It wasn’t nerves. The woman was lonely or self-absorbed, or both. What kind of person doesn’t ask you any questions?
Saturday didn’t play out any different.
Determined to break through, I began asking Sophie questions as we ran errands around town, hitting her favorite stores. I wanted to know about my uncle, Marie’s only brother, who was in the French military. What was my grandfather like, what kind of police officer was he, and so on. Well it opened a floodgate of new material for Sophie, and took the burden off of Marie, who at one point, leaving a bits-and-bobs store Sophie loves, lashed out at her mother for correcting my French. The two looked daggers at each other, and I intervened, explaining that I actually wanted to be corrected by Sophie.
I went to bed with a splitting headache but a much better grip on the hardest aspect of French enunciation: the closed-throat r. Also, I had a better sense of how Marie had grown up, in a rigid Catholic household with lots of “locked doors.” We had more in common than I realized.
It wasn’t until we saw Sophie off on Sunday night, and were back in the apartment, scarfing down brie (I had taken to spreading it on croissants—yes, it was a problem), that Marie finally relaxed. An American movie, The Avengers, played in the background. It was hard to believe how badly it had been dubbed. Tony Stark had no bite. No wonder the French think American cinema is terrible.
I watched Marie take a quick shot of whiskey and chase that with a gulp of white wine. Before she sat down, she made a big show of bringing her phone with her, eyeing me on the sofa beside her, and turning it off with great drama.
“Wow, now that’s impressive, Marie.” I played along. (I was forced to admit, that at times, Marie could be kind of a cornball.)
“No more. Not tonight. I am exhausted,” she said dramatically.
I stared at her profile. Even her hair, normally tied back tight, was loose and hung around her shoulders in soft golden waves. She let out a long moan and slumped down in the sofa.
“Do you want some time alone?” I ventured. “I could go read in my room?”
“Mais non,” she said, scolding me, gripping my hand in hers tightly and not letting go. And that’s when the tear trickled down her cheek. I sat upright and twisted so I could face her fully.
“Marie! What’s wrong?”
She groaned again and opened her bloodshot eyes, glancing at me briefly.
“I was so worried my mother would punish me, somehow, for keeping the truth from her.” She peered at me, worried. “I thought she would punish me in front of you.”
She sobbed momentarily, and then laughed. No, she was crying-laughing. “You know, I wish she had. Punished me,” she added.
“Marie,” I whispered, genuinely astonished. I had no idea she felt so guilty. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
“Twenty-three years!” she exclaimed, staring at me, horrified. “How terrible it is! To keep a secret, such as you, for how long you live?”
She stole a nervous glance at me.
“Non,” she shook her head, angry at herself. “You are so forgiving. I don’t understand how you forgive.”
Her face pinched up in anguish.
I did the only thing I knew, the one thing that came naturally to me. I hugged her.
“I ended up in a happy home with my mom,” I reassured her after a moment. “Marie, I am grateful for my life just the way it is.”
“But you never had a father!” she said, touching on the one blight I never like to acknowledge.
“So what? It’s not like I cared for . . . I don’t know . . . camping trips or baseball.”
“Non, but you deserve to know . . . him,” she added softly.
My heart stopped.
Marie stared at me with love, and sympathy, and utter sadness.
Oh. Wait. Did that mean—
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know why. Maybe because finding out about one half of who you are, or rather who you came from, is hard enough to absorb. I fit with Marie. I was part of her. I couldn’t imagine a future without her. But she was still only a familiar stranger. We had so much more yet to learn about one another. Plus, it was clear Marie was struggling to dovetail me into her life, and while I didn’t take it personally, because I loved her, maybe innately, bringing up my father now felt . . . overwhelming.
And yet, I couldn’t stop her either. Could I? No. I braced myself as she rubbed her face, and squared her shoulders.
“He was the worst man in all of France.”
My eyes opened wide.
What?!
