“That is up to you! I know that my mom and John will understand if we want to have some time alone. However, they are waiting on lunch until I call.”
“Chérie, we should go, no? Besides, I am excited to meet them.”
A planeload of people began to emerge from the international arrivals gate. We followed them, hand in hand, happy to be together.
While he collected his bag, I called my mother to find out where to meet, jotted down the address, and assured her we’d find the restaurant. “We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”
As we walked to the car, I confessed my mother was really nervous about meeting him. As he put his bag in the back of the Jeep, he teased, “Did you tell her something bad?”
While pulling out of the parking space, I admonished him. “No! Of course not. I think she’s worried that everything isn’t fancy enough. And, while Seattle is not Paris, it’s charming. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here. It’s really… earthy. People are a lot more relaxed.”
“Relaxed sounds perfect.”
***
We drove north on the freeway. Off to our left, the rugged summits of the Olympic Mountains could be seen, their snow-covered peaks contrasting against the blue sky. Northeast were the Cascades, also shimmering white, far away in the distance. Eventually, the freeway took us through the middle of the city, affording Sébastien a clear view of Puget Sound and the city’s diverse architecture. When we finally exited the eight-lane road, it was to scale Capitol Hill. I acted as tour guide. “This part of the city has loads of restaurants, bars, and nightlife in general.”
We wove our way to Melrose Street, up steep roads that zigzagged upwards. He observed, “I wouldn’t call it a hill. It’s more like a mountain.”
Just then, the light turned green, and he held his breath as the car in front of us rolled back a little before getting enough speed to progress forward. I chuckled. “It used to make me nervous, too.” Suddenly, I realized this was the first time we’d been in a car that one of us was driving.
When I remarked upon it, he complimented me then surprised me by saying, “You can never drive with Chantal. She’s terrible. It’s a miracle she hasn’t killed herself or someone else.” I tucked that little nugget away.
We parked on the street and set about looking for the Melrose Market and the restaurant Sitka and Spruce. Following the directions I’d brought up on my phone, we quickly found the single-story building, painted a dull mustard-yellow, with large wood-framed windows. The understated sign above the entrance assured us we were in the right place. It had a tidied up, industrial vibe, with huge wooden trusses supporting an open loft area above. Dark red brick walls, concrete floor, and metal railings divided the space into market stalls for different types of vendors. “It’s Seattle’s version of Marché Beauvau, minus the flea market,” I observed.
We were just getting our bearings when my mother and John appeared. They both looked a little shy. After the hurdle of introductions, John guided us through a tall red door, where we were immediately greeted by a young woman. “Welcome! How are you?”
I felt Sébastien shake. “What?”
“She asked, ‘How are you?’”
“You’re going to hear that a lot.”
We sat at the communal table; just a few steps away, chefs worked their culinary magic.
Over lunch, Sébastien answered questions about Chantal, work, and growing up in France. And he had many questions for them, too, mostly about me. Sébastien told them how, at her birthday dinner, Chantal and her friends had been skeptical of my passion for painting. “They are young and have romantic visions of life as an artist. I think Kathleen’s glamorous image confused them. I would love to see some of Kathleen’s paintings.”
John extolled proudly, “She was more than passionate. The way she pursued art… Well, I was convinced she was going to take the world by storm, be the next… I don’t know who. Perhaps I’m a romantic, like Chantal and her friends. I’ll never forget her last day of work at the store. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to head to school in Pennsylvania. She said she was, and I was blown away. When I heard she’d gone to graduate school in England to study business law… Well, all I know is that if I’d had half her talent….” He looked at me with affection, but something, sadness perhaps, lingered in his eyes.
I took a deep breath and revealed, “To lay to rest some of your concern, I did apply to Rhode Island School of Design and the School of Visual Arts in New York. Both of them turned me down. So I took it as a sign from the universe to go in another direction.” And gave up part of myself. This thought had gone through my mind several times over the last few months.
All three sat silent. “Kathy, you never told me,” my mother finally said.
Seeing they were all surprised, I added, “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. Turns out, I was right.”
John, his brows furled and his voice rough with irritation, probed me further. “Did they tell you why you weren’t accepted?”
I registered his anger and purposefully stared into the distance, avoiding eye contact. “To be honest, I don’t think I spent enough time on my portfolio. I really didn’t know what I was doing when I put it together. I think it was lacking in sophistication, that’s for sure.”
“That’s why you should have told me. I could have helped,” John persisted gruffly.
My mother put her hand over his and spoke evenly. “Water under the bridge, John. There’s no need to get upset. She made her choices, and things turned out well.”
He looked at her with frustration and expressed his belief that she hadn’t understood my true potential.
Sébastien looked at them apologetically before saying to me in French, “Chérie, what did I miss?”
I reached for him and found the calm I needed. My voice cracked under the tension as I responded, “I’m fine. He’s angry, and I get that. He had really high expectations of me, for me. He spent years teaching me and was disappointed when I didn’t pursue art school. I’ve never shared my reasons with either of them. I think it would hurt them. I wanted more out of life than he did. I know my mom struggled financially. It wasn’t what I wanted for myself.” I paused before adding, “I was young and thought I would get back to it someday. But it is hard to find the time.”
