“André!” I could hardly believe my perfect little boy sat there smoking. He started at my words. The other boy jumped to his feet and thrust his hands behind his back. André coughed and dropped his cigarette to the cement. “Come on,” I said. “You have some explaining to do.”
A short time later, Jean-Marc and I were in the bishop’s office alone with our son. He sat on a padded chair, bottom lip thrust out, eyelids half shut as he glared at us.
“Why?” Jean-Marc demanded. “We want to know why.”
He shrugged. “I wanted to try it. So I did.”
“But you know that smoking is wrong,” I said. “It’s bad for your body and will lead to other things. Why would you break the Lord’s commandments?”
“It ain’t true. None of it!” The words seemed to burst from him.
“What isn’t true?” Jean-Marc asked.
“All that junk about the Church. Pauline’s still going to die!”
“What!” I exclaimed. “No, she’s not going to die. We are going to fight every minute to keep her with us.”
“But it won’t do any good, in the end.” He looked up at me, and I could see the pain in his eyes. “Can you tell me that she’ll be okay forever? Of course you can’t. All my life I’ve watched out for her, but I can’t help her in the end. No one can. I used to pray that God would take me instead of her, but you know, I don’t think there is a God at all.”
“But there is!” I said.
“Then He doesn’t care about us. Pauline shouldn’t have to suffer.”
Jean-Marc and I bore our testimonies to him, but André kept his gaze glued to the carpet, showing no emotion. I put my arms around him and cried. For the first time, he showed signs of remorse. He hugged me back. “Please don’t do it again,” I whispered.
“Okay.” But his voice sounded hollow, and I wondered if I had lost my innocent little boy forever. Growing up wasn’t easy.
* * *
Christmas Eve fell on Monday night, and we celebrated with our whole family at the apartment. At midnight we opened our few presents and sang Christmas carols. Then we sat down at the long table, loaded with Christmas goodies brought by our relatives. As we ate dinner, joyful conversation filled the air. Only André was silent, though Pauline’s healthy exuberance made up for his lack of sociability.
“I’m excited to start my new job,” Lu-Lu said to me. Only a week earlier, she had finally found a position. “I’m not making as much as before, but at least it’s at a bank.”
“You’ll work your way up quickly,” said my father.
“I am a little worried about it being so close to that bomb site,” Lu-Lu said with a shiver. Earlier in the year, there had been a bombing at a government building near the bank where she would be working. The authorities were investigating Islamic extremists who claimed responsibility for the explosion that had killed eight and injured many others. The attacks had continued randomly the year before, but for months everything had been quiet.
“That’s the safest place to be,” Jean-Marc said. “Near where they’ve already bombed.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Aunt Lu-Lu,” Marc said. “They arrested about a hundred guys. I’m sure they’ve found the ones who’ve been doing it.”
The phone interrupted the conversation. “It’s for you, Géralde,” Jean-Marc said.
My father stood and reached for the phone. “Hello! Yes. Merry Christmas to you! Really? All right. Why don’t you meet me down at the church, and I’ll help you figure it out.” He replaced the receiver.
My mother’s happy expression faded, but she said nothing as my father kissed her and made his way to the door. “I have to help Brother Lucien with a problem,” he explained.
“Can’t it wait?” I asked.
My father’s face went blank. “But I’m happy to help. I’m glad to be able to give him the benefit of my experience.”
“Sometimes it’s good to learn from making mistakes.” I didn’t know what Brother Lucien’s problem was, but it didn’t seem important enough to break my mother’s heart. Especially on Christmas.
“I’ll be back soon,” my father said.
But when we had cleaned up the dinner and the children had fallen to sleep on the floor in the TV room, he still had not returned. My mother ended up sleeping alone in the guest room. I tried not to notice how old she appeared.
When we arrived in the solitude of our bedroom, Jean-Marc held out a small gift, wrapped in gold paper. Earlier, I had given him a belt to hold the tools he would need as a building manager, and he had given me an apron to use in the café. We had agreed to keep the gifts simple this year. Due to the lack of money, it hadn’t been difficult.
