We were a classic office romance. I was a recent MBA, hoping to get a foot in the door of a local word processing developer. When they offered a temp job subbing for a vacationing secretary over the Christmas holidays, I accepted. Bernard was a recently divorced Frenchman who’d just been transferred from Los Angeles to Boulder, Colorado, by the same company. It was love at first sight. I was smitten by Bernard’s charm, his skill in things I knew nothing about, how the lines around his green eyes crinkled into rays when he laughed. He delighted in my sense of humor, fashionable clothes, and French cooking. When he peered over my shoulder at the office, sniffing Chanel, eying my shoulder tattoo, patiently explaining some new software, I knew he was it. At twenty-eight I’d looked long enough for the right man. That Bernard was a Catholic to my Jew, boundlessly brave to my innately cautious, French to my American, twice married to my never-been-hitched, made us complementary, not incompatible. I had no doubt he was the man for me.
On our first date, as he whisked me off to a glamorous hilltop restaurant in his sleek silver sports car, I knew one thing immediately: this man was a serious driver. He was self-assured, on intimate terms with the road. I found his elegantly fresh aftershave intoxicating. His hands on the steering wheel drew my eye: long competent fingers, neatly trimmed nails, his palms sheathed in supple, black kidskin gloves, the kind with holes over the knuckles and no fingertips. Part of that evening, the wine and luscious food, thrilled me. The other part, in which my fear of speeding filled the back of my throat as we careened through hairpin turns, did not.
I should have set the tone right then, told him plainly what my preferred car experience was. But it was our first date, and I thought that would spoil things. Besides, I wanted to impress him with my willingness to go where he went, at his speed. Keeping up seemed important. And then there was my belief that, “If there’s a door in front of you, shove it open.” In this case, I also wanted to shut that door behind me and live on the other side of it forever. With him.
Our relationship progressed rapidly. First a shared Christmas tree, next a communal kitten, then buying a house, and, within half a year, marriage in front of a priest and cantor, with a cross overhead and Bernard stamping on a wineglass in good Jewish tradition. In the months that followed, I exposed Bernard to quintessentially American endeavors: pumpkin carving, movies with candy and popcorn, the importance of heart-shaped gifts on Valentine’s Day, why a campfire requires the roasting of marshmallows. Weekend mornings we lazed in bed while I read him Winnie the Pooh and Charlotte’s Web, my answer to his Asterix and Tin Tin.
It was a fair trade, as Bernard showed me a world in which any difficulty could be overcome by staying calm and thinking carefully. His fearlessness inspired me, his continental courtesies made me nicer. He was effortlessly caring, putting three ice cubes in my ginger ale—just the way I like it—when I was sick, placing himself on the traffic side of the sidewalk to protect me with his life should a car jump the curb. He laughed at my puns, learned to waltz and two-step because I loved dancing, let me correct him when he charmingly pronounced English words in the French way, calling a Viking a “weeking” and Levi’s jeans, “leh-wiss.” He admired my knowledge of Mozart and Chopin, called me “cherie adorée.”
Best of all, Bernard watched out for me, and that allowed me to be braver than I otherwise would have been. When the snow melted, we took to the hills on bicycles, Bernard pumping away in front, me drafting behind. Together we learned windsurfing and got our open water diving certificates. We went rollerblading, Bernard heading for an area that was all downhill. “I don’t think I can do this, Bernard,” I said.
“Yes, you can.” He showed me how to brake, held my arm as we started, then stayed by my side as we picked up speed. I didn’t fall.
Candles and flowers appeared just because. Without my even prompting, Bernard took care of washing the dishes. I figured that nicety would be cast aside before the ink dried on our marriage certificate, but he continued scrubbing pots and loading the dishwasher long after the wedding chimes were silent.
There was nothing Bernard couldn’t figure out how to repair or rebuild. He drew plans, calculated supplies, while I, a natural helper, handed him tools or carted away trash. I also was highly attuned to the need for a hot chocolate with schnapps or a sustaining lunch. His seemingly innate ability to figure out how to do things impressed and thrilled me.
A year after our wedding, Bernard started his own business. It was the early 1980s, and a novelty item called a PC had appeared. Now, people around the world were whispering about how great it would be if software ran in their own language. Having worked for computer companies all his life, Bernard knew enough about language and software to smell a good opportunity. His business plan was this: “I am French, I know software; therefore, I can translate.” He found a software developer who believed him, who gave him a translation contract just like that. I thought I could see the future, and it delighted me. He’d be his own boss, working a few months, taking plenty of time off to travel. I would pursue work as a freelance writer. All would be well.
At last we’re free, I thought.
Au contraire.
The first few years of business, as he scraped by on credit cards, showed just how out of focus my personal rose-colored glasses had been. Succumbing to the anxiety of looming bankruptcy, I ground my teeth at night as I dreamed about losing our home. Our attempt to maintain some semblance of a normal life meant that we tried a few short vacations. Our overworked credit card paid for those as well, which made those trips less than relaxing.
My dentist told me I should change my life or risk having my molars crack. “What are you suggesting I do?” I asked.
“Get rid of the stress,” he advised. I would have hooted at his sense of humor if his fingers hadn’t been pulling my lips open in an unsightly grimace. Get rid of the stress? Have Bernard give up after so much hard work? Unthinkable.
My anxiety built, to the point where after every meal I felt sick. I’d lie down, limp and pale, while Bernard paced, concerned I had a fatal illness. I feared admitting what I suspected. That my mounting worry about maxed-out credit cards was causing my stomach to go into acidic spasms. Instead, I decided to join him in the business, hoping my American forthrightness and PR experience would be the persuasive edge the company lacked.
Indeed, our talents complemented the other’s perfectly. Though not good with technical things and fairly ignorant about the mechanics of what we did, I discovered a knack for convincing people who’d never met me to part with large sums of money to work with us. Whatever project I brought in, Bernard figured out how to accomplish. As the company grew, I continued to lose sleep, but now at least my nightmares were of the two of us going under together, rather than Bernard drowning and leaving me behind.
Success came, and it was great. And it also wasn’t.