5:30 PM, Tuesday, February 9
On the Road Again
OVER THE HOLIDAYS, I’d mentioned I’d like to go to Seattle to see my mom, and Sébastien surprised me with a plane ticket to visit her. Very cautiously, he had asked if I would like company. I quickly accepted.
“Bon, then I will get one for myself.”
A long weekend around Valentine’s Day worked for the four of us. I was excited to see my mother and a little nervous at seeing Mr. Harper again. I felt excited and nervous about introducing them to Sébastien.
I’d stayed at work until 4:00, making sure everything was covered. My goal was to be packed by 7:30, so that Sébastien and I could have a relaxed dinner together. I was flying out in the morning to have a few days alone with my mother before Sébastien arrived to enjoy a long weekend with us.
Half of my clothes were at my apartment and half were at Sébastien’s, which made packing to go to Seattle a challenge. Finally, after a quick trip to his place, I returned to my apartment and organized all my clothes, deciding what to take. Looking at the chrome mantle clock in my closet, I saw that I had just under an hour. With a large case open on the floor, I stuffed in everything from jeans to cocktail dresses. After quickly packing everything, I sat on the suitcase to zip it. I’ll be paying an overweight fee, for sure.
With a flushed face and my hair a bit on the wild side, I locked the door behind me and rushed to Sébastien’s. Letting myself in with my new key, I took in the heavenly scent of whatever was for dinner.
“Hello?”
“In here!” Sébastien called. I followed his voice to the dining room, where he was setting the table. “How did it go?”
“I’m done packing. I’m yours for the rest of the evening, especially if part of the evening gets spent in the tub.”
He gave me a wicked look. “I’ll get extra towels!” A few days earlier, we had taken a bath together and flooded the bathroom. What had started out as a sensual experience had devolved into wringing out sopping towels amidst bouts of laughter.
I followed him into the kitchen and helped him take containers out of paper bags so we could serve ourselves Moroccan take-out.
“While ‘that’ sounds incredible, my back is killing me.”
“From this morning?” His voice sounded funny as he piled his plate with couscous. I realized he was embarrassed. In response, I blushed at this morning’s wake-up call, which had required quite a bit of flexibility on my part.
“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe. Schlepping clothes from here and the dry cleaners didn’t help.”
Once we were settled at the table, he admitted, “My timing is terrible, but maybe having time to think about it is good… I would like for us to live together.” He put his fork down with a clatter and took my hand as I held my breath. “Any thoughts?”
Fortunately, I had stuffed a large bite in my mouth, so I had a minute to ponder. I started out with a joke. “I love the idea of not having to renovate my apartment.” After spending most of my free time at his place the past few months, my apartment had remained basically untouched. “I also love the idea of all my clothes being in one place.” Finally, I said, “Mostly, I love that you asked me. I love that you want to live with me. It’s such a big step. I need to wrap my brain around it.”
“You’re right. Hopefully, while you’re in Seattle, you’ll figure out you can’t live without me.”
11:25 AM, Wednesday, February 10
Mamma Mia
MY MOTHER STOOD out in a crowd. Even bleary-eyed, I had no trouble spotting her in baggage claim. Tall, lanky, perpetually upbeat, she was wearing a wide grin. Once she spotted me, she made a whoop sound and raced over, wrapping me in her arms. We clung together, swaying back and forth.
She held onto my arm tightly as she stepped back and allowed her soon-to-be husband into our group.
Without thinking, I exclaimed, “Mr. Harper!”
“I think you’re old enough to call me John.”
My mom swatted his arm, clearly remembering she had always insisted I call him by his last name. Stepping away from her, he pulled me into a hug, which I happily returned.
“John! It’s great to see you.”
Then the three of us sized one another up. There were subtle changes in the older two, including a few more laugh lines etched into the corners of their eyes, deeper grooves alongside their mouths, and fine lines crisscrossing their foreheads that spoke of years of surprise and sadness, as well as happiness.
