Whispering in French

by Sophia Nash

  “What?” said three people at once, including me.

  “I believe it is une source.”

  “A spring?” I whispered. “And?”

  “I won’t know more until I get someone I trust to go down to take a look. But that won’t be until tomorrow.”

  “And if it is a spring? What would have to be done? And how much would it cost?” My mind was spinning. Forty-seven thousand for the roof. Now what?

  “Ah, madame, it is very hard to say. If it is a minor issue that can be plugged up, perhaps under sixteen thousand. Much more if it is—how you say in America?—le tip of the ice nugget? But you see, you will need to reinforce and rebuild to give stability after. This is très importante, oui, after what happened during the last storm?”

  Okay, sixteen thousand was a lot but it all seemed preposterous at this point. “Oui, madame.”

  “And since it is so important, and it is a large portion of the cliff, the reinforcement will cost at a minimum another fifty thousand euros, madame.”

  Crickets . . .

  “Madame? Are you all right?”

  “Me?” I began to laugh so I wouldn’t cry. “All right? Oh yes, I am just perfect.”

  Lily tugged my hand to come with her toward the villa.

  “Wait. Magdali, will you please escort everyone to beyond the gardens? I’ll be collecting important things from the house with Lily.” The tone of my voice appeared to have scared everyone into submission. At least there was a silver lining to madness.

  We barely made it into the kitchen before Lily wheeled around to confront me.

  “Are you going to make us go back to the States, Mom? Just tell me now so I can be prepared to return to Miss Chesterfield’s.”

  “I honestly don’t know, Lily. I don’t know where I’m going to come up with that kind of money. I’ll go to the bank and try to get a second loan and I’ll call Antoinette. I’ll call every last person I can think of. That I can promise you. And if I need to, I will go back to the States and work my tail off to try to raise the money. Is that an answer you can live with?”

  She ran into my arms and began to cry. “Yes,” she sniffled. “And I’ll try to raise money too. I want us to use my college fund. We’ll find another way to get the money. I’ll get perfect grades and get a scholarship.”

  I smiled. “Actually, you are a French citizen like me, and if you are able to win a place at a university in Europe, it would not cost us nearly anything. But, and this is a big but, I want you to have the choice to study here or back in the States, so we are not going to touch that money.”

  “But, Mom, I really think—”

  “No,” I interrupted.

  “Wow. You never interrupt.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve changed. And some of the changes might not be for the better in your eyes. Come on then, let’s fill up these baskets with food. Then we’ve got to go pack some bags with clothes, blankets, pillows, and the like. Start praying that it doesn’t rain. And I’ve got to move the cars in case the cliff gives way. And tomorrow I’m looking for other lodging.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I like the changes.”

  I stopped rushing around the kitchen stuffing baguettes and cheese in the baskets long enough to give her a huge hug and kiss. “Thank you, Lily. I like how you’ve changed too.”

  “There is one more thing, Mom.”

  “Yes?”

  “I like Russ. He was cool, saving the animals and everything. And by the way, you never told me about the movie.”

  “It really isn’t any of your—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted, laughing. “Just saying.”

  A NIGHT UNDER the stars was not what I expected. We managed to string up a tarp, leftover from the roof work, between four trees marking a square. Russ and his friends built a campfire and we all picnicked like kings and queens on saucisson, cheese, butter, and Serrano ham on baguettes. There was chocolate from Miremont, and very good wine. Might as well bring the best bottles as the place might not be standing tomorrow.

  I tried not to think about it. Youssef and Magdali and I had emptied the rooms of the best of the paintings, photographs, and anything of true value, not that there was much. I’d even pinned the French Legion of Honor medal on my grandfather’s lapel. I’d never seen him look so grave, despite Phillip’s efforts to keep his spirits up. He’d even invited Jean to come to London.

  I’d whispered to my grandfather, “It’s not going to happen. We did not come this far to have Madeleine Marie fall.”

