“Ready when you are,” Gil said simply. When I told him what Deirdre said, he paused. “Céline. Let’s talk about this. Do you want to stop in New York for the burial?” I shook my head, but I finally burst into tears. He came to me swiftly and held me as we sat there, until I just couldn’t cry anymore. I clung to the warmth and strength of his chest. He kept making soothing sounds and kissed the top of my head. I raised my tear-streaked face and nuzzled it to his cheek.
Later, sitting dry-eyed at my table while we ate the supper he’d cooked, I told him, “I swear to God, I don’t know who these people are that I grew up with. I loved them because I thought of them as family. But they never loved Mom. So, they were never my family. How could they not love her? I wanted to rescue her. And now she’s gone. God, what’s the point of everything I’ve just been doing?”
“You made sure your mother knew that she at least had your love,” Gil said simply. “Right up to the end, you were there for her. So, no justification needed.”
“My love didn’t stop her from being a victim,” I said bitterly. “It’s as if everything that I thought was important in life is now all up for grabs. I really don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“I know where you can go to find out,” Gil said quietly. “But it’s up to you.”
The look in his eyes gave me the strength I needed. My suitcases were already packed.
So that night, we boarded the private jet once more, and we headed back to France.
Ondine in the Garden, Mougins, 1983
ONDINE WAS SITTING AT HER kitchen table in the mas when the telephone rang again.
It was Arthur, calling from the maternity ward. “Julie’s fine. She wants me to stay with her a little longer, but I’ll come back to the mas to sleep tonight. Then I have early meetings first thing tomorrow, but I’ll pick you up at noon to go see the baby,” he said firmly, clearly determined to control Ondine’s exposure to his wife. He sounded irritated, as if the baby’s earlier-than-expected arrival was a deliberate plot to keep Julie in France longer than he’d scheduled.
Ondine politely pretended to accept his plan. But after they hung up, she decided that as soon as Arthur left in the morning, she’d get Monsieur Clément to drop her off at the hospital; she couldn’t wait to see Julie and dear little Céline, and she wanted to be certain that they were both really all right.
The more Ondine thought about it, the more she believed that it would be wrong to break her promise to Luc by telling Julie about Picasso being her father. But a nagging feeling persisted, and finally she understood why.
“Somebody in this family ought to know the whole story about me and Picasso and Luc and Julie. I never promised Luc I wouldn’t tell Picasso’s grand-daughter who she really is! It might help Céline to choose wisely and find her true destiny. But, will I still be alive when she is old enough to listen? When she grows up, will she ever come to visit me? Or will Arthur poison her against me? I wish I could tell her now—but how can you whisper a secret to a baby?”
Then, inspired, Ondine reached for her pen. As she wrote, the kitchen echoed with the sound of her pen scratching its way across the last of the Café Paradis stationery she’d kept from the old days:
Cher Céline,
I am entrusting you with a secret I have told no one, not even your mother. I feel it is important for you to know exactly who you really are, but I hope that after you have read everything I have to say, in the end you’ll understand that it’s really up to you to decide who you wish to become, and to find a path to the life you truly want…
—
WHEN AT LAST she got to the end, Ondine uttered a satisfied, “Hah!” and signed it, Your loving grandmother, Ondine. She folded the letter into its envelope and sealed it.
“But how do you mail a letter to a baby?” she brooded. She decided she would entrust it to Monsieur Clément, so he could keep it with the painting in a safe place. And yet, it wouldn’t be wise to leave this letter lying around here even for one night, while Arthur was still sleeping over.
She pondered this quietly for awhile; then she came up with a temporary hiding place where Arthur would never look. At least her letter would be safe from prying eyes until she could meet up with Clément tomorrow to give it to him, so he could lock it up with the painting in his safe.
Ondine felt much better as she picked up her basket and went outside. The sun was still hot, scenting the flower fields; and a light wind mingled its fragrance with that of the salty sea.
