Chapter 9
Nine
CAMILLE
When Isabelle suggested lunch on Wednesday, Camille waited until her sister said, “Just the two of us,” before accepting.
It had been a strained few days, and Camille had spent most of her time alone, walking the streets of Paris, strolling the long halls of museums, zigzagging through the Marais, and crossing back over the Seine late in the evenings, hoping to avoid too much “sister time” even though that’s exactly what Isabelle had promised with this trip.
Camille told herself that the trip wasn’t completely in vain. She was successful in avoiding Rupert for a bit, even if she did still think of him, especially when he sent her texts, updating her on the day with photos of Flora, and even more so when Flora herself texted from her shiny new phone, this time with photos of Rupert. Camille always felt a lift when her phone pinged, reminding her of the people back home, and the wonderful life she had waiting for her.
That was until she looked around, felt the pull of the city drawing her in, bringing her back to those happy childhood days spent walking these very streets, stopping in patisseries for her favorite treats on Sunday mornings, sitting at cafés sipping chocolat chaud on crisp autumn afternoons, or relaxing in one of the parks, her favorite being the Luxembourg Gardens with the large fountain and view of the Eiffel Tower on a clear day. And then she’d stop and remember how it felt to lose something you loved.
Because she had loved Paris once.
With that in mind, she kept her replies to Rupert brief and centered around their shared responsibility of caring for their daughter. That was what bound them, after all. That’s what she would focus on.
“Sophie’s going sightseeing with one of my artists,” Isabelle added.
Camille couldn’t help but bristle. In Paris for less than a week and Sophie had already found a new friend? It seemed that she was the only one immune to her sister’s charms, and she didn’t like referring to her as her sister. Or even by name. She preferred not to think of her at all.
That’s what she’d done as a child. Out of sight, out of mind. If Sophie didn’t exist, then maybe their father had a chance of coming back. They could go back to their old life, and all would be right again.
They could come back to Paris.
But they never had, and neither had she. Until now.
She swallowed back that hurt and grabbed her handbag from the small desk in her bedroom where she’d camped out while she wasn’t roaming through Paris until late in the evening, avoiding dinners even though she longed to spend some quality time with Isabelle. Finally, that time had come, and Camille was determined not to mess it up by talking about Sophie or thinking about Papa.
“Where to?” Camille asked. They stepped out into the hallway, and Isabelle for once didn’t chide her about the elevator when they left the apartment, instead, moving toward the sweeping stairs, which were admittedly easier to walk down than up.
“There’s a little spot closer to the Seine that has delicious crêpes ,” Isabelle suggested, pronouncing the last word with a flawless French accent.
“You know me,” Camille said. “If it’s food, I’ll eat it.”
Isabelle laughed. “And as you know, in Paris, it’s all good food.”
That was true, and it made Camille think of their lazy weekend afternoons with Papa, when they’d walk for hours, stopping here and there for a snack or a small bite, eventually establishing their favorite places, and later, in Grand-mère’s small kitchen, where she’d whisk up an omelet for dinner with fresh herbs from the terracotta pots she kept on her balcony. Those days felt so long ago now that they almost didn’t feel real, but more like a story she’d heard about another little girl, one whose entire way of life didn’t suddenly change and alter course.
“I took Sophie there for dinner on Monday night and she loved it,” Isabelle said, and Camille glared at her when they reached the small apartment lobby.
The insinuation, of course, was that Camille had missed dinner, just like she’d missed last night’s meal, too. She couldn’t feign jet lag, so instead she’d used Flora as her excuse, hiding away in her bedroom with the phone, catching up on her daughter’s day, whilst eating the baguette and brie she’d bought for herself on her way home both days.
“Is that how we’re going to spend our time together?” Camille asked. “Talking about Sophie?”
Isabelle looked tired as she sighed. “Would you rather talk about Rupert?”
Point taken. Pinching her lips, Camille pushed outside into the warm sunshine, grateful for another beautiful day, even if it was in Paris.
The walk was short, and Isabelle filled it with details about her gallery, but by the time they’d reached the café, they’d covered that topic, and that just left a few things to discuss. And there was no way that Camille was going to talk about Rupert.
“So, Sophie is out on…a date?” Camille asked once they were settled at a sidewalk table. It was the lunch hour and the restaurant was crowded, but Camille knew that they wouldn’t be rushed along, and she appreciated it. She wouldn’t mind a long, lazy afternoon with Isabelle. It had been too long since they’d had time like this, and she felt like that was mostly her doing.
Besides her reluctance to come to Paris, she knew that her priorities had changed once Flora came along, and how could they not? She had gone from having to think about only herself to having to worry about a small human twenty-four hours a day, every day. Even now, when she was enjoying some “sister time” with Isabelle, a part of her mind was back in England.
She knew that Isabelle hadn’t understood her sudden lack of availability once Flora was born any more than Isabelle could understand just how tired or busy Camille was all the time. Camille recalled being relieved when Isabelle met Hugh so that she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about never being available unless it was on Flora’s schedule. Then, Isabelle and Hugh started traveling, and as Flora grew older and more independent, Camille had more freedom and suddenly it was her sister who was no longer available to her.
Maybe that’s why Isabelle had wanted her to come to Paris. Maybe she felt bad about that. Maybe they were both here right now to ease their quiet guilt.
Sure, there was the gallery’s show. But it was one of many. And Isabelle wasn’t the artist—not that Camille would be pointing that out. It would only lead to Isabelle pressing Camille to do more with her talent, when Camille was quite content illustrating children’s books.
“I don’t know if it’s a date per se,” Isabelle said, then paused to place her order in perfect French.