“You already gave me a present,” I murmured.
“But this is special.” He pushed it into my hands.
I opened it slowly, relishing the moment. Jean-Marc had occasionally surprised me over the years, but we had grown to know each other so well that surprise gifts challenged our creativity. With all the other problems in our lives, I didn’t know where he’d found the time.
A small box covered in black velour nestled inside the gold paper. I knew instantly that the contents must be jewelry. I had never appreciated precious metals and stones the way my mother did, though Jean-Marc had bought me a beautiful collection of them over the years, and now I tried not to show my disappointment. How silly to be disappointed with a gift you hadn’t planned on receiving at all! The human mind was sometimes so unpredictable.
Then I gasped. The box held an intricately designed yellow gold pin, featuring a rose cast in white gold. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!” I breathed. “Where did you find it?”
Jean-Marc smiled. “I returned that glass rose Jacques sent. But I wanted to know when he bought it, so I went to the store to check it out. They couldn’t tell me, but I found this staring up at me. I knew it had to be yours. I bought it on our credit card.”
“I do love it,” I said. “But the cost! We don’t have the—”
He put gentle fingers on my lips to stop the flow of words. “Sometimes a person has to do what he feels is best. I know how much you enjoy white roses, and now you’ll always have one with you and be able to remember how much I love you when we’re apart.”
I met his gaze with my own, trying to convince him with my sincerity. “But I know you love me. I don’t need anything to prove that.” Truth was, I worried more about our next meal than anything else.
My thoughts must have been plain on my face. “I know we haven’t been in debt since we paid off the apartment,” he said, “but I need you to have this.”
The phrasing of his words sparked my curiosity. “Does this have something to do with Jacques?”
He glanced away for a second as if collecting his thoughts. “Maybe. I guess it threw me when he gave you the glass rose. It had always been something between us. I never thought about your life before, with him. I never imagined he knew you so intimately.” He stared at the ground. “I guess that’s stupid of me. After all, you were his wife, and you had a child together.”
His voice was tortured, and I silently berated myself for letting Jacques back into my life, however temporarily. Jean-Marc’s feelings of inadequacy had only increased because of my actions. “I love you,” I said, hugging him. “And I love this pin. I’ll wear it always.”
He sighed, trying to hide his relief. I wondered if he thought it would keep me safe from Jacques.
* * *
The next day we immersed ourselves completely in the café and the building above it. The café had two full-time employees, Dauphine and Hélène, and Dauphine’s daughter, Annette, worked part-time. Since they were members of our church, we knew them well—especially Dauphine, who had been at the café since I had worked there before my mission. All three were excited to have us as the new managers.
“We’ll be working too,” Marie-Thérèse said. “We have to fill the places left by Jules and Marguerite.”
&nb
sp; “I can work extra,” Annette said. “I only have my college classes in the morning now.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That might be best. The café seems to be busier than when I worked here, and we’ll probably need three people in the day and more at night.”
So it was decided. Dauphine and Hélène would come early in the morning to start the baking and work until four. After helping the children off to their new public school, I would keep busy with the books and the ordering. If needed for the breakfast rush, I would help the women. Jean-Marc would be on hand to pick up the food or handle work in the building. At noon, Annette would come in and work until closing. Again I would be around to work an hour or so during the lunch rush, if needed. At four Dauphine and Hélène would go home, but Marc, Marie-Thérèse, Josette, and André would help Annette, taking time out to do their homework when business was slow.
“I’ll write,” Marguerite said as she kissed me the morning she left for the Algarve in Portugal. “Let us know what’s happening.”
I smiled widely. “I will. And thanks so much. I don’t know what we’d do without this opportunity.”
