Liliane palmed a heavy waxed turnip but couldn’t bear to put it in her cart. There were beets, but the kids didn’t like them, and the delicious greens had been cut off and tossed long ago when they were still fresh. She picked up a packet of spinach and dropped it in her cart, then moved along to the winter squash, trying to think of some way to make it interesting. There was only so much you could do with butter.
“It’s quite depressing, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind. It washed over her in a warm wave of soothing French, and she turned to find George Lawson pushing a similarly meager cart and shaking his shaggy head.
“Monsieur Lawson, how nice to see you,” she said, using the formal vous, and felt instantly ridiculous at the pretense no one would notice. She looked around for prying eyes but saw no familiar faces among the shoppers.
“It’s George, remember?”
“Certainly, and I am Liliane.”
“Of course you are,” he said, then suggested switching to the familiar tu. “I hate shopping here. How do you manage?”
“Oh, my family bring olive oil and vinegar, charcuterie, cheeses, whatever they can squeeze in the suitcase when they visit. But they only come every other summer. So I use dry herbs, onions, and garlic. I make frites. Do you like to cook?”
He picked up a bag of potatoes and dropped it into his cart with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Liliane noticed that although paint-splattered, his hands were by far his best feature, large and strong, but well-formed with long, sensitive fingers and short, perfectly clean nails. His clothing was another matter, ill-fitting and tatty at the cuffs, and he desperately needed a haircut. There was friendliness in his face, but something hard there, too.
“In the navy I tried to learn to cook the local food wherever I was stationed. I met a couple of chefs in Nice; they’d invite me into the kitchen sometimes, but after twenty years of navy food, what I really like is home cooking.”
“My husband is like you. When he’s home, he refuses to go out for dinner, not that there’s any place to go.”
“It isn’t exactly Paris, is it?”
Not even London, she thought as she picked up, then put down, a green pepper. Liliane made one of those vague French sounds of affirmation that’s not really a word and rolled her eyes in agreement. Despite the depressing subject, it was a joy to sink back into her first language and express her thoughts without struggle.
“Do you know there’s a real Italian butcher in Portland? Ruggieri his name is, from Siena, I think. He buys from local farmers and to cut the meat himself,” George said. She didn’t bother correcting his grammar. “A buddy in Portland told me about him. It’s a long trip, but every few weeks I drive south for meat—pork, beef, chickens, he makes sausage. If it doesn’t snow, I’m going tomorrow. I could get some things for you.”
Liliane’s mouth watered at the thought of steak tartare and roast pork in garlic and wine. The temptation was too much to refuse. “Well, if you’re going anyway…”
She scribbled her address on the back of his shopping list. As George headed over to the cash register, she noticed one of Edith’s cronies hovering near the citrus, a grapefruit paused in mid-lift, staring openly. Liliane made a mental note to have Agnes at the house when George dropped by.
She arrived home to find her children at the kitchen table, sipping Ovaltine while Agnes put away the last of the lunch dishes.
“Early release today?” Agnes asked from under a single raised eyebrow.
Liliane snorted her response and nodded.
“Best not make a habit of good behavior. They’ll think they’ve got you right where they want you,” Agnes said before disappearing inside her hideous green anorak and slamming the back door.
Later, with the children asleep and the dishes drying by the sink, Liliane closed the sunflower-covered drapes against the night and settled on the sofa to watch The Wild Wild West. She lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and swirled the rocks around in her Scotch. The tinkling soothed her. Whenever Mason was out to sea, this was her routine: dinner, bath and bed for the kids, followed by TV and a drink for her. Lately she’d been pouring a second one more often than not. It got dark so early that the night seemed to go on forever, or for two drinks, anyway.
The TV droned on. Though Robert Conrad usually held Liliane’s attention, her thoughts wandered away from the program to George Lawson.
He’d been helping Caspar install a new storm door when she stopped by the house with a lemon cake a couple of weeks before. Liliane disliked baking, but Caspar had a sweet tooth, so she made a point of taking him a treat each week. After accepting a kiss on each crepey cheek and taking her hand in both his gnarled ones, Cap introduced his bearded friend as Lieutenant Commander George Lawson. After adding, “Retired, and please call me George,” to his title, the man, much to Cap’s delight, proceeded to speak in very respectable, well-accented French. Over the years, she had encountered many French speakers in Maine, but they all produced a twangy, oddly inflected Canadian dialect that sounded more like agitated goose honking than her native tongue, and when she had trouble deciphering what they said, they tended to take offense.
In deference to Caspar, they switched back to English after George explained that he had studied French in school and during several tours in Europe. He had, he told her, just retired from the navy and signed on as caretaker at one of the estates out on Bridge Point for a year. Liliane wondered what an officer with a pension was doing working as a caretaker, but she couldn’t think of a polite way to ask.
“You’re a long way from home, Mrs. Baines. So how is it you ended up in this part of the world?” he asked with what appeared to be genuine interest.
“Please, call me Liliane. My husband, Mason, come from Wellbridge. After we marry in Antibes, we come, no, we came here for the children to learn English. Long time ago, Mason buy some land from Caspar over that way, so that’s where we build our house,” she explained. Her English was usually better than this.
