Find Me in Paris

Chapter 18

Eighteen

CAMILLE

After much deliberation, the decision was made to invite Papa to the apartment rather than meet in a restaurant. While a public setting would have permitted Camille to leave the table if she wished, it also risked a public scene, which she sensed that Isabelle was hoping to avoid.

Isabelle lit candles on the dining room table, where four placings were set, along with a bottle of red wine, decanting. From the kitchen, the smell of coq au vin made Camille’s stomach churn. It was a shame she wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. She doubted she’d be able to taste it, much less consume it.

Her emotions had run from nervous to angry to sad and back again ever since Isabelle’s big announcement, and now she stood at the kitchen counter slicing a baguette, hoping she didn’t cut herself with how hard her hands were shaking.

She should have backed out, packed her bags and left this morning, and she would have if it hadn’t been for Isabelle’s big apology last night—and her conversation with Flora over the weekend.

Rupert had met someone. Someone special enough to introduce to their daughter.

And just like that, everything had changed.

Somehow home no longer felt like the place she longed to be—the place that was comfortable and full of laughter and good food and a warm fire and all her favorite things—and people. Rupert had dated in the past; they both had, very casually for her, usually only a date here and there, because she certainly wasn’t looking for more. But neither of them had ever introduced anyone to Flora. They’d always kept their family life, well, to the family. To the three of them, preserving their traditions, and not letting anyone intrude.

Until now.

So no, going back to England early wasn’t a choice, but sticking around for this dinner was starting to feel like an even bigger mistake than she’d already thought it would be.

Camille checked the clock once more and then eyed her sister through the doorway. Isabelle had been working all day in the kitchen between running errands or sending Camille and Sophie to various specialty shops for the dinner—a task that Sophie was all too happy to do. There was now a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table, colorful, because Papa would appreciate that, and his favorite meal cooking in the oven.

“Don’t you think we’re going a little overboard?” Camille asked as she walked into the living room. She stared at the table as Isabelle straightened the settings. “He’s our father, not a guest of honor.”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve all had a meal together, why not make it nice?” Isabelle replied, but there was a brightness to her eyes that made Camille wonder if all this activity was her way of covering up her true emotions. If maybe Isabelle, too, was regretting agreeing to this.

“Would you hate me if I went out to a bistro and returned once he was gone?” Camille asked.

Isabelle stopped refolding a napkin and turned to glare at her. “I could never hate you, and I would probably eventually forgive you, but I’m begging you not to do that. Papa wouldn’t have asked us to meet with him if it wasn’t important.”

This was true, and Camille was a little curious, which only added to her trepidation.

“It’s so typical of Papa,” Camille said, growing angry as she fluffed the flowers. Isabelle’s energy was contagious, and it wasn’t like Camille would be able to relax, what with her sister fluttering all over the room and that knock on the door imminent.

Her stomach heaved as she glanced over her shoulder at it now, but the only noise from the hallway came from Sophie getting ready in her room.

“He disappears for years and then when he wants to see us, he shrouds the reason in mystery,” Camille said, getting worked up.

Isabelle gave a little smile. “Papa always did have a flare for drama.”

“He’s lured us here with a secret,” Camille said, giving Isabelle a stern look to show that she wasn’t able to see this fondly. “He knew that if he just told you his big news, you would tell us, and we’d have no reason to meet here.”

“But aren’t you glad you did?” Isabelle countered. “I mean, if it hadn’t been for Papa’s request, you and Sophie wouldn’t have even come to Paris, because…I wouldn’t have invited you.”

Isabelle looked down for a moment when she said this.

“Hey,” Camille said. She could give her sister a pass. Papa? Not so much. “You would never have put me in that position because you knew how I felt—I mean, how I feel—about Paris.”

“But I never thought to invite Sophie,” Isabelle said, giving Camille a desperate look. “In all this time!”

Again, Camille couldn’t let Isabelle blame herself for this. “You knew it would upset me if you did.”

