Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  And most of all, I can’t imagine returning to Dad’s house, facing him and Vivienne and Eloise. The whole … family. I shudder at the word. What would I say to them? What would they say to me? What a nightmare.

  I need to escape.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” I burst out, desperation rising in me as I look at Jacques. “Let’s go back to the Riviera. No—let’s go to Paris! Right now. We said we would!”

  “Now?” Jacques laughs. He glances down at his phone again. “Summer, I cannot. My mother would not allow—”

  “Please?” I say, clasping my hands together. The promise of boarding a train, leaving Les Deux Chemins in my wake, is the only thing that appeals to me at the moment. I’ve always wanted to see Paris. And a big city is exactly what I need—to get lost in the anonymous crowds, to walk the ancient streets until my feet blister and bleed.

  Jacques lets out a sigh. “All right.” He smiles at me, and his dark-blue eyes sparkle with spontaneity. “It would be nice to drop everything and go.” I feel a twinge of hope. He stands, lifting my uneaten birthday cake. “I will put the food in the kitchen and then ask my mother. Come with me? She is upstairs, in our apartment.”

  The day we’d gone to Cannes, I’d met Jacques outside the café that morning, and he’d briefly introduced me to his parents, Monsieur and Madame Cassel. His mother had been as imposing as I’d remembered her from my first night in Les Deux Chemins, and his father was a gentle, quiet, mustached man. Now I feel a small beat of nervousness at the prospect of seeing Jacques’s home.

  I pick up the two bowls of bouillabaisse and follow Jacques through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t eat any of your food,” I tell him sadly.

  “We will save the cake for another time,” he tells me, opening the industrial-size refrigerator and stashing the cake inside. “You can throw out the bouillabaisse,” he adds, a little mournfully, and I feel guilty.

  The kitchen is tiny and hot, overflowing with waiters yelling out orders and people in aprons washing dishes and slicing hunks of meat. I see Jacques’s father in his chef’s hat at the stove, and he waves to us when we pass by.

  As Jacques leads me through a door in the back of the kitchen, I think of my own father. The mere notion of him fills me with pain and a sort of sizzling fury. I wonder what he did after I stormed out—if he cavalierly went to paint in his studio, or if he left to search for me. Maybe he sat down and had a bonding session with Vivienne and Eloise. Or maybe he called my mom.

  Mom. Following Jacques up a narrow, winding staircase, I realize I am furious at Mom, too. She’d known the truth, all these years, and she’d kept me in the dark. Honesty is a two-way street, she’d always said, which, it turns out, is a total lie. I remember her inexplicable level of hostility toward Dad, how reluctant she’d been about me coming to France. At least that makes sense now. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Jacques unlocks a door with the same kind of old skeleton key Dad’s house has, and we step into a cozy, cluttered apartment. The smells of food from the café permeate the place. There are overstuffed couches and framed family photos on the piano. I see shots of Jacques at different ages with a beautiful girl who resembles him; that must be his older sister, Hélène, whom he’s mentioned. She’s off at university in Normandy.

  Jacques’s mother is seated at the dining room table, going through a stack of bills and receipts.

  “Maman?” Jacques begins hesitantly. She peers up at the two of us over the rims of her glasses. “You remember mon amie, Summer Everett,” Jacques goes on. He puts a hand on my waist, which normally would make me blush, but there is nothing normal about today.

  I force out a “bonjour” to Madame Cassel. I don’t want to bother with any small talk. I want to get her okay for Paris, and go.

  Jacques begins speaking in rapid French to his mother; I can make out something about the train to Paris, and work, and the café. Then I distinctly hear him say: “Elle a beaucoup des problèmes avec sa famille.” I sigh, silently translating: She has a lot of problems with her family. Indeed.

  It sounds like Jacques is making a good case but before he’s even finished, his mom is shaking her head.

  “I know,” she says in accented English, for my benefit, “you think that because you are handsome, Jacques, that you can show your dimples and get away with anything. I understand that this works on many girls.” Her eyes cut over to me and I stiffen. I wonder how many girls Jacques has introduced to his mother before. Whatever. That’s literally the least of my worries right now. “But it does not work on me,” his mother goes on sternly. She clucks her tongue. “No Paris today. Go downstairs and tend to your tables.”

