In His Father's Footsteps

by Danielle Steel

  “And don’t tell me you’re going out of town because I’ll have to kill you. Everyone is looking forward to what you have to say.” She was in seventh grade.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I totally forgot. I’ve got a meeting but I’ll postpone it. I’m glad you reminded me. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Tell them how much money you make,” she said and her father frowned at her. “I’m just kidding. I don’t know, tell them how you buy crappy land and turn it into shopping malls.”

  “That’s not exactly a career most people want to pursue.”

  “It’s fine. We’ve got a female police detective, a horse trainer, a mystery writer, a dentist, a textile designer, and you.”

  “That’s a weird mixture of stuff,” her father said with a dubious look.

  “They’re all either parents or friends of someone. The mystery writer sounds pretty cool, the dentist sucks but is someone’s father, the textile designer is a friend of our art teacher, the detective is a class mother, and I don’t know who the horse trainer belongs to, and we’re calling you a land developer/business tycoon.”

  “I should tell them how my father started out as a runner in the diamond trade and wound up owning the business. That would be a lot more interesting.”

  “I think they’d rather hear about you.”

  “It’s kind of scary standing up in front of a bunch of kids. What if they boo me?” He was only half teasing her and she laughed.

  “I’ll beat them up for you if they do.” She took karate twice a week and was getting good. “The police detective is hot by the way, she works undercover on the vice squad and she’s divorced.”

  “She’d probably shoot me if I get cranky.”

  They all got up from the dinner table shortly after that and Kendra reminded him that he had to be at school in her classroom at ten o’clock sharp, and he promised to be there. The last seven years had been rewarding for him. He had gotten much closer to his children, so maybe Julie had done him a favor by leaving after all, although he never looked at it that way. And he worried about the effect it could still have on their children one day. But so far everything had turned out okay.

  * * *

  —

  As promised, he drove to Kendra’s school the next morning, and got there a little early. He was nervous about his presentation and had outlined what he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to embarrass Kendra, who thought he walked on water, and he wanted to keep it that way until she became a teenager and decided that he was really a jerk. He’d been lucky with Hélène so far. She was charitable and gentle and protective and always defended him. Her teen years had been easy, which he knew was rare. She had tried to step in for her mother since she left.

  He made a few phone calls in his car, and noticed an attractive red-headed woman smoking a cigarette in front of the school. She smiled at him as he walked by. He saw that she had a good figure and was wearing a black miniskirt and high heels, and other than the short skirt, there was something about her that reminded him of his mother. Then he walked into the school and found Kendra’s classroom, and saw a bunch of rowdy kids and a group of anxious-looking adults. The woman who’d been smoking the cigarette was the last to walk in and smiled at him again. He saw his daughter watching him and he pretended to ignore the smoker and decided she must be the vice squad cop since the miniskirt was very short, but she had fabulous legs.

  The teacher called the class to order, and introduced their guests. The students applauded and the presentations began promptly so everyone would have enough time, and he discovered that the miniskirted smoker was the textile designer and not the vice squad cop.

  The horse trainer went first and had some very interesting things to say. She told them some tricks about horse breaking, and the kids really liked her. The dentist went next and was predictably a dud but he handed out free toothbrushes, which went over well. And the textile designer went next. She whipped out a piece of fabric and a small box of paints, and right before their eyes she showed them how she tested designs and colors on the fabric. She said that she was originally an artist, but had gotten intrigued by the paint splatters on her smock, and made more money with those than her paintings, and they all laughed at that. As soon as she spoke, he realized by her accent she was French, which explained the cigarette and the sexy skirt. They all applauded her, and he was next, and felt like a total dullard after her. But he explained how he had been told that if you bought really bad land that no one could grow crops on in rural and agricultural areas, you could build huge shopping malls, which those areas needed desperately, and the profit you could make was fantastic. He told them the different places he went to, and showed them some before and after photos he had brought with him. The shopping malls were very attractive. “And then you can sell the shopping mall and make more,” he explained. They were impressed especially when he told them that sometimes you could make four hundred times your investment.

  “And it’s exciting to turn some really dead-looking place into a fun, appealing location where everyone wants to hang out.” And that was his presentation.

  In the end, all of the presentations were well received, and the kids enjoyed it and so did he. The teacher thanked them all for coming and served donuts and cupcakes to the class and the guests. Kendra came over and hugged him.

  “You were great, Dad.”

  “You’re prejudiced,” he said and hugged her back.

  “I thought it was very interesting too,” the French textile designer said with her accent, and, not knowing why he did it, Max volunteered in French that his mother was Parisian, and the designer looked surprised.

  “You speak perfect French,” she said still in French.

  “Thank you. I learned as a child. I don’t get to speak it much anymore.”

  “Was your father French too?” They were still speaking French and Kendra looked mildly embarrassed.

  “Austrian. Viennese.”

  “You speak German too?”

  “Only a few words.”

