Chapter 12
Twelve
CAMILLE
Camille woke up with a pounding headache from too much wine that she knew only coffee could cure. She opened her bedroom door, relieved to smell the fresh brew from the kitchen. She walked down the long corridor, expecting to see Isabelle, but instead, Sophie turned to give her a big, toothy smile.
“Good morning!” Sophie said brightly as she filled her mug.
Camille wanted nothing more than to turn on her heel and march back to her bedroom, crawl into bed, and toss the blankets over her head. But that would be rude. And no matter how much Camille might be tempted to scowl right now, she found she couldn’t.
Just like she’d struggled to ignore Sophie during dinner last night, which had been, against all of Camille’s expectations, relaxing. Even…pleasant. They’d kept the conversation light, mostly talking about movies, books, recipes, and anything else that they might have in common other than a childhood she’d rather forget.
By the time Flora had called and Camille decided to turn in, she found herself almost wishing that she could decline the call for more sister time—until she realized that must be the wine talking.
Still, there was something to be said about Sophie. She made it very difficult to dislike her and Camille wanted to—she really, really did.
Except that she wasn’t a child or even a teenager anymore. She was a grown adult with a child of her own. She was old enough to understand the situation. To know better. To do better.
With shame, she gave Sophie a small smile in return.
“You’re up early,” she commented.
“Oh, not really,” Sophie said pleasantly, cradling her coffee mug in both hands. “In New York, I’m up before six every day.”
Camille glanced at the clock on the wall, seeing that it was half past seven, and then pulled a mug from the cabinet for herself. “Do you need to be at work that early?”
“Oh, no,” Sophie replied. “But I usually hit the gym and then I have to shower, and the commute isn’t exactly easy.”
Camille nodded, remembering what her life was like in London during her college years, before she traded the city for the quiet life of the suburbs. She’d moved to her country town because it was more affordable with a baby, and practical in every other way, too. She couldn’t imagine lugging a stroller up and down apartment stairs, much less groceries. And she used to love taking long walks with Flora, first when she was confined to a stroller, and later, when they’d walk slower, always stopping to admire the flowers, Flora’s little hand gripping hers.
“I’m not much of a city person,” she confided, surprised that she was only just now putting things together.
All this time, she had thought she had moved out of London because she had to—now, she knew that she wouldn’t have wanted her life to be anything other than how it had turned out.
And that was exactly why she would stop thinking about Rupert and what he’d said and how she sometimes felt. Her life was everything she could have hoped it would be. More, really, considering that she’d never planned to have a child.
Now, she couldn’t even think of a world without Flora in it.
“So it’s not just Paris then?” Sophie gave a little smile as she lifted the mug to her lips.
Sophie had her there, and Camille didn’t see the reason to argue. “I like where I live. Flora has her friends, I have a sunny studio to work in, the neighbors are nice, and there’s enough to do that we don’t get bored. London is a short train ride away if we want to see a play or do some shopping.”
“And Rupert lives close?” Sophie asked.
Camille felt her hand shake as she filled her mug from the French press. “Yes. Rupert lives in town, which is great—for Flora, I mean.”
“And your mother?” It was the first time that Sophie had mentioned Camille and Isabelle’s mother on this trip, and Camille knew that it was a deliberate olive branch, maybe even a sign of maturity. At Isabelle’s wedding, she’d stayed away from the first Mrs. Laurent, aside from a brief introduction at the rehearsal dinner.
Looking into her sister’s eyes, Camille saw the compassion that rested in them, and Camille understood what Isabelle had been trying to tell her the other day at lunch. She saw it for herself. Sophie knew that her sisters shared a bond. She felt singled out. Left out.
And Camille had been a large part of that, hadn’t she?
“My mother’s fine,” Camille replied airily. “She spends a lot of her time working. She’s a pretty well-known interior designer. I’m…proud of her.”
She held Sophie’s gaze for a moment, knowing that they both knew the obstacles Camille’s mother had overcome.
But she wasn’t alone in that, was she?
“How about your mother?” The other woman. It was the first time in Camille’s life she’d ever asked about Patricia. When she was younger, the mere mention of Sophie’s mother would make her entire body go rigid with anger. She thinly tolerated her presence on those annual visits, and certainly never warmed up to her.