“Antibes? Such a beautiful spot. Did you grow up there?”
“I was born in Saint-Rimay—a very small town in the middle of France. But after the war we return to Antibes to be together with the family of my mother, so that’s where I grow—eh!—I grew up.”
“Saint-Rimay? I can’t place it, but I’ve been to Antibes. I love walking on the seawalls there. I’ll bet you miss it, Liliane.” She felt a rush of pleasure at hearing her name as it was meant to be said.
“Oh yes, but here we are near the water, and my husband want to be home when he is not at sea. He has a lobster business with his family, so he work at that when he is off the ship.”
“I’ve known Lil’s husband, Mason, since he was just a spud, you know,” Cap said to his friend. “He was my student up to the Maritime Academy, too. Wasn’t enough he was one of the best engineers we ever turned out, but then he went abroad and caught himself the prettiest girl on the Riviera to boot.”
Liliane squeezed the old man’s arm.
Caspar asked after the children and Mason’s current cruise, and as the two friends chatted, George listened attentively. When Liliane spoke, he nodded from time to time but never interrupted.
Liliane could have sat all afternoon chatting in Cap’s yellow kitchen but excused herself when she realized she was almost late for school pickup. She was still wondering how George Lawson ended up in Wellbridge when her fingers started to burn. With the filter close to igniting, her third cigarette was spent, so she rubbed it into the ashtray, got up, snapped off the set, and headed for the kitchen, crunching the ice from her drink on the way. No more TV, no more harrowing escapes or whiskeys in the saloon, just sixty more evenings alone until Mason came home.
By the time she got into bed, Philip and Suzanne were already there, having slipped downstairs from their room to hers. In the middle of the mattress, Suzanne was sprawled on her back with her blond curls fanned out across the pillow in a mermaid’s mane. Next to her, Philip was curled up with his thumb in
his mouth. She knew she should move them back to their own room, but she liked having their warm little bodies close. It was going to be hell trying to get them to stay in their beds when Mason got back, but there would be plenty of long, cold nights to get through until then.
* * *
Wednesday evening the butcher’s packages beckoned from the kitchen table, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with string just like at home. Next to them sat four fat red peppers George had brought from a corner grocery in Portland’s Italian neighborhood.
“I saw these and thought of you and those pitiful green peppers at the Foodland,” he said, looking pleased at her response.
Liliane picked up a pepper and sniffed. Sharp but mellow, heavy in her hand. They’d roast beautifully.
George accepted her effusive thanks and seemed to want to linger, but his truck was blocking Agnes’s, and as he backed down the drive she followed him out. Just as well. It wouldn’t do for people to see a single man leaving her house after dark, even if it was only five-thirty.
Liliane unwrapped each package and inspected the contents, sniffing, fondling, and prodding each item in quiet glee. All were very fine, far better than anything that came on Styrofoam trays from the Foodland. It really was an embarrassment of riches, but in the end she chose the perfectly marbled strip steak, stowed the pork loin for the next day, and rewrapped and froze the remaining packages.
She sharpened the big knife she had brought from France, then divided the steak into two pieces, one to be cooked for the children and the other for her to eat à la tartare. Leaving the children’s portion to come to room temperature, she minced her half in precise, tiny cubes and slid them into a glass bowl, then crumbled the yolk of a hard-boiled egg over the top and added a spoonful of finely chopped onion. From the store of supplies her mother had brought from France the summer before, she took a dollop of grainy mustard, some capers and cornichons, and a drizzle of olive oil. She even threw in a handful of parsley and some Worcestershire sauce from the market. After all this was mixed, she lowered her face to the bowl and inhaled before covering the mixture and setting it in the refrigerator.
Liliane sautéed the spinach, fried the potatoes, cooked the meat for the children, and even opened a bottle of Bourgogne from the case Mason had brought home from his last trip. She’d have to drink the whole thing before it went to vinegar, but what pleasure that would be. The smell of the food reminded her of family meals in France. It was sad that it was just the three of them to enjoy this feast. On a whim, she dialed up Caspar and invited him for roast pork the next day.
“And please bring that wonderful friend of yours who find all this treasure for us.” They set the time for six-thirty so that the children could join them.
Drawn by the smell of steak and garlic, Philip and Suzanne wandered into the kitchen and took their places at the table without being called. Liliane had never fed them the jars of miracle baby food from the grocery store; it all smelled like dog food. As a result, her children had developed unusually adult food preferences, and while their friends turned up their noses at the sautéed mushrooms and salad she served, her kids happily tucked in.
“Maman, what are you making? Are we having champignons ce soir?” Philip asked in the haphazard franglais they used around the house.
“Champignons, steak frites, and spinach with garlic, mes anges!” she singsonged in response, and Suzanne clapped her hands at her mother’s tone.
“Champignons, champignons, how I love my champignons,” Philip sang. At the third repeat his sister joined in and eventually all three were singing, accompanied by the sizzle of the meat and the hiss of the oil.