“Such a bright, happy day!” Ondine sighed as she dragged a small stepladder over to the cherry tree at the far end of the terrace. The cherries hung there like dark rubies, and quite soon she’d picked enough to fill her basket for the fresh tarte she would bake for Julie.
When she finished she was panting with pleasure, and, feeling a bit short of breath, she left the stepladder as it was. Peering up into the tree in the heat of this day had made her light-headed. Turning now in the direction of the terrace, she felt dizzy, then experienced a queer little pain in her chest.
The next thing she knew, she’d fallen into the soft grass under the tree, just like a ripe fruit. There seemed to be a brief flash of time and consciousness, as if she’d clicked the shutter of an old-fashioned camera and her view had disappeared and gone black momentarily, before reappearing.
“Now what should I do?” Ondine asked herself, perplexed. The sun was setting and there was a chill in the air; but when the wind stirred in the grass, she thought she heard a familiar voice whispering to her, like the swish of the sea with its rushing sound, as if someone were holding a seashell to her ear. Someone who loved her, and would guide her soul home with his sheltering, soothing voice.
“Luc?” Ondine said wonderingly. “I thought you’d been gone all these years, mon cher, but it turns out that you’ve been here all along, out in the garden the whole time, watching over me!”
She was still lying on her back and gazing at the darkening blue sky, where the moon was already hanging like a lustrous pearl.
“Ah,” Ondine sighed, “what a good day to be born.”
—
NOT FAR FROM Ondine’s house, Madame Sylvie had stopped at a roadside farmstand to pick up a few fresh things for dinner and to chat with friends before heading home. Then she continued down the long, dusty road, until a sudden, strong impulse made her halt right there in her tracks like a horse.
“Ondine!” she cried aloud, startling the birds in the trees and the rabbits in the grass. From somewhere overhead, an owl hooted.
Madame Sylvie did not hesitate. She turned right around, and hurried back to Ondine’s house.
Céline in France, 2014–2016
THE GRAND OPENING OF LE Mas Ondine was stimulating enough to assuage some of my grief. Now that I was a full partner in the mas, I was less inclined to brood about the past or worry about the future. I was taking that one step at a time, even though it was a terrifying thrill to be hurtling through life’s challenges with Gil. Every time I saw his face, after being apart for even just a few hours, I felt my entire being flooded with joy. And because I saw this exuberance mirrored in his gaze as well, I threw away the inhibitions that had once served as my armor, and I put my faith in the strength of being unarmed.
When I wasn’t working with Gil on the menus and bookings, I was busy with makeup jobs on movie shoots in Europe. I could afford to be selective about assignments now, and I took an apartment in Cannes as my new business base, since so many Hollywood companies were filming abroad these days. Meanwhile Gil won his second Michelin star for our restaurant, Pierrot. And things looked promising for the future of the newly opened hotel, too. But the competition at this level was more fierce than any I’d ever known, and it kept us on our toes.
“We’re booked up for most of next year,” Gil reported one bright morning at the mas. While he spoke, the postman came zooming up in his little car to deliver the mail. When he saw us standing in the doorway he deposited the letters in Gil
’s hands with a brisk Bonjour! then tipped his cap and drove on.
“This one’s for you,” Gil said, sorting through the envelopes and handing one to me. It was from the twins’ lawyer. A check was enclosed representing my share of my parents’ estate. Gil watched as I read the amount aloud for his amusement.
“Two thousand five hundred dollars,” I said, showing it to him. If I had ever considered sharing some of my good fortune with Danny and Deirdre, this final fillip from them clinched my resolve to never have anything to do with them again.
Gil shook his head. “The bandits!”
“I think I’ll donate it to that little church nearby,” I said, recalling how the sweet sound of its old-fashioned bells pealing gently on Sunday had comforted me when I returned from America.
Months passed before Deirdre saw a restaurant review and got wind of the fact that Gil and I were “an item”. This prompted her to send a Christmas card signed with an uncharacteristic, So, what’s new with you??!! But she and Danny never found out about the painting; my entire Picasso escapade remained a secret among Gil, me, our lawyers and Gil’s friend Paul who bought the Girl-at-a-Window.