  Her words make my heart drop. I turn to Jacques, feeling tears threaten again. “I’ll go to Paris alone,” I tell him, thinking out loud, full of desperation once more. “Just tell me how to get to the train station from here … ” I bite my lip. Despite how brave I’ve been lately, could I really master a trip to Paris all by myself?

  Madame Cassel clucks her tongue again, this time at me. “What are you saying, jeune fille?” she asks. “You will run off to Paris now? You will not arrive until the nighttime, and then where will you go? Where will you stay?” she demands, and I have the sinking realization that she’s right. I glance down at my empty hands. I brought nothing with me when I fled Dad’s house: no wallet, no change of clothes. No camera. I can’t go to Paris without my camera.

  “I can’t go—” I hear my voice waver. “But I can’t go back to my father’s.” I look up at Jacques, and I’m unable to stop my tears from spilling out. “I won’t.”

  Jacques gets that overwhelmed expression on his face—the one that seems to say I didn’t sign up for this madness. “Do not cry,” he tells me in a harried way, which confirms Ruby’s theory.

  “Let her cry.” Madame Cassel stands up and hands me a tissue that seems to have materialized from nowhere. She pats my shoulder as I blow my nose. “Jacques tells me you are having family troubles. Why don’t you stay here? Make yourself comfortable,” she tells me, pointing to one of the sofas.

  “Really?” I manage to ask Madame Cassel through my tears. She nods. I feel a surge of gratitude so deep that I almost hug her, as if she were my own mother. Suddenly, it hits me that, however angry I am at Mom, however many secrets she has kept from me, I need her. Especially today, on my birthday, after everything that happened, I want to hear her familiar, soothing voice.

  “I will be down in the café, then,” Jacques is saying. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek—his mother is eyeing him, hawk-like—and says he will see me when he’s finished his shift. I expect to feel bereft when he leaves but I don’t.

  “Do you have a phone I could use?” I ask Madame Cassel, who has returned to reviewing her bills and receipts. “It’s an international call, so I can pay you back … ”

  “Bof.” She waves a hand. “You can use the telephone in Hélène’s room, if you would like some privacy.” She points down the hall. I thank her profusely, and go.

  On my way, I pass what I’m sure is Jacques’s room; there are soccer posters hung everywhere, and cookbooks stacked on the shelves. I pause in the open doorway, feeling a faint flutter in my belly. I’d dreamed that one day this summer, I’d be able to see Jacques’s room, his house. But definitely not under these circumstances. Life is strange.

  Hélène’s room is as small as my medieval chamber back at Dad’s, but much more welcoming, with French movie posters on the walls and a bright-yellow bedspread. I gingerly sit down on the bed and pick up the cordless phone from the nightstand.

  I dial the international code, which Mom made me memorize before I left for France, and the number of my house. I feel a stab of nervousness, wondering how Mom will react to what I say. If she will get defensive, or upset, or spiteful. But I am eager to be honest with her—for both of us to finally be honest with each other. No wonder Mom had sometimes acted so weird and so worr
ied, no wonder she’d been so protective of me. What a burden, to carry that secret.

  The line rings. My mind feels foggy as I try to calculate the time difference: It must be about nine in the morning in Hudsonville. Mom wouldn’t be on campus yet.

  “Hello?” she says, answering at last.

  I take a big, ragged breath. “It’s Summer,” I say.

  “Happy birthday!” Mom cries, sounding pleased and also apprehensive, as if she can tell something is up. “What have you been doing so far today—”

  “Mom,” I interrupt. I swallow. “I know. I know about Dad. He told me.”

  “Oh,” she says softly, brokenly. But I could swear she also sounds relieved.

  Later that night, after Mom and I have had our long talk, after we have both cried and raged, and apologized and explained, after Mom has offered to fly me home from France early, and I’ve told her, honestly, that I don’t yet know what I want to do, I eat dinner with Jacques and his parents.