At the table, the children happily popped the mushrooms into their mouths, devoured their steak, and even finished up their spinach with very little nagging. Liliane’s tartare was perfect, the beef’s coppery richness perfectly complemented by the bite of the mustard and the tang of the pickles. Though tempted to gobble it down in a rush, she forced herself to eat slowly, savoring each bite and even scooping up the meat with her French fries while the children giggled across the table.
Later, happily satisfied for the first time in months, with the feast slowly digesting and the kids tucked into bed, she poured a third glass of wine to sip during The Dick Van Dyke Show and hummed along with the boomps-a-daisy theme song. The house felt warmer, the winter at bay.
The next morning, Liliane woke with only a trace of a hangover despite having emptied the bottle. She supposed the heavy dinner had saved her, and she sank back on the pillows, reliving the luxury of the meal. Next to her, Philip produced a delicate little snore and pushed his thumb into his mouth.
She slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. Other than some telltale redness in the eyes, there was no trace of last night’s excess. For almost thirty, she mused as she brushed her teeth, she looked pretty good. True, her hair was less blond than it had been under the tender ministrations of the Mediterranean sun, and she could see the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, but her jaw was firm and she could still get away with nothing more than lipstick when she went out during the day. She ran a comb through her hair. With a little spraying and teasing she’d be able to get another day or two out of her weekly wash and set.
In the kitchen, she made a pot of coffee, rationing a tablespoon of fine black espresso on top of the anemic-looking Maxwell House in the percolator. Coffee was the one item she asked Maman to send from France, and she was going to need more soon.
On impulse, she dialed the overseas operator and placed a call to her mother. It would be lunchtime in Antibes, a good time to talk. After ten rings, the operator asked if she’d like to stay on the line. She declined and pictured her family at one of her aunts’ apartments, all squeezed around a table on the terrace, laughing and arguing over the midday meal. For a moment she considered trying to call them but decided against it when she realized she had a lump in her throat. If she cried, her mother would worry, and besides, the children were stirring, so she replaced the receiver and got out the eggs. On the refrigerator door was a note under the magnet. Liliane recognized her own handwriting, though it was messy: Cap 18.30 gâteau choco.
“Merde,” she groaned, recalling her invitation and offer of chocolate cake for dessert.
“Maman, naughty word,” said Suzanne from the doorway. She was holding her stuffed bunny, Monsieur Mister, by one ear and rubbing her eyes. “I have to make pee pee.”
“D’accord, you’re a big girl, you can do it. Dépêche-toi. Then get your robe and come have your petit déjeuner. Pip, awake now. Time for school!”
After a cup of coffee and a cigarette, the day felt more comfortable, and Liliane began to plan the dinner party. No one would think twice about having Caspar over, and if he brought George, what of it? Perfectly respectable. She told Suzanne she could wear her party dress and lace anklets and informed Philip he would be the host for the evening. He nodded gravely and ran upstairs to find his clip-on tie.
* * *
“Well, hello there, young man!” Caspar croaked as he grabbed Philip under the arms and swung him up into a bear hug. “Lord almighty, you’re almost as big as your father. Pretty soon you’ll be picking me up.”
“Uncle Cap!” Suzanne squealed, then skipped across the kitchen floor in the pink ballet slippers she’d insisted on wearing.
“Hello, young lady, and where might Suzy Baines be? You’re much too grown-up to be my favorite poppet.”
“It’s me, Suzy, I’m the poppet!” she said, and held her arms out to be picked up as soon as Philip hit the floor. When Caspar made as if to tickle her, she ran shrieking from the kitchen with the old man loping behind.
“George, this is my son, Philip. Pip, Mr. Lawson.”
The boy stepped forward with his right hand extended, a miniature version of his father. “Hello, Mr. Lawson. Welcome to our home,” he said, just as Liliane had instructed.
George shook the boy’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you,
Philip.”
“Pip, please take the coats of Mr. Lawson and Uncle Cap and put them on my bed,” Liliane said.
“As you’re the host this evening, young man, perhaps you’ll take the wine we brought for your mother. I can see to the coats.”
George’s face was as serious as Pip’s, and Liliane smiled at her son’s evident pleasure at being recognized as the man of the house. She indicated the bedroom on the other side of the kitchen, and George carried the cold things in and laid them across the foot of the bed.
“Is that roast pork I smell?” he called.
“You have a good nose.”
“And some kind of potato? Gratin?” he asked, returning to the kitchen.
“And those delicious red peppers you bring us.”
“What a feast, eh, Philip?”
“No spinach tonight, and Maman made cake!” Pip said, smiling shyly at the big man who was leaning on the counter.
“Chocolate, I hope.”
“Yup. Uncle Cap’s favorite.”
Liliane handed George a corkscrew and asked her son to get Cap’s drink order, though she knew he never took anything but Scotch. From the living room, she could hear the old man reading My Big Pink Bouncy Bunny to Suzanne, whose giggling trickled over his gravelly voice and lazy Downeast drawl. This, she thought, was how a home should be all the time.
She turned the pork loin over in the heavy pot and added some wine. It sizzled when it hit the hot fat. George said, switching back to French, “You make the pork on top of the stove? I’ve never been able to get that right.”
The Northern Reach Page 8