Whispering in French Page 12

  “Mom . . . it’s freezing here! I didn’t pack the right stuff. I know it. I—”

  I couldn’t let her go. “It doesn’t matter.” She started to break away but I pulled her tight. She gave in to it and hugged me back, allowing me to rock back and forth for a moment or two. I could feel that she was now taller than me. “We’ll go shopping.” She pulled away and retrieved her backpack and I quickly wiped my tears away with the back of my hand.

  “I can’t believe I finally get to see France. I want to try surfing. We can walk to the beach from the house, right?”

  I pushed back my immediate thought of her damaged arm. “Yes. Of course. You must be tired. Are you hungry?”

  Lily laughed, and the blue of her eyes was so bright. “I don’t even know.” She rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve had two breakfasts. So, how far away is the house? Wow . . . I never thought I’d ever see this place.”

  I pointed toward the baggage carousel, and we began walking. “About fifteen minutes from here. Everyone’s there. They all can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Is Antoinette there? What about your grandfather? And Magdali? I’ve heard so many stories about her, I can’t wait to meet her. Does she still speak the click language you told me about?”

  I’d forgotten all about the language of Magdali’s mother. I could even feel the clicks in the back of my throat. The secret, funny language of my shared youth with Magdali. “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “You haven’t tried it with her?” Lily frowned. “Why not?”

  “I-I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess I forgot about it.”

  She reached for a massive navy blue duffel bag on the carousel and I rushed to grab it, to save her arm.

  She wrestled it off, nudging me away. “I’m fine, Mom. I can do it.”

  “I’ll get a cart.”

  “I don’t need it.” Defiance brewed in her expression.

  “Got it. Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go. The car’s right out those doors.” I just didn’t have it in me to Mom her.

  “Wow. Palm trees,” she said, exiting. “You never mentioned palm trees.”

  “Hmmm. Never thought about it. But there’s all kinds of trees in the area. Doesn’t really freeze here.”

  “I can smell the ocean.”

  “Yup. It’s low tide in about two hours.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Well, everyone kind of has the tide schedule in the back of their minds,” I said. “Many beaches completely disappear at high tide.”

  “What about the beach at our house?”

  Our house . . . A trickle of anxiety slid down my spine. I didn’t want her to get too attached to something we wouldn’t have all that much longer. “Madeleine Marie overlooks the Côte des Basques. Best beach here. But, yes, the waves crash onto the rocks at high tide.

  “How far is it from Madeleine Marie?”

  It was the first time I’d heard her use the name of the villa. “Depends if you take the long or the short way.” What was I thinking? She couldn’t do the rope. “But the long way is more fun. Um, about twenty to thirty minutes either way.”

  She was laughing and pointing at things as we drove to the villa. “Why are all the roofs made of orange tile? I saw that from the plane as we were landing. And the houses are almost all white.”

  “You won’t find many brick houses here, or if you do they’re usually ancient, patterned, and crumbling.”

  “It’s about as far away from Connecticut as I can imagine.” She said the last into the wind of the open window.

  “I know.” And for the first time, I wasn’t eager to return to America. No place felt like home without my daughter.

  “I think I like it here,” Lily said. Her profile was so even and beautiful, so very unlike my own.

  When the old Peugeot’s tires crunched the gravel of the drive, the wood and iron door swung open and Magdali came rushing out. Gone were the smooth, graceful movements I knew.

  “You must be Magdali,” Lily said, exiting the car.

  “Oui.”

  “Oh, do you speak English or should I speak French?”

  “Either,” Magdali said, nodding. “Your mother said you attended a lycée and speak fluently.”

  “Well, one of us had better,” I muttered.

  “I’m Lily.” And my daughter immediately gave a huge hug to a woman who matched her height. “Is your daughter here?”

  “You are, indeed,” Magdali said, with the smallest degree of embarrassment from the hug. “No, Solange is . . . still at school.”

  “Well, when will she be here?”

  I suddenly felt terrible for not having asked Magdali this same question.

  “Soon. Next week, if it suits the family.”

  Lily looked at me with uncertainty and then shook her head as she turned back to Magdali. “Well, of course it would suit the family. Why wouldn’t it?”

  I rushed forward, “Magdali, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please arrange for Solange to take the train as soon as her school lets out. When is that?”

  “The end of the week. But they have a summer term she may attend.”

  “Let’s buy the train ticket today.”

  Magdali smiled at Lily. “Your great-grandfather is very eager to meet you. He’s been waiting in the front salon all morning.”

  “Is he still as grumpy as my mother said he was when she was a little girl?”

  “Lily!”

  “Well, is he?”

  “Yes,” I answered, saving Magdali from embarrassment. “And now he prefers being called Jean. You are forewarned.”

  Lily giggled then yanked the duffle from the open trunk.

  There were freshly cut blue irises and white peonies in several old silver golf trophies on the mantle. Lily, in the unaffected way of youth, ran to Jean, who was sitting in a chair, and he crushed her to him with his gnarled hands, burying his face in her long, dark chestnut hair. She sank into the sofa next to him and smiled. My grandfather appeared a decade younger in that moment; all wrinkles seemed to fade from the force of pure joy.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “So am I supposed to call you Jean or . . .” Her inflection ended on a question.