He looked at me with solemn eyes. “Aksel Pedersen’s job offer must have been very tempting.”
“I have no regrets about that. We can talk more about it later. For now, I think we should switch back to English. Okay?”
“D’accord!” To them, he apologized. “Forgive me, but my English fails me sometimes.”
***
We pulled up to the house. “This is it,” I announced nervously.
“I know this may sound strange, but I’m excited to be here, to be where you grew up,” Sébastien said as he gazed at it.
I stretched across the car and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I understand. As terrified as I am, I want to meet your parents, too. See where you grew up. It’s a part of you.”
He cupped my face, stroking my cheek gently. “Why are you terrified to meet my parents?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I want them to like me. Weren’t you worried? Don’t you care whether my mother and John like you?”
He gave a subtle shrug. “Of course, it would be best if they did, but if they do not, will it affect our relationship?”
“It would make it harder to spend time with them, but at the end of the day, it wouldn’t change my feelings for you or any of my decisions.”
“You have your answer, chérie. You can relax. I like them, and my parents will love you. Come, give me a tour of the house, especially the bedroom.”
As we entered the cozy bungalow, I returned to tour-guide mode. “They’ve done quite a bit of renovating since John moved in. When I lived here, everything was white. John is responsible for all the color, I think. It really suits the house, though. The color.”
K
nowing we were purposefully being given time alone, I wanted to rush upstairs and take advantage of him. However, my plans were put on hold when he spied all the artwork hanging on the walls. He seemed intent upon looking at each painting, drawing, and doodle. I tried to look at them through the eyes of a stranger.
“He’s right, you know. You are better than him.” He pointed to one of my first still lifes, carefully signed and dated by me when I was six years old.
“Was.” I had come to the same realization over the last few days.
“No, chérie—still. I’m sure, with practice, your skills would return, and you would improve. Whether you stay in your new job or decide to try something new, I will support you. I wish I had seen all this before you told me about Aksel’s job offer. I would have responded differently.”
His words meant the world to me. “I think it’s good that it unfolded as it did then. Everything will work out with time.”
Standing at the foot of the stairs, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. I needed to convey how happy I was to be with him and how much it meant to me that he believed in me. The fear I felt at the possibility of losing him, if I had chosen another path, surfaced, and I clung to him, holding on for dear life. I felt such deep sadness and overwhelming desire at the same time. What he felt or sensed, I don’t know, but when he kissed me, he succeeded in obliterating my emotional turmoil, pushing me down the path to where I was only aware of physical desire.
His lips ravaged mine, then he soothed them, gently tracing the curve of my mouth and blowing softly on them, which set the nerves of the tender flesh buzzing. He trailed a path of warm kisses to my ear, where he caressed me while sliding his hands over me, reacquainting himself with my curves before pausing alongside my breasts and cupping my ribs. Breathing hard, I held on for dear life, wanting more. Always more.
In a raspy voice, he asked, “Where is our room, chérie?”
I ran the tip of my tongue over my swollen lips while I swayed toward him, trying to make sense of his words. In response to my confused state, he nodded his head toward the stairs. “Show me.”
In our snug bedroom, he dropped his bag out of the way and closed the door. I quickly reached for him, wanting to follow where he led.
An Enviable Life
The cold rain bucketed down. Heavy drops pounded fragile crocuses and hardy rhododendrons. It was impressive to watch from the safety of the front porch, ensconced within its deep, protective overhang. We had wrapped ourselves in heavy blankets, safe from the cold and damp, and huddled together on a wide, reclining bench that was snugged back against the house. As I tussled with the blanket, tucking it around my feet, Sébastien watched in amusement.
“You could help me.” I grinned while reproving him.
“I could, but it’s fun to watch you struggle.” Then, always the gentleman, he threw off the coziness of his blanket and bundled me up. “Better?” he asked after dropping a kiss on my forehead. When I nodded, he returned to his cocoon and closed his eyes, worn out by the long day.
Gradually, his head slowly drooped to the side, up against the backrest, his lips gently parted, while his breath came slow and strong. His legs slumped against mine. Happy to have him rest against me, I settled in and studied his face. A youthfulness came over him when he slept; his relaxed face lost traces of age, and his rumpled dark hair flopped out of place.
Gradually, my thoughts turned to the heart of my worries: my future. What did I see for myself? I had everything. I had an enviable life that left me unsettled. At work, I remained the same driven woman. Despite my genuine, giddy happiness at being in love, I understood that I was searching for something that might cause ruts in the road for Sébastien and me. From the outside, I had it all; on the inside, I didn’t know what that meant.
When the front door opened, an energetic combination of trumpet and piano punctuated the quiet, accompanied by the scent of orange and cinnamon. My mother quietly offered me tea, which I eagerly accepted as Sébastien woke. He looked around and sought his bearings, smiling at me as he remembered where we were.
“Would you like some?” my mother offered.
He breathed deeply and nodded. “Mais oui. It smells wonderful. Besides, I must try what makes Kathy so happy.”