I thought it would be awkward slipping into my new role, but instead I found it challenging and fun. I especially loved balancing the books. The children also learned quickly. Marie-Thérèse proved to be the most faithful and efficient, and even Pauline did well washing the dishes in the back. Josette was popular with the younger crowd and could work fast, but she often went out and sat with the customers, forgetting that she was supposed to be working. Marc stayed in the back, learning how to cook with Annette, though sometimes he spent more time watching the pretty girl than learning from her. At first it was André who saved the food from burning—until he began showing up less and less, using schoolwork and other excuses to separate himself further from us. Several times he appeared at the café with boys I would just as soon forbid him to see.
Sometimes I felt as if my little boy were floundering in the middle of a raging ocean and I was helpless to prevent him from drowning. I knew that if I could just put his feet on solid ground, he would find his way, but he seemed out of my reach. Only when he was with Pauline did I see the twelve-year-old boy he had once been instead of the stranger he had become. My heart ached, but neither Jean-Marc nor I knew how to save him.
Jean-Marc was another problem. He learned his job thoroughly and worked hard, but the light faded from his eyes. Each afternoon that he could get away, he diligently searched for a new job and each time found nothing. He hurt in a way I couldn’t heal.
“How are you doing?” I asked him once.
“A job is a job,” he replied. “At least we are supporting our family.” But I knew that managing the building and café no longer appealed to him and that each day he spent there, another little piece of him died.
I prayed for my family fervently at night. Desperately hoping for a change, I forgot that sometimes the Lord’s answers are different from our own.
Chapter Nine
Our phone rang early one morning in January, jolting both Jean-Marc and me from the bed. Yawning, I went to the kitchen to answer it. “Ariana?” It was Dauphine. “I’m sick. I can’t come in today.”
My heart dropped. Today was Monday, Hélène’s day off. I normally took her place because Mondays were slow, but I couldn’t do it alone. “That’s all right,” I said. “Take care of yourself.” I hung up and called Hélène, but there was no answer. I vaguely remembered her saying something about visiting her daughter.
“What’s wrong?” Jean-Marc noticed my expression.
“Dauphine’s sick, and I can’t reach Hélène. What should I do? Maybe the girls will have to stay home from school.”
“I’ll help you. We can do it alone. It’s only for breakfast.”
I smiled. “At least we can give in a try.”
A few hours later found us at the café, juggling the jobs the women handled easily with long practice. A long line formed at the counter. “Here, take these,” I said to Jean-Marc, pulling out a batch of fresh-baked meat pastries. They were ones Annette had made a few days earlier and put in the freezer. Most of the pastries we bought daily from a bakery, but the meat pies and the bread we made ourselves.
There were more people than I had ever seen on a Monday, probably because the dreadful cold spell had passed, and our confusion grew. Jean-Marc and I rushed around, feeling a bit lost and bumping into each other constantly. When the bread ran low, I mixed up a new batch, rushed out to the front to help Jean-Marc, and then back to get the bread. To my surprise, it turned out edible, if not perfect.
“You have flour on your nose,” Jean-Marc said, laughing. I glanced up and found him watching me from the doorway. I laughed. Behind him I could see the counter where, at last, no one waited for help. “We make a good team,” he added.
I grimaced. “I’m just glad Annette will be in this afternoon. I don’t think I can handle lunch and dinner.” Pastries and bread for breakfast were one thing; real food was something else entirely.
He grinned and hugged me. “Me either.” I kissed his nose and ran my hand through his hair, leaving streaks of flour.
“Whoops,” I said.
But he laughed. “Flour and all, this has been a fun morning.”
I agreed. I hadn’t felt so close to him since before he lost his job.
The bells on the door jingled, signalling more customers. At the same time the phone rang. “You answer that,” I said. “I’ll go up front.”
I wished I hadn’t. Jacques stared at me, dark eyes narrowing. “Why are you here?” he asked bluntly.
“I’m working.” Pride stopped me from explaining further. Frankly, it was none of his business.
