by Alix Nichols
Not that I’ve had a chance to do any of it yet.
Before I enrolled in Ecole Lesage and came to Paris to do the training and get my certificate—all thanks to a grant from Marguerite’s foundation—I had done quite a bit of stitching for a big sari outfitter in Kathmandu. It was fun, but there was no wiggle room. I was required to stick to the traditional styles and use the patterns I was given. At night, I traced my own patterns. Except, I never had time to embroider them.
“Our school is only twenty-five years old, but Maison Lesage was founded back in 1858,” Monsieur Bloom says. “You are part of the Lesage legend now.”
My chest swells with pride. Even if my training hasn’t started yet, I’m already living a dream, and it feels amazing.
The audience begins to clap, but Monsieur Bloom raises his hand. “I’m almost done. Let me wish our graduates good luck, and say welcome to our new students! I look forward to working with you in September.”
He nods and steps away from the podium, and we give him a round of applause.
Another faculty member motions to the door on my left. “Everyone is invited to step into the courtyard for refreshments and mingling.”
In the courtyard, the sari I’ve embroidered myself and am wearing for the occasion immediately attracts an admirer—a very tall Swedish woman with bright blue eyes. She asks me about the patterns on my gown. I ask her about the needlework on her clutch. We discuss the school and discover with delight that both of us will be taking the same Professional Couture Embroidery course.
When Noah joins us and hands me a champagne flute, the woman holds out her hand. “I’m Freja.”
“Noah,” he says, shaking her hand.
Freja grins. “You’re the first Frenchman I’ve seen since I got here last week who’s taller than me.”
“Go to a water polo game,” Noah says, smiling. “I promise you’ll see more.”
An image of Zach in his Speedo flashes in my mind. Not that I’ve ever seen him like that… live. But I’ve made up for it by watching every YouTube video I could find of his games.
And that is utterly and unforgivably inappropriate. Disturbing, too.
If I am to have such carnal fantasies about a man, the man in question shouldn’t be Zach. It should be Noah.
“Are you an athlete?” Freja asks him.
“Yes.”
She nods in appreciation. “Well, I hope your girlfriend and I can hang out, maybe even travel around France a bit before our butts are fused to our chairs come September.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time as Noah says, “She isn’t my girlfriend.”
Heat creeps up my face. I glance at Noah whose ears are flaming red.
Freja looks from me to him, her expression dubious. “OK. Sorry.”
“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’ll be happy to explore Paris with you, but traveling won’t be possible—I work part time as a nanny.”
“Good for you,” Freja says. “I need to find a part-time job, too.”
We exchange phone numbers, and she moves on to another group.
“Who’s home with Sam?” Noah asks.
“Zach.”
“How’s the little fellow doing? Still keen to be a dancer, spy, hole-set, and engineer?”
“A dancer, spy, and hole-set—yes,” I say. “But he recently decided to sacrifice the adventure-filled career of the international spy to be a lawyer like his grandpa and grandma.”
“What triggered the change of heart?”
“Last weekend Zach and Sam went down to Arles to visit Zach’s parents. Sam returned a man transformed.”
“Oh, boy.”
I chuckle. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I feign nonchalance the best I can. “What’s the deal with Zach’s ex, Colette?”
Noah shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”
“How come she only calls a couple of times a week, never takes Sam to stay with her, and never comes to see him? She lives in Paris, right?”
“She does visit… on occasion,” he says, looking miserable.
I shouldn’t have asked.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
He gives me a weak smile. “It’s not my story to tell. Why don’t you ask Zach?”
I look down at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I won’t. It really is none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it, OK?”
Noah’s smile widens. “Done.”
Oh, how I admire this man.
He’s a good friend to Zach and the best friend I could ever dream of. His looks ensured he was the hottest high schooler at the lycée Français in Kathmandu. The two or three girls he dated while in Nepal used to burst with pride to be seen on his arm.
According to Marguerite, Noah was in love with me while he was in high school. And according to her, he still is. She’s hinted countless times how happy she’d be to see us together. Even my parents might forget about the “heaven-sent” Brahmin who has asked for my hand if the alternative is Noah. I should be thrilled about all of this. And I’m sure I will be as soon as I get over that lustful thing I feel for Zach.
There are a gazillion excellent reasons why I should.
Zach is my employer. He’s Noah’s teammate and friend. Unlike Noah who speaks Nepali better than I speak French, Zach has never been to my country and knows nothing about my culture. He’s a divorced single dad, whom my parents would never approve of.
And, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s interested in another woman—Noah’s foxy landlady Sophie. He’s about to take her out on a date.
The reason I know this is because he’s asked me to babysit Sam when he does.
THREE
Zach
The whole idea of Uma joining Sam and me for our weekly swimming pool session had nothing to do with me wanting to see her legs.
Nothing at all.
At home, both Uma’s and my bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Uma always comes down to breakfast fully dressed. Respectful of her modesty, I do the same. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her late at night in the second-floor hallway, both of us rushing to Sam’s room because he made a suspicious sound. She wore an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants.
