The azure water laps against the pebble beach filled with people taking advantage of the sun. On the other side of us, across the street, outdoor cafes are filled with tourists relaxing as they eat and drink.
“I can see why you prefer it to Paris.” She immediately winces and I laugh, mostly to reassure her that it’s no problem.
My history with that city is too long and complex to completely write it off. I can understand how Brielle might feel differently.
Still, Nice will always come first for me. “My mother used to take me here to the waterfront every weekend.”
“Are they topless?” Brielle asks, peering closely at a group of female sunbathers with nothing but bikini bottoms on.
“Welcome to the French Riviera,” I say with a laugh.
She elbows me. “Now I definitely see why it’s your favorite.”
I laugh again and pull her closer to my side. “Only when I have a certain beautiful woman by my side.”
A reluctant smile comes to her face and she laughs and cringes when I bend down to kiss her cheek.
“You should try it sometime. I think you’ll find it…liberating.”
She laughs again. “Smooth.”
This is nice. A welcome change from the past couple of months of chaos.
The Werwolf Order has been either completely dismantled, or so deep underground that they are, in effect, completely impotent. In return for her information, Hélène managed to stay out of prison but remains in seclusion. Victor’s old apartment has been sold, the profits going to a Jewish charity. I’m no longer in touch with her, but I do get information in a roundabout way. Once my anger toward her settles, I may visit once, perhaps just before the end. Closure, they call it.
After Gaultier’s fall from grace, the real painting of Noémie, complete with her message to Victor, was discovered in his Paris home. Ironically enough, Adeline’s diaries, the very things that could tie Georgette to the painting, were also unearthed. Apparently, the man was a sentimentalist. All were returned to Celeste, the true heir to the Ardant legacy. She donated both to various small museums in Paris where they are guaranteed to remain on display.
Celeste has been working her magic with the influential people she is connected to in New York to finally get Brielle’s judgment vacated. The fact that there are a few people in the D.A’s office who have been implicated with ties to the Werwolf Order, and were willing to concede that the painting that was destroyed was a fake certainly helped her case.
After all, it’s not possible to become a French citizen with that kind of record in your past.
I look at my watch. “We should get going. She’ll be expecting us soon.”
I feel Brielle’s body stiffen under my arm and I hug her in closer. “You two have already talked several times via phone or FaceTime. Stop worrying.”
“It’s different in person.”
“Exactly. She’ll love you even more.”
We’re in the Cap de Nice neighborhood where my grand-mère lives. It’s one of the nicer areas of the city, and she has a pleasant yellow house with blue shutters, chosen specifically for its view of the water and the city in the distance.
“My God, look at the view!” Brielle says, jumping out of the car I just parked in the driveway.
I watch her run over to the side fence, which is surrounded by bougainvillea trees with pink flowers in full bloom. She stands on tip-toe to peek over the edge at the water.
“This is literally like paradise,” she says as she joins me toward the front door.
“You’ll get used to it,” I hint as I ring the doorbell.
She catches the meaning and smirks. “Is that so?”
“I certainly hope so,” I reply, staring down at her as I bring her in closer.
The butler opens the door and walks us inside and toward the back patio where my grand-mère is sitting at a table filled with a variety of food. The view from here is even more spectacular, as though Nice in all its glory is displayed just for our pleasure.
“Hello, grand-mère,” I say, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
“Bonjour, sweetheart,” she says smiling up at me in that way that softens my defenses. Since this woman came back into my life, the love that I lost when my mother died has been renewed. She was as tough as Hélène, when it came to reining me in, but her chastisement has always been graced with good humor and love. Something I never really felt from my other grand-mère.
“Ah, I finally get to meet in person the infamous woman who helped bring down the Werwolf Order,” Celeste says with gleaming green eyes as she shifts her attention to Brielle.
Brielle laughs. “I literally did nothing but go after a painting.”
“No, no, my dear,” Celeste says as she gestures us toward the seats on the other side of the table. “You are a brave soul, a fighter. Your family would be proud.”
Brielle blinks in surprise at that. “They aren’t my family,” she says with a hint of disappointment in her voice
Celeste leans in to peer at her. “Non, you are family, Brielle. My family. Victor’s family. Noémie’s family. Adeline, Georgette, they’d all be proud of you, and even more proud to call you family.”
Her eyes fall on me. “And when my grandson finally comes to his senses, he’ll make it official.”
Brielle laughs with embarrassment.
“You always have been a meddler,” I say in French.
She just purses her lips and continues.
“That said,” she says, reaching down beside her to show us a small velvet box. “I think it’s time I handed this over to someone who might have better use for it.”
She opens the box to reveal Noémie’s emerald engagement ring.
Brielle gasps.
I’ve seen it often enough to be familiar with it, but even I lean in slightly now that there’s new significance to the impressive piece.
“I know, I know…it’s a bit early for such formalities, but I’m an old woman and life is short. I don’t have time to wait for you two to go through the proper courting rituals. So I’m officially giving this to you, André, in the hopes that you know exactly what to do with it.”
I give her a warning but amused look as I accept the ring. The large emerald, circled by diamonds, looks exactly like the eyes that watched me the first time I kissed the woman next to me. It looks just like the eyes of the woman across from me.
I think about all that this ring has lived through, the stories it could tell. It deserves to sit on the finger of a woman with her own stories to tell.
My eyes slide to Brielle and I think about my grand-mère’s words. Life is short. Both Brielle and I know how precarious it can be, and how easily it slips away.