“This is weird!” I announced.
“Yes, it is. You’re a sophisticated grownup, not all gangly and awkward anymore,” John teased. “Let’s get your luggage and go home.”
I finally spied my bulging suitcase. “Oh, there it is!”
John offered to get it. “You’d better let me. It probably weighs more than you!”
As he corralled the bag, I nodded at him. “He’s really handsome, Mom. I don’t think I noticed it when I was younger.”
“I did!” she immediately responded, waggling her brows. While I was genuinely happy for her, I was not quite sure how to handle this side of my mother.
He staggered over melodramatically before placing the bag down and pulling the handle up so he could roll it on its wheels. A few minutes later, we were on the road in my mother’s ancient Jeep. We drove under a lead-gray sky, past rolling hills covered with evergreen trees, and talked about everything from Christmas to lunch. My stomach rumbled at the mention of food.
We pulled up in front of her bungalow-style house. It had been painted since I was last there and was now a deep shade of rust with dark charcoal trim.
When I was younger, my childhood home had been a place of comfort. After Mikkel’s death, though, it held too many memories and quickly came to represent both heaven and hell. My eyes drifted to the top floor, to the tiny dormer window dressed in lace. My bedroom. Memories made there caused me to wince.
“The house looks great! You’ve done a lot of work.” I focused on the positive.
My mom gave John all the credit; he turned out to be quite the handyman.
“Why don’t we walk to the café on 65th, unless you’re too tired, Kathy?”
I chuckled. Only she called me that. “Sounds great.”
We ambled down the street as she remarked on old and new neighbors. Her narrow street with its closely-spaced wooden houses and sloping lawns was so different from any neighborhood in Paris; I felt like a fish out of water.
“Which café?” I searched my memory with little confidence that any I had frequented as a kid still remained.
“The Bryant Corner Café. We went there last time you were home.”
We escaped the cold, damp air inside a beige, flat-roofed café with bright red doors. A few intrepid northwesterners sat at tables outside, under an overhang, sipping coffee and reading their papers al fresco.
While I perused the menu, my phone rang. It was Sébastien. “Excuse me, it’s him.” With a huge smile, I said, “Hello!”
“Bon matin, chérie.”
“Thank you. How are you? How was your day?”
“It was perfect, except that I spent the entire day in meetings with no time for lunch, then I came home to a cold empty house and ate leftover Moroccan food, which reminded me of the taste of it on your lips. And soon, I will go to bed alone.”
“Sorry! If it makes you feel any better, I’m sitting here with my mother and John. We’re at a café eating breakfast. I’m going to have crab cakes and scrambled eggs with pesto!”
He told me I was cruel, ignoring his loneliness.
“You bought the ticket. You should have thought of that.”
He laughed hard, leaving me feeling better.
“Good. I’ve never heard you sound so pathetic.”
“I’m going to say goodbye before you criticize my manhood. I just wanted to make sure you had arrived safely.”
“Your manhood is perfection. Thank you for making sure I’m safe and sound. By the way, I left you a li
ttle present under your pillow. I hope you like it.”
I heard him walk down the hall, and then the bedroom door hinge groaned. A moment later, his laughter was muffled as he inhaled my perfumed bustier.
“Is your day better?”
“Much better, chérie. Thank you for the thoughtful reminder. When can I call you tomorrow?”
“Anytime! I love you.”
“I love you, chérie.”
A moment later, I hung up the phone and let out a long, happy sigh.
“She’s in love!” my mom declared with joy.
“I’ve never heard you speak French before. It was so… unreal.”
Changing the subject, I said, “Speaking of unreal and before I forget, I just want to go on record and say that the girls will completely understand if you don’t invite them to the wedding. It’ll definitely change the tone, that’s for sure.”
“Are you kidding? Our wedding has turned into the social event of Seattle. Not that Seattle knows it… yet.”
“Once Tiziana and Des hit the runway, it’s going to be chaos unlike anything you’ve experienced,” I warned them.