  And then other people came up and chatted with him, and a few minutes later, they all left and he told Kendra he would see her that night. He saw the designer again outside the school and they chatted as they walked to their cars. “Your daughter is very pretty,” she complimented him. “And she’s very proud of you.”

  “I’m very proud of her too. Two years from now she’ll hate me. I’m enjoying it while it lasts.” She laughed at what he said.

  “Is she your only child?” She was curious about him, and he didn’t know why, but he was curious about her too. There was something very familiar about her, maybe because she was French. It was a style he knew well, a way of moving the head, or doing her hair. Frenchwomen were different.

  “No, I have four children,” he answered her question.

  “Oh! I’m impressed.”

  “And you?”

  “No children.” He nodded and they had reached his car, and she looked at him strangely, reached into her bag and handed him her card. “If you ever need a textile designer.” She smiled at him, and she had wonderful green eyes and red hair.

  He took out one of his own cards and handed it to her for no reason at all. “If you ever need a land developer in Oklahoma or New Mexico,” he said and she laughed. She liked him, he could tell. “We should have gotten a card from the dentist. That’s more useful.”

  She smiled and waved and crossed the street to her own car, and he saw that she drove a tiny battered Fiat. And he looked at her card when he was in his car, and saw that she had an address in Greenwich and one in the city. He checked her out on Yahoo! when he got back to his office and saw that she had impressive credentials from the Sorbonne in Paris and the Beaux-Arts, and had taught at both and at the Fine Arts Department at Yale, so she obviously knew what she was doing and had talent. He put the card back in his wa
llet.

  And Kendra mentioned her that night at dinner. “She was hot, Dad.”

  “Actually, she was nice more than hot. We happened to walk out together and she said you’re very pretty.”

  “She was just buttering you up, making a play for you. Are you going to ask her out?”

  “Don’t be silly, of course not.” But in his study later that night, he thought about it, took her card out again, and saw that she had an email address.

  He wrote her a quick email in French that read, “Enjoyed meeting you today. Great presentation. À bientôt!” which was “until soon” and signed his name and then felt like an idiot after he pushed send. He felt like a schoolboy with a recreation yard romance. But while he was still feeling silly about it, she responded, also in French.

  “I enjoyed it too. You’re welcome at my studio anytime.”

  And feeling even more daring and dumber yet, he wrote back “Lunch?” and she responded “Delighted!” And he sat there grinning. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d done in ages. And then he got more precise.

  “Greenwich or the city?”

  “The city tomorrow? I’m at my studio there Mon, Wed, Fri, Tues/Thurs in Greenwich. Come to my studio at 12:30.”

  He didn’t say a word to Kendra about it at breakfast the next day, but he was excited when he left for work. He hadn’t had a date in a while and she was an attractive woman and had a certain sexy style the French called “chien,” which was a compliment.

  Her studio was fascinating. She had fabrics and designs everywhere, graphics and things drying. She said she did some industrial design and a lot of fashion, and she actually ran a real business. She had four young assistants working for her, doing things with paints and color blocks and silk screens. She showed him around and then he took her to Le Bernardin, a very fancy French fish restaurant, thought to be one of the best in the city. His parents had loved it and he had taken them there often. And the service was excellent.

  “This is a very elegant lunch for a simple artist,” she said, lowering her eyes and flirting with him a little, as Frenchwomen had developed into an art for centuries, and it made him smile.

  “My parents used to love this restaurant, although my father preferred wienerschnitzel to fish. But my mother loved it.”

  “They’re not alive anymore?” she asked cautiously, and he shook his head.

  “Unfortunately not, they died younger than they should have, and they had one of those marriages where one can’t survive without the other. My mother died within a few months of my father and they were both too young, in their sixties. They’d been married for forty-five years.”

  “That’s impressive. They set you a good example.”

  “Not exactly.” He looked tense for a moment. “My marriage ended after eleven. I’m divorced.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely sympathetic.

  “And you?”

  “Never married. My parents were less romantic than yours. They stayed married, but my father behaved very badly and had a million mistresses and my mother was miserable. It never held much appeal for me after that. I’ve had two long relationships, but never married. I couldn’t see the point of legalized torture after what I’d seen with my parents. Parents like yours are a gift.” She smiled at him.

  “They were very special.”

  “They came here after the war?”

  He nodded, and hesitated for a minute, it was a heavy dose of truth for a first date, if it even was one. “They met in Buchenwald, they both lost their entire families and came to the States after that.” She winced as he said it and instinctively touched his hand. And as he looked into her eyes, it was like looking into his mother’s and he realized that it was the green eyes that were so familiar, and she had a warm sympathetic look that touched him.

  “They must have been very remarkable people.”

  “They were.”

  “I grew up in Paris after the war, in the fifties, and there were many people like them, but so many didn’t come back.”

  He nodded. “One of my daughters, the oldest one, wants to work at one of the Holocaust museums after college. It’s incredibly moving.”