Isabelle gave a nod of concession. Camille grew quiet, fighting back the guilt that crept in when she thought of all the years she refused to even say her own sister’s name. She’d been young, and immature, and so wrong. But she’d also been so hurt.

“We’re all here now,” Camille said, trying to lift her sister’s mood as much as her own. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I came. I’m not thrilled about tonight…”

“I’m happy you came, too.” Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m honestly surprised that you did. Even with my excuse, I didn’t think it would be enough reason to get you to agree. I know how much this city bothers you.”

“Actually, the city’s not so bad,” Camille said. Then, seeing the light in her sister’s eyes, she hurried to add, “Not that I plan to move here or anything.”

“So you’re glad that you came?” Isabelle asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Camille teased. Her stomach knotted when she considered what might have happened if she’d stayed in England. Would Rupert have still met this Maisie woman? Would he have pursued her, invited her to the festival, and introduced her to Flora?

“You okay, Camille?” Isabelle asked, setting a hand on her arm.

“What?” Camille shook her head, then forced a smile. “Fine. I mean, not fine. Just. You know.”

But Isabelle didn’t know. Not about Maisie. Or Rupert. Or the big mess that was her life. Isabelle couldn’t understand. Camille didn’t even understand it herself.

“It’s tough, I know. But we’ll get through this dinner,” Isabelle said. Then, in an unexpected rush of emotion, she leaned forward and pulled Camille in for a tight hug.

Camille gave Isabelle a few pats on the back, even though a part of her wanted to sink into her sister’s arms, the way she used to when she was little. She wanted to weep, as she had then, and share all her fears, about seeing Papa, about facing Rupert.

She pulled back instead, staying strong.

She poured them each a glass of wine from the open bottle on the table and raised hers. “To Papa. May he get stuck in that ancient elevator and never show.”

“Camille!” Isabelle scolded, but she was laughing as she brought her glass to her lips and then went back to the kitchen to check on the food.

Sophie walked into the room wearing a navy dress that tied at the waist, looking fresh-faced from her shower. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You can stop me from refilling this glass before Papa arrives,” Camille said wryly, taking another sip of the wine. “If he even comes.”

Hope lifted her chest but just as quickly was replaced with a new worry. What if Papa didn’t come after all? It was entirely possible, likely even. And as much as she dreaded the thought of seeing him, not knowing how to act, or what to expect him to say, she had also talked herself into this dinner, prepared for it, and if it didn’t happen, she knew that she’d feel let down.

It was an all-too-familiar feeling. One that she’d promised herself a long time ago she would never let herself experience ever again.

For lack of anything more to do to prepare for tonight, she went back to the kitchen and returned with the bread.

“Whatever he has to say must be important for him to bother coming at all,” Sophie replied. “It’s not like anything in my life has been enough to get him to show up.”

Camille stopped rearranging the breadbasket on the table to set a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. She felt it stiffen slightly under her touch and then relax. A part of her, an instinct, really, had the urge to step forward and hug her, but she’d never hugged Sophie, not even as a child, and it somehow didn’t feel right, even now.

Sophie was a grown woman, not a little girl. Even though, from the look on her face, Camille sensed that right now, they were both little girls, staring out the window, waiting for their father to come home, hoping that this was the day he would.

The doorbell rang, and Camille’s entire body seized up. She locked eyes with Sophie, who looked like she might break down and cry.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Sophie admitted. “I don’t know why I still care.”

Camille swallowed hard. “I don’t know why I do, either.”

Up until now, she didn’t think she still did. She’d thought she’d shut that part of her life away and moved on with boundaries, ones that kept her protected.

But she didn’t feel protected right now, even with Isabelle now gliding into the room, wide-eyed. And she didn’t know how this night was going to end. She knew only that she cared and that she didn’t want to care again. That she didn’t want to hurt like that ever again.

From the entranceway, they heard the turning of the locks, the opening of the door, and Isabelle greeting their father with pleasantries that came easily to her, but would be impossible for Camille.