  “Life does not always have happy endings, chérie,” he whispered back. He grasped my face between his hands, “But as long as we are all together, that’s all that matters.”

  “Don’t worry. We will be. I promise.”

  He’d finally relaxed and had even been laughing as I let myself out of Mlle Lefebvre’s little villa.

  Her cat was standing by the door and darted out between my legs despite my best effort to keep her inside. But she was an outside cat and by the looks of her, the weeks she’d been gone had not made a dent in her superior size.

  I, on the other hand, was losing weight. I couldn’t figure out why. I’d been eating enough butter, bread, and cheese to make me the size of the bakery.

  After the campfire burned out, the children snuggled together and, one by one, dropped into slumber. Magdali and the Aussies soon followed. Except Russ, of course. I saw him approach from the direction of the villa far behind us.

  He sat next to my makeshift bed. “Just went to check on her—your villa. All is well, Kate.”

  “Thank you. I think it’s going to be fine. It’s just a precaution.”

  “That’s the thing that’s always impressed me about you,” Russ said.

  I waited.

  “You’re the least fearful person I think I’ve ever met. And yeah, I heard enough about you to know your background.”

  “What do you know? Is nothing sacred?”

  “Not in a French village. I know enough. So what is your secret?”

  “I’m a fine one to ask when you’re the model of carefree happiness. How do you do it, Russ?”

  “Well, I learned a long time ago that you have to consciously choose to be happy. Far too easy to look at the negative. But choosing happiness is a great risk, isn’t it? ’Cause it’s setting you up for disappointment. But happiness is my religion. Disappointment is my penance. Thank God, I’ve had little penance. But you, Kate, what do you think? How do you keep so calm?”

  “I think I finally figured out that you have to choose to stop being afraid. Bad things will always happen, but good things will too. A long time ago I was floating in life. Kind of like a person in a stormy sea. And I hated that I wasn’t trying to swim to shore, but now I know I would have never been able to do that. So I’m glad I just conserved energy and floated. But I think I had the whole picture wrong. This might seem strange, but I think now I was more like the sea in the scenario. And everything else is like the weather—good and bad. There will always be storms and calm, but it will never change my essence ever again.”

  “Good philosophy, Kate.” He smiled and then pulled me to him and kissed me. It was a simple kiss, meant to comfort in fellowship. “May I tell you something? Something that might be hard to hear?”

  “Of course, Russ. You’ve been so kind. What is it?”

  “Take care. Take great care around Soames.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he cares for you. More than you probably know. But blokes can see it. It’s in the way his eyes follow you. And he’s married.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s just that he cares for me because we’ve talked quite a bit. It happens occasionally. But it’s temporary. Soon he’ll be back in England and he’ll sort out his life just like the rest of us.”

  “And what about you, Kate?” He caressed my hair and I leaned back, enjoying the feeling.

  “What are you asking?”
r />   “Does anyone have your heart?”

  “Yes,” I answered immediately.

  He laughed. “I know it’s not me. You answered far too quickly.”

  I kissed his cheek. “My heart belongs to my family. I am rich in family now.”

  “Is there any room for someone else?” His question was quietly whispered in my ear.

  “Maybe,” I whispered back. “But that will be a long time coming. I’m just not ready, Russ.”

  “I know that,” he replied. “I do. But a man can keep trying. And I love this place. I’m going to stay until the end of the season if you’ll continue to rent me a room. But I’ll keep coming back every year. I’ll have to anyway.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because there’s always going to be something to fix and never enough money to do it right. That’s where I’ll come in. Eventually I’ll warm the cockles of your heart and wear you down.”

  I looked at him. In the darkness, his pupils were very large. “I hope you do.” I almost meant it.

  “That’s a girl,” he said. “What are cockles, anyway?”