  “What do you think?”

  “I kind of like Granddaddy,” she said. “Maybe because I’ve never been able to call someone that.”

  It was a sad fact that all of her grandparents were deceased save Antoinette, who would outlast all of us, I was sure.

  “Granddaddy it is, then.”

  “Yay,” she said and ran a finger over the mottled horn handle of his cane. “So, can you walk? Or are you in a wheelchair?”

  “I try to walk from time to time, but mostly the wheelchair. Do you want to see the garden? Perhaps you could wheel me there. I think the—”

  The small bell rigged to the main door sounded, and a few moments later Mr. Soames appeared. His white mustache was immaculately trimmed as always and he appeared quite natty in his herringbone jacket and tan trousers.

  “Is this the great-granddaughter I’ve heard so much about? Forgive my intrusion, but I felt it absolutely necessary to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  Magdali magically appeared with Mr. Soames’s favored biscuits and a tea tray. Clearly, she had known all about the impromptu visit.

  As Lily shook hands with the elegant gentleman, Mlle Lefebvre’s petite frame appeared at the doorway. She did not break a smile upon introduction. Instead, she gave a sour look toward Jean, who ignored her.

  I glanced at the tea service. Nine cups and saucers. Youssef entered bearing another large silver service. And completely ignoring all French rules of social seniority, Lily shook hands with this incredibly strong man, in personality and strength, who had withstood the withering blasts of my grandfather and earned his place in the household. Lily then kissed both cheeks of Mlle Lefebvre, who almost smiled before remembering herself.

  When the mayor and Pierrot and Maïte arri
ved a quarter hour later, I finally understood.

  It was to be a party. A surprise welcome party. By the people who were determined to embrace, like, and eventually love my daughter whether she or I liked it or not. I wasn’t even sure if they did it for Jean. I think they arrived not out of curiosity, but rather out of the ancient tradition of welcoming a member of the tribe into the fold.

  Amid the raucous chattering and booming laughter that I knew would go on for quite awhile—for let’s face it, the French like a good party—I slipped out the door and searched out Magdali in the kitchen. She wasn’t there. Instead, she was outside the kitchen side door, staring at the tiers of gardens, now awash with summer blooms. The scent of freesias perfumed the air.

  “You did this, didn’t you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “You forget, Kate. Everyone knows what’s going on in everyone else’s life here. There’s no such thing as privacy. And when something good happens everyone wants to celebrate. When something bad happens everyone cares or mourns on some level.”

  “And you knew and so bought the pastries and arranged the tea and everything.”

  She nodded. “Of course. And you’d best send Lily for the croissants and the journal tomorrow morning early because the baker and bar-tabac owner are not to be put off.”

  I stared at her. And then she folded me into her thin arms. “Oh, Magdali. She’s here. She came back to me.”

  “She did,” she whispered. “I knew she would. No matter what happened, I knew she would. You’re a great mother, Kate. I’m certain.” I felt Magdali’s slim hand run over the curve of my head.

  “It’s the opposite.” My hands heavily hung from my arms like cement blocks and I could barely breathe. “She jumped out her bedroom window.” The words felt like hot bricks of sin and shame. “Oliver wouldn’t leave her alone. He was screaming and beyond reason. Tormenting her. Again. Banging on her door. Refusing to be deterred. He had that horrible look in his eyes—that Dr. Jekyll turned Mr. Hyde look. And, and . . .

  “I had just come back from the grocery store . . . and couldn’t get him away from her door. Couldn’t make him calm down. I still don’t know what set him off.” I closed my eyes and imagined for the millionth time what Lily had done. “And at some point, she silently jumped. From the second story. And when he got into her room, she was gone . . . without a trace. Except for a few strands of her hair . . . which I still have.

  “I found her six months, two weeks, and three days later. In a homeless shelter clear on the other side of the country.” I choked on a half sob, half laugh. “At least she chose a nice place. She hitchhiked to Monterey, California. And all with a broken arm and collarbone.” The words were sluicing out of me like the rare rains flooding the immense creek beds of Southern California.

  Magdali stroked my head.

  “And don’t say it wasn’t my fault. It was. I wanted to divorce the son of a bitch the year she was born. But I was terrified a judge wouldn’t grant me full custody because it would’ve been my word against Oliver’s, and he’d have argued I’d had a bout of postpartum depression. I just couldn’t take the risk of him ever having any sort of custody. I was idiotic enough to think I could control the situation. He sometimes would go a year or two without losing it.”

  “Did he ever harm you or Lily?”

  “Forgive me, Magdali, but I hate to talk about it. It was more verbal and emotional abuse. He just could not control his fury. No matter how much anger management he tried. And, for good reason, Lily blamed me for not leaving. For not protecting her. She will never understand why I chose what I chose.”

  “Then tell her,” Magdali said quietly. “At the right time. But don’t leave it too long. Don’t be afraid of conflict, Kate. Never expect perfection in an imperfect world. Storms make you defend your borders, make you speak up for what you believe, and truths become self-evident.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Magdali. For listening. For your wise words.”

