by Susan Finlay
They sat together on the sofa, and Simone said, “This is wonderful. I wish we’d met years ago. If I’d moved to Reynier after I finished school instead of remaining in Paris—”
His kiss stopped her from talking.
THE NEXT DAY, back at his grandmother’s house, Dave walked downstairs after his shower and heard music playing on the radio. He followed the sound into the kitchen and found his white-haired grandmother smiling and swaying to the music as she folded laundry on the countertop. He moved toward her, intending to take over the chore, but as he neared, she must have sensed his presence because she jumped.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I—I was just about to go upstairs and lie down. I’m exhausted.”
Dave frowned. Not only was she working on laundry, but she’d apparently been baking. The smell of bread emanated from a loosely covered pan on top of the oven, evidently set there to cool. The rolling pin was still lying on the counter next to the stove.
As she hung up a dish towel, Fabienne yawned, and then said, “I need to lie down for my nap, dear boy. I should have done it an hour ago. You should go visit with friends. Now that she has an assistant at the café, Simone will likely have time to chat.”
She stood by, waiting for him to leave, but he hesitated.
“I think I’ll stay here today. I need to work on my new book. Can’t keep neglecting my writing.”
She shrugged, then nodded and left the room. She trudged up the stairs, making enough noise to awaken the dead.
Dave opened his laptop computer, which was on the dining table, then brought up his book file so he could work on the outline for his new mystery novel. The characters and setting were easy, but he still wasn’t sure about some of the plot. Searching through his notes, he began making progress. Footsteps in the other room pulled him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Only three-quarters of an hour had elapsed.
Peering around the corner into the living room, he watched his grandmother put on scarf and shoes. “Where are you going, Grand-mère?”
She swung around. “Oh, dear, you startled me again! I’m going over to Jeannette’s house. She invited me for an early lunch.”
He kept his face blank, and nodded. After she closed the door, he pulled the front curtain aside and watched her walk up the street. As soon as she was out of sight, he strode up the stairs and into her bedroom.
He recalled the conversation with her when she’d called him in Chicago. She’d told him she had ovarian cancer, the same illness that had claimed Grandma Ellen. He’d asked if she was undergoing treatment, if there was any possibility of recovery. She said ‘yes’ to the first question and ‘probably not’ to the second, though the treatments might buy her a few months.
Dave glanced at her tidy bed with its pale green cover. Just as he’d thought. Not a single wrinkle or indentation. She’d probably paced her room until she thought she could sneak out of the house. He sighed. Time to get to work. He had plenty of experience, but this was different from the usual police search he used to do; this time he didn't want anyone to know he'd been there. He opened drawer after drawer. She must have prescription medications somewhere. Grandma Ellen’s bathroom had been full of them. He hadn’t seen any pill bottles in either of the bathrooms here. Finally, he found her appointment calendar underneath a book on her bedside table. He thumbed through it from January until today, the ninth of June. She’d scribbled dinner parties, meetings with friends, hair appointments—but not a single doctor appointment. No hospital tests. No radiation or chemo treatments. He set the calendar back where he’d found it and continued searching for her prescription pain killers. Coming up empty-handed but for a small commercially available packet of aspirin, he finally went downstairs to wait for her return.
NINETY MINUTES later, Dave looked up from his chair in the living room as the front door opened. Fabienne set her handbag and scarf on the table next to the door, and smiled.
He smiled back briefly, then said, “We need to talk, Grand-mère.”
“Of course, dear boy. What did you want to talk about?” She sat on the sofa across from him and folded her hands in her lap.
Dave shook his head. She still thought of him as a boy. He was thirty-five. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. Questioning a suspect was second-nature to him, but when the suspect was a family member . . . .
“I don’t want to have to say this, but you don’t have any of the symptoms Grandma Ellen had and, well, you’re energetic for someone dying of cancer. There have been no doctor or hospital appointments since I arrived. That got me wondering.”
She averted her eyes, and fussed with a button on her cardigan.
The grandfather clock behind Dave ticked loudly and he tried to tune it out. Leaning forward, he said, “Are you really ill?”
“Oh, at my age, you know—”
“Are you really dying?”
Silence.
“Are you in some other kind of trouble? You can tell me. I’m here to help.”
Still refusing to look at him, she focused on the button, twisting it back and forth until it came off. She let out a soft gasp, then stuck the button in a pocket of her cardigan.
He sat back and tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Should I go back home?”
She shot him a look. “No! Don’t go. I’ll talk.” She hesitated, then whispered, “It wasn’t entirely my idea.”
Dave’s mouth twitched. Jeannette. He should have known.
“We just wanted you to spend the summer the way you did when you were young.” She paused. “I wanted to see you, and, well, you’re all alone, I thought it might do you good. Jeannette said you would probably enjoy the break, and I . . . well, I get lonely, too.”
Dave leaned forward again and stared at her. “Explain to me why Jeannette cares if I come here.”
She didn’t answer.
He stood, his shoulders tensing, and closed his eyes as the question he needed to ask hung in the air, unspoken. Finally, he said, “So you aren’t ill?”