  I DREAMED OF the Pyrenees that night under the stars. A cold wind blew above us, and I sometimes drifted semi-awake in the darkness only to snuggle deeper under the duvet I shared with Lily, who had joined me at some point. I could smell the milk and honey shampoo she used in her hair and I inched closer to her. I could have almost cried from happiness to have her next to me. It had been such a close call. I’d almost lost her and lost myself in the process.

  I drifted back to the mountains, dreaming of catching wind currents with the ospreys and songbirds. I was high above the lady draped across the peaks. Her hair was growing lush and long, filling the crevices, until it reached a stream that was flowing toward the sea. Animals of every kind rushed to drink from the icy flow, and suddenly . . . I shivered and came wide awake.

  And sat up.

  Lily groaned. “Mom, it’s freezing.”

  “Shhh . . .” I whispered. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

  And in the way of most teenagers, she didn’t question me, she just went back to the oblivion of sleep.

  I grabbed my gray sweater, put on my faded blue espadrilles, and headed toward the villa. I couldn’t be right. It was just a foolish idea. Just a stupid Basque legend that Pierrot had probably conjured up all in the initial effort to get what he believed to be a rich American to cough up some cold, hard cash.

  I dodged right at the cliff road and made my way to Pierrot’s house. I looked at my watch. Perfect. Three in the morning—in any language.

  I knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  Thirty seconds later, I began pounding.

  “Eh, ho! Qui est-ce?” Pierrot shouted. “Mais quelle connard. Et quelle . . .” His florid curses segued into one of the incomprehensible Basque languages. He was not giving me compliments of any kind, I was sure. He opened the door, finally.

  I had to laugh. He was wearing an honest-to-God nightshirt. I’d never seen one before. And a red-striped nightcap. His blue eyes bulged.

  “Hiya, Pierrot,” I said. “I have a question.”

  “Do you realize it is three in the morning?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem with that?” I was good at keeping a straight face.

  “Well, yes there is. It is very rude to wake your neighbors. Maybe it’s different among cowboys, madame. But—”

  “Pierrot, were you just telling me a little false Basque legend when you came to Madeleine Marie all those months ago? Or was there a grain of truth in that blatant attempt to hose me out of a lot of money? You know. The tale about the lost well? About how centuries ago there was some sort of extraordinary water source somewhere here?”

  He scratched his head and the cap fell off. “Absolument pas! I do not make up stories.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He smiled. “Would you like a little Manzana Verde? Come in. You know Manzana Verde? Finest green apple liqueur in all of the world. Now, let’s discuss this legend. I know it well.”

  Half an hour later, I had to hand it to Pierrot. He was a man who could hold his green apple liqueur, as well as a third and fourth round of Armagnac, and still tell a grand story.

  The question was if it had any merit. He guessed why I wanted to know somewhere between the first and second round. I was convinced by the fourth round. By the time I stumbled back to the makeshift camp, visions of Evian and Perrier danced in my head.

  But as I snuggled against Lily’s back, I prayed with all my heart that for just one time, this one time only, this one dream would be a reality. I knew I didn’t have a right to ask for it, because really? I had everything I ever wanted. But, still, I wanted this for my daughter. And for Magdali, and her daughter. And for my grandfather, and . . . everyone in this little corner of paradise. I wanted it for them.

  Okay, then, but I was done playing the saint and martyr. I wanted it for me too.

  Everyone loves icing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  And so there was icing.

  Winnie, Solange, Mlle Lefebvre, Lily, and I liberally spread it all over the thirty cakes the baker prepared for Magdali and Youssef’s wedding eight weeks later. The kitchen had expanded into the garden, where a long row of prep tables held the fruits of three local chefs, two bakers, one butcher, and the local wine merchant. All had worked nonstop for three days to prepare for the nuptials of one of their own.

  “Alors, here you all are! Some welcome.” I knew that voice all too well. I couldn’t believe she’d actually come.

  Antoinette tugged at the fingertips of her chic black gloves one at a time to extract them from her hands. “Ah, bonjour Mlle Lefebvre. Comment allez-vous?” She kissed each of the older lady’s cheeks elegantly. “Oh, and my beautiful Lily. How you’ve grown! And dear Kate, of course.”

