by Jones, Gwen
“Ms. Knott?” he said in his very British accent.
“Yes,” I said and he opened the door wide. “I believe I’m expected.”
“You are. Please come in.” He led me to one of two sofas in the living room, a coffee table set with high tea between them. “Mrs. Mercier will be right with you,” he said, then promptly disappeared through the dining room. And true enough, less than a minute later, a door to the next room opened and out walked, in the most basic of terms, my mother-in-law.
A similar scene flashed through my head from over a year ago, when Richard had taken me to meet his parents in blue-collar Bristol, PA. We had met at an Olive Garden because they thought the unlimited salad and bread such a good deal. This from a man who had made millions on Comcast stock, which he had started buying years earlier when he was cable box installer.
But where Richard’s working-class roots had only made me snicker at his champagne affectations, I instantly knew I was in another league altogether when Mother Mercier entered the room. Medium height, dark hair gathered into a chignon, attired in a tastefully fitted white blouse and fluted black skirt, a string of pearls at her neck, she was elegance enshrined. At least sixty years old, she was stunningly beautiful with a quietly voluptuous figure, porcelain skin, and startling blue eyes, every inch her son’s mother, yet singularly her own woman. Instinctively I stood up, my heart kicking up considerably as she glided toward me, hand extended, a most cordial smile on her face.
“Bon après-midi, Ms. Knott,” she said. “So good of you to come.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, her handshake surprisingly firm for all her airs of gentility. “Ravie de faire votre connaissance.”
She tilted her head, clearly surprised. “Parlez-vous français?”
“Well, I can greet you, bid you goodnight, offer you some gourmet dishes and utter a few words not suitable for children, that’s about the extent of it. But I’m hoping to learn more in the future.”
“Really,” she said pleasantly, her gaze washing over me. “I expect lately there hasn’t been time.” She swept her hand to the sofa. “Won’t you please have a seat? I’ve ordered us tea.”
I tried not to take her former aside as a dis. “It looks lovely. Thank you ma’am.” She sat on the sofa opposite, and poured from the china teapot.
“I’m leaving for Bermuda in just a little while,” she said, handing me a cup, “and I always find it hard to eat the first night. So I try to have at least a little bit before I go.”
“First night, ma’am?”
“I’m sailing on the Madeleine. A freighter, but the accommodations are quite luxurious, a little-known secret of which many world travelers take advantage.” She swept her hand again. “Please, help yourself.”
“Thank you.” I took a plate, placing a single strawberry atop it. I had absolutely no appetite, my stomach so jumpy, mostly from wondering when she’d cut the chit-chat and get to it.
My answer came when she leveled her gaze into mine. “My son will divorce you, Ms. Knott. You should expect it.”
It was as abrupt a shift of gears as flicking off the light switch. I set the plate to the table with a clank. “Oh? Did Andy tell you that? Did he send you to find me?”
She settled her own cup noiselessly. “I haven’t seen nor spoken to André in over six months, and then only briefly when he received the news his father died. I found you by simply turning on the television. The observation about my son comes from knowing him very well. And although, you, Ms. Knott . . .” she observed me, her eyes hooded, “. . . appear to satisfy his physical preferences, it can never be more than that.”
Boy if she didn’t come out swinging. “How could you possibly know what we were like together?”
“Because I know my son. I know you’ve served your purpose as an able playmate while he bided his time. But now that he’s finished, I’m afraid, so are you.”
I sprang to my feet. “What are you talking about? How can you—“
“Please sit, Ms. Knott,” she said calmly. “Honestly, it’s not my intention to be cruel. I’m just trying to give you a bit of enlightenment to save us all any more pain.” But I couldn’t move; I could only stand there, staring, my fists clenched. “Please, Ms. Knott,” she said, inclining her head, “I do have more to tell you.”
I don’t know why I did, but I sat, fool that I was.
“Thank you.” She placed a tiny quiche on her plate, brushing her hands over the table. “Mercier Shipping has been a family business for over two hundred years, but five years ago another shipper threatened a buyout when market changes left us most vulnerable. André was then quite content working as a ship’s engineer, even though everyone knew he was capable of bigger things. So when his stepfather fell ill he agreed to step in temporarily, even though it soon became apparent he’d never work again. But he proved such an excellent manager, he turned the company around. Even so, he remained adamant he’d only stay until Marcel was able to take over.”
“Andy did mention Marcel has a brilliant mind.”
“Which he stores in his pènis,” she said wryly, either ignoring my sarcasm or adding to it. “He falls in love like other people brush their teeth. In any event, I believe the purpose of André’s sabbatical was to force Marcel to face up to his responsibilities, and in the two months while he was in America, he not only ran the company, he proved he was born to do it, which, in fact, he was. Because of this, André has been turning over operations to his brother and very soon now—if not already, he will leave.” She glanced over the rim of her teacup, her eyes like ice chips. “And when he does, he’ll go back to the sea.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said.
“Hm, that’s very interesting.” She took a sip of her tea. “Why is that, do you think?”
Pure speculation, I knew, but . . . “Because I believe he loves me.”
“Really,” she said, leaning forward. “Has he told you this?”