In mid-July.
As for her daytime T-shirt and jeans “uniform,” she favors shirts that hang loose and low over her hips.
Naturally, my imagination has been running wild.
Not that I lust after her, or anything like that. It would be pointless with someone as off-limits as Uma, and I have no time or inclination for pointless pursuits. What goes on here is just normal, male curiosity about the shape of the young woman I see every day.
Nothing more.
Add to that the unfortunate circumstance that it’s been ages since I had time for a relationship—even a short-term one—so it’ll come as no surprise that I keep speculating about Uma’s legs.
As well as other parts…
Right. Off-limits, remember?
Anyway, now that Sam has two nannies—Mathilde for mornings and Uma for afternoons and an occasional evening—I’m free to pursue the beautiful Sophie whom Noah set me up with.
And I will. Soon.
“Papa, you’re not even trying to catch the ball!” Sam shouts, breaking me from my thoughts.
Shit.
I’m supposed to be teaching him to shoot. My son is floating a few meters away, decked out in full gear including a water polo cap, goggles, and yellow inflatable armbands. Uma is doing cheat laps at the other end of the pool. She swims crosswise, admittedly because her poor swimming skills won’t allow her to do proper laps down the length of the pool. I suspect she also wants to stay out of our hair… and firing range.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say to Sam. “Try again.”
He nods and throws his junior-sized ball.
I catch it.
We go on practicing until Sam declares he’s tired and needs a break ten minutes later.
I swim to him. “You’re doing great. Your precision has improved a lot since last month!”
“Can I try to shoot, too?” Uma calls out from across the pool.
It’s just the three of us here, which is a true luxury and unusual even at this small-town pool on a weekday morning.
“You want to teach her?” I ask Sam.
He nods with enthusiasm.
We swim toward Uma who’s still refusing to venture from the shallow end.
“First, we’ll practice on firm ground,” Sam says, going all bossy.
Uma climbs out of the pool.
Sam shinnies up the ladder behind her.
I follow, feasting my eyes on her body.
Uma is wearing a navy blue one-piece, no doubt the thickest and most conservatively cut she could find on the market. It stretches over her small breasts, effectively flattening them to a mere hint. The high neckline of her garment reaches her throat, and its legs are cut so low, the swimsuit looks like a prewar vintage piece.
Still, it reveals parts of her body I’ve never seen.
Her legs are slender and very nicely shaped with slim ankles and smooth, lithe thighs. She has lovely, narrow hips that taper to a thin waist. Her butt is adorable. It’s compact and curved just so, each cheek about the size of the ball I’m gripping in my hand right now. If I were holding one of her butt cheeks instead, it would fit just as snugly.
Shit. Where did that come from?
I hand the ball to Sam.
He motions me to stand by the wall. “You’ll be the goalie.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He turns to Uma. “It’s easy. Just grab the ball and throw like this.”
He pretends to throw with one hand and passes her the ball. She takes her first shot.
“No!” Sam cries out in frustration. “Not with both hands and not from the chest! Didn’t you see how I did it?”
“Sorry,” she says. “My attention must’ve slipped.”
Was it because she was staring at me?
I doubt it. She’s supposed to be into Noah. It’s just my sick imagination.
“OK,” Sam says. “Maybe Papa can explain it better. I’ll be the goalie.”
He marches to the wall where I’m standing and motions with his head for me to take his place by Uma’s side.
Nice show of leadership, I note with pride, bumping his fist. Way to go, kid!
As I plant myself next to Uma, she hands me the ball. It’s too small for me, but since the size of Uma’s hands is somewhere between Sam’s and mine, this ball is perfect for her.
“What you need to do,” I say, “is to spread your pinky and thumb wide for a good grip. Like this.”
She nods, eyes on my hand.
I rotate it so she can see better what I’m doing. “Use your middle finger to adjust the position of the ball and let it sit in your hand, nice and snug.”
She looks up, smiling. “Seems easy enough.”
“Try it.”
Uma grabs the ball, splaying her fingers like I showed her.
“Good,” I say. “Now point your left shoulder toward the goal. Right leg and hip back. Raise your arm and pull it back a little, cradle the ball—arm rigid—and throw.”
As I speak, I show her what to do, and she mimics my motions. When she’s ready, she shoots. The ball hits the deck a few meters short of Sam’s goal.
She rolls her eye. “That was pathetic.”
“First shots always are.” I pat her delicate shoulder before glancing at my watch. “Sam can coach you a bit more in our garden this afternoon if you’d like.”
“Will you, Sam?” She gives him a pleading look.
He beams before schooling his features into a sober expression. “OK.”
I point to the pool. “Now, Samuel, why don’t we get back in there for some eggbeater practice before we leave.”
“Yay!” Sam runs toward the edge of the deck and jumps into the water.
I follow him.
“What’s eggbeater?” Uma asks, returning to the pool.
