The Cote d' Azur Chronicles Book One: Girls Trip

The blue-and-gold neon sign of the Kansas City airport bar buzzed with a low, comforting hum, a sharp contrast to the chaotic energy of the terminal outside, where travelers rushed past with clattering suitcases and boarding announcements crackled over the speakers. It was four o'clock on a cloudy afternoon in late June, and Margo Sullivan sat at the high-top table, waiting for the first leg of their flight which would connect in Chicago. Her color-coded travel binder rested neatly beside a half-empty glass of chardonnay. She smoothed her linen blouse, her green eyes scanning the busy terminal beyond the glass. It was still hard to believe they were actually doing this.

“To our Girls Trip! To sixty, to freedom, and to drinking all the wine and eating all the cheese,” Gigi Johannson said, lifting her glass of champagne. Her naturally curly ginger hair bounced with the movement, her stacked silver and turquoise bracelets clinking like wind chimes. “No husbands, no kids, and absolutely no schedule.”

“Well, maybe a little bit of a schedule,” Margo corrected gently, tapping the edge of her binder. “The trains there have a short window of time to board. If we miss one, there may be a very frantic learning moment on the platform.”

Barb Welsh chuckled, though her smile was a little tight around the edges. She clinked her glass against theirs, taking a slow sip. “I just hope Ed figured out how to use the microwave. I left three weeks of casseroles in the freezer, labeled by day, but you know how he gets when he has to find his own dinner.”

“Ed is a grown man, Barb,” Gigi said, rolling her eyes playfully. “He will survive. And he's got the dog to keep him company. Now, let’s get on this plane before I wander back to the gift shop and buy another gossip magazine I don't need.”

Sixteen hours and a blur of airline movies later, the blinding Mediterranean sun hit them the moment they stepped out of the terminal at the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport. The air was different here—thick with the scent of salt, rosemary, and the faint, sweet promise of lavender. Margo took a deep breath, feeling a sudden, sharp pinch of grief in her chest. Two and a half years ago, she lost her husband Skip to a sudden and fatal heart attack. Some days, like today, the grief still felt shockingly fresh. She thought of the DNA tests she purchased a month before that fateful Christmas, one for him as a stocking stuffer, hoping to get him excited about planning a trip to France or Ireland. Skip, however, was not even remotely interested, and suggested a deep-sea fishing trip to the Florida Keys instead. On the twenty-sixth of December, and less than a month before his sixtieth birthday, he was gone. Today, standing under the bright French sky, she imagined Skip telling her to wear plenty of sunscreen and to go easy on the local wine.  She finally made it to France, and the realization was sobering. 

“Oh, my hair,” Gigi groaned, patting her curls as the coastal humidity immediately went to work on her head. “I look like a wet poodle. Where is this fabulous host of ours?”

“She said she would meet us right outside baggage claim,” Margo said, consulting page three of her binder. “Her name is Marcelle de La Fontaine.”

“Ah! The American ladies!” A voice like a popping champagne cork drifted over the crowd. A woman in her late fifties with short-cropped black hair, bright red lipstick, and a red silk scarf tied effortlessly around her neck waved at them. “Welcome, welcome! You want the wine, the sun, the romance? C'est magnifique! We start with the apartment, and the rest... it follows like the sunrise.”

Marcelle swept them into her compact European car, chattering in a rapid-fire hybrid of French and English that left Barb looking slightly dazed. She navigated the narrow, sun-drenched streets of Nice with a casual disregard for lane lines that had Margo gripping the door handle. They drove along the Promenade des Anglais, luggage on their laps and between their legs, the turquoise water of the Mediterranean stretching out to the horizon like a sheet of silk.

The rental apartment was located in a beautiful, historic building with wrought-iron balconies overlooking the sea. The high ceilings, pale plaster walls, and large windows let in the brilliant coastal light. As they dropped their bags in the living room, Gigi immediately walked to the window, looking down at the chic beach clubs below.

“Look at those blue-and-white striped umbrellas,” Gigi murmured, her designer eyes taking in every detail. “I am going to buy a giant hat, order a fancy cocktail, and find myself a handsome Frenchman. Or two.”

Barb, meanwhile, had already slumped onto the overstuffed sofa, her phone buzzing in her hand. She stared at the screen with a heavy sigh. “Ed says the dishwasher is making a high-pitched squealing noise. He wants to know if he should call a repairman or just use paper plates.”

“Tell him to use paper plates,” Gigi said, not turning from the window. “And tell him you are in France and cannot be reached for appliance emergencies.”

“I can’t just ignore him,” Barb said softly. “He’s never been on his own like this.” She looked down as another text came through, this one containing a photo of Ripley, their six-year-old Goldendoodle. The big, shaggy dog was sitting by the front door with his head resting on his paws, looking up with those dark, soulful eyes that always made her feel guilty. Ripley misses you, the caption read.

Margo walked over to the kitchen island, opening her travel binder to double-check the local restaurant recommendations Marcelle had left for them. As she flipped past the itinerary tab, her fingers brushed against a small, sealed envelope tucked into the back pocket. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the front. Curvaceous and hurried, it was definitely her daughter Miranda’s.

She pulled it out and slid the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Mom, the note read, I know you’re worried about leaving us, and I know you miss Dad. But you spent thirty-five years taking care of everyone else. It’s your turn now. Go find out who Margo is when she isn’t being a teacher, a mom, a grandma, or a widow. Drink too much wine. Love, Miranda.

Margo’s throat tightened, and she quickly blinked back tears before her friends could notice. She folded the letter and tucked it safely back into her binder. It felt like a permission slip she hadn’t realized she was waiting for.

“Ladies,” Marcelle said, entering the kitchen with a chilled bottle of rosé and three beautiful glasses. “You must toast to your arrival. This is the start of your transformation. The Cote d' Azur, it changes a person if you let it.”

They gathered on the narrow balcony, the warm sea breeze rustling the leaves of the potted palms nearby. Below them, the sound of the waves gently lapping against the pebbled shore filled the air, accompanied by the distant, cheerful murmur of tourists dining al fresco.

Margo held up her glass, looking at her two dearest friends. They had shared marriages, children, divorces, and funerals. Now, they shared this. “To our sixties,” she said, her voice steady and warm. “May we actually survive this month without killing each other over the itinerary.”

“I make no promises about the itinerary,” Gigi laughed, clinking her glass against Margo’s. “But I promise to drink my share of the wine.”

Barb smiled, her eyes crinkling with real warmth as she joined the toast. “To our French adventure.”

They took their first sips of the crisp, pale pink wine, the cold liquid tasting of wild strawberries and sunshine. As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of apricot and lavender, Margo looked out over the blue horizon. She still didn't know what her retirement would look like, or who she was supposed to be now that the school bells had stopped ringing. But as she watched the sea turn a deep, twilight indigo, she decided that for the first time in her life, she was okay with not having all the answers.