  They eat after-hours, once the café has closed, at a table near the kitchen. Monsieur Cassel serves us a simple, cold salad of penne with fresh corn, tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, and sliced cucumbers, drizzled with olive oil and salt, plus rustic bread and butter on the side. My appetite has finally returned; in fact, after not eating all day, I’m ravenous. I wolf down my food, thanking Monsieur Cassel between bites.

  It’s clear that by now Jacques has told both his parents that I have “family problems”; Monsieur and Madame Cassel are extra nice and attentive, offering me more sparkling water when my glass runs low and then, at meal’s end, bringing my birthday cake out of the kitchen with much fanfare.

  As Jacques and his parents sing me “Joyeux anniversaire” to the tune of “Happy Birthday,” I think about how strange and surreal it is, to be celebrating not with Mom or Ruby, or even with Dad—who is here, in town—but with this foreign family, a family much more whole than mine ever was.

  But all of today has been strange and surreal. So in a way, it’s fitting.

  I’m digging into a slice of Jacques’s very tasty vanilla-cream cake, about to compliment him on his culinary skills, when he tells me, “I spoke to Eloise.”

  I choke, coughing a little, and Madame Cassel helpfully hits me on the back.

  “When?” I demand, glaring at Jacques.

  Jacques gives one of his matter-of-fact shrugs. “She came to the café this evening,” he explains. “Not with Colette and Tomas. Alone. She said that her father—your father—” This time, it’s Jacques who coughs, his cheeks reddening. Madame and Monsieur Cassel exchange a glance; I wonder how much they know. “He was very worried about where you had gone,” Jacques finishes.

  “Good,” I mutter, staring at the piece of cake on the end of my fork. Let Dad worry. Let him feel terrible.

  Jacques takes a sip of his water. “Eloise said that she thought you might be here, with me, and this is why she came.” He looks straight at me. “She was also very upset.”

  “Good,” I say again, even though I feel a small pang of remorse. I put down my fork. “What did you tell her?” I ask.

  “The truth,” Jacques says with another shrug. “That you were upstairs in my family’s home and you did not want to see your father. So she left.”

  “Oh,” I say, relieved that Jacques didn’t send Eloise up to fetch me. “I still don’t want to see him,” I add, pushing my plate away. “Or any of them.”

  A weak window fan blows warm air at us; outside, in the night, I see people strolling along Boulevard du Temps, licking ice-cream cones and laughing, completely alien to me.

  Madame Cassel clears her throat. She and her husband exchange a glance again. “If you are still feeling so troubled, chérie,” she tells me, “you are welcome to spend the night. Hélène’s room is empty, as you know.”

  I hadn’t even considered this; I hadn’t even thought beyond right now, sitting slumped in the wicker chair. I know I’m imposing on the Cassels like crazy. And the idea of sleeping over at Jacques’s place turns my face hot. But Madame Cassel’s offer also makes me weak with relief. The longer I can hide out somewhere, the better.

  “You can’t avoid Dad forever, you know,” Mom had told me on the phone, when I’d explained where I was calling from (this meant I’d also had to briefly mention Jacques, but thankfully Mom didn’t dwell on that point too much). “Even if you decide to fly back to Hudsonville tomorrow,” she’d said, “you will still have to face him again.”

  But not tonight, I think. I agree to stay over, and tell the Cassels “merci” about a million times. As Jacques’s parents clear away the plates and the cake remnants, I notice that Jacques looks a little uncomfortable. Does he not want me to stay? He has seemed distant, not quite himself. Maybe because our interactions, until today, had been so light and fun, all poppy fields and moped rides. And then I’d swept in with all this darkness, like a rain cloud in the middle of summer.

  Monsieur Cassel sets about closing up the café while I go upstairs with Jacques and his mother. Jacques says he’s exhausted—he does look drained, no doubt from all the drama. He kisses me quickly on the cheek before going into his bedroom to crash. Madame Cassel gives me a toothbrush, and I thank her again for her ridiculous hospitality and she says, “Bof,” and shoos me off.