But Sophie’s mother wasn’t just the woman Papa left Camille’s mother for; she was Camille’s sister’s mother. A woman who had been let down and heartbroken just like the rest of them.
A woman who had been left to raise Sophie all on her own. She was all Sophie had, whereas Camille at least had Isabelle.
As a single mother to Flora, an only child, Camille understood that this bond must be deep.
Sophie looked surprised by the question and took a moment to consider her answer, glancing down at the mug in her hands and swallowing a few times.
“She’s…fine. Busy. Well, maybe not busy enough.” Sophie gave a little laugh, though she didn’t sound very amused. “I always wished she would start dating again, but I don’t think she ever will.”
Camille said nothing. For the first time, she sympathized with Sophie’s mother.
“Does she still work in the theater?” she asked instead.
“Oh, gosh, no!” Sophie looked shocked by the question. “No, she gave all that up when Papa left. She has an office job now. A sensible job, as she calls it.”
Camille was both surprised and not by this news. She understood more than anyone how playing it safe was sometimes easier than putting your heart on the line.
“ Bon matin! ” Isabelle appeared in the kitchen doorway, an uncertain smile on her face when she glanced from Sophie to Camille. “Everything okay in here?”
“Just pouring coffee,” Camille assured her.
Isabelle looked from Camille to Sophie and back again, and, seeming to decide that it was safe to enter, pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“I usually stop at a café on my way to the gallery but today I have a lot to do,” she said. “No pressure, but if either of you would like to join me, I have some catering details to finalize before the opening and I’d love your opinion.”
Camille had planned to visit the Jardin du Luxembourg today and sketch near the fountain, but she could always put that off for a day or two.
“I wish I could,” Sophie began. “But Gabriel offered to show me around the city a little more today.”
“Then you should go!” Isabelle stirred cream into her coffee. “Has he said anything about the last painting?”
Sophie sighed. “Only that it’s not quite finished.”
“And how will he ever finish it if he’s gallivanting around the city all day?” Camille didn’t like the sounds of this Gabriel fellow. This opening meant a great deal to Isabelle if it warranted inviting both her and Sophie to France for it, and the artist was busy playing tour guide.
Or Don Juan , she thought, sliding her gaze to Sophie.
“Artists need inspiration,” Isabelle told her. “Besides, he promised me he’d deliver on time.”
“And you believed him?” Camille was aghast. Finally, she shook her head. “You’re too trusting, Isabelle.”
Isabelle opened her mouth to protest but then stopped. “Maybe I am.”
Well, that silenced her. Camille stared at her sister, surprised by this admission, and more than a little curious as to where it stemmed from.
“Well, I think he’ll come through,” Sophie said emphatically. “He’s excited about it, and the show. He won’t do anything to screw it up.”
Isabelle gave Sophie a relieved smile, but Camille just pinched her lips, trying to stop herself from saying what she was thinking.
“Out with it, Camille,” Isabelle ordered, looking more than a little annoyed. “You don’t think he’ll deliver the painting?”
“I have no idea if he’ll come through or not,” Camille said honestly. “For your sake, I hope he does, but he’s not scoring any points with me for delaying things and causing you stress.”
“A creative process can’t be rushed,” Isabelle stressed as she added cream to her coffee.
Camille bit back a sigh. She rushed her creative process all the time when she was on a deadline for her publisher, especially a tight one. A promise was a promise in her book.
But not in everyone’s, and Isabelle seemed yet to learn this lesson. Somehow.
“Look, you see the good in people. And you know this guy better than I do,” Camille said, trying to be fair and stick to the facts. “I just know what I’m told, which is that he’s late delivering the painting, he’s spending his afternoons wooing a tourist—”
“He isn’t wooing me!” Sophie exclaimed, but her cheeks flushed.
Camille gave Isabelle a pointed look. “And let’s just say that I’m not impressed by him being an artist.”
“Have you forgotten that you’re also an artist?” Isabelle said with a raise of her eyebrows.
“Yes, but I’m not…” Camille shook her head.
“Go on,” Isabelle said. “You were going to say that you’re not like Papa, am I right?”