She nodded. “I did not know this then of course. I met him in my uncle’s vineyard. We visited for the weekend. I was seventeen and—” she eyed me with regret “—like you. A piece of fruit, hanging from a vine. He pluck me, first with his powerful je ne sais quoi. Later, he use words.”
She took a sip of her wine, and the bitterness in her voice was replaced with melancholy. “He was not a handsome man, but he held the world in his hand, and so he was special.” She took another big gulp of wine. “He tracked me down when we return to the city, and arranged for ‘chance’ meeting. And another. In the beginning, I hesitated. I am not stupid. I had an idea he was not just a wealthy business man.”
“But he chased me. He, how do you say, wooed me with presents, and letters of love. The poems were so beautiful, they made me weep,” she admitted, pink in her cheeks.
“But still, I keep him at arm’s length, experimenting, toying with him.”
She turned to me pale-faced and I wanted her to stop.
“One day he met me outside the office, where I worked part-time. I had just started university. He sat in a big black car. Waiting. And here—” she motioned to her heart “—I knew, was the moment. Would I give in to him? I got in the back seat, and—”
She gasped. My heart leaped into my throat.
“Marie! It’s okay, I don’t need to know.” Actually, I didn’t want to know. I was lightheaded from a weird combination of fear and . . . self-preservation.
“Non, it is not what you think,” she assured me, finally noticing my grimace. My heart was beating fast, and my hands felt numb. “Non, ma belle, I am sorry. Let me continue. You must understand. Please.”
I stared into her face, and it was clear she needed to tell me whatever it was that haunted her: right or wrong. I was not equipped. But all I could do was hope that by listening, I would find some redeeming quality to this man.
I nodded. “In that moment, sitting in his car, I demanded honesty from him. Why did he want me, I ask. And he told me everything. How he was a swindler, of the best class.” She snorted. “He committed some of Europe’s biggest robberies. But,” she added quickly, perhaps noticing my horror, “Fleur, he said he was done. He told me I was his redemption. I was everything he was not, everything he wanted to be. I was his goodness, his promise. He told me I could make him a better man,” she spit out the last words.
Marie was silent so long I fretted over what to do or say. I was willing to wager one hundred euros she had not converted him.
She turned to me, tears down her face, and clasped my hands.
“I believe him. With all of my heart. I took it.” She motioned with her hands, and said, “Here, I give it you.”
Oh no. No. No. No. I didn’t want to hear more.
“I fell madly in love with him. My first lover. We met for months in secret, making love, reading poetry together. He took me dancing, and made me promises. Oh how he made me promises! He said he’d changed. He promised me he changed. But . . .”
Her face took on a slant of despair.
“As time passed, he visit me less and less.” Her voice was thin. “I— I had no way to reach him. I went mad . . . that I couldn’t hold on to him. Knowing that I hadn’t changed him.”
Oh my God. She blamed herself?
“When he would come to me, it was a, how do you say, fire, no, inferno. We shout and fight, and make love, but never truly make peace. Distance grew between u
s. He knew I came from a family of police officers, and that I was against who he was. I knew I could never hold on to him, or fix him. It was killing me, Fleur. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care.”
She sat silently staring at the sofa between us, shaking her head.
I was equally pale-faced. Learning I was a child of hurt was devastating in a way that one doesn’t expect: bam, just like that I was . . . a consequence. A terrible consequence. I burned with sensations of an intensity I’d never experienced before. Made me want to jump up and scream, or run far away.
“And then one night, he told me it was over,” she whispered. “He said he knew that he was destroying me. That he was wrong to have thought I could save him, that he couldn’t live with himself if it went on any longer. I beg him, Fleur, on my knees. I beg him not to leave me. I forgive him his sins, if only he wouldn’t leave me!”
“But he showed me no mercy,” she finished quietly.
I felt the impulse to console her, but I had no energy to act on it. I was leaping from one awful conclusion to the next one. An ache, like gut rot, ate at my stomach lining. No wonder she gave me away.