John suggested, “Since the wedding is going to be aboard a boat in the middle of Lake Union, it is highly unlikely that the paparazzi can do anything but buzz around overhead.”
My mom and I looked at him kindly and then at each other before we burst out laughing.
Patting the back of his hand while she got herself under control, my mom said, “Just wait until you meet Tiziana.”
Having no idea what he was in for, he said, “That bad?”
I took the bull by the horns. “She doesn’t mean any harm, nor does any harm actually occur, most of the time. She just has a way of… owning a room.”
“Okay! I believe you. Whatever your mom wants.” John appeared to give in to whatever the universe and Tiziana might have been sending his way.
Seeing their affection for each other was touching. They were very comfortable together, very attuned to each other. My heart ached when I realized how long she had been on her own and the loneliness she must have felt.
“John, I am really grateful that you and my mom have found each other. I can see that she’s very happy.” The two gazed at each other blissfully. “So, tell me what other decisions you’ve made about the wedding.”
It was a short conversation. Nothing had been truly settled upon, other than a date in late summer.
After the waitress arrived bearing food, John lifted his coffee cup. “To the Ehlers women, two strong and capable ladies! Thank you for welcoming me into the family.”
I dug into my food, relishing each scrumptious bite of my breakfast. I relaxed, finding the familiar and laid-back manner of the Pacific Northwest soothing. People walked slowly here, made eye contact with strangers and greeted them. Drivers waited patiently at the red light without inching into the intersection. I’d forgotten the friendliness of the people who lived tucked in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. It was not better. Not worse. Just very different from Paris.
***
John surprised me on the way back home when he asked, “Keep up with your painting?”
It suddenly occurred to me he might be the best person to talk to about my desire to find a way to “get art back in my life.” He might even know someone locally who was doing something similar to Aksel Pedersen. The more people I could talk to, the better. For the moment, I answered, “Not in the way you mean. I mostly renovate apartments for artistic expression.” I admitted, “It’s been years since I’ve painted.”
“You have more natural talent than anyone else I ever taught. I always thought it was a shame that you didn’t pursue it.”
Maybe not the right person.
His words stung, but not wanting conflict, I calmly explained, “I was thinking practically. I needed stability. The certainty that I could pay bills and have options was very seductive. Sébastien’s daughter, Chantal, is a sculptor, though.”
He took the hint and asked about her. We talked until we arrived at the car, pulled my suitcase out of the back, and wrestled it up to the front porch. “Sorry!” I felt ridiculous at having brought so much. “Where to?” There were three bedrooms upstairs, two tiny and one large.
“We’ve turned your old room into a study for John. The other bedroom is set up for you. From the looks of things, you’re going to need to hang up clothes downstairs, as well.” I assumed she had switched the rooms on purpose, and I was grateful.
To make light work of taking the suitcase up the narrow stairs, I grabbed the handle while John took the other end. Once back downstairs, I had a chance to check out all the changes. “This new kitchen is gorgeous.” The fir, craftsman-style cupboards warmed up what had once been an all-white kitchen. “You’re getting a little more colorful, Mom! I take it that is your influence,” I said, praising John.
Then I spied a painting hanging in the small dining room. “God! I can’t believe you hung that up.” It was a landscape study of mine. Roughed out in raw umber paint, it was lines slashed against a grayish-blue canvas scattered with puddles of dark orange, red, and yellow.
“You were about fourteen when you started it, if I remember correctly. You spent all day staring at the garden, sketching vignettes until it was too dark to see. The next day, when we went back, you did the preliminary layout on the canvas and hated it, decided you didn’t want to finish it. But I kept it! When your mom and I were clearing out my studio at the old house, we unearthed it. I think it’s incredible. Beautiful. There’s confidence in the strokes but a lightness of touch; nothing’s overworked.”