  She raised one brow. “I think you really want to thank me for not sharing another proverb from Namibia.”

  I finally smiled. “Let’s get that rail ticket for your daughter as soon as the guests leave. Yes?”

  As we linked arms and walked back to the celebration, I had an idea. A way to truly honor the first friend in my life for her goodness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mom, I can’t hear you well. You’re breaking up,” I said, speaking into the iPhone microphone an inch from my mouth. I kicked myself for even hoping for help. Hope, in the face of history, was a futile effort. It would have been more fruitful and far more amusing to consult the psychic home network. Instead, I was in Bayonne, post interviews with two different notaries who handled real estate transactions of all kinds. A half-eaten strawberry tart sat mocking me from its plate on the petite outdoor café table. Sadly, I was becoming immune to the previously excellent numbing effects of crème chantilly.

  Antoinette’s voice crackled. “. . . I wish you were here. I’m having so much fun. We went to a clambake hosted by friends of the Kennedys last night, along with dear Paolo’s daughter and her husband. They are very nice. You would really like them. I told them all about you and your consulting business. You should bring Lily here. She would love it. It’s so beautiful. The weather is amazing. And we could practice Spanish. Paolo would love to teach Lily.”

  What was the point of even trying? Words never deterred her. And I was over her embarrassment regarding my profession eons ago.

  “Mom, did you hear what I said? Jean won’t agree to sell. Your brother is selling anything not nailed down and doing God knows what with the money. The villa is a disaster. I might be able to get one to one point five million euros if we don’t fix anything. I found a great little house near Arcangues that we could rent but I can’t get anyone to agree to move. It’s a complete bust. I’ve spent over six thousand euros paying all the bills that have been in arrears for months. What should I do now? Any advice?” I downed a forkful of strawberry tart with gusto and hope.

  “Um . . . What? Couldn’t understand half of that,” she said. “Oh, here, Paolo wants to say hello to you.”

  “No,” I shouted, mouth full of cream. “I don’t want to talk to Paolo. I—”

  “Of course you want to talk to me, chica. Hey, have you sold the villa yet?”

  “No, Paolo. May I please speak to Antoinette?”

  “Oh, poor baby. Sounds awful. You poor thing, having to go all the way to the South of France to vacation in the sun and sea. Well, I hope you get busy and sell that place. Antoinette is counting on you.”

  I refused to answer by reason of sanity. “My mother—may I speak to her?” I signaled the young, swarthy waiter via an air signature to bring the check.

  “Of course, chica. Here she is.”

  I could hear the lizard hissing at Antoinette, “She’s such an unpleasant, impolite thing, isn’t she?”

  My mother’s response was muffled as if she had placed her hand over the receiver. And then she was talking to me again. “So, could you and Lily fly here next month? I’d arrange the tickets, of course. Could put the two of you in a hotel down the street. Very chic. There are just not enough bedrooms in the house, you understand, with all of Paolo’s family visiting. You would like them so much. Especially his son, Manuel. In fact, I might have to play a bit matchmaker with you. You’ve had long enough to sulk over this entire affair with your stupid ex-husband. And look, even he is getting on with his life. Rita Shepard called me last week to tell me Oliver’s engaged. How amusing is that?”

  I pulled the cell phone from my ear and looked at it. Who was the woman talking to me? Why was I even bothering? Why was I still trying? Wasn’t the definition of insanity attempting the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

  “That’s just great, Mom. So. Again. Any advice about the situation here?”

  The waiter, carrying an immense platter of dirty dis
hes, expertly slid a small silver saucer in front of me with l’addition.

  “Merci,” I mouthed.

  “Well,” Antoinette continued, in that hard to define accent that was uniquely her own—perfect English with hints of British nanny and American fast food. “I can send a bit of money, if needed, to repay you, of course. I can’t send a huge amount as Paolo and I are considering a new venture—a joint one for the first time. Then we’re off to Italy in two months. That’s why you and Lily should come here before we go. Martha’s Vineyard is just heaven, I tell you.”

  “Got it,” I said, with zero intent to visit. I wouldn’t get within one thousand miles of Paolo and his brand of snake oil. Thank God Antoinette knew well the delicate balancing act of holding on to the vast majority of her assets while placating a man’s ego. “But, again, is there anything I can say to Jean to make him budge from his position?”

  “Well, he does like his whiskey in the evening.”

  “Yes? And so?”

  “It always puts him in a better mood.”

  “Not enough to make him sell the house.”

  “Perhaps you should arrange for a buyer first.”

  “You are not suggesting I find a buyer and then get him drunk to get him to sign the papers?”

  “Absolutely not! I would never suggest that.”

  A seventy-four-year-old woman giggling is never amusing. “Mom. Antoinette, I need—”

  “Okay, darling. Must run. We’re all leaving for lunch in Edgartown and then a bit of shopping. Do you or Lily need anything? What is your size now? Have you gained any weight? Are you following that Mediterranean diet I told you about? And you never drink as much water as you should.”