She stared at Sophie, her breath feeling labored as her heart began to pound. “Ready?”

She linked her sister’s arm, not so much for Sophie, but for herself. She needed the support, and right now, she felt like Sophie was the only one who understood. Sure, Isabelle had lived through it all, too, but somehow she’d come out of it differently. She not only believed in love, but she’d found it. A happy ending. A perfect little life.

She felt a smile grow on her face at that realization. All this time she’d thought it was her and Isabelle against the world, that only Isabelle could share the pain of her past. But it was her other sister, the very one she’d blamed for her part in it.

Slowly, they stepped into the front hall, where Paul was shedding his trench coat. It had been five years since the last time Camille had seen him at Isabelle’s wedding, but he hadn’t aged a day in all that time. His brown hair was still wavy, cut in his usual haphazard style that gave him a boyish charm even into his sixties. He wore his weight well on his tall frame, and when he turned to her, his gaze resting squarely on her eyes, his face broke into a grin that had the capability of ripping every wall she’d built down, stone by stone. Disappointment by disappointment.

“ Ma chérie ,” he said, stepping toward her with arms outstretched.

It was the nickname he’d always used for her. His darling. Isabelle was his beauty, and Sophie, well, Camille wasn’t sure what Sophie’s nickname was, or if she even had one.

But hearing hers said after all this time made Camille feel like she was four years old again, riding the carousel at the base of the hill in Montmartre, or five, sharing a bench in the Tuileries Garden after a long afternoon touring museums and listening carefully as Papa pointed out which paintings he liked best and why. Or six, watching him pack his bags, and then, after a quick kiss, walk out the door of their apartment.

She steadied herself for the embrace, stiffening as he enveloped her in his arms, managing a pat on his back, nothing more.

She relaxed only when he finally stepped back, then watched as he reached, tentatively, for Sophie. Unlike Camille, Sophie hugged him back, just like she’d danced with him at the wedding.

Until Papa had disappeared on her again.

It was a reminder to stay strong, Camille told herself. To get through this night and then move on, like she always did.

Papa, in typical fashion, decided to dangle his little secret over them until he was good and ready. The man loved a captivated audience.

Camille said nothing as Papa talked about all his recent travels (Greece, Spain, pretty much the entire Mediterranean coast), the various projects he was working on (a book of poetry, illustrated by himself, and a collection of watercolors, a new medium for him), and all the delicious recipes he’d learned on his many travels.

Isabelle nodded along, asking questions when appropriate, ignoring Camille’s telling glances to speed things along and get to the point of the evening.

It wasn’t until the chocolate mousse was on the table that Isabelle finally took a big breath and said, “So, Papa, you’ve invited us all here. I have to admit that I’m a little worried about why. Is something wrong? Is it your health?”

Camille looked across the table, seeing the fear mirrored in Sophie’s wide eyes.

They couldn’t help it, she supposed. Caring. Because as much as Camille hated her father, a bigger part of her still loved him.

That was just the problem with love. It wasn’t convenient. It didn’t make sense. And it wasn’t always reciprocated.

“No, nothing like that!” Papa shook his head, and there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. “I told you, Isabelle. Everything is fine. Better than fine.”

“Better than fine?” Isabelle searched his face for clarification.

Camille wondered if Papa intended to return to France full-time. If he wanted this apartment. He was the rightful heir, after all.

But would he really do that to Isabelle? Strip her of the life she’d built for herself here? Of her home?

Who was she kidding? Of course he would.

And from the stricken look on Isabelle’s face, her sister knew it, too.

“The reason I wanted to meet with all of you is because I have some very good news,” Papa said, smiling as he looked around the table. For a moment, Camille was brought back to all those delightful moments when Papa would announce he had a surprise or a treat. He’d hold it behind his back, his eyes always shining, the glee in his smile revealed in his voice, and Camille and Isabelle would stand before him, their hearts pounding with anticipation.