“No, but—”
“And he never will.” Which she said with such certainty I was nearly inclined to believe her. But I couldn’t.
“I think you’re wrong.” I looked to my clenched hands; my knuckles were nearly white. “He’s told me he wants to make a life with me. He married me, after all.”
“Yes, he has. But tell me, Ms. Knott—where is he now?”
Any other woman with an ounce of self-respect would’ve refused to answer and stormed out. So why didn’t I? Maybe the need to defend what we had made the possibility of a future a little more tangible, and that spurred me on. “We argued, those months back and I asked him to stay away. He’s respecting my wishes, that’s all.”
She waved dismissively. “Too simplistic, don’t you think? We French are a passionate people. If he loved you, if he truly wanted you, he would break down walls to get to you.” She demurely crossed her hands atop her lap. “So again, where is he now?”
Why she was taunting me, I had no idea, but I’d had enough. “You know damn well where he is, so why this cat-and-mouse? Tell me what you really got me here for.”
She cocked her brow in an unspoken touché, reaching to a silver box on the table to pull out a cigarette. “I don’t really smoke anymore, maybe once or twice a month. But at times like this it seems appropriate. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” I said, as all former smokers usually did. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” She flicked a lighter then drew in delicately, her eyes never leaving mine. “Did you ever wonder how a man could reach forty years of age and never marry? Gay, was the old exception, but that’s not even true anymore.” She inhaled, exhaled. “Didn’t you ever think it odd in Andy?”
“No.” I affected my best imitation Gallic shrug. “He’d been waiting for me.”
That irritated her and her cheek twitched; another affectation cutting too close to the bone. “He’d been waiting for no one. His heart is too cold to let anyone in. And proof of that is you, ma chère. As far as he’
s concerned, you were just a prop.
“What was it I heard from Marcel, who I understand you’ve had the pleasure of meeting? Seems he mentioned something about a bet between he and André which, most unfortunately, involved you.”
“Yes,” I said, the anger rising again. “About who could stay married the longest.”
She uttered a derisive sigh, distinctly French and so like Andy I winced. “Well, I can assure you, if André did make such a bet, it wasn’t to win or lose it, but to simply get Marcel to play.” She inhaled once more then crushed the cigarette into her plate.
“But, the game’s over, Ms. Knott, and both my sons have come out winners. Marcel takes control of the company, and André goes back to the life he lived before—a pretty man flitting about with no commitments. Ma chère,” she said, her voice softening, “I am telling you this as one woman to the other, and not to make things more difficult for you. But I know my son—he can’t commit to anyone. Believe me . . .” Her face stiffened with a faraway anger. “He first proved it to me. I only want to prepare you for the eventuality and save you the heartbreak.” Her eyes narrowed. “Especially if you’re intending to enlighten him with your bit of news anytime soon.”
I don’t know how she did, but she knew. “What news?”
“Ms. Knott—please. I’m a mother twice over. You get to know the signs.” She dropped her gaze to my belly, my hands idly over it. “Mostly it’s the hands. They’re always protecting it. Did you know the doctors told him the likelihood of his ever having a child was slim?”
“I assure you most definitely it’s his.”
“Well then.” Her mouth curved into a brittle smile. “You’ve proved them wrong, haven’t you?”
The butler stepped into the doorway. “Madam, it’s time.”
“Yes, merci.” She stood. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Knott, but I must go. The ship leaves in an hour.” She smiled again. “Well, then. Do pay attention to what I told you, and although you may not believe me, I do only have your best intentions in mind.” She held her hand out. “Au revoir, Ms. Knott.”
I stood, staring at her hand thrust in the spirit of fidelity. Except right then, with Andy so close and so far away, I wasn’t feeling especially felicitous. I looked up, squaring my gaze into hers.
“First off, ma chère belle mère, the name’s Mrs. Devine, and if Andy’s out to break my heart, I’d rather have him do it in person and not by proxy. Although I do thank you for your selfless concern.” I grabbed my purse.
Her eyes flared like two bolts of blue lightning. “You have no idea what you’re setting yourself up for—he will disappoint you!”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, walking out.
I rode back to the station in a fog of anger and indecision. There was no story to file, so I recycled an old one, and in a burst of panic I called Andy’s number, letting it ring once before I quickly hung up. I fled the studio and walked home in a daze.
I went to bed, only to wake up near midnight. I needed to think, and I knew there was really only one place I could go, rummaging through a wooden box on my dresser until I found the key. I shoved it in my pocket and jumped into my clothes. The only thing I needed now was a car. I ran outside and, hailing a cab, went straight to the airport. Forty minutes later, I was on my way.
Funny how I didn’t know how to get there, then suddenly I did. I crossed one bridge, traversed the Pines, then crossed another, going east until I couldn’t go any further. I made a right then traveled nearly the length of the island, ending up where we really began. I sunk the key into the cottage’s lock and stepping inside, found a blanket then went straight to the back porch.
The moon, nearly full, was high, lighting a path from the rumpled sand to the horizon, the stars pocking the sky with pinpoints of light. It was cold but the salt air tempered it, and wrapping the blanket around me, I tucked myself into the porch’s wicker loveseat. With my hand on my belly, I cast my hope across the water, and drifted off to sleep.