Camille said nothing but instead took a sip of her coffee, which was growing cold during this argument.
She was nothing like Papa. She’d made damn sure of that.
“Well, neither is Gabriel. Not every man will let you down, Camille,” Isabelle said, but instead of looking satisfied as she normally would in pointing this out, a little pinch of uncertainty formed between her eyebrows, and her hand shook as she brought her mug to her lips.
Camille felt bad. She’d upset her sister, which was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Maybe I jumped to conclusions,” Camille said. Then, with a little smile that she hoped would smooth things over, she said, “You know me.”
Isabelle eventually smiled back. “I do.”
There was a silence in the kitchen, one that seemed to stem from Sophie, who they all knew didn’t know Camille, not in the way that Isabelle did, and maybe not at all.
And Camille had the sinking feeling that this was all her doing.
She swallowed hard, pushing back the discomfort that made her stomach feel funny—telling herself it was just the effects of the wine from last night.
“So. Tell me more about Gabriel, then. How has he managed to get by all this time, if he is only just now being discovered?”
“He teaches art,” Isabelle said. “He wasn’t chasing fame and glory. He was simply doing it because he loved it.”
Hm. Still, Camille was suspicious of this sudden interest in Sophie. She was openly excited about being in Paris. He was familiar with the city. It was…opportunistic. And given that Sophie would be returning to New York before long, it could only end, and only end badly.
“He’s a very nice man,” Isabelle said, giving Camille a reassuring smile.
Camille would be the judge of that. “Just how old is he?”
“He’s only in his early thirties!” Isabelle laughed. “What’s with the inquisition? Would you like me to pull his bio up on the gallery website?”
Actually, Camille would like that. What she didn’t like was the idea of this man seducing her naive sister and tainting her experience of Paris.
“I’m just saying that you can never be too careful,” she warned Sophie. “Men, especially French men, can be very charming.”
Now Sophie and Isabelle exchanged a glance of amusement.
“Again, we’re talking about Gabriel,” Isabelle said, all humor in her voice now gone. “Not Papa.”
“I’m not talking about Papa!” Camille shuddered to even think of the man. “I’m talking about this man. A French man. An artist. One who has taken an interest in Sophie under the guise of playing tour guide. Handy excuse, isn’t it?”
“I thought it was a nice gesture,” Isabelle said.
“He hasn’t been inappropriate,” Sophie told Camille gently. “And today we’re just going to have breakfast and visit some of the smaller neighborhoods that tourists don’t always know about.”
“And it’s probably safer than her wandering the streets by herself,” Isabelle said, giving Camille a pointed glance. One that homed in on the fact that Camille hadn’t spent any time with Sophie at all this week other than last night’s dinner, which hadn’t exactly been her idea.
“Fine,” Camille said, even though she didn’t feel anything of the sort. “Just…be careful. And don’t stay out too late. And make sure you have some cash on you in case you need to get your own transportation home. Do you even have any euros?”
Sophie grinned. “I’ll be okay. If I can handle New York, I can manage in Paris.”
Camille pursed her lips, letting her gaze drift over Sophie’s attire. It was a denim skirt and T-shirt, which would have been perfectly fine if the skirt wasn’t so short and the top wasn’t so tight. “Is that what you’re planning to wear?”
“Camille!” Isabelle scolded. To Sophie, who was now looking down, studying her outfit with a frown, she said, “You look beautiful. Perfect. Very French.” She gave her a wink. “You go and enjoy your day. I’ll clean up here.”
Sophie gave her a smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Isabelle. I mean, Merci .” She grinned, proud of herself, or maybe just excited, and darted out of the room, her ponytail swinging. A moment later, they heard the front door open and then close again.
“What?” Camille asked, noting Isabelle’s disapproving stare. “I assumed you would have been happy that Sophie and I were talking.”
“More like you were questioning her,” Isabelle said.
“I was looking out for her,” Camille argued. She dumped the remains of her coffee in the sink, deciding that she’d get a fresh cup at a café. Preferably, one that was still hot.
“She’s twenty-eight years old. She lives in New York City. And she’s not your daughter, she’s your sister. Not that you’ve ever acknowledged that relationship before.”