Looking up into the darkness, she said, “We have a fire going. Want to come inside? Or should I bring the tea out here?”
Deciding to head inside with her, he took both blankets while I carefully carried my tea.
In the living room, I found myself staring at an oil pastel drawing and recalled the day I had sat in the Quadrangle at the University of Washington, gazing at the cherry blossoms in bloom, trying to see all the subtle shades—pale pink petals to dark red nubs of closed buds. I had worked hard on this painting, creating texture through color. At the moment, I felt supremely proud of my fifteen-year-old self.
“Earth to Kathy.” That, too, was familiar. My mother had always said that when I was lost in my imagination or up to my elbows in projects.
I looked up. “Sorry.”
My mom laughed. “I was wondering what your plans for tomorrow were. You should go to DeLaurenti’s for lunch, drag him around Pike Place Market, have a muffuletta for lunch.” My favorite sandwich at my favorite local Italian deli.
I looked at him to see what he thought.
Sébastien said, “Anywhere is fine. I would like to look for a gift for Chantal. She wants something truly American and preferably vintage.”
“Fremont is more Chantal’s speed then.”
Confused, Sébastien asked me, “What is Fremont?”
A chuckle escaped me. “It’s a where, not a what. It’s a neighborhood west of here. Loads of vintage shops, restaurants, quirky art!”
“Perfect! Sounds like Chantal.” He asked my mother if she and John would be interested in joining us.
“You two go alone. We both have a few things to do.”
His offer to include her and John touched me, especially since I had forgotten to do it, myself. I caressed his hand to say thank you.
1:30 PM, Friday, February 12
Americana, Seattle Style
“SOMETHING REALLY American, no?” Sébastien declared as we walked down worn-carpeted stairs to the shop entrance.
Sébastien appeared awestruck. Finding something American wasn’t going to be a problem. The shop was chockablock; clothes, housewares, art, albums, and anything else anyone had needed between 1940 and a couple days ago, were on display. Excited, Sébastien made a beeline toward a glowing Coca-Cola clock that ticked away on the wall and then scoured the entire place.
He finally had his “ah-ha” moment when he found a full-sized cutout of Elvis Presley, proudly tagged as promotional art for the 1963 movie It Happened at the World’s Fair, filmed in Seattle.
In no time at all, he had a sizeable pile on the counter. We stood, sorting out what we thought Chantal might like best, when the clerk said to him, “Dude, you took all the good stuff.”
The word “dude” brought a huge smile to Sébastien’s face. He read the clerk’s name and pronounced it the French way when he said, “Alain, you have made my day.”
“Love your accent, man. Works for me. Cool.” Turning his attention to me as he folded a skirt, he asked, “For you?”
“His daughter.” I added, “She loves Americana!”
Allen grinned as he continued folding and ringing items up on an old cash register, all while talking about how he loved travelling.
When everything had been bagged and paid for, the two of them hefted the clock and cutout up the stairs. I left them happily chatting while I ran back to get the car. They were laughing really hard when I returned. I saw Sébastien hand him a business card as I folded the back seats down to make room for the heavy clock and Elvis artwork.
“Dude!” Sébastien said to Allen when they finished.
“Monsieur,” Allen said to Sébastien.
After they shook hands, Allen stuffed his in his pockets
and said, “Take it easy.”
“You, too!” Sébastien called as we walked away. “I really like Seattle.” Looking up at the bright blue sky, he suggested we wander around and get some fresh air.
“What was so funny?”
Sébastien blushed. “He was asking me about topless beaches.”
“All right, then. Let’s visit the troll.”
“What?”
Smiling at the incredulity in his voice, I explained the local landmark. “Don’t worry, it’s not a real one—it’s made out of concrete.”
“Is that a real car?” he asked when we stood at the base of the three-story sculpture—a troll clutching a car in its hand. We watched kids climbing on it while tourists had their photo taken in front of it.
“It is! A Volkswagen. Genius, isn’t it?”
The troll clutched the small, round car in its hand as if it were a toy. Sébastien posed, sitting on the other hand, which looked like it was clawing at the soil, trying to dig itself out of the ground.
We looped around the neighborhood and walked along the Burke Gilman trail, alongside the Fremont Cut (slightly reminiscent of walking along the Quai de Valmy). He surprised me when he asked, “Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?”
At the end of a deep sigh, I began, “It’s complicated. John and his wife, Sarah, were family to me.” I quickly explained how I’d spent most of my childhood with one or both of them. “I didn’t have a father, and they couldn’t have kids. I don’t think I knew before this trip how much he cared for me. I wasn’t mature enough to consider that. I now understand that I occupied an important role in their lives.
“I’ve come to realize that a lot of lines were blurred. Yesterday, I think he was hurt that I had rejected his help and the life he envisioned for me. You know, in all the years since I went to college, I never stopped in to see him. I didn’t call when Sarah died. It feels so cavalier now. Maybe he was reacting to that, also.” We walked in quiet for a bit, and then I added, “Like I said, when I was applying to colleges, I knew I was far too pragmatic to be a starving-artist. If I had been really determined, I would have spent far more time on my portfolio and applications.”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 26