The oils had aged well with time. The depth of color helped give life to my incomplete rendering of the Japanese gardens in autumn at the local arboretum. “I remember feeling frustrated.” I stood nose to canvas, observing the brush strokes. “Even though I was looking at all the impossible but natural color combinations of the changing leaves, I felt like an imposter. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to try to capture such a riot of color.”
I was touched to see many of my other creations hanging alongside John’s. When I was younger, I had protested my mother’s desire to hang up my work. I was too embarrassed. It appeared she had finally done as she wanted.
We sat, catching up, until my eyelids drooped. John noticed and said, “Terri, the poor girl is tired. Kath, have a shower and take a nap before dinner.”
I admitted to my fatigue. “Sounds perfect. Can you make sure I’m awake by 5:00? That’ll give me a couple hours of sleep. Are there any plans for later?”
My mom shrugged her shoulders. “Only if you want there to be. Otherwise, I thought I would make dinner.”
Knowing we would go out when Sébastien arrived, I was happy to stay put and catch up. “Perfect.” I rose to my feet and so did they. “Thanks for everything.” My mother wrapped her arms around me, and we swayed back and forth again. “If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep.”
She let go and said, “Scoot.”
In my tiny, crowded bedroom, I pushed the window open a sliver, stripped out of my travel clothes, and put on a T-shirt before collapsing beneath the down comforter. The damp, cold air carried the pinging of raindrops. In no time at all, I fell sound asleep.
***
When I woke, it was dark, leaving me disoriented. The sound of the rain, which still poured, was a soft, gentle reminder of where I was. After showering, I pulled on my University of Washington sweatpants and a purple hoodie before going downstairs in search of life. Finding my mother in the basement sorting through a closet, I asked if she needed help.
“Nope, just making room for some of your clothes, if you need it.” She pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner. In a very gentle voice, she told me, “Those are yours. Don’t know if you want to sort through them while you’re here.”
Mikkel. My past. “I’ll think about that,” was all I could promise.
12:30 PM, Thursday, February 11
When Two Worlds Collide
IT ONLY TOOK me two days to slide into “comfort before fashion” mode. Now at Sea-Tac Airport, the arrival screen showed that Sébastien’s plane had landed on time. He would have to go through customs, which left me just enough time to whip into the bathroom at baggage claim and check my hair and makeup. I saw a very different version of my usually stylized self. I’d paired black wool trousers with a deep forest-green wraparound silk shirt; but while my clothes were uber-fashionable, my unbound hair was wild from the wind and rain, and my makeup was barely there. I was an odd hybrid, Pacific Northwesty-Parisian.
Excited, I waited near the etched glass doors of the international arrivals gate. When he finally stepped through the doors, his brown eyes searched for me. Seeing me, he strode over, hungrily and purposefully. In the few steps it took for us to come toe-to-toe, it was all I could do not to throw myself at him. Marian’s comments months earlier about climbing him like a pole flitted through my head. Then there was a moment’s pause, when our eyes met and our connection was restored, followed by him pulling me tightly to him and kissing me senseless, leaving me weak in the knees.
He growled seductively against my mouth, “Mon Dieu! It feels longer than two days since I saw you.”
Breathing deeply, I inhaled his cologne. Unhesitatingly, I admitted, “For me, too! We’re pathetic.”
Standing still, uncaring of the world around us, I wondered, “How is it you look so good, smell so good, and taste so good? You can’t have been on a plane for twelve hours.”
“It took a lot of restraint on my part, but I made use of the restroom in the arrival area. I didn’t want to meet you smelling and tasting disgusting. You might have abandoned me at the airport.”
Despite the laughter in his voice, I looked into his eyes and shook my head. “Never.”
He took in the throng of people. “Mon coeur, are we alone?”
Happily, I admitted, “Yes, I was desperate for some time alone with you. We’ll spend plenty of time with them.”
“Oui. I will have you all to myself at night, and that will be enough, for now.” He pressed another heart-stopping kiss against my lips. When he came up for air, he growled, “Perhaps.” He stepped back just a little. “And now?”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 25