“Well, I am now,” Camille said with a huff, turning from the sink. “And she may live in New York but she’s never been to Paris before and she’s looking at it all through rose-colored glasses.”
Isabelle gave her a look of warning. “And it should stay that way.”
“I just don’t want her getting swept up in the romance of this city, thinking it’s like something she read in a book or watched in a movie.”
“And why can’t it be?” Isabelle replied. “Just because you don’t like this city doesn’t mean plenty of others don’t love it. It’s her first time here. It may be her only time here. Let it be magical, Camille.”
Magical. Camille paused, remembering a time when this entire city seemed to sparkle just for her. When she loved nothing more than staying up late just to watch the Eiffel Tower glitter for five full minutes at dusk.
And as much as she’d blamed Sophie for stealing that joy from her, she knew as a thirty-four-year-old woman that it wasn’t Sophie’s fault at all. It never had been. And that Isabelle was right. Sophie deserved to enjoy her time in Paris. At least one of them did.
Still, Camille wasn’t convinced.
“And does that require this…this… Frenchman to be a part of her daily experience?” Camille replied.
Isabelle shook her head with a soft smile. “This is only the second time he’s taking her out.”
“This week!” Camille huffed. “I’m just being protective.”
“You’re her sister, not her mother. She has a mother.”
“Yes, but I am a mother, and that’s just something that you can’t understand, Isabelle.”
Isabelle’s eyes went wide and she opened her mouth and then closed it again, officially silenced.
Camille knew that Isabelle couldn’t argue with that statement. Her older sister status ended the day Flora was born, in Camille’s opinion. Sure, Isabelle might have more years on her, but Camille had twelve years of experience that she couldn’t describe or explain, but which had to be experienced firsthand.
“A mother is who I am at this point in my life and it’s who I’ve been for a while,” Camille explained. “Sophie is young and excited, and if she were my daughter in a foreign city, I’d want someone to be looking out for her.”
“And you’re saying I’m not?” Isabelle looked affronted.
“I’m just saying that I’m the one of us who has experience. I’m a mother,” she repeated.
Isabelle blinked several times as she seemed to consider her response.
“Just because I don’t have a child doesn’t mean I’m not nurturing,” Isabelle said, color rising in her cheeks. “I was the one who was there for you all those nights after Papa left.”
Now it was Camille’s turn to go silent. Isabelle never brought up that time in their lives; she knew how painful it was.
“And I was the one who used to push Sophie’s stroller when we visited Papa every summer. I was the one who used to help wiggle her into a swimsuit when Papa took us to the shore for the day. I used to braid her hair and play tea party with her. You were the one who wanted nothing to do with her!”
Camille stepped back, surprised by her sister’s rare burst of emotion. “It’s true, I didn’t. And you know why, so I’m not going to explain myself. But I’m also not going to sit back while our younger sister goes galivanting around Paris with a strange man wearing a short skirt.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You really are cynical.”
“Protective,” Camille corrected her. “And I could say that you’re too comfortable.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re too comfortable, Isabelle. You have this cozy apartment that was just handed to you—”
“Hey, we could have shared it,” Isabelle said. “Grand-mère left it to both of us, and I was the only one who wanted it.”
Camille just stared flatly at her. “You have your gallery. Your marriage. Your world is perfectly laid out for you.”
“That would be the way you’d see it,” Isabelle said, spilling her coffee into the sink.
“Are you telling me I’m wrong? That your life isn’t so perfect? That you’ve never once stopped to think that maybe it could all be snatched away or suddenly disappear?”
“I didn’t ever think that,” Isabelle said quietly, and then, with a flash of anger in her eyes, she stopped at the door to the hallway. “Some people just accept happiness, Camille. They let love into their lives. They trust people.”
“Well,” Camille said with a sniff. “They stand to lose a lot.”
Isabelle stared at her sister for a moment, until Camille began to doubt her own words. But just as quickly, she reminded herself that all was not as it ever seemed. Not with her parents, and her so-called happy early childhood. Not even with Sophie, and her mother’s marriage to Papa. Not with her and Rupert, who told everyone they were content with their situation even as he questioned it when they were alone together.
And maybe not even with Isabelle. And her perfect Parisian life.