Whispering in French Page 18

  “He died in our mess hall ten days later, when we arrived at the dam. He choked on corn beef, according to witnesses. I wasn’t there. The irony of it. I was busy trading British ration packs for American-made cots.”

  “You weren’t there,” I echoed.

  “No. I was more concerned with securing a good night’s sleep.”

  “For all the men serving under you.”

  “Don’t try to pretty it up,” he barked. “You just don’t get it. Abdul was the most selfless person I’ve ever known. He was innocence in a land of hatred. The Western world failed him. I failed him.”

  “Because you couldn’t protect him.”

  “Yes, goddammit. That’s my job. Protect the innocent. Protect all that is good and right from evil.”

  And there it was. My reflection staring back at me. “So you’re going to punish yourself by destroying your family—and your life—as atonement for not saving Abdul and his family?” I was the worst psychologist on the planet. What part of “it’s more powerful and healing to let them put the pieces together and figure it out for themselves” did I not learn?

  “No,” he said.

  “Then what the hell are you doing? Trying to figure out the meaning of life? Don’t you think a better penance—if you can’t get it out of your thick head that you’re not responsible—would be to lead a productive life, in memory of Abdul? Wouldn’t he want you to love and honor your family as he did? If he was as selfless as you said, wouldn’t he be ashamed of the way you are conducting yourself?” Yup, I should be in the Psychology 101 dog pound, and on the list to be euthanized.

  “Pathetic attempt to insult me into action.” He shook his head. “Kate, there is no meaning to any of this. Life is an oxymoron. A random chain of events that will soon be forgotten by the generations who follow us. What is the point?”

  “The point? Of life?” I pushed my hair behind my ears. “Are you asking my philosophy?”

  He shook his head no, and his words matched. “Not if it’s a load of sentimental psychobabble.”

  “Edward, you’re not going to adopt my viewpoint. And lately, very lately actually, the last twenty-four hours in fact, I might just have formed a new view, and yes, it’s far too saccharin for your taste. But I’m just going to ask you one last question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Picture your son or your daughter. Picture him or her exactly in your situation. Late thirties, multiple deployments, a spouse, two young children. Charles or Winnie experienced too many years of war and saw death and destruction on a daily basis. They are blaming themselves for the death of someone like Abdul and his entire family, for failing to secure asylum for them in time. What would you tell Winnie to help her live a meaningful life? What would you advise your son?”

  “I’d tell them . . .” He paused and looked toward the distant sea of churning currents. “I’d tell them that war fucks up everyone. That it wasn’t their fault. That they should rest. That I will protect and take care of them until they’re well again. That I’ll help them find their feet. I’d tell them to stay strong, and good things will come. And then I’d speak to their families and ask them to be loyal, to stick by them, to give them a break, to help them heal.”

  “To love them,” I said quietly.

  “Yes. To love them as I do.”

  “Because they’re lovable,” I whispered.

  He refused to respond.

  “So you wouldn’t tell your children to tough it out. Or numb themselves with alcohol or drugs. Or keep their thoughts to themselves and handle it on their own? You would hate the idea of them suffering all alone, wouldn’t you?”

  He looked at me and his eyes narrowed. I could see the striated muscles in the hollow of his cheek working.

  “Then why are you shutting everyone out? How are you different—less deserving? You are worthy of being loved, don’t you see that?”

  He pushed himself away from the rock and brushed himself off. “Kate?”

  “Yes?”

  He removed his water bottle and walked over to hand it to me. “I’m going on ahead. Alone. To Saint-Jean-de-Luz as planned.”

  “But—”

  “Look, that’s about as much as I can stand.”

  I clenched my hands until the nails bit into the skin, to keep myself from forcing it. “Okay. See you at dinner at the end of the week. I’m looking forward to meeting your children. You’re bringing them, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” I turned and headed back down the sandy path toward Bidart.

  A few moments later I heard his voice call my name. I turned.

  Thank you floated on a wisp of wind back to me.

  I nodded once and returned to the path.

  A colleague once described the emotional equivalent to a runner’s high while working. It was not just when you felt like you made a difference in someone’s life. It was when you also made a difference in your own life at the same moment and discovered we are all connected by our shared humanity. Edward Soames might be my complete opposite, but, eerily, we were just the same.

  I knew he would never agree.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The days were growing ever longer and the waves ever larger, much to the delight of the surfing population, which had swelled in the last week due to the annual European Surf Festival in Biarritz. Even Jean was willing to adapt to Spanish dining hours this time of year. Dinner was at ten o’clock on the balcony tonight. Lily and Magdali and her daughter joined us á table, and we enjoyed Magdali’s culinary genius of Merlu Beurre Citronné et Belle de Fontenay pomme de terres avec Piments d’Espelete—grilled hake fish with butter and lemon and very elegant potatoes with a dab of Basque peppers. I’d recently been informed by the patron of the Panier de Luz vegetable and fruit market in Saint-Jean-de-Luz that of course there were more than thirty types of potatoes. Who knew? It was just too bad the meal ended with my less than elegant strawberry shortcake. I’d never figure out French ovens and centigrade conversions.

  We moved into the salon when the evening grew cool. Youssef joined the group for an epic game of gin rummy and poker, taught by Lily. I watched the happy group as I sat at an ancient desk, writing emails, running numbers, and trying to figure out ideas on how to raise funds.

  The idea of the bed-and-breakfast I’d all but given up. Tonight’s attempt at strawberry shortcake, followed by plumbing problems in the main-floor bathroom, were all the proof I needed that it was a bad idea. At least the realtor in Darien had said the open house had gone well and there was a potential buyer. I’d go back to the States to sell everything in the house worth anything, haul the rest to the dump, and ship Lily’s and my personal effects.

  Leaving behind my practice would be another matter altogether. It had been one thing to be absent for six weeks; it was another to shut it down. And I’d face the challenge of opening a new practice here. How many French men and women were going to want to unload their burdens to an American with poor vocabulary and no French license, and no way to collect government health insurance? The mayor would probably shut me down in less than a week. And did I want to practice anymore? Did I even have a choice? As far as I could see, the only things I could do were become an English tutor, a nanny, or a really bad gardener. And I was willing to do it all now. I couldn’t afford to wait on repairing Madeleine Marie. Worse, I was still short two hundred thousand to pay off my uncle and get him out of all our lives.

  I looked at Lily, her eyes shining above the cards she held in her hands. And none of it mattered. I would learn how to plaster, install plumbing, and put down a new roof myself if that’s what it would take to keep our new old family together.

  A sort of peace had invaded without fanfare or notice. I’d always thought during the struggle of my marriage that after the long-dreamed plan to divorce was realized and Lily settled in college, I’d finally float about my days filled with happiness. It had taken a lot longer to accept that emptiness would be the new normal
post divorce and post Lily’s departure to boarding school. And as life does, just when I’d accepted—no, embraced—emptiness, peace and contentment had swooped in. It was just all so surprising. And yet, I feared there was no way to sustain it. I was going to disappoint her and my grandfather unless I worked day and night, and even then there was a good chance I’d fail.

  There was no way around it if I couldn’t raise enough money. And I couldn’t invest a euro in the villa without paying off my uncle first, for he would drag us to court the minute Jean died, to protect his share, probably suggesting my grandfather hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d decided to leave me or Lily the lawful 25 percent. Having to sell the villa would devastate Lily. There was just no way out. No immediate failsafe solution. But I knew the next steps. It was time to live paycheck to paycheck as I’d done in my twenties.

  I chose a book from the shelves and strolled to the French doors leading to the balcony to take in the beauty of the waning light on the water. Orange and gold melded with black sea, and the ever-present surfers ebbed and flowed just like the tide.

  It still hadn’t rained. It had now been more than two weeks, and there was a stillness to the air that was almost eerie. The hydrangeas were wilting, and the villagers’ moods were elevated just like the old barometer on the mantle. I spied a little round creature speeding along the perimeter of the flower beds bordering the pea gravel below.

  It was probably a rat. An oddly fat one at that. Lovely. One more thing to add to the list: check for signs of rats in the house. Well, it certainly was a noisy, bumbling thing.

  It was ten thirty and there was another half hour before the weekly Skype sessions would begin. At least I’d gotten Max to agree on an earlier time frame. Apparently, I had the yoga teacher, Heather, who was now his fiancée, to thank. My East Coast Skype clients were dropping appointments left and right. Apparently, only Californians embraced therapy on a screen. But life was chugging on for all of them—sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.

  Gillian St. James had decided to stop therapy as she was now wedded to liar and cheat number three. She just wasn’t ready to change, and I understood and had seen it hundreds of times before. Anne Bishop had found a job and was taking online courses toward an MBA. She had not flamed out. Now I was down two weekly clients from the original eight. Something more to worry about.

  Tomorrow I’d arranged to meet with the banker at Barclays to discuss a loan, something impossibly difficult to obtain per Phillip. Then there was a meeting with Jojo to put a lid on his dream. Sotheby’s would have to wait. There was a dinner party to plan for tomorrow. And I was determined that everyone have an extraordinary time.

  Settling into the chaise longue under the stars on the terrace, I opened the book, turned on the mini book light, and, despite all my worries, truly relaxed and tuned out for the first time in almost twenty years.

  A short while later, I glanced at my watch and jumped out of the cozy chair. I was late. For Max. Oh God! I ran past the card players to take the stairs to my bedroom.

  And there was Lily. Sitting at my desk in the corner, Skyping with . . . Max. And Heather, the infamous yoga instructor.

  “Lily!”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Um, what are you doing?”

  “Hey, she’s great, Katie-girl,” Max said. “Maybe I should hire her instead of you. She knows a good deal when she hears it, isn’t that right, Lily?”

  “You’re funny,” she replied with a giggle.

  “Max,” I said, walking toward my desk and indicating silently to Lily that I’d like my chair. “You are not allowed to talk to my daughter. Got it?”

  “Mom! How rude.”

  “Max? Got it?” I repeated.

  “That overprotective-mom thing you’ve got going, Kate, is something else. I’ve never seen this side of you.”

  “I see it all the time,” Lily inserted.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “Lily, I need some privacy.”

  “Mom, I want to see what you do,” she said. “Can I stay if he allows it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Come on, Katie-girl,” Max whined. “It’s two against one. Actually, Heather, would you back me up here?”

  Of course she would.

  “So, Lily here was just telling me that you’ve decided to stay in France permanently. That’s a real kick in the pants.

  “What else did she say?” I glared at my daughter, who giggled.

  “Lily also told me that the place is falling apart and that you don’t know how you’re going to come up with the funds to fix it.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about all our other family problems.” I shot her a glance and she smiled.

  “She did. Nasty piece of work that uncle of yours. Sounds like a narcissistic prick, if you ask me. Pardon my language, Lily.”

  It took one to know one.

  “So,” Max interrupted, “how you going to raise that million you need?”

  “What?” I glanced at Lily.

  She shrugged her shoulders with as much innocence as a second grader during First Communion.

  “I’m sorry, Max, but there must be some sort of misunderstanding. First, I don’t need to raise a million dollars. And second—”

  “Of course you need a million. A half million to pay off that viper of an uncle. And another half million to fix the roof and a hell of a lot more, if Lily’s calculations are right.”

  And suddenly, déjà vu entered the room like a ghost on a mission. It was Antoinette all over again in the form of Lily. Wheedling and cajoling to have others do her bidding. I guessed I’d have to wait a generation for my more reserved genes to kick in with her children.

  Who would be born here?

  “I give up,” I said, laughing. “What’s the difference—half a million to a million. It’s like Monopoly money at this point.”

  “Okay, then. How much do you have to invest?”

  Lily was whispering, “Do it, Mom. Do it.”

  I gave her the evil eye. “Max, I can’t afford to lose a penny. And the payout would probably be too late anyway.”

  “Limerack is a guaranteed win.”

  “There are no guarantees in life, Max.”

  “Sure there are,” he insisted. “Why don’t you ask Heather’s advice. She has a stock portfolio rivaling mine.”

  That woke me up.

  “The studios pay me a fortune to get their stars in shape each season,” she said with a giggle.

  “Heather?” What did I have to lose at this point?

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “Do you have any advice for me?”

  “Absolutely. Invest in Limerack. Oh, and, um . . .” “Yes?”

  “Your daughter and I think you should find a boyfriend.”

  I looked at Lily and she smiled.

  “Well, that’s just a great idea,” I said in a tone that suggested I thought the exact opposite.

  “Mom,” Lily said, “you’re not getting any younger. And I saw the way that hot surfer looked at you at the beach today. I think you should date Russ.”

  “I am not going out with a half-Aussie, half-Danish vagabond half my age,” I retorted. “And what daughter wants their mother dating anyway? Stepparents are evil. Haven’t you seen enough Disney stories to have that burned in your brain?”

  “I didn’t say anything about a stepfather,” she replied.

  Max’s hand was back where it didn’t belong. “Katie-girl, live a little. Your daughter just gave you permission to get laid.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” I said. “Session over. I’ll see you, Max, and you alone, next week, same time.” My finger was poised over the mouse.

  Three people howled nooooo in unison.

  “Okay, look,” Max began again, “just give me twenty-five grand. Fifty if you can, and I’ll run it up as far and as fast as I can.”

  I looked at the three inmates in this loony bin and capitulated. Sort of. “Twenty. And t
hat’s as far as I’ll go. And if you lose it, I might ask you to double your payments for a while.”

  His eyes widened with a deal on the table. “Make it twenty-five and I’ll match it. But you gotta give me free therapy for . . . well, let’s say for five years.”

  “Three.”

  It was if I’d agreed to finance his latest film. “Thatta girl. I’m so proud of you that I’ll do what you’ve always suggested.”

  “And what is that, Max?”

  “Why, show a little empathy.” He looked at Heather with an expression I’d never ever seen in his jaded eyes. “My darling Heather, what can I do to make you happy, sweetheart? Wanna go shopping on Rodeo?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Let’s go take Bobo for a run on the beach. Say bye-bye, Kate, honey bear.”

  “Bye-bye, Kate, honey bear.”

  The couple nuzzled, and then froze as the call ended.

  Maybe I’d been wrong about Max. Maybe he wasn’t the misogynistic narcissist I’d always pegged him to be. Maybe he just hadn’t met the right person—the right fit. Then again, Heather would be most men’s dream come true. She could be a chameleon. And I was getting too jaded.

  “You know, Mom,” Lily said. “This is a pretty cool job. Way more fun than I thought. I think I could be pretty good at it if I decided to make this a career. How much do you charge an hour?”

  The fun house just kept moving deeper into crazy town.

  And I loved it.

  Whispers from the Garden . . .

  Yowler had disappeared. It had been three nights, and panic was setting in. Panic was not an emotion I was used to having more than a minute or two when in danger. It was definitely something I didn’t like. Even Yowler’s pet, that old Two-Legged, was tired of calling for her. Her voice had grown thready and sad. Then again, it took forever for her to call Yowler, what with that ridiculous string of names she had given her.

  Still. A thousand disasters could have befallen Yowler. Maybe that horrible Barker she called a Boxer had got her next door. Or, more likely, the other Boxer, still on the loose, had eaten her. I shivered. Maybe she’d gotten stuck in a tree. She had said that had happened once before. I told her that no matter how tasty the Wing Beaters were, she should just stay out of the trees. But she never listened to me.