Camille soldiered on, knowing that her verb tenses were not quite perfect, and that her British accent shone through more than her sister’s. Still, it was there, that French side of her that she couldn’t deny, even if she tried to do just that.
“I get the impression that things aren’t completely over with this guy she’s dating in New York,” Isabelle said.
Camille shrugged, already losing interest. “I wouldn’t know. The first I heard of him was this week.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to her,” Isabelle said quietly but firmly.
“I’ve been nice!” Camille’s voice rose with indignation. “When have I been not nice?”
“You certainly haven’t been interested,” Isabelle said. “And at best you’re cordial, treating her like a distant relative.”
“Well…” Camille raised an eyebrow.
Isabelle’s lips pinched. “She’s our sister.”
“ Half sister,” Camille corrected her. “And we didn’t grow up together. We saw her once a year until Papa bailed once again, and then we didn’t see her again until your wedding. If that’s not a distant relative, I don’t know what is.”
Isabelle seemed to struggle not to sigh while the waiter appeared with a bottle of Sancerre and poured them each a glass before setting the bottle in a bucket of ice and moving on to the next table—a couple in their twenties, clearly in love by the way they insisted on sitting so close they were nearly rubbing noses as they talked.
Camille managed not to roll her eyes. It was all exciting and new now, but she’d give them eight months. Maybe six.
Across the table, Isabelle was still looking at her with obvious disapproval. “She knows you don’t like her.”
Now it was Camille’s turn to sigh. “It’s not that I don’t like her. I don’t even know her.”
“You don’t want to know her,” Isabelle said sharply.
Camille sipped her wine. She didn’t want to argue with her sister and certainly not about Sophie. Besides, she couldn’t exactly argue when Isabelle’s point was correct. She didn’t want to get to know Sophie—she never had. Sophie just stirred up all the hurt she’d tried to bury.
“It’s not like she fared any better than we did when it comes to Papa,” Isabelle pointed out.
Camille nodded at that. Again, she couldn’t argue. And didn’t want to.
“And I get the sense that she’s uncomfortable around you,” Isabelle went on.
“Around me? But I’m like…the friendliest person in the world!” Camille caught Isabelle’s expression and laughed. “Okay, I can be a bit of a grump.”
“A bit?” Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “You’re a lot older than her—”
“Gee, thanks for the reminder,” Camille said wryly, taking a longer sip of her wine.
“She knows you never warmed up to her. And she’s old enough now to know why.” Isabelle took a sip of her wine, too, and then set the glass back on the table. “She’s so excited to be in Paris. Please, just…don’t ruin it for her.”
Camille opened her mouth to defend herself but then shut it promptly. Sophie was young, and her enthusiasm for this city was obvious.
And Papa had left Sophie, too. None of them had been spared. And maybe there was nothing to be jealous of anymore. Maybe there never had been.
“Okay,” Camille said, eliciting a little smile from her sister. “I’ll do it for you.”
Isabelle frowned again. “Don’t just do it for me. Do it for Sophie. And…for yourself. Sophie’s a breath of fresh air. I think if you got to know her, you’d enjoy her company.”
Camille wasn’t so sure about that, but she also didn’t want to continue this conversation. “I told you I’ll make an effort.”
Isabelle nodded, seeming to accept her words.
“So,” she said, mercifully changing topics. “How’s the job? What are you working on now?”
Ah, but not to a safe topic, per se.
Camille told Isabelle about her latest project, illustrating a children’s book about two bears who built a tree house in the woods. It wasn’t much different from the one she’d recently completed about a family of ducks who built a raft, and while Isabelle nodded along politely, Camille could sense that she was refraining from saying what she really wanted.
“You know that if you ever decided to expand your work, I’d love to showcase it in the gallery,” Isabelle offered.
Camille gritted her teeth. It was a kind gesture, but it had a deeper meaning.
“I know you think I should be doing more,” she remarked, relieved when the waiter appeared with their lunch.
“I think you should be doing what you love,” Isabelle said.
“Who says I’m not?” Camille shot back.
Isabelle hesitated. “I’m just saying that you have a gift that not everyone has. Me, for example.”
It was true that poor Isabelle couldn’t even play a decent game of Pictionary. No one ever wanted her on their team.
“Just because I’m able to do something doesn’t mean I should,” Camille said. That applied to many things, she thought. Marriage being high on that list.
She looked down at her crepe, folded into a perfect square, dusted with powdered sugar, and drizzled with caramel that made her stomach rumble from the buttery smell.
She resisted the urge to take a picture of it for fear of looking like an eager tourist, but more so because the only reason she wanted to take the photo was so that she could send it to Rupert, who would appreciate it, comment on it, and inevitably make her laugh.
There would be no texting Rupert pictures of food. No texting Rupert about anything other than Flora’s welfare.
She raised her eyes to her sister, waiting for what she knew was going to be said.
“I just worry that you’re playing it a little safe,” Isabelle said gently. “You’re such a talented artist. Your watercolors! The one you gave Mum for her birthday last year was better than most things I see in galleries, and you know I’ve seen them all on my travels. There’s a special quality to your work, Camille. Something that sets it apart.”
Camille didn’t take too much of what her sister said to heart. Were her watercolors good? Probably. Could she be doing more with her art? Yes.
And was she playing it safe?
Maybe, but so was Isabelle.
Isabelle had decided to open a gallery to showcase other artists, after insisting all her life that she had no talent of her own, even though Camille just believed it was untapped. When Camille had pointed that out one time, Isabelle had grown very defensive, insisting that she loved the gallery and that it was all she had ever wanted.
Funny, Camille had thought at the time. Up until then, Camille thought Isabelle loