Jacques nods, a smile crossing his face. He looks at the square placard below the painting, and I do, too. Dad’s name is typed on it, along with the date—the year I turned eleven—and the title: FILLE.
That is one French word whose meaning I have known for a long time, well before this trip. Fille means “girl.” It also means “daughter.”
Without warning, tears spring to my eyes. Oh no. I can’t cry here, in front of Jacques, on my very first—outing. I didn’t expect the sight of my portrait to make me so emotional, to churn up these muddled feelings of loss and joy. I press my lips together and try to swallow.
“It is incredible, Summer,” Jacques murmurs, peering back up at the painting. I’m relieved he doesn’t seem to notice my choked-up condition. “You have not seen it before?” he asks.
I take a breath, pulling myself together. “Only online,” I manage to reply. I dab at my eyes and refocus on the painting, soaking in all the details: the swirls of Dad’s paintbrush in the blue sky, the tiny crack in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. The deep, saturated red of the poppies. “My dad painted this in France and sold it here.”
I’m stung by a sudden memory: I was eleven and solemn-faced, with long blond ringlets, and I found Mom sniffling in front of our computer in the den. I saw that she was reading a website called Artforum, and right there on the page was a painting I’d never seen before—me, standing in a field of red flowers. I was surprised and embarrassed, and I came closer to read the caption: Ned Everett’s Fille heralds the arrival of a major new talent whose style evokes the Impressionists.
I didn’t understand any of that, so I asked Mom what it meant, and she jumped, startled to see me. Then she closed the website and took me into her lap—I was getting tall and gangly, and barely fit—and told me that Dad had sold a painting to a big-shot art dealer in France, and Dad might become rich and famous. I wondered why she didn’t say that we would be rich and famous, too—why Dad was separate from us.
Two weeks later, Mom came home with an orange tabby kitten in a crate, and she took me in her lap again and told me that she and Dad had decided to get a divorce, but they both loved me so much, and she and I would stay in Hudsonville, together, and Dad would move to France. Dad was already in France at the time—he’d been there for a while, and I’d been overhearing Mom fighting on the phone with him. She would sometimes cry, and it made me scared. I knew about divorce, because of Ruby’s parents, so part of me had anticipated and dreaded what was coming.
Afterward, after Dad had returned home to collect his things and kiss and hug me good-bye while Mom watched us, stone-faced, it occurred to me that maybe my painting had been the catalyst for what had happened with my parents. I’d always sensed that Dad was searching for his chance to live a fancy artist’s life, and the sale of my painting had allowed him to do that. Soon, he would sell many more paintings, like The Deliverer.
I didn’t resent my portrait, though; I was captivated by it. I’d sneak onto the Artforum website and gaze at myself, a little Narcissus, pleased with how Dad had rendered me. I’d read about how the painting was displayed in a French gallery in the Provençal countryside. I’d type the word “fille” into Google Translate and smile at the English definitions. But I kept my fascination a secret from Mom; any mention of Dad made her sigh or scowl.
“Do you remember posing for it?” Jacques asks me now.
I blink, ripped into the present. The gallery is cold, and I rub my arms.
“No,” I say, looking from the painting to Jacques and back again. “My father must have painted this one from his imagination. Or from memory.”
I rewind time once more, back to when I was eight, nine, ten. I do recall that occasionally, while I was, say, reading on our porch, Dad would sketch me. Then I’d peek at his sketch pad, giggling at the drawings of my face and curls. After the divorce, I never saw my father long enough for him to sketch me again. I also never got a chance to really talk to him about Fille—I brought it up once, on a Skype call, and he said he was glad I liked it, but had to run, sweetheart. So I don’t really know about its genesis.
“I’ve definitely never been in a field of poppies,” I add, studying the red flowers.
“No?” Jacques says, and I glance at him. He raises one eyebrow, giving me a mysterious smile. “When we leave here, I will show you something.”
I’m intrigued, but I’m not ready to leave yet. Jacques seems to sense this; he strolls off to look at a Cézanne painting of green-brown mountains, allowing me some alone time with Fille.
It could be that an hour passes, or maybe only a few minutes, as I stand there, examining my painting, wishing I could somehow take it with me. Then I realize that I can. I reach into my tote bag and grab my camera, backing up a few paces to get a good shot. Within seconds, though, the no-longer-sleepy security guard appears at my side, barking at me in French and wagging a finger.
I’d forgotten. Photographies interdites. I frown, considering telling the guard that it’s me in the painting. Shouldn’t that give me special clearance? I feel an uncharacteristic rush of self-assurance; I am a part of this gallery after all. It’s like a second home. I belong here.
Jacques, who was admiring a Matisse painting of bright shapes, lopes over and asks if everything is okay.
“Ça va,” I say, while the guard continues to glower at me. “Maybe we should go, though. Get some food?” As much as I want to continue communing with Fille, I’m a little light-headed—from hunger, and the whole whirlwind of the morning. Anyway, I intend to return to the gallery very soon—ideally with Dad.
As Jacques and I walk toward the lobby, I keep glancing back at my painting. I crane my neck and squint my eyes at what is soon nothing more than a colorful dot.
When we step out into the heat, I feel a swell of sadness, missing Fille already.
“Okay,” Jacques says, taking my hand—I’m too distracted to get flustered this time. “We will go have lunch. But first, like I said, there is something you should see.”
I nod vaguely, barely paying attention as Jacques leads me down a path behind the gallery. We follow the gentle slope of a hill, and I glance around at the reddish cliffs and large, fairy-tale-ish olive trees that surround us.
“Where are we?” I ask. I’m disoriented, my mind still back at the gallery.
“This is all Les Deux Chemins,” Jacques explains. “The rural part of it. Where the farmers who come to the market live and work, you see.”
I nod again, my stiff new sandals rubbing against my ankles. The scenery is stunning, but I’m not quite sure why we’re taking this little detour.
Then we reach the bottom of the hill.
“Voilà,” Jacques says, gesturing ahead of us. “Look, Summer.”
I look. And my mouth drops open.
We are facing a field full of bright red poppies. The flowers go on and on, a vibrant carpet that stretches toward the green mountains in the distance.
It is identical to the field in my painting. It is the field in my painting.
“How—oh my God,” I stammer, feeling my face break into a huge smile. I turn to Jacques in wonder. “How did you even—know about this?”
Jacques beams, clearly proud of himself. “Well, I am from here,” he reminds me, a teasing note in his voice. “When I saw your father’s painting, I thought right away of this field. Of course, there are other poppy fields in Provence, but I bet this is the one … ”
“The one that inspired my dad,” I finish, my heart lifting. I imagine my father, seeing this very field and then linking it with the drawings he had of me in his sketchbook. Like he was bringing me here, to France. Again, I think I might cry.
I let go of Jacques’s hand and step forward. I’m still holding my camera in my other hand, so I snap a few pictures of the field, trying to get the full, panoramic sweep. I feel my own flash of inspiration.
“Would you mind taking my picture?” I ask Jacques, giving him my camera. Before I can secon
d-guess myself, I bend down and unlace my sandals, and run barefoot into the field, the soil cool and loamy beneath my toes. I stop and spin around, arms at my sides, mimicking my pose in Fille.
“Ah, I get it!” Jacques calls, bringing my camera to his eye. “Very cool.”
As he starts photographing me, I expect to feel self-conscious; I generally hate how I come out in pictures. And I prefer to be the one behind the camera. But now, standing with the sun warming my hair and the poppies swaying all around me, I feel brave and carefree and maybe even … beautiful.
The beginnings of a blush climb up my face. Across the field, Jacques lowers my camera and studies me in an intent way that makes me blush even more. Can he tell what I’m thinking? Does he remember what he said to me on his moped?
“Remember?” Jacques suddenly calls, walking forward, shielding his eyes from the sun. My stomach jumps. “Remember when we first met,” he adds, stopping in front of me, “and I caught this camera?”
“Oh—yeah.” I let out a laugh, brushing my hair away from my forehead.
“I am glad I did,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You seem to like it.”
I like you, I think. But this crush feels different from my crush on Hugh Tyson, or any crushes past. With Jacques, it seems as if something could happen, as if I could make something happen. Like I’m no longer a passive passenger, watching life go by outside the car window.
“I am glad you did, too,” I hear myself say, over the loud pounding of my heart. “I am glad we met.”
Jacques grins at me, biting his bottom lip. “For you,” he says, extending my camera toward me. When I accept it from him, he takes hold of my hand and pulls me in toward him. I can smell the clean, spicy scent of his cologne and feel the softness of his red T-shirt and, up close, his eyes are an even darker blue than I’d thought, and I’m catching my breath, and time seems to speed up and slow down all at once—
“For you,” he says again. And then he tilts his head and he kisses me.
Jacques kisses me.
My heart leaps. His lips are warm against mine, and the sensation is at once unfamiliar and natural.
My first kiss.
And I am kissing him back. At least, I think I am. I seem to know exactly what to do, without ever having been taught. It’s miraculous. It’s as if all those years of yearning and hoping and imagining have led in a straight line to this moment. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed, I think as Jacques wraps his arms around my waist and I melt into his chest. I have been spared that fate. I made it just under the wire.
We kiss and kiss, in the middle of this field of poppies, surrounded by mountains and sky, here in Provence. My life has been divided: Before the Kiss, and After the Kiss. Nothing will ever be the same.
Four days After the Kiss, on my sixteenth birthday, I wake up smiling.
I stretch in my narrow bed, feeling well-rested, my jet lag finally conquered. The light coming in through the window is gloomy and gray. Jacques did tell me that it rains approximately two times each summer in Provence. Maybe today is one of those rare days. Today, my birthday.
I sit up and swing my sun-browned legs off the side of the bed. I wonder what time it is; I got in late last night, after taking a moonlit stroll with Jacques along Boulevard du Temps. I know I officially turn sixteen at two minutes past noon. Maybe the change has happened already.
I study myself in the broken mirror, trying to discern if I look any different. And I do. My curls have been lightened by the sun, and my face has a rosy flush to it, also from time spent outdoors. I notice that, even in my pajama bottoms and baggy T-shirt, I appear to have gotten actual curves. Thanks, I’m sure, to all the delicious food here, like my pains au chocolat from Bernice, or the Nutella crepes sprinkled with powdered sugar that Jacques and I devoured last night on our walk. I smile again.
Then I bring my fingers to my mouth, thinking about how I am different in other, invisible ways. I have been kissed. I know what it’s like to run my hands through a boy’s thick dark hair. I know what it’s like to stand with that boy in front of the cupid fountain—the same spot where I saw Colette and Tomas kissing all those days ago, feeling like they were on a different planet—and touch my lips to his. It’s like I’ve learned a new language, though I’m not fluent yet.
My heart fluttering, I turn away from my reflection and leave the room. Eloise’s door is closed, so I tread softly. No need to wake the monster.
Because I’ve been out of the house so much lately, I haven’t seen Eloise at all since the evening of Bastille Day. Jacques and I had gone to watch the fireworks display, joining the crush of convivial onlookers on Boulevard du Temps. I’d been lit up like a firework myself after everything that had happened that day. We’d been joined by Jacques’s friends from school—mellow, shaggy-haired guys in jeans and slip-on sneakers who could’ve been members of a French emo band. They’d greeted me with easy smiles and cheek kisses, taking the presence of the new American girl in stride.
When the fireworks started, I’d glanced around, thinking that the awed faces of the crowd would make a great picture. I’d brought my camera up to my eye and then, through the lens, I saw her: Eloise. She was standing a few feet away with Colette and Tomas and some other kids who were probably art class friends, taking pictures on her phone. I’d stiffened, hoping and dreading in equal measure that she’d glance over and see me and Jacques together.
But she’d kept her gaze skyward, and in that unguarded moment, she’d looked relaxed and joyful, almost childlike. Another Eloise. I’d felt a pang of confusion—and something else, too. Was it fondness? Recognition? That wouldn’t make sense. Still, wanting to capture the surprising moment, I stealthily took her picture.
Now I head into the bathroom to shower, hoping I can continue my Eloise-less streak today. I’m meeting Jacques at Café des Roses for lunch; he promised to prepare the meal for me himself. I’ve requested bouillabaisse and birthday cake.
My routine has been disrupted: Over the past few days, I’ve stopped visiting the bakery and spending hours in Dad’s studio, or curling up, like a crab, in my room with my guidebook. Instead, I have been exploring—going to the places I’d read about.
Jacques begged his parents for some time off work, so on Saturday, we rode his moped to Avignon. We visited the grand Palace of the Popes, and I got to see the famous stone bridge of Avignon, the one there’s a children’s song about. Dad used to sing it to me when I was little: “Sur le pont d’Avignon/On y danse.” I sang it for Jacques, feeling only a little shy, and he laughed and told me I was “très adorable.” And then he kissed me. Which was worth any slight embarrassment.
Outside of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, we picnicked on bread and cheese and fruit, lolling in a field of sunflowers. Then we went to Arles, the sun-washed town where Van Gogh had lived and painted. We had coffee—I got hot chocolate—at a pretty yellow café named for the artist, and Jacques good-naturedly rolled his eyes at how it was “all for tourists,” but I didn’t care. I was too busy snapping pictures of everything.
On Sunday, we took the train to Cannes, a town on the Riviera. It was all fancy hotels, elegant people, and beaches with creamy sand and the bluest ocean water I’d ever seen. I didn’t even get too uncomfortable wearing my bathing suit in front of Jacques. He, of course, looked tanned and gorgeous in his dark-blue swim trunks, which matched his eyes. When he caught me staring, he smiled at me in his wolfish way, and then he raced me into the surf. I beat him, splashing into the warm Mediterranean, feeling free.
After the beach, we ate fresh fish and salads on the boardwalk, and then we rode the train back to Les Deux Chemins, sandy and sunburnt and pleasantly tired. Jacques had said that next weekend, maybe we would take another train, this one up to Paris.
I could live here, I think now. After all, I have almost mastered the slippery shower nozzle that I’m holding now. And my French is improving—just yesterday, I learned that “joyeux anniversaire” means “happy birthday” (Jacq
ues murmured it to me when we were kissing in front of the cupid fountain). I may still be a late bloomer, but here I am blooming, unlike in Hudsonville, where I was starting to wilt.
I mean, I wouldn’t leave Hudsonville for good; I’d be like those celebrities who say that they “divide their time” between two cities. It would be like my parents had joint custody, instead of Mom getting me all to herself.
At the thought of Mom, my stomach tightens. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a thin towel. Today is my self-imposed deadline; Dad is not yet back from Berlin. So I have to do it. I have to tell Mom.
Yesterday, she’d called the house—her first time doing so since my first day—and I happened to answer the phone; I’d been expecting Jacques’s call. Mom had sounded extremely anxious as she peppered me with questions about Dad, and I’d felt awful as I fudged my answers. I’d asked what was new with her, and she’d replied strangely, with a nervous chuckle and a vague “We’ll catch up when you’re home.” I didn’t mention Jacques; that would be another minefield to cross. But at least it wasn’t a total lie when I told Mom I had to go because I was waiting for a call from a—friend.
I blush as I return to my medieval chamber. I pull on the sky-blue dress I wore the day I first saw my portrait, and got my first kiss. A lucky dress. I toss a glance at Ruby’s woven bracelets, which are still sitting out on my dresser, but I leave my wrist bare again. Then I lace on my now-comfortable sandals and go downstairs.
The house smells tantalizingly of roasting chicken. I hear Vivienne moving around in the kitchen. I wonder why she’s cooking. She and Eloise rarely eat in.
I think back to last night, how I saw Vivienne’s light click off in her room when I came upstairs. Had she been waiting up for me? I know she’s felt some chaperone-like responsibility for me, given that my father has been MIA.
In the living room, I go to the computer to check the time. By now, I’ve learned that, in Europe, the hours are counted differently: Noon doesn’t split the day down the middle like it does at home. Here, one p.m. is thirteen hours, two p.m. is fourteen, and so on, until midnight, when the clock resets. It’s confusing, and also totally clear, which is how time itself is, I guess.
Two Summers Page 13
