Whispering in French Page 15

  “I’ve served my sentence. I’m done pleasing everyone.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it to me. Here you are again—wasting your life trying to solve everyone else’s problems instead of going after what you, Kate Hamilton, want.”

  “And what do I want?”

  “Exactly. The. Problem! You can’t even say what you want because you don’t know! How sad is that?”

  “You know what I hate most about you?” I whispered.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  “Okay, then. I’ll play your game. What don’t you like?”

  “That you think you have all the answers when you haven’t a clue. You have a family who loves you, a great-uncle, a wife, children . . . all of whom are pulling for you,” I said. “You’ll never understand what it’s like to not have one person you can count on. Ever.”

  “I think the real problem, Kate, is that you don’t trust yourself. And that’s a serious problem.”

  “Just shut up,” I whispered. “I’ve never met anyone so condescending or with so little empathy.” He had the hallmark of every personality disorder in the guidelines for mental health.

  “Just look at what empathy got you, Kate. You probably felt sorry for your poor excuse of a husband. You worried about him instead of yourself or Lily,” he said quietly. “You’re not who I thought you were.” His eyes, rimmed in dark memories, were more gray than blue in the half-light.

  “Well, you’re not who I thought you were either,” I said.

  His stark eyes pierced me; his jaw clenched.

  “What?” I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “No retort?”

  “I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “I see. So we revert back to silence, your favored way to show disapproval.” I paused. When he did not respond, I continued, “You might know what to do in a war zone, but you are the one who is the coward when it concerns everyday life. You refuse to face down your demons and rejoin the rest of us mere mortals. Instead, you tell everyone how to live their lives all the while not moving forward with your own.”

  He fingered the edge of his hat as the blank, faraway look returned to his eyes. “Tell yourself whatever you like, Kate. Just figure out how to do the right thing—for your daughter and for yourself. Stand your ground. Figure out what you want. Maybe it’s okay to ride out a storm, floating on your back for a little while as you did all those years to avoid drowning in conflict. But if you adopt that position the rest of your life, you’ll never be true to yourself or be happy.”

  A thread of fury was taking root in my belly, and I could not hold back any longer. “Really? You’re advising me on how to be happy? Less empathy, less caring for others, and more conflict and selfishness. Sounds like quite a recipe for hurting everyone around you. Something you appear to do well. Right now being a prime example.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “First time I’ve ever heard a therapist tell me exactly what they truly thought instead of asking me how I feel. I might have to start trusting you. A little. A very little. Don’t get a big head about it, okay?”

  Whispers from the Garden . . .

  I couldn’t exactly put my quill on it, but something was making me edgy. Oh, the heavenly Slug gods had seen fit to provide enough of the lovely creatures to make me drunk on happiness. But the earth under my feet just didn’t feel safe. Sometimes I found myself endlessly trotting around the borders of the garden in the middle of the night, if only to feel like I was escaping something ominous. Even Yowler was not acting herself. I watched the last inch of her long orange tail flicker in the moonlight. The long-stemmed white flowers looked blue in the shadows of the night. I loitered in the perfume of the blooms and then looked longingly toward the protection of the potting house. My mother had never warned me about this sensation in our lessons and it left me feeling very exposed.

  “I see what you’re thinking, Quilly. You know, you can’t just spend your life always looking for a hiding place. What are you afraid of? There’s nothing amiss here.”

  “It’s the exact right thing to do. Hiding is underrated. Sometimes you just have to hide until you feel ready to come out into the light.”

  “It’s night time,” she snickered.

  “Don’t be rude,” I replied.

  “I’m a cat. We’re supposed to be rude. How do you not know these things?”

  “Well, I’m not rude. No one ever told me to be rude. I’m very polite. I’m so polite I prefer to be by myself than annoy others.”

  She stretched both her orange paws out in front of her and lay down in front of the hydrangeas.

  I tried again. “Is it just me or do you feel like something is just not quite right in the air?”

  She tilted her head and sniffed. “Maybe a storm? It’s hard to say since it rains so much.”

  “No,” I insisted. “It’s something else.”

  She tried to pretend that I didn’t know what I was talking about by simply staring at me with those big round black eyes of hers that turned golden in daylight.

  “The ground . . .”

  “Ohhh,” she said elongating the sound. “That? Well, that’s normal. It’s always trying to settle itself into a more comfortable position. It’s not comfortable in its own skin. Haven’t you ever heard that expression? Of course you haven’t,” she answered her own question with exasperation. “You’re hiding within your skin.”

  I ignored her provoking comment. “So it’s always like this?”

  “Well,” she admitted, “it seems a bit more active the last few months.”

  “So you’re not bothered by it at all?” I refused to leave it alone.

  “Not really.”

  “Why do you feel like you have to act like it doesn’t bother you? It’s pretty obvious to me by the way you flick your tail that you’re as nervous as I am.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Oh, are we having our first little spat? How very drôle. I like airing differences regularly. Sometimes I even start them to have a little excitement when things get boring. I’m at risk of that with you, I fear. You are just going to have to try to amuse me a bit harder.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  She snickered.

