Twenty-seven
W hen Emma opened the door, Charlotte was struck by how radiant she looked. Wondering what had happened, Charlotte kissed her on both cheeks, and followed her into the kitchen, where she was surprised to see not Mattie, but Marc-Antoine, in a rather rumpled T-shirt and jeans, setting up a tray with cups, a teapot, and some nice-looking cornes de gazelle . He looked up when they came in and greeted a somewhat bemused Charlotte. What was going on?
Emma must have seen her expression, because she said, ‘We’ve just been to see Mattie in the hospital.’ And she explained, rapidly.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Charlotte said, eyes widening. ‘What a shock that must have been! I’m so glad she’s all right. Please give her my best.’ When Emma nodded, Charlotte went on, ‘I tried to call you earlier, but you must have been at the hospital, I suppose.’
‘I’m afraid I forgot my phone and left it here,’ Emma said, and Charlotte saw the look that passed between her and Marc-Antoine. She knew at once that something had changed between these two. You could almost see it—a supercharged atmosphere of intimacy. A twist of pain shot through her as she thought that once, she and Tom had looked at each other like that.
‘Shall we head out into the garden?’ Emma said. ‘It’s such a lovely afternoon.’ Charlotte nodded, and Emma led the way into the garden, picking up an old blanket from a laundry shelf as she went.
As Emma spread it out on the grass, Charlotte glanced around, taking in the changes. Her first impression was of the light. Before, it had been buried deep within the mass of rampant weeds, like a treasure held so tightly that you didn’t even know it was there. Now there was light everywhere, picking out the re-emerging shapes and patterns of twigs and branches and showcasing a palette of soft new colour: pale purple flowers on the old wisteria, yellow rose buds beginning to unfurl on a bush, and a panoply of all shades of greens on leaves and stems and the fuzz of new grass starting to spread on bare patches of earth. She could hear the melodious song of a blackbird in one of the trees and smell the scent of newly turned over soil, the fragrance of wisteria blossom, and faintly, the emerging perfume of the rosebuds. The new life of this garden had really begun and that made Charlotte’s heart lift. She always loved seeing the rebirth of a neglected garden.
‘You’ve done a really good job,’ she said.
Emma beamed. ‘Thank you. I know there’s still a lot to do, but …’
‘There’s always a lot to do,’ Charlotte smiled back. ‘But it’s a great start.’
At that moment, Marc-Antoine came into the garden with the laden tray. As they sat down and he began pouring out the tea, Charlotte said, ‘So, my news: I’ve just come from a meeting with Pascal.’
‘Oh my God!’ Emma’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘How did that happen? What did he say? Did he and Mum … Sorry—I don’t mean to babble but I’m a bit overwhelmed—’ She broke off, and Marc-Antoine took her hand, a small but telling gesture of tenderness that brought a lump to Charlotte’s throat.
Quickly, she explained what had happened. When she’d finished, there was a pause before Emma said, blankly, ‘It was Eric with her? But I thought from what you said before that they barely knew each other.’
‘That was probably true that summer. But, as Pascal said, they met again in Normandy and that’s when they—’
‘Fell in love,’ Emma cut in quietly.
Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘Pascal saw them together two or maybe two and a half years after we’d all been in the Morvan. So, while it’s significant, it’s not absolutely conclusive as far as …’ She broke off awkwardly.
‘As far as him being my father,’ Emma said. Her tone was flat.
Charlotte felt a pang for her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it might not be easy to track him down, Dubois isn’t exactly an uncommon surname, and we have no idea where he lives now.’ Or even, she thought but didn’t say, if he’s still alive. ‘But I can give you the contact details of someone I know who works in a private investigation agency in London. That might help speed things up.’
‘I—I have to think,’ Emma said. A shadow had come into her eyes. A few days ago she’d insisted that she had to know because she thought that’s what her dying mother had wanted to tell her, but now she was clearly not sure about taking the next step.
‘I understand,’ Charlotte said, lightly touching Emma’s hand. ‘Just let me know if you want that number.’
An hour later, as she made her way back to the Metro station, Charlotte’s thoughts returned to that long-ago summer in the Morvan. It had once connected the four of them—herself, Corinne, Pascal, Eric. Four very different people, four very different backgrounds, four very different fates. And now, decades later, here they were again. Corinne had gone from this life but her secrets had brought her daughter from the other side of the world, and Charlotte and Pascal plunging back into their common past. But Eric remained hazy, an enigma like Corinne, even if in a very different way.
What would I do, if I was Emma? Charlotte thought. Would I walk away and get on with my life, or would I run towards this new knowledge, no matter where it might lead? I have no idea , she decided, then stopped abruptly as an uncomfortable thought struck her hard. Of course she had no idea, because this was pretty much the dilemma she faced with her marriage. Go for good, or stay and fight? A dilemma she had to resolve sooner rather than later.