Brielle stares at me with an embarrassed smile on her lips. We could wait to come to the inevitable conclusion. I already know what I want. I know what she wants, based on the eager gleam in her eye. Once upon a time, I would have waited. But the Brielle that stood over me while I was under her desk, the Brielle that was wary and slow to melt, the one who lived behind a shield to protect her heart…she’s gone. The new Brielle would dive in head-first holding my hand.
But that hand is missing something.
Which is why I fall to one knee in front of her, holding the ring.
That smile on her face, the one I love, is on full display, which gives me my answer before I even ask it.
Oui.
Epilogue
“George!” I hear my wife shout from the kitchen.
My heart stops with panic for a quick moment before remembering that our son is only three years old, that age where his name is usually shouted with exasperation or warning.
Still, I go running to the kitchen. Brielle is standing there, hands on hips, a look of shock on her face as she stares at our son.
As always, I take a microsecond to admire her. She still has the short cap of natural hair, which I, for one prefer. After almost four years of marriage and two children, her body is a li
ttle fuller—all for the better.
“Look what he’s done,” she says, darting her arm in George’s direction. When we first moved to Nice, into the same house I grew up in, she made a point of immersing herself in the language. After four years, she’s perfectly fluent, resorting to French even when she’s excited or shocked like this.
I turn my gaze to see our son and feel my own shock set in. The naturally tan color of his face is now smeared with the dark brown of the chocolate sauce he’s managed to pour over himself. How he’s managed to get it in the thick waves of his dark hair is beyond me. Considering the fact that he’s practically swimming in the amount he’s managed to pour all over the counter, it’s no wonder.
I make the mistake of laughing.
George begins hiccuping a series of laughs as well.
Brielle is not amused. She turns her glare my way and I try to stop laughing.
“It’s not funny,” she protests, but I see her press her lips to keep from succumbing to laughter as well.
“It’s a bit funny.”
“No, it isn’t!” She says just before breathing out a laugh. “Stop, André!” she says, only to break down in laughter.
George is practically screaming with laughter at this point, which only encourages ours.
“How did he even get into it. I specifically put it on the top shelf. It’s a wonder he didn’t fall and break his neck,” she says, shaking her head with disbelief. “He gets this from you, you know.”
“Me? Are you sure? Who’s the one with the sweet tooth?”
“And who’s the one who is an expert at getting into places you shouldn’t.”
“I was never this messy,” I say in a tone that hints at my being impressed. That at least gets another laugh out of her.
“Don’t encourage him. I don’t want to find him sneaking into the wine cellar with the butler’s daughter when he’s only fifteen,” she sasses.
“We’d have to get a wine cellar and a butler first.”
“You always make a joke out of everything,” she says with an amused smile. Oh, that dimple!
“That’s why you love me,” I say, ignoring the current mess to bring her in for a kiss. She resists only for a moment before giving in.
The sound of our daughter Naomi crying from another room interrupt the moment. She’s only eight months old so it could be anything.
Brielle moans against my mouth. “Sometimes I think they conspire to work against us at the same time.”
I laugh. “So which of our little devils do you want to handle?”
She twists her head to look at our son, covered in chocolate. “I suppose you’re right. This one is on me.”
“Told you,” I tease, reluctantly letting go of her to take care of our daughter. “Hopefully she just wants attention.”
“If life is fair, you’ll encounter your own bit of chocolate,” she teases.
“You’re terrible,” I say as I head toward the sound of Naomi crying.
“And you still love me,” she says with a smile.
True.
I find Naomi in her playpen. She’s at the crawling stage now, so will soon join her brother in creating more headaches for her parents. A part of me somehow looks forward to it.
“What’s wrong, my love?” I say reaching in to pull her out. The crying tempers down and I wishfully attribute that to her being a Daddy’s girl.
“Pa-pa!” she cries, confirming it—at least in my own head.
Naomi has subtle hints of the great-great-grandmother she’s loosely named for. The brilliantly green eyes she had at birth are now more like mine, amber irises filled with emerald green flecks. They have Brielle’s slight tilt at the end, making them one of her most fascinating features. I can already tell what they’ll do to the boys when she grows up. The head full of fat, dark curls is a mess from the protest she’s carried on in the playpen.
I bounce her and pat her back, calming the last of the cries. The tearstained pout on her face makes my heart practically melt.
“Let’s go see what Mama and George are up to,” I say, continuing to bounce her as I carry her past the remaining mess in the kitchen to the bathroom where I hear the sounds of a bath taking place.
George is out of his clothes and happily splashing in the shallow water, which is already turning brown as Brielle washes the chocolate away.
“You are going to grow up to be just like Papa, aren’t you?” Brielle says, laughing as she washes the chocolate from his hair.
“With any luck,” I say, causing her to twist her head around in surprise.
“Ma-ma,” Naomi gurgles with a laugh.
I kiss her forehead, enjoying the soft skin against my lips. I lean against the doorway to watch Brielle hum a song as she cleans our son free of chocolate.
This is one of those moments I savor. Even though I know there will be bumps in this road, I want to make sure that our children and my wife have nothing but happy memories to hold onto when they reflect back on their lives.
As I look around the tiny room at my wife giving my son a bath and feel the soft weight of my daughter in my arms, laughing along with her brother, I think this might very well be one of them.
Formidable.
About the Author
Camilla Stevens is a New York transplant from Los Angeles. At night you can find her typing away, usually with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page. You can usually find tulips, her favorite flower, making an appearance in most of her novels.
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The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance Page 25