Marie made a tsk noise with her teeth, noticing me, perhaps, finally.
She grabbed my face with both hands. “Fleur, please do not think I did not want to keep you. But . . . I had no resources. I could not care for you and go on in secret. And I could not tell my parents. They would have demanded to know the father. News would have ruined my father’s career, and my uncles. Most important, he would come for you. Non.” She shook her head, red-faced. “I knew he would come for you. He would steal you away and your life would be all deception. And so I make decision. I arranged the adoption through a friend of a friend, with your mother and that man she was married to.”
“You mean you met each other?” I exclaimed.
“Oui.” She stared at me. “Do you really think I would give my child to a stranger?”
Oh, this was news. My mom knew who my real mom was. And she never told me. A private adoption.
I never asked. But she should have told me.
“Do not be angry with your mother. Be angry with me. I made secrecy a legal condition of the adoption. I did not want Laurent Gautier to find you. Ever.”
I closed my eyes. Laurent Gautier. That was my father’s name. He was a swindler. A thief. And my mother loved him. My mother, the superhero, loved a villain.
I got up, weak-kneed, and poured myself a big glass of wine. Gulped back two mouthfuls.
Why couldn’t my real dad just be, I don’t know, maybe a dentist or a garbage collector? Not a criminal.
I liked my life before. With a cop for a mother. How did I fit this into things?
Well, Marie had loved the man. That had to count for something.
My head was ringing. Wait. Was he dangerous?
I glanced at Marie, watching me with sympathy. “Why was it safe for you to come for me now?” I asked, hand near my throat.
The pain in her eyes . . . I swear my heart was about ready to explode.
“He’s dead,” she whispered.
I buckled slightly—from the internal implosion.
Now I would never meet my father.
Yup, that felt even worse than being scared of him. The decision had been taken from me. Sure, I’d always imagined a dad. And when Marie came back, I just assumed at some point I’d learn about him. Maybe even meet him. It never once crossed my mind, in a meaningful way, that he might be dead.
It was like I’d lost an appendage. I couldn’t cauterize the wound either. I wanted to lash out at Marie, suddenly, but, she looked so tiny sitting on the sofa, so . . . injured.
“You’re grieving him, aren’t you!” I blurted out, tears in my eyes. This explained the unusual glimpses of sadness I would catch her giving me.
She nodded. “Oui. I never stopped loving him. Never. The good heart cannot separate those who are worthy of love and those who are not. It gives freely.” She rose but didn’t move toward me.
“I am sorry, Fleur. I am sorry I take that from you.”
I couldn’t speak.
She had taken that from me.
I didn’t want to know any of this, about me, about her.
I recalled my life fifteen minutes ago. And knew that not facing the truth now would hurt me more.
Inside I searched for resentment but there was none. So what—giving me away had been a choice. I could deal with that. And maybe . . . maybe Marie had made the right decision. She knew who my father was, the kind of man he could be. I wanted to trust her. I needed to trust her. She was my mom.
“I have his letters,” she whispered. “It is not much, but would you like to read them?”
I met her watery gaze.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
It was something. Maybe, with her, yes, together, I could. If she needed me to. I wanted to be there for her.
I nodded, overwhelmed, shaky.
She moved down the hall to her bedroom.
I tried to deliberately suck in blue air, and blow out white air, channeling my yoga instructor’s voice back in Austin. Or was the blue air toxic and white clean air? Oh, who cares.
I moved over to the windows and stared out at the port’s lights, seeing nothing, lightheaded.
What had I expected coming to France? That the story of my parents would be boring? Mundane? Marie gave me up for adoption. There is always a reason. Always a tragedy. And now I knew mine.
I searched inside for the change afoot.
Yes, I was more deeply hued for knowing the truth. Maybe more darkly hued than I’d like, but richer. And stronger than before. Yes. Having more pillars supporting me, however chipped, or creaky or rotten, was better than floating with one udder.
