jingles musically when she moves her hand to pick up her lemonade. From her profile I can see that she is quite lovely, with big, brown eyes and an engaging smile.
There are two gentlemen with her. The one to her left is the bigger of the two, his blond hair unruly. I cannot tell what color his eyes are as he’s wearing sunglasses. He has on tan pants and a forest-green shirt, short-sleeved and showing good musculature, an expensive gold watch winking in the sunlight. A straw boater rests on the table next to his glass of wine.
The second man is smaller but an arresting presence. He has cheekbones that an artist would dearly love to paint, and dark hair that is carefully slicked back under a white fedora. His white slacks are impeccably-tailored, a yellow sweater casually tied around his shoulders that are clad in cobalt-blue, short sleeves showing off good muscles. His watch is silver and not quite as bright as the other man’s. Perhaps a family heirloom.
The shade of my umbrella hid my interest, as well as my sunglasses. Besides, they all seem absorbed in each other.
It is a beautiful day here in the south of France, and the Riviera is especially lovely at this time of year. The gardens surrounding the lavish hotel of gold and marble are lush and colorful, flowers and shrubs blooming with a rainbow of colors. The trees are big, venerable, old sentinels that have stood here for centuries. It’s what Europe does best: showcasing the old and the ancient.
America?
She holds her history dear, but often prefers to look toward the future. The new and improved is very big there, according to my cousin Adele, who has visited the United States. It is probably why they are so progressive in so many technological things, though not so much in the social.
The churches have much influence there. The Catholic Church does here, but not as much as they used to, and there it is the Protestant churches combined with the Catholic, and a sprinkling of Jews. They had banned Mr. Henry Miller’s novel, Tropic Of Cancer, in 1934, confiscating copies through the mails. He had to publish it in Paris! Why, there is even a censorship code for their movies now! What a pity. Silly things, like not showing even married couples in bed together or characters swearing or criminals getting away with their crimes, as is realistic in life.
I admit that I am listening to their conversation, enchanted by the accents, sparkling like champagne. I love all manner of American accents. I hear many of the European ones here on the Continent, and as a Frenchwoman am encouraged to disdain the British accent, but I have heard a variety of the American ones. The New England accent is closest to the British, and quite charming on its own, but none of these three have one from that region.
The bigger man has what I have figure is a Midwestern accent, with his slight drawl and certain folksy expressions. The woman’s is similar, but a bit different, so maybe she wasn’t raised in the Midwest. The second gentleman’s is quite easy: it’s a soft, Southern drawl, and very charming.
“Are you going to play tennis this afternoon?” asked the woman to the blond man.
His smile was lopsided but charming. “Sure, darlin’. My racket is all strung up and ready to go. Right, A.J.?”
The Southern man drawled, “Sure, Jack. Strung real tight.” Jack laughed, an infectious sound.
“I have a tennis date with Mrs. Cotter Wharton.” The woman’s voice was very haughty, then I realized she was putting on airs for fun.
Jack grinned. “Oh, that’ll be fun, Willa. Mildred will catch you up on all the Yankee gossip.”
“Suh,” came A.J.’s voice.
“Sorry, General Lee,” teased Jack.
“Oh, you Yanks aren’t so bad.” His smile was teasingly affectionate.
Willa’s eyes sparkled as she regarded her companions. Affection was deep in her regard, and that was when it hit me all of a sudden, like a photographer’s flash: she was in love with both of them.
I took a sip of wine and pondered. Was she married to Jack or A.J.? Or the girl of one? American women weren’t supposed to be in love with two men at the same time.
I watched their body language, Jack grasping her hand and squeezing, and a lovely smile appearing on A.J.’s face. Her sandaled foot gently swung back and forth and brushed A.J.’s leg underneath the table.
It could have been a mistake.
It could have been deliberate.
Now that ratcheted up the level of interest considerably. A ménage a trois? My people had invented the term, and Americans generally were one-man, one-woman people.
Their reputation for the puritanical was well-earned. ‘Middle America’s values and sense of propriety was the stuff of jokes here in Europe. Goodness, they even put fig leaves on their naked statues!
So it was surprising to see a genuine threesome. I could be wrong, but my instincts were screaming at me, and they were in French.
“Willa, sweet, would you be so kind as to make reservations for us tonight in the dining room?” asked A.J., sipping his drink.
“Of course.”
Jack gently nudged A.J.’s foot under the table. “Ready for a game, sport?”
A little shiver of delight went up my spine. Of course, with threesomes consisting of one woman and two men, often the two men were more than amenable to each other in the bedroom. Images flashed through my mind that made my mouth dry and my palms damp. I quickly took a sip of wine.
A.J. finished his drink. “Absolutely. Oh, Willa, dear, is the hotel still holding that party tomorrow?”
Willa nodded. “All red-white-and-blue, honey.”
He smiled, dark eyes alight. Standing up, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then brushed past Jack, who grinned and also stood. He leaned over, too, and kissed Willa on the lips, then joined A.J., flinging a companionable arm around his shoulders as they walked toward the hotel to get their tennis rackets.
Willa watched them with that loving smile again.
I had a smile on my face, too.
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