  “Yes, it is.” She was pensive about it, and it was a warm conversation. “My family wasn’t Jewish, but they lost so many friends. It’s really inconceivable that in civilized societies such a thing can happen.”

  “My mother spent her entire life convinced it would happen again.”

  “Many people feel that way,” she said, and then noticed the time and jumped. “Oh dear, I have a meeting in twenty minutes.” So did he, but he was having much more fun with her.

  “I’m glad we had lunch together. I felt very bold writing to you last night,” he confessed.

  “I’m glad you did.” She looked at him warmly.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me and my children some weekend?”

  “I’d love that,” she said after he paid the bill and they both got up. “And thank you for this very elegant lunch.” They had spoken French the entire time and both enjoyed it.

  He walked her out to the sidewalk and she hailed a cab and he walked back to his office. And he had a warm feeling about her, like an old friend. Her name was Pascale Boyer and he knew his mother would have loved her. There was something very genuine about her.

  * * *

  —

  She sent him an email that night to thank him for lunch and he invited her to Sunday dinner at the house. He had no idea what his kids would say, but she was so warm and friendly it was hard to imagine they’d object. He didn’t tell them until Sunday morning. He made pancakes and eggs and bacon for everyone, and he had to make Mickey Mouse pancakes for Simon and Daisy and he mentioned Pascale as they were finishing breakfast, and Kendra looked up at him in surprise.

  “Isn’t that the woman who gave the presentation with you, Dad, at my school?” He looked faintly embarrassed and nodded. He had no secrets from his kids.

  “It is. She gave me her card and I invited her to lunch. She’s very nice.”

  “Whoa, Dad!” Kendra teased him and everyone laughed. “So how bad were you? Did you give her the speech that all women are cheaters and liars and end up dumping their husbands? That’s one of your better ones. That usually has them running out the door on the first course.”

  “I’ve gotten better. We talked about your grandparents, my parents.”

  “Is she interested in the Holocaust, Dad?” Hélène chimed in with interest.

  “Seems like it.”

  “Is she Jewish?” Kendra was intrigued.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are we?” Simon asked him.

  “No, dummy. We’re Episcopalian, the three of us girls,” Kendra informed him, “you’re nothing.” Julie hadn’t stuck around long enough to baptize him, and her parents were dead when he was born.

  “Why am I nothing?” He started to cry. “I want to be something.”

  “I’m Jewish,” Hélène corrected her sister.

  “We’re all Jewish culturally,” their father said to them, “but not religiously, except Hélène, who wants to be Jewish and goes to temple. Your mom’s parents had the girls baptized Episcopalian because that’s what your mom is.

  “And you can be whatever you want,” he said to Simon who stopped crying.

  “I want to be Jewish, like Hélène. What are you, Dad?” Simon asked him with wide eyes.

  “Jewish, but not religiously. I don’t go to temple.”

  “Maybe I’ll be everything,” Simon said, thinking about it.

  “That’s a good thing to be.” His father smiled at him and then looked around the table. “So is it okay if Pascale comes to dinner tonight?”

  “Sure,” Kendra said.

  “Of course,” Hélène seconded it
, which was a good thing since he had already invited her.

  The chef had left them lasagna and Max liked to barbecue on Sunday nights. Pascale arrived promptly at seven, with a chocolate cake, and Max introduced her to all his children, and everyone talked at once. They sat in the garden while their father barbecued. She was enjoying them. And Hélène talked to her about the Holocaust, and then they talked about colleges. Hélène was trying to decide where she’d apply senior year. Pascale said she’d taught at Yale and liked it, and at Brown, and in Paris at the Beaux-Arts.

  “I want to go to college in Paris,” Daisy piped up. “It’s cooler there.”

  Pascale had fun with them at dinner and loved the diverse personalities. After they all left the table and went to their rooms, she asked Max about their mother.

  “You have shared custody?” She had a feeling that he didn’t and none of them had mentioned their mother at dinner, which had struck her. It was a delicate subject with him.

  “No, I have sole custody.” He sighed and looked at her. “This is where my children say I become a nutcase. I’ll try not to. We had some bumps before Simon was born.” He didn’t want to go into them or say his wife hadn’t wanted them. “And we came home one day when Simon was a month old, and she had left us each a letter basically saying that she quit. She didn’t want to be a wife or a mother anymore. She gave me full custody. She’s only seen them half a dozen times since, and that was seven years ago. She said she didn’t want to be a mother, but figured it out after four kids. That’s a pretty harsh thing to do to children, to be rejected by your own mother. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and for one or all of them to become serial killers, but so far so good. I have to be honest with you and I’ll spare you the ranting and raving, but I’ll never forgive her for it. She can dump me, but you can’t do that to kids. She remarried a year later, a very important man she’d met before she left us. I don’t know if that had anything to do with her walking out or not. I have no idea if she had an affair with him before she left, or it started afterward. But I came home and she was gone.”