  In Hélène’s room, I collapse on her yellow bed in my “lucky” blue dress. I’m too tired to look in the wardrobe for a nightgown or pajamas to borrow. I close my eyes and think of my empty room at Dad’s house—the bare bed, Vivienne’s surrealist painting on the wall, the moon glow coming through the window. What is happening in the rest of the house? Is Eloise still awake, after her visit to the café?

  I roll over onto my stomach. Sleep will not come. I wonder if I should call Mom again, but I don’t want to run up the Cassels’ phone bill. I wish I could text Ruby. Even after everything—seeing her #doubledate on Instagram, the fact that we haven’t spoken in so long—I miss her. I know now that I can get by on my own, without her. That I don’t require her guidance—or, you know, her bossiness—at every step. But it would be nice to hear from her again.

  I finally drift off, and I dream of Ruby, and home. I dream that Ruby and I are standing outside of Better Latte Than Never and across the street, the Hudson River sparkles in the sun. I dream that Hugh Tyson pedals past on his bicycle, and we smile at each other. I dream that I’m sitting with Mom on our front porch, the stars above us.

  When I wake up, dawn is creeping through the window. And I have reached a decision—without excessive waffling, for once. I will go back to Hudsonville early. Maybe even today, if there’s a flight. But not because I’m running away from Dad. In fact, I know I need to face him now, for real.

  Rubbing my eyes, I get up and leave Hélène’s room, padding through the silent, dim apartment. I brush my teeth and do my best to finger comb my hair. When I emerge from the bathroom, I almost crash into Jacques.

  “Salut,” he says, smiling sleepily. He looks adorable in boxer shorts and a thin gray T-shirt with a picture of a soccer ball on it.

  “Good morning,” I answer in English, smiling back. “Did I wake you?”

  He shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “Non. I always wake up at the same time every morning.” He pauses, and I think about how different we are: how Jacques, despite his mellow attitude, is so punctual, and I am, well … me. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

  I make a so-so motion with my hand and repeat a French phrase he taught me. “Comme ci comme ça.” Jacques laughs. “But thank you,” I add, looking at him seriously. “For getting me through yesterday.”

  Jacques shrugs. “I am happy I could help,” he says, though I can tell it was all a bit too much for him. He still looks tired.

  “And thank you for … everything else,” I say. “For our adventures.”

  Jacques smiles, showing his dimples. We stand in the hallway of his apartment, gazing at each other. I know I’m bedraggled and sleep-deprived, my dress wrinkled
and my hair a serious problem. Still, I feel a spark pass between us: the old spark, that was there before yesterday afternoon. Then, just as quickly as it came, the spark fizzles out, like a firework.

  “Are you going home?” Jacques asks me, running a hand through his tousled hair.

  I nod. I don’t know if he means Dad’s house or home-home, but I don’t clarify. Either way, this feels like a good-bye.

  In another world, if I’d stayed blissfully ignorant of Dad and his secret family, things might have gone differently with Jacques. I’d have remained in France, and we would have gone to Paris together. We would have kissed in front of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe I would have even called him my boyfriend—“mon petit ami.” My heart thumps at this what-if? but then I give Jacques a sad smile. Maybe none of that would have happened, anyway.

  “Au revoir,” I say to Jacques, stepping close to him. I reach out and take his hand.

  “À bientôt,” he tells me, which I know means “till later”—a less final kind of farewell. And it’s true; who knows what the future will bring?

  Jacques brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it. Then he leans close and gives me a real kiss. I kiss him back and twine my arms around his neck. I try to memorize the feel of his lips, the texture of his hair under my hands. I don’t think I will forget anything.

  After the kiss, I rest my head against Jacques’s warm chest for a minute. Then I start for the front door, telling Jacques to thank his parents for me.

  “I hope your family will be okay,” Jacques says, letting me out.

  I hope so, too, I think, walking down the winding staircase. I leave through the café, where Monsieur Cassel is in the process of opening up shop. All the cafés along Boulevard du Temps, I see, are starting to open, the owners lifting the grates and hosing down the sidewalks with soapy water. The early morning light colors everything pink.