Sometimes it was a cookie. Other times, a strange little treasure, like a painted ceramic bird that he just happened to find sitting on a park bench, forgotten or discarded by its previous owner, and Camille always imagined Papa’s expression when he happened upon it. How happy it made him—knowing, she thought now with a lump in her throat—how happy it would make them.

That was the part about Paris that hurt the most. It was here that he’d once loved them. And here that he’d stopped.

“I’m getting married.”

The words hung in the room, while Papa smiled broadly at them all, as if he’d just announced he was going to the moon.

There was a beat of silence before Sophie cried, “ Again ?”

Camille slurped her wine. “This is hardly huge news, Papa. It’s your third marriage.”

Papa chewed on the bottom of his lip. Camille’s eyes widened on him as she pressed into the table, feeling her eyes bulge.

“It is your third marriage, right?”

Papa’s smile slipped as he took a long sip of his wine.

“There was another one, briefly,” he said tersely, dismissing it with a sweep of his hand. “Barely worth mentioning.”

Camille felt her teeth set on edge as she dropped back against her chair. Was that what he thought of her mother? Of Sophie’s mother? Were these women just disposable to Papa, there when it was convenient for him, gone when it wasn’t?

Or was it just his children that he treated like this?

“You got married again and didn’t tell us?” Isabelle looked hurt. “When was this?”

“A long time ago,” Papa replied. “After I left America.”

“So this is your fourth marriage,” Camille clarified.

“Only if you don’t count the one right after I graduated,” Papa replied flatly.

“Before Mum?” Isabelle cried in a rare burst of anger.

Camille set down her wineglass, even though it didn’t take a very clear head to do this math. She was shaking, with rage, confusion, and so many buried emotions that she didn’t trust herself not to drop it.

“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly, even as her heart began to pound. “You’ve been married four times.”

“Technically,” he said with a shrug. “If you want to get caught up in all that.”

She did. Very much so.

And from the shock on her sisters’ faces, she suspected that they did, too.

“Well, I guess we should just be grateful that there aren’t any other siblings floating around out there,” Camille remarked flippantly.

“No.” Papa gave her a little smile, but then his eyes narrowed as a pinch formed between his brows. “At least…”

Camille met Sophie’s gaze across the table, matching the horror that she felt.

“No.” Papa shook his head again.

Camille stared him down, and her entire body seemed to vibrate. “You’re sure?”

“Very sure,” Papa said, almost proudly.

“As sure as you are that you’re committing to this new woman? Your fifth wife?”

“I am,” Papa replied with a nod to underscore it.

Camille glared at him and then reached for her wineglass again. Five marriages. Half of them hidden from her, like so much of his life. He revealed only what he cared to, and showed up only when it suited him.

“And what makes her so special?” Camille wondered aloud, not believing for a moment that this woman’s fate would be any different than her mother’s, Sophie’s mother’s, and the other two women that Papa had never even mentioned until now.

“She doesn’t expect anything from me,” Papa replied. “She doesn’t want to change me. She loves me just as I am. As…imperfect as I am.”

The words sank in, creating silence in the room.

Camille knew what her sisters were thinking. That tall, proud, unapologetic Paul Laurent had never admitted to being anything but faultless before.

Camille studied him, looking for a hint of a smile, something to show that he was joking, but all she saw was a lined, older version of the face she’d once known so well. And tried so hard to forget.

The man before her was a shadow of the man who would swing her onto his shoulders, sneak her extra sweets at the patisserie, and chase her around the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg, not caring if it upset the locals.

Time had caught up with him. With them all. Years had passed. Choices had been made.

Yes, Camille thought, her anger rising again. Choices had been made. Choices that had brought them to this point. Choices that a child couldn’t make but that a grown adult could.

“When is the wedding?” Isabelle finally asked, breaking the silence.

“This summer,” Papa replied.

“And where will it be?” Isabelle inquired.

Did it matter? Camille wanted to ask.