And, of course, dear Aunt Matilda. Gil unexpectedly insisted that we share the good fortune from the sale of the painting with her in order to help her hold on to her house in Connecticut. He said, “Thanks to you, Céline, we’re going to make much more money now that we’ve got the mas in full swing again. That’s enough for me. So, use whatever you need from my share of the painting’s sale to help your aunt, and anything else you feel you need to do. Of course, she and her friend Peter are welcome to stay at the mas as our guests any time they like.”
“Yes, I do want to help out Aunt Matilda,” I agreed. “But I’m also going to set aside enough money so that we never, ever again have to go to a loan shark to hold on to Le Mas Ondine!”
I didn’t really think there could be any more big surprises in store for me. I was wrong.
Port Vauban, 2016
IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE I sold the painting, and the buyer had promised to let me approve its new home once he found a place for Girl-at-a-Window. But as soon as Paul got his hands on it, he was not an easy man to pin down, and I began to have doubts about the deal I’d made.
That’s why, when I finally got a message from Paul saying I could come visit before he “cast off”, I hurried off to Billionaires’ Quay in Port Vauban for this impromptu meeting on his grand yacht, Le Troubadour.
And now, while I’m sitting here in the ship’s library, waiting on a bench that resembles a church pew, right before my eyes one of the bookcases begins to move—swinging open like the secret door that it is.
A blonde woman in a bright white linen suit and a dazzling necklace made of violet diamonds emerges from this inner sanctum and introduces herself as Cheryl, Paul’s wife. Smiling, she says softly, “You can come in now.”
I follow her into what turns out to be Grandma Ondine’s cabin. Amid sumptuous Louis XVI sofas, a pair of nineteenth-century bergère armchairs and some tiny Giacometti and Rodin sculptures, there is a walnut alcove, like an altar, where Picasso’s Girl-at-a-Window reigns supreme. She’s flanked by two slim, carefully placed windows that let in a glimpse of the sky and the splashing sea. As my hostess hands me a glass of champagne she explains that Grandma’s portrait spends spring and summer here on the Riviera, making stops at all the best hot spots where it is admired by esteemed guests. Then the Girl-at-a-Window gets a Grand Tour of the world, wintering in Palm Beach, the Caribbean isles and even Patagonia.
“And,” Cheryl says reassuringly, “Paul wants you to know that he’s made a special arrangement with the Louvre in Paris. They’ve picked out a wonderful spot for the painting there, once they get it as our bequest. So,” she concedes with a nod, “your grandmother will live on long after you and I are gone. Well, enjoy your visit with her.” Then she thoughtfully leaves the room so I can have some private time.
“Bonjour, Grand-mère,” I whisper. I stand there before her, listening to the distant cry of the gulls and feeling the occasional nudge of the tide. The youthful Ondine, gazing back at me, looks like a princess presiding over her new, opulent surroundings and she seems to be smiling down at me in triumph; after all, she has indeed, in her own invincible way, achieved a kind of immortality.
“Superbe,” I say softly. I perch at the end of a bergère chair, and fall into a brief reverie, recalling all that’s happened to get us here. And in this tranquil hush, I even feel my mother’s presence today, like a breeze that lightly, consolingly touches my shoulder.
“Merci, Maman,” I say, my eyes misty now.
For it’s as if Mom and Grandmother Ondine conspired to give me a new family to care about—not only Gil and sweet little Martin, but Aunt Matilda and her friend Peter, too. Among all these people I love, I feel more at home than I ever have in my life.
The ship’s horn toots. All ashore that’s going ashore. Reluctantly, I turn to leave, just as Paul enters the room. He’s a strange guy—quiet, short, bald, preoccupied-looking; and there is an eerie stillness to him, a peculiar serenity that is somehow a bit scary.