  “I told you, I don’t fight,” I insisted. “Nothing good ever comes out of fighting.”

  She stood up and strolled toward me. I edged toward the stone potting shed.

  “If you like me,” she said, “you’ll fight with me. Just a little. Just drop the polite attitude and let’s have une petite dispute for fun.”

  I shuddered. “Why? A row doesn’t sound amusing at all.”

  “Come on. Sometimes I can’t figure out the real you. I need to see a little passion. A little anger.”

  “I don’t do passion,” I said. “I don’t like anger. I like hiding.”

  “Oh, you have passion,” she insisted. “I see how you look at those little slimy things hiding under the leaves and the Boxer on the other side of the fence. And see? Bad things do happen when you hide. Those Slugs are hiding. I feel sorry for them.”

  “How ridiculous,” I said. “You don’t feel sorry for them at all. If you want to feel sorry about something, then just consider those Wing Beaters you’re always pouncing on, and those little gray Scramblers with the long tails. It’s a bloodbath out here every night, I tell you.”

  She licked one paw and groomed her face. “Finally. You do have a personality.”

  The air around me was getting very hot. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. Made me squirm.

  “Now,” she purred for some stupid reason, “you know what it feels like to be angry. That’s better than always running away and trying to hide when something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Well, that’s not always the correct thing to do,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “Sometimes it’s brilliant to just hole up, think, and plan, before we act. Everything has a proper place and a proper ti
me.”

  “I like things that are more messy. More genuine,” Yowler said. “Must be my Latin blood. My grandmother was Spanish. Was the best mouser in the stable of a picador from San Sebastian.”

  There was no way I was going to waste time asking what a picador was. I backed into the leaves of my favorite hiding hole and settled myself into a perfect position with only my snout peeking from under a mulberry leaf. Electricity was threading the air—a sure sign that a storm was on its way from Yowler’s Latin roots. It felt big and messy. Well, at least Yowler would like it.

  “I’m going to sleep,” I said.

  “Of course you are.” She meowed and swatted at a lightning bug. “But it’s okay. You are who you are and I’m not going to change you. I heard one of the geese say to its mate that he liked her just the way she was—goose shit on her tail feathers and all. Unbelievable. And they mate for life. How utterly ridiculous. No one is monogamous here. You know that, right?”

  “Sounds rather nice if you ask me.” I yawned. Maybe that would make her understand how much I longed for sleep. I was so ready for hibernation after these endless exhilarating but nerve-racking days. But I feared it was a long time before the days would begin to get shorter and the leaves would start to fall and I would finally get my long autumn’s journey into sleep.

  She padded over to me. “Well, don’t start stepping in goose droppings. I’m not sure I could put up with that smell if you started anointing it. And don’t worry, Quilly, I was just teasing you. I love you just the way you are. I don’t know why, but there it is.”

  I felt her strange tongue gently lick my head and I pulled away.

  “Owww,” she howled.

  “Quills,” I deadpanned. “Tough love at its finest. I’m so glad you love me just the way I am.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her eyes large with shock, Lily flew through the front door just as I descended the stairs to go to les halles to buy vegetables. She came to an abrupt stop when she saw me—her chest heaving, her eyes accusing.

  “What’s going on?” I reached for two baskets at the door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her anger pulsed in waves.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’re selling Madeleine Marie. Why didn’t you tell me?” Lily paused. “Why? You never tell me anything. You never do anything! And now you are. Why this? Why now? Why haven’t you mentioned this to me?”

  “I honestly thought you wouldn’t care, Lily,” I said softly and tried to stroke her cheek.

  She pulled back out of reach. “Well maybe I do care. Did you ever think of that? You’ve told me about this place my whole life,” she said.

  I carefully replaced the baskets to their spot near the door. “I’m sorry. More sorry than I can say. But we can come back to visit anytime we want. I found a nice cottage for Jean and—”

  “What is wrong with you? Of course I care. This place is the coolest ever.”

  I could see the storm of emotions roiling within her, and I prepared for the blast. The curtains were closing on my reactions and a sense of calm washed over me. At a certain point, I’ve learned, you can withstand everything with a smile.

  “You should have divorced Dad a long time ago and made a real home for us like this one. But you didn’t. You just made us live there in that house of hell.”

  I swallowed. “I made a huge mistake, a very bad judgment call, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I wish I could rewrite what happened, but I can’t.”

  “It was awful, Mom,” she said slowly.

  “Lily, I stayed because I wanted to protect you. I wasn’t sure I’d get full custody. I didn’t want to take that risk.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Mom. You never ever take risks.”

  “I won’t take a risk when the potential loss is too great.”

  “Yeah, well, you lost me.”

  “I almost did,” I said quietly. “I made a nearly fatal mistake that will always haunt me.”

  “And now you’re doing it again. You’re refusing to take a risk. You’re refusing to try to save Madeleine Marie.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Your uncle Jean-Michel. He’s in the garden. I met him when he drove up. He said he’s come to take one long last look around. When I asked why, he said you were selling the villa and I ran inside to ask you if it was true.”

  “Lily, you have no idea the impossibility of keeping a villa going like this. There’s no money to do it. If I could, I would.”