This was having family.
Marie appeared, reflected in the window glass, a box in her arms. I joined her on the sofa, where we stayed up for hours, reading Laurent Gautier’s letters to her (the non-R-rated sections).
She shared a few joyful memories and painted him as a more virtuous scoundrel. Of course, he would have needed redeeming qualities in order for Marie—who despised criminals—to love him, or so I told myself. I learned their pet names for each other. How they spoke of buying a place and starting their own vineyard, not to sell wine, but to drink it and grow old together. We hugged, and laughed, and cried, and in that wholly unexpected evening, grieved the man I would never know, and the man she had never really given up.
Chapter 10
Date night. It was date night.
I wasn’t nervous so much as excited. Okay. I was nervous. I had carefully rehearsed a number of excellent talking points, areas of interest that made me seem sophisticated, and included important transitions for me to crack a joke or two. You may think this silly, but I’m not a natural conversationalist. I tend to blab if I’m not careful.
I’d worked on this at night, in bed, exhausted.
Sylvie’s was getting busier, plus I had French class on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. On Monday, I’d finally met the original MeetUp.com tutor, Chérie d’Alfort—she was very polite, but I could tell she thought my French was terrible. (Truth: I was starting to worry I might be a lost cause.) And even though I’d only written one food blog in weeks, pre-date, I opted for a refreshing cat nap instead of a blog posting.
I knew exactly what I was going to wear: my favorite little black dress from BCBG. I had debated nylons, and decided on a pair of sheer black thigh-highs that stay up on their own without a garter. And why not? I thought, cheeks flushed.
The only thing that hadn’t gone as planned was my bun—I thought it would make me appear more sophisticated. But I couldn’t get it to work, so I left my hair down. I opted for no jewelry, mostly because my hair catastrophe had made me late. I grabbed a dark purple wrap, the clutch Marie had bought me, and dashed out of the dark apartment.
Marie thought I was seeing my new friend Chloé tonight, who, keeping her word, had found a cooking
class we might like to attend. I was surprised when it became clear Chloé intended for us to go to the class together, but welcomed the opportunity to bond, if it was possible.
I didn’t like lying to Marie about my date, but I justified it in my mind because there was nothing to report yet regarding me and Louis. This date could be a bust like the one had been with Bastien. My gut squelched.
I opted for stairs over elevator, knowing I was running late and worried Louis might not wait (which was silly of course). Sure enough, as I sped into the lobby area, and out the entrance, there was a sleek black limo, waiting.
Shoot, it was colder than I thought.
I scooted into the limo before the driver even knew I was there, and the big smile I was wearing for Louis disappeared.
The car was empty.
The driver glanced at me in his rearview mirror, and nodded. I heard the blinker and leaned back.
Hm. A solo ride. Not what I expected.
I’m not saying I needed Louis to come up and ring the bell, but a gentleman should escort his date to their destination, shouldn’t he? Oh, you’re being old-fashioned. (I blamed my mom’s southern ideals.) I mean, someone as famous and wealthy as Louis probably had different rules.
My pulse had not returned to a normal rhythm. I gazed out at the lights as we drove down into the port area . . . which we passed . . . and were soon speeding along a highway out of the city. My palms were clammy and my mind abuzz with worry.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked him in English. He grunted, “Good. Good. I make sure alone.”
What? I searched out the back window. Geez. Was the local paparazzi stalking that bad? I was uneasy the rest of the drive. We finally looped back, taking narrow streets, where I suppose it would have been evident if we were being followed, before stopping in front of a little building at the very westerly edge of the port area.
Long miles of port area offered a wide open vantage from every angle. Several large ships were parked along stretches of docking. At least one of them was the size of a cruise ship, or so I imagined, having never seen one up close. But it was very dark, so extremely difficult to—
The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Page 10