  Mom. God old Mom. The opposite of every other mom of my friends from childhood. While other mothers were getting manicures, going to PTA meetings, playing tennis, or baking cupcakes, my mother had divorced my father and then built a business all while immaculately dressed in haute couture with never one hair out of place. I suddenly thought how incredibly strong but lonely she must have been. So different from all the other mothers, so completely a fish out of water in America. I finally understood, and in that moment, my heart melted.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said simply and gave her an immense American hug, refusing to let her give me two pecks on the cheeks.

  “Mon Dieu,” she said, “what has gotten into you, Kate?”

  “Absolutely everything,” I said, hugging her again.

  Lily towered over my mother when she too gave her an American hug. Antoinette now seemed frailer and thinner than I remembered.

  “Where is Paolo?” Lily wondered.

  “Pretending to be a gaucho on an Argentinean horse,” Antoinette replied. “Baf, you know how these men must be macho from time to time. And where is my dearest Magdali?”

  Arranging a last little bouquet of white roses in an old silver pitcher, I held it up to examine it better. “She’s upstairs, packing for her honeymoon. Come let’s go up together. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

  “Perfect. Will someone please take my luggage to my room?”

  I grabbed the ancient Louis Vuitton suitcase, and Lily led the way up the long staircase.

  Max Mulroney and Heather exited one of the bedrooms as we entered the long upper hallway. Their surprise arrival three days ago had stretched the villa’s occupancy to the limit. Apparently, I had my daughter to thank for their invitation to the wedding, and their immediate acceptance.

  A flurry of introductions ensued. Antoinette was completely nonplused by the Hollywood contingent. The same could not be said for Max, who was in his element, using his three-week French Berlitzolian efforts to much comedic relief.

  “Madame, quelle pleasure to make votre acquaintance,” he said with exaggerated flourish. A red Basque beret hung at a pr
ecarious angle and matched his red espadrilles. The only thing missing was a navy and white striped shirt and a rope of piments d’Espelette, the famed red peppers of the region, to complete the portrait of casual Gallic perfection.

  “Hi, Antoinette,” added Heather, in her typical yoga gear and wonderfully oblivious to the formality that was before her, i.e., my dear mother.

  “Enchantée,” Antoinette replied with her nose tilted at an angle that suggested she felt the opposite.

  “Hey, Lily,” Max said, “have you seen Russ? He promised to take us to watch the surfing at that spot, Parle-whatever.”

  “Parlementia,” Lily corrected. “Yeah, I think he’s waiting for you in his VW bus with the million surfboards on it.”

  “You’re leaving?” I asked.

  “Oui, oui, Katie-girl,” he replied. “But we’ll be back in time for the wedding. It’s in three hours, right-o? We’re going house hunting after.”

  God help me if they became neighbors. Then again, the Pays Basque was one part old-world aristocracy and three parts foreign mutt. They’d fit right in. And Jojo was Max’s new best friend. It was a well-known fact that legend suggested there was an American living in every French village. I would happily relinquish my role.

  Max tousled Lily’s hair. “God, you’re gorgeous. And so tall! Had no idea when we Skyped. Okay, you’ve got to come to Hollywood as soon as you graduate, deal? I’m going to set you up with some people I know at ICM. Have you ever taken any acting lessons? You would be a natural.”

  Max the dog came bounding up the stairs with Winnie at his heels.

  “Whatever is this?” Antoinette said.

  Lily burst out laughing. “That’s Max.”

  Antoinette leaned down and scratched his ear, but with a look that suggested he would regret it if he dared jump up on her.

  “They named him after moi,” Max said proudly.

  “Why?” Antoinette gave a last pat to the dog and straightened.

  “Because he’s really sweet even if he’s scruffy and he likes to sleep under the covers with anybody,” I replied.