But then this man—a god in the world of merciless killer investors—pauses reverently before the painting as if it’s something holy. “She’s a beauty,” he says with a besotted look on his face. After a few moments he turns to me and says gently, “We’ll keep her safe. Come visit her again sometime.”
—
NOW THAT THE movie I’ve been working on has wrapped up production, I’ll soon be focusing my attention on the mas. It’s the same every year—we always brace ourselves for the juggernaut of the Grand Prix auto race in Monaco which officially launches the new season on the Riviera, and the real onslaught of tourists begins. Between Gil’s work and mine I know that soon we won’t have an hour we can call our own. And this year I’m doing the makeup for actresses at the Cannes Film Festival.
But just this morning Gil, already busy training new kitchen and hotel staff, advised me, “You should take a few days off before you plunge into that circus. Enjoy some time to yourself while you can get it!”
So as I return to my car in the parking lot, I see that, already, more yachts from around the world are returning to the Mediterranean, their white sails fluttering gently as they glide into view. They inspire me to do something I haven’t done in a long time—put aside my makeup brushes, and pick up my old paint box and portable easel, which I’d shipped over here from my apartment in L.A. and threw into the trunk of my car.
Ever since school I’ve painted, but only intermittently, usually on holidays. Now when I set up my easel in the park by the harbor at Port Vauban I finally, literally, begin to see the light—that bewitching combination of brightness and softness reflecting off the Mediterranean Sea which has held so many painters spellbound over the centuries. I scramble with palette and paint tubes, squishing out fat blobs of color in a delirious frenzy to capture what I see, starting with a horizon layered in every conceivable shade of blue—deep cobalt and French ultramarine and cerulean and azure and turquoise.
At noon in the marketplace, the sun ignites everything it touches to its eye-dazzling essence—cadmium yellow and scarlet and chrome green for the stalls bursting with spring vegetables, fruit, flowers and wheels of cheese so fresh that they are still warm when the fromagère hands them to me. And at day’s end, the departing light leaves a burnished monochrome trail somewhere between rose and ochre and umber, that washes over the sphinx-like faces of those old village men at picnic tables who play cards as seriously as if they are saying their prayers. I paint in a frenzy of inspiration which requires so much concentration that I manage, if not to forget the past, then at least to leave it there.
When I return to the mas I go straight to the pigeonnier to unpack the mouth-watering groceries I’ve brought home from the market. Gil and I often end up here at the end of the day to make drinks and supper. The light and shadows in the kitchen garden today are so
striking that I can’t resist setting up my easel right there.
And as I work, Gil literally walks right into the scene I’m trying to capture. He’s carrying a box that he sets down with a thump on the old picnic table, which neither one of us could bear to throw away. “What’s that?” I ask absently as I begin to paint an image of him into my scenario.
“Old pots and pans,” he says enthusiastically. “They were in that box we took out of storage from Monaco when we were chasing down your wretched blue cupboard, remember? This cookware is great. And look, here’s an old-fashioned knife roll full of kitchen knives!” He places the rolled-up leather on the table and undoes the straps that are like narrow belt buckles.
“They’re beauties!” Gil proclaims, admiring each knife sheathed inside its own special felt-lined leather pocket. “Made in France. Vintage Opinel,” he muses, examining them one by one. “It’s a complete chef’s line. Huh.” He suddenly falls silent.
I am so absorbed in my painting that I don’t grasp what’s happening until he rises from the table and comes nearer, wearing an odd look on his face. He stops right in front of me, holding out an envelope. “It’s for you,” he says.
“What’s up?” I ask, putting down my brush and wiping paint off my hands.
“This looks personal. You might say it came special-delivery,” he replies, intrigued. “It was stuffed in one of those knife pockets. Apparently these kitchen things belonged to your grandmother. You know, a chef never goes anywhere without her knife roll.” Bewildered, I take the envelope and study the handwriting, which has become so familiar to both of us from Grandmother Ondine’s notebook, since we are using some of her recipes this season.
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