She shook her head rapidly, while biting her lower lip.
“You lied about dying? I don’t understand. Why would you do that?” He took a deep breath, let it out, and tried again. “It doesn’t make sense for you to lie to me. All you needed to do was ask me to visit. I would have come. Why the pretense?”
“You wouldn’t have stayed for months. What good would it do for you to come for a week or two?” She suddenly looked truculent. “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You always loved it here, and it seems like you and Simone are getting on well.”
“Simone?” Almost under his breath, he said, “You and Jeannette wanted to play matchmaker?”
She looked away.
He stood and glanced at her, intending to say something, then closed his mouth and walked out the front door. Down the narrow hillside street he strode. Past several shops, past the hotel, straight to Café Charbonneau on the corner. He yanked open the door and the bells attached to it clanged so loudly that everyone turned to stare. He ignored them and walked straight over to Simone, who was standing behind the counter and holding a full coffee pot. “Can you get away for a few minutes?”
She raised an eyebrow, then looked around for her assistant, Isabelle Lambert. She motioned to her, set down the coffee pot, took off her apron, and then led Dave upstairs to the first floor of her apartment. After she closed the door behind them, Simone looked him in the eyes. “You seem angry. What’s wrong?”
“I just had an interesting conversation with my grandmother. She lied to me to get me here. It even seems like there was some idea of getting you and me together, and—” He searched her face, then added. “You already knew about that.”
“No, not really. I did wonder—you know, my grandmother’s heavy hints. ‘Oh, Simone, you aren’t getting any younger, and how will you meet anyone?’ But . . . .” She shrugged. “You know
our grandmothers. Once they get an idea, there’s no talking them out of it, and they would have denied it had I asked. When Fabienne said you were coming over, I got all the meaningful looks and the suggestions that it would only be friendly for me to help you settle in. I went along with it—but grudgingly. Until I met you, of course.” She smiled, and raised her eyebrows.
He squinted at her and she broke their eye contact. A moment later she held out a hand to him, which he ignored. “You mustn’t be angry with her. She only wanted to help you.”
“I don’t need any help.” He strode over to the window, then turned around and faced Simone. “Why would she think that?”
Simone said, “You went through a divorce. I did too. I suppose our grandmothers thought we could help each other.”
“I don’t need their meddling. You shouldn’t either.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been divorced almost five years. This is the first time she’s done something like this. Why now?” He studied Simone. “Tell me something. What gave them the idea for their little plot?”
She shrugged again.
“It’s rotten no matter who came up with it,” he said.
“Please don’t hold it against them.”
“How would you react if you were told your grandmother was dying? How would you like to be tricked?”
“I understand your anger. But try to think of it this way—Fabienne’s healthy and you’ll have her around at least for a few more years.” She patted the cushion, trying to get him to sit beside her. “My grandmother is probably the sneakier of the two. She’s the instigator.”
He snorted at that, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he paced.
“I’m sorry they tricked you, but I’m glad you’re here. They were right. We do make a good couple.”
He turned around and faced her. “Of course I’m happy she’s healthy, but I can’t just forgive and forget. How can you justify what they did—and what you went along with?” Dave frowned. Something more was going on here. What were they up to? And who exactly was involved – Fabienne and Jeannette certainly, but Simone?
He suddenly realized she was speaking again. “— You’ll be going back to the U.S. soon. You might not get another opportunity to come back to France for some time. She might not be dying now, but she’s getting up there in age. Try to make the best of the situation. Why not get away for a week or two? Give yourself a chance to cool down? We could go sightseeing. We could leave in a few days, after the dinner party. How much of this country have you visited?”
“We’ll see,” Dave said. He turned and walked out.
Outside the café, Dave took in a breath of the fresh air and tried to calm himself. Over the past year he’d considered moving away from Chicago plenty of times. Too many sad memories, too many lost relationships. He’d felt un-rooted for some time, as though he didn't really belong anywhere anymore. Certainly not in Chicago. Reynier, because of his ties with the village and because it was about as different from Chicago as you could get, had long been at the top of his list. Too bad it was now tainted for him. Yet, he could do worse than stay there. After all, in the end, what harm had been done? Still the annoyance—yes, and hurt—at being deceived rankled. Had Simone been laughing at him this whole time? He started walking to the far end of the town.
Ten minutes later, he sat in the living room at the home of his childhood friend, Jonas Lefevre, whom he hoped was a man who wouldn’t go blabbing to the rest of the town. He really needed a man’s perspective. Whether or not he could actually trust him, he hadn’t decided.
“Nice home you have,” Dave said.
“Haven’t you been here before?”
“Don’t think so. You and Lillian were out of town the last time I was in Reynier. The time before that—must have been twelve years ago—you weren’t married yet. As I recall, you and Lillian were dating. How is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her around.”
“She works all the time over at the butcher shop.”
An awkward silence ensued. Dave looked around the living room at photographs on the mantel—wedding photos, vacation photos, Lillian and Jonas with their dog, Jonas working on a clock, Jonas surrounded by clocks in various stages of production—a whole life that Dave knew little about.