I OPENED MY eyes. It was light, but it was the footsteps that woke me. I shivered awake, turning toward them.
“Julie? Julie!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
* * *
Ship to Shore
“RICHARD!” I CRIED, bolting upright. “What in hell are you doing here!”
He flapped the collar of his jacket, tightening it around his throat. “A better question would be why you’re sleeping outside in February. It’s cold as balls out here!”
What the fuck was he doing here? “How did you find me?”
“Well, it’s simple,” he said wryly. “Your Twitter feed.”
“What? I don’t have a Twitter feed!”
“Oh yes you do. I feed it for you. And I got this from one of your contacts who works there.” He whipped out his phone, showing me the tweet. Why is JK at the airport Rent-a-Wreck at one AM? “So me being curious, I went there.” He lifted a brow. “Who would think those bombs have a GPS in them?”
I grabbed his phone. “What the hell! Now you’re spying on me?”
“Well, someone has to.” He grabbed back his phone. “Since you’re lying to me.”
“What?” I cried, flabbergasted.
“I’m doing everything I can to launch your career into the stratosphere, where it should’ve been a long time ago, and you’re still fighting me every step. You don’t tweet, you don’t Facebook,” he ticked off on his fingers. “You’re ignoring your blog, you didn’t show up for the drive time interview you had at WMMR yesterday—”
“Oh shit.” When I was at the Ritz-Carlton. “I totally forgot about that.”
“And it wasn’t because you were out on a shoot, either, because for some goddamned reason you recycled a story that was just on last month. Now, how the hell can we run that on ‘Joe’ on Friday?”
“I’m shooting this afternoon. I’ll send them that.”
“You know damn well they need a two-day lead. You’d never make it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But that’s not what’s got to me. What’s really killing me is right there.” He threw open my blanket, jabbing his finger toward my belly. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
My mouth dropped. I tried to answer, but nothing came out.
“Yeah, I thought so. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
I gaped at him, wrapping the blanket back around me. “How—how—?”
“It’s why you ran away from me last summer. It’s why you passed out on Thanksgiving. And it’s why I saw you coming out of that gynecologist’s office yesterday, isn’t it?”
I think I’m going to be sick. “I would’ve told you sooner or later.”
“You should’ve told me right from the jump.” He paced the porch, looking so bruised I nearly felt chastised, until he leaned against the railing to face me. “All right, look—it might even be to your advantage. Baby bumps are hot right now. We’ll get you working that whole smokin’ mama thing, and I’m sure we could shoot some killer spots around it. And after we’re married—”
“Married!” Again he floored me. “You want to marry me?”
“I’ve always wanted to marry you,” he said, as if obvious. “Just because I had a bout of temporary insanity doesn’t mean I never would. You knew I’d come back.”
“I did? You threw me out on the street!”
“Oh, that was just Annika having a hissy fit. She told me just the other day how sorry she is about it.”
That got me standing. “You’re still talking to her?”
“Purely as a client. Don’t worry, we’re so over even the crack of dawn can’t get past us. I already told her, next week’s opening is the last one I’m going to.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh Richard, you truly are predictable. Go to the opening. I really don’t care.”
“Julie, listen to me.” He grasped me by this shoulder. “You’re thinking I’m the same Richard who screwed you over last year, but believe me, I’m not. If it takes the rest of my life,
I’m going to make it up to you. I’ve changed, really I have, but one thing hasn’t: I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I do want to marry you.” He reached in his pocket, bringing out the engagement ring I had thrown at him six months earlier. “Julie, will you marry me?”
I looked at him, same handsome face, same slick delivery, and I thought: if this were six months ago, I would’ve fallen at his feet. He said he loved me. But how could I really be sure? Did the proof lie in what he said? Or was the real test in what he did? Or was it more in how he made me feel? Did I feel loved? And would I feel it even without him telling me? The answer came to me, almost instinctively.
“Richard, I can’t marry you. And even if I could, it wouldn’t work out. You’re not the only one who’s changed, you know.”
“I know you’ve changed and I’m willing to accept that. I’m also willing to take it one day at a time. What have we got to lose? If we find out it’s not working, we can always split up later, but for now, we let’s give it a try. Marry me.”
Oh my, didn’t this sound familiar? So why now did I hear it so differently? “I’m sorry, but I still can’t marry you.”
“And I’m sorry,” he huffed, looking affronted, “but I won’t have my kid born a bastard. Call me old school, but there it is.”
“Your kid?” I laughed out loud. “Oh, sweetie, do I have a surprise for you.”
A car door slammed; a dog barked. Richard stiffened, incensed. “I don’t care what your surprise is, because I got a bigger one for you. You are going to marry me, so stop acting like a two-year-old and—”
The back door opened and Bucky barreled out, nearly knocking Richard down as he ran toward me. I fell to my knees and he leaped into my arms. “Bucky!” I cried, hugging his ruff. I looked past him; my heart clenched. Andy!
“What the—?” Richard turned, eyeing him. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Andy Devine,” he said, looking straight at me, “and what I want is my wife.”