But it turned out it did matter when Papa replied, “Here. In Paris. Nadine is French. This is where we live.”

Now Isabelle was the one whose eyes bulged. “You’ve been living here in Paris and you never told me? For how long?”

Papa shifted in his chair. “Now, see, I knew you’d get worked up, which is why I didn’t tell you.”

Camille exchanged a glance with Sophie, who looked so bewildered that Camille had an urge to reach out a hand and comfort her. Instead, she kept it firmly clasped in her lap, digging her nails into her palm. Her heart ached for the pain and confusion that she saw in Isabelle’s face.

Isabelle, who was always so strong and stoic. Isabelle, who had believed in Papa when the rest of them had stopped.

“For how long?” Isabelle ground out.

Papa let out a long breath. “Oh, I guess it’s been about two or three months now.”

Let that sink in , Camille thought. And in all that time, he hadn’t bothered to tell the only daughter who was still willing to speak to him.

“But…those postcards!” Isabelle was breathless with disbelief.

“Vacations,” Papa replied as if it should be obvious. “I was recently in Portugal.”

Isabelle opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Camille used this opportunity to comment, “I didn’t receive any postcards.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me,” Papa told her flatly.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have made the effort,” Camille said, her voice rising with newfound anger, emotions that she’d kept trapped for so long were now boiling to the surface. “I’m a parent, too. And that’s what parents do, Papa. They keep trying. They take responsibility. They take accountability. And they never give up on their children.”

“I never gave up on you,” he said softly, his eyes tired.

“Oh, no.” She scoffed. “You just walked away! Moved across the ocean.” Camille didn’t even realize she was gesturing to Sophie until she felt her youngest sister’s stare—and saw the hurt on her face. She dropped her arms and clutched the napkin in her lap, giving her father a long, hard look. “And then you crossed back, leaving Sophie behind, too.”

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she willed them not to fall. She’d cried enough tears for this man, and she’d felt enough self-pity, too. But right now, it wasn’t herself she was thinking of. It was Sophie. The little girl with soft brown hair, who didn’t have Isabelle to fall back on the way Camille had. Who didn’t have Camille, either.

Camille had made her own choices then, as a child. But she was an adult now, and she could do better. She would do better. Because they all deserved better.

“Isabelle, I see now that I should have reached out sooner,” Papa said heavily. “It had been so long, I wasn’t sure what to say. If you’d want to get together. That’s why I thought it would be better all together.”

Camille bit back a laugh. All together. That was Papa’s idea? Clearly, all his best thoughts were behind him.

Isabelle shot her a look. Turning back to Papa, she said, “You should have reached out.”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “I should have done a lot of things differently, but I wouldn’t take it all back.” He looked at Sophie. “I can’t say that everything I did was a mistake.”

Camille pulled in a breath and stared at her younger sister, holding a fist at her side that she slowly released.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not everything was a mistake.”

Papa looked at her with surprise, but Camille turned away.

“I think we should call it a night,” Isabelle said quietly, already standing to clear the table with noticeably shaking hands. Sophie wasted no time in standing to help her, but Camille remained seated, glaring at her father, trying to communicate all the hurt she felt, that had been trapped for so long, with nowhere to go.

Finally, when nothing more was said, because the past couldn’t be changed, Camille stood. Eventually, their father did, too.

“Maybe I’ll see you girls again before you leave?” Papa asked, his voice hesitant when she was used to it being so decisive.

Papa wasn’t making all the plans now. Life was no longer exclusively on his terms. Camille had grown up. They all had. And now it was him turning to them to dictate their relationship.

Now she had a choice to make. To walk away. Or to open up.

“Maybe,” she said, because she didn’t trust herself to make a decision one way or another right now, not when the emotions were brewing so violently inside her, not when she felt like for the first time, she didn’t know who her father was.

He kissed her on the cheek and then did the same for Sophie and Isabelle.

And then, he was gone.

Only this time, it didn’t feel so permanent. And Camille wasn’t sure what to make of that.