  “Really? You can’t figure out a way? Well, I think you can, but you just don’t want to be bothered. You just want to tuck everyone into their neat little boxes, including me, and go back to the States.”

  A small part of me was thrilled that she was challenging me. She was finally becoming a teenager—rebelling, not staying silent, or running away. But, sadly, I couldn’t do what she wanted; I could only do what was financially possible. “Lily, we’re going back, yes, but I was thinking we could move to Manhattan. Soho even. Or would you prefer to be with your friends in Darien if you came back? I suppose I could find a small bungalow there if you insisted. What do you think?”

  “You don’t get it,” she said. “I’m not going to New York, and I’m not going back to Connecticut. That is for sure. I’ll go back to Miss Chesterfield’s if that’s the only other choice. But I want to stay here. And, yes, I hate Dad for what he did. But most of all I hate you for not figuring out what to do. For not getting us out. I had to get myself out.”

  “Lily—”

  Her beautiful face turned into a wildly contorted vision of fury and hatred and she ran out of the room without one telltale sound of sadness.

  I couldn’t feel my arms. And I couldn’t move my feet. It felt like cement coated every part of me. I could barely turn my head to look toward the open door. How could it be sunny? Nothing made sense in my world.

  “Ma pauvre chérie.” My uncle’s figure, black against the brightness of the day, filled the doorway. His voice pierced the buzzing in my ears.

  I still couldn’t move. A dull roar began in my head, and my heart turned over with each hard beat in my chest, clogging my throat. I would have given anything for a chair. “Please, leave.”

  “Mais, non. Absolument pas! You are very white. Like a ghost, chérie.”

  “Stop calling me chérie.”

  He tsk-tsked. “But of course you are my chérie. My darling niece from America. And now my darling great-niece is here too. I just met her. Adorable child. Looks just like Antoinette when she was that age. And she’s in top physical shape.”

  If one more person discussed our physical forms I would stuff their face with a dozen croissants. No. Really. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same of you, Kate.”

  “What. Are You. Doing. Here?” My voice rose in pitch with each word. The exotic fumes of hate were filling the deepest part of my sinuses.

  “Why, I rang my father. Your grandfather.”

  “Condescension is so unoriginal, Jean-Michel. I don’t need you to clarify who Jean du Roque is.”

  “Oh là là,” he said. “You had better learn to insult with a bit more flair while you’re here. The ideal is to do it in a way that leaves the person unsure if you’ve insulted them or not. You Americans are so blunt and brusque. No finesse at all.”

  A sound echoed off the high ceiling. We both turned to see Jean with his raised cane in hand seated in his wheelchair pushed by Youssef. He was about to dash the cane again against the parquet floor of the long hall. “Enough. I’m tired of you both being at each other’s throats.”

  I nodded toward the salon door in response to Youssef’s silent questioning expression.

  Youssef pushed Jean’s chair into the room with Magdali bringing up the rear carrying a magnificent silver tea tray. It was silent except for the low squeal of the wheels on the wood veneers. Youssef parked the wheelchair on one side of the long low table as Jean-Michel and
I sat on opposite ends of the famous blue sofa.

  “Merci, Youssef,” Magdali said. “You may take your lunch now.”

  The flash of Youssef’s wide white grin against the black of his face did not disarm Magdali. She showed not an inch of emotion as he bowed and departed.

  “How lovely, Magdali,” Jean-Michel said. “You’ve got yourself an underling to order around. Finally!”

  Magdali, her face impassive, placed the tea tray on the long low table and began pouring tea for everyone without a word.

  “What is going on here? I can smell something is very off,” Jean said.

  “Nothing at all, Papa,” Jean-Michel continued. “Other than the issue of the magnificent Kate, with her PhD in meddling with other people’s lives, and whatever else. Yes, well, she has no control of her own daughter. A daughter who detests her and doesn’t trust her. And this is the person Antoinette has sent here to fix our problems. A woman who has so far done nothing but interfere in our affairs and bring strife wherever she goes. Do you know she’s concocting to sell Madeleine Marie to Jojo, that imbecile of a mayor? She’ll probably ask for money under the table and keep it for herself. Why can’t you—”

  “You’re just annoyed that you’re about to be cut out of the deal you planned the minute you inherited,” I said coolly.

  “How can you tolerate her, Papa? She’s got that tainted Hamilton blood. You can’t trust her.”

  “Jean-Michel, enough!”

  “No, Papa. I’m tired of doing everything to help you without a word of thanks. Indeed, I’m now subjected to questions and insinuations. Where was Antoinette when we needed her? Not here. And she could well afford to help. Instead, she sends her daughter, who has no sense of tradition. No sense of birthright. Indeed, our dear Magdali would have been a better branch on our tree. And she is in a strange way, after all. Somehow the Hamilton blood did not take in her though, but by—”

  “Jean-Michel,” Jean said with bite. “Tais-toi.” Shut up.

  “Magdali knows her place,” Jean-Michel continued. “She’s a devoted member of the family. And would never suggest this beautiful family treasure be sold. And certainly wouldn’t do it behind our backs.”