“A water treading technique to stay upright and have your hands free.”
She blinks. “Is that possible?”
“Of course,” I grin. “How else do you think we can play a ball game in a pool when we aren’t allowed to touch the floor?”
“Oh.”
“Watch me!” Sam shouts to her. “I turn my feet out, like a duck, big toe to shin. Left, right. Left, right.”
She widens her eyes. “Wow.”
“Knees wider,” I instruct Sam. “You can’t jump out of the water with tight knees. Faster legs. Stretch them out more. You want to pull as much water as you can.”
He tries harder, putting all he’s got into his practice. I observe and comment. Uma grabs the rail and tries to imitate what Sam is doing.
“How’s this?” Sam cries out, panting. “Am I doing good?”
I open my mouth to say he’s doing great when he begins to blink rapidly. Then his body starts to convulse.
Lunging at him, I pull him out of the water as fast as I can and lay him down on his right side, sticking my hand under his head.
Uma runs up to us, a look of panic on her face.
“It’s OK.” I stroke Sam’s pale cheek, not quite sure if my words are for Uma, Sam, or myself.
Probably all three of us.
Sam will come to in a couple of minutes, feeling tired and a little dazed after his seizure. Then I’ll take him home.
The party’s over.
FOUR
Uma
“Watching cartoons is one of my rights,” Sam declares, jutting his chin up.
It used to be “May I watch a cartoon, please?” But Sam returned indoctrinated from his visit to his lawyer grandparents two weeks ago. His new tack for getting more TV time is rights-based. Luckily, he hasn’t tried it regarding forbidden foods—guess he hates having seizures too much to be tempted.
The last one he had in the swimming pool didn’t last long. According to Zach, it was nothing compared to the violent seizures he’d suffered weekly before starting on the new medicine and diet. Still, it scared me, making me realize how fragile the little fellow is. I did know about his epilepsy when I signed up, and both Zach and Mathilde had explained multiple times what to do in case of a seizure. But not having seen it happen, the seriousness of his condition had remained theoretical.
It’s a lot more real now.
The funny thing is, I’m also relieved I finally saw it and watched Zach handle the situation with total calm. Now I’m confident I won’t panic if Sam has another seizure when Zach is not around.
“May I please watch another one?” Sam asks, interpreting my delayed response as a no, and reverting to his old strategy.
“OK,” I say. “But just one more. After that, it’s snack time, and then you can look at your books until your playdate arrives.”
“Will you read for me?”
I smile. “I’ll read after your play date, OK? I’m having a video call with Marguerite soon.”
“Your fairy godmother?”
“That’s right.”
Sam nods and turns toward the television set.
My phone rings from the opposite end of the room just as Sam presses Play on the TV remote. I rush to answer the call.
Marguerite smiles from my screen and studies my face. “You look nice.”
“You, too,” I say.
She waves dismissively and points to her hair. “I need a new haircut. And my white roots are showing.”
“No, they’re not,” I say, peering.
Truly, they aren’t.
She sighs. “Enough about that. Have you talked to your parents lately?”
“Last week. They send their regards.”
“Oh, good.” She smiles. “So, they’ve forgiven me for sending you off to Paris.”
“They weren’t really cross with you to start with. Regardless of how much they want me to marry Giriraj, they do realize what an amazing op
portunity you offered me. And they appreciate it.”
“Hmm.” She studies her nails. “I doubt they really appreciate your going to Paris, but at least we were able to convince them to let you take the course at Lesage. Are you getting excited? It starts in just three weeks.”
“I can’t wait!”
“Tell me…” she pauses, hesitating. “This Brahmin suitor of yours, Giriraj… You haven’t promised him anything, have you?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t even spoken to each other. He sent his parents to talk to my parents. You know how it’s done in Nepal.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I do. All right, let me rephrase the question. Did your parents promise anything to his parents?”
I can’t help a smirk. “No, Marguerite, they didn’t.”
“I’m that transparent, huh?”
“You?” I widen my eyes theatrically. “Never.”
She smiles. “I do know what an honor it is for your family to be approached by a Brahmin. And that it reflects well on you, of course. It’s just… you and Noah would make such an amazing couple!”
I stare down at my feet.
“He’s crazy about you,” she adds.
It’s not the first time she says this, but it’s the first time I’m not going to pretend I didn’t hear her. “How do you know that?”
“A mother’s instinct.” She studies my unconvinced expression. “Besides, he has told me as much.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
She peers into my eyes, a little too intensely. I have no reason to doubt her words, and yet… “Why hasn’t he ever said anything to me?”
“He’s planning to, trust me. He just needs to work up the courage.”
We change the topic and discuss her current fundraising campaign to build a school for deaf children. I admire what she does so much I used to listen to Marguerite talk about her projects for hours on end, my hands busy embroidering. But I have a kid in my charge now—and I just heard the end credits music to his cartoon.
I wrap up with Marguerite and go over to stand between Sam and the screen.
“Uma, I can’t see anything,” he complains.