Jonas poured them both some cognac. “Don’t tell Lillian. I’m supposed to be cutting back both the amount I consume and the amount I buy.”
Dave nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. But what if she comes home while we’re drinking?”
Jonas took a swig of his drink. “She won’t. Her boss never lets her go home early. He leaves early sometimes to do stuff with his boys. They’re a handful. Speaking of boys who are handfuls, do you remember when we used to ride our bicycles down the hills and through neighbors’ properties?”
Dave smiled. “How could I forget? The last time we raced down the hill, we almost caused a car accident. Mayor Rochierre phoned my grandfather and griped about our recklessness and I got grounded for a week.”
“My father acted angry for a few minutes, but he was a softy. He didn’t follow through with his threats of punishment.”
“Yeah, as I recall you never got punished for anything—ever. Maybe that’s why you don’t have any morals. You could probably get away with murder.”
“Hey, I resent that.” Jonas squinted an eye at him, and then burst out laughing. “But it’s so true.”
Dave laughed for the first time today.
Jonas grew quiet. “What happened between you and Connie? Fabienne says you’re divorced.”
He shrugged, and then studied this older Jonas. Slicked-back brown hair and hazel eyes, and leaning back in his chair, his legs casually flung out, one arm bent and lying over the top edge of the chair back. The guy had always been laid-back, and lucky with women, but he seemed even more self-assured now.
“What about you? I’ve heard stories.”
“Yeah, well, I tried to be faithful. And I did all right for the first few years. But Lillian and I, well, we don’t have any sizzle left.”
“Does that mean you have a mistress?”
“A mistress? Ha. That’s an understatement. Women find me irresistible. What can I say? I try to keep my affairs a secret from Lillian. I don’t know if she knows, or not. She doesn’t say anything about it.”
“What about your business?”
“Ah, come on, I don’t want to talk about work. Tell me about you and Connie. I never even got to meet her. What happened?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Jonas raised his eyebrows a fraction, then nodded. “I heard you’ve been seeing Simone. How’s that going?”
Dave shrugged again.
“She’s certainly taken with you.”
“Have you and she ever been involved?”
Jonas smiled, but instead of answering, he swirled the liquid in his glass. Finally, he said, “I’ll tell you about Simone after you tell me what happened with you and Connie.”
Dave moved to stand up.
“All right, I get it,” Jonas said. “You always were closed-mouthed”
“Simone tells me you travel often. Paris, Orleans, Marseille, Lyon,” Dave said.
“Yes, that’s one of the benefits. I’d go crazy if I was stuck here all the time. But what happened with your job? I thought you were still on the police force, and then I hear you quit. What happened?”
“I started writing.”
“It takes time to build a writing career. How did you survive until the money started coming in?”
“I did all right.”
Jonas studied him, then shrugged and gave a smile. “Ah. If you’re staying in Reynier, I might be able to send a little something your way.”
“Have you struck a gold mine with your business, then?”
“You might say so.”
After a few more minutes of idle talk, Dave excused himself and walked toward his grandmother’s house. His mood hadn’t improved much, and he still couldn’t bel
ieve he’d allowed the women to trick him. He’d sworn he would stay on guard, that he wouldn’t let anyone use him or manipulate him ever again. Had he been deluding himself?
Why would his grandmother lie to him about dying? When he was a child, she’d occasionally been caught in a fib, usually by Grand-père. Nothing big. Nothing like this. Although he’d visited every summer throughout his childhood, he’d spent most of the time outside or playing in the caves—not conversing with his grandmother.
He sighed. Did he really know her? For that matter, did he know any of these people? Maybe it wasn’t as lonely as Chicago, where you could live years in the same neighborhood without ever knowing your neighbors’ names. But it made him wonder, all the same, if he belonged in Reynier any more than he did in Chicago.
He had almost called his parents in Missouri before he’d left for France, to tell them about the cancer. He’d hesitated because his mother hadn’t spoken to Grand-mère since she’d moved to the U.S. when Dave was a baby. His father was the one who’d arranged the summer visits. No one would tell Dave what had caused their falling out. When he would return and try to tell his mother about his trip, she would stop him. “I don’t want to know anything about my mother’s activities,” she would say. What had Grand-mère done to spark that kind of response?
It had always bothered him that his family was split—as a kid, he’d compared his situation to that of his friend, Billy, whose divorced parents had shuffled him back and forth between them. If something terrible had passed between his mother and grandmother, shouldn’t he know what it was? What would his mother say about Grand-mère’s lying and subterfuge?
He found Fabienne sitting on the sofa, her hair in disarray and her eyes slightly puffy. He sat down beside her and took a deep breath, then said softly, “How could you think that would work? It was only a matter of time before I would figure it out.”
She turned away from him and didn’t answer.
“Talk to me, please. You owe me a better explanation. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll help you if I can.”
Finally, she looked at him with sorrowful eyes that reminded him of himself as a boy, getting reprimanded by his dad. “Will you forgive me?”