“It didn’t need come to this. I have plenty to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said. “If you hadn’t interfered in the first place, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t blame me. You had a choice.”
I could see the fire in his eyes. “And I chose this.”
He frowned, and I noticed his eyes taking in the gold pin on my blouse. “You sent back what I gave you,” he said, his voice deceptively light, hiding an anger I recognized only because I knew him so well. “Why?”
“Because—” I broke off, not knowing how to explain.
“Did he make you?”
I shook my head slowly. “Jean-Marc doesn’t make me do anything. We are partners.” I touched the pin lightly, without thinking.
“He gave you that.” It wasn’t a question.
“Are you eating anything?” I countered.
He shook his head. “Suddenly, I’m not hungry.” His eyes fastened on my face. “You know where to find me.” Before I could respond he strode from the café, his lean figure reminding me of a caged tiger. I sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Jean-Marc asked, coming from the back. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Jacques was here.”
As anger filled Jean-Marc’s face, I knew Jacques’ visit had been planned. He knew I was working at the café and that Jean-Marc was with me. Why wouldn’t he leave us alone?
* * *
After that day, Jean-Marc helped out more at the café. We worked side by side, and those were moments I knew I would remember forever. I learned things about him I had only guessed at before, and my love for him grew. The sadness he felt at his business failure was partially swallowed up in our love, but it hurt me to know that though he also enjoyed the time we spent together, he longed to feel as strong as he once had, to find a new identity. His inability to find a job and take care of his family ate constantly at his soul.
Good news came at the end of January. Some of the missing bank funds had been found, and the government had agreed to cover others. Jean-Marc called my parents over to the café to hear the news.
“Maybe we could go on another mission,” my father said excitedly. We lounged at a table in the nearly deserted café, shortly after the lunch rush had ended.
“How wonderful.” The irony in my mother’s response fell heavily on my ears, but my father seemed not to notice.
“What about your calling?” I asked.
“Hmm. I do have a few people I’m working with. I guess I can’t let them down.”
My mother stood and without saying a word turned and walked out the door. “Where are you going?” my father called after her retreating figure. If she heard, she didn’t let on. We watched in silence as she disappeared from sight.
“What’s that all about?” My father shook his head. “I don’t understand what’s getting into her. Well, at least she left the car.” The midsized vehicle sat in the weak sun in front of the café, its white paint shining.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked. Perhaps I could help him understand as he had helped me so many times in the past.
He glanced at his watch. “Well, I have a meeting in about twenty minutes, and I’m visiting inactives tonight.” He stood and kissed my cheek. “We’ll talk later.”
“When?”
“Well, it can’t be tomorrow. I’m helping at a service project, painting someone’s apartment. And the next day I have to help some members go over their finances. I don’t know how long it will take; they’ve got themselves into a fairly serious situation. What about after church on Sunday? I should have more time. Oh, wait, I have to—”
Jean-Marc stood and pushed him gently back into his seat. “Give her a minute, Géralde. Or does she need to make an appointment through the stake executive secretary?”
His face darkened at Jean-Marc’s audacity, but my husband met his gaze without flinching. My father dropped his eyes and sighed. “All right. Talk.”
“The sink is leaking, and I’m getting pretty good at fixing things like that.” Jean-Marc winked at me and left us alone. He passed Dauphine and Annette, who were busy restocking the open space under the glass counter with delicious pastries and sandwiches. In the kitchen, Hélène prepared soups for dinner.
“I haven’t seen you since Christmas,” I began.
“That’s true. The holidays are a busy time. People get depressed, and they call me. Take Brother Lucien, for instance. His testimony’s been wavering, and I’ve set up a complete schedule of reading and study for him. I check in with him each day.” He smiled in satisfaction. “And then there are the Gilberts, who simply can’t deal with their teenagers. I have to see them each day, too.” My father’s voice droned on, detailing how he went about helping the families with whom he worked. As he talked, I realized that he wasn’t helping them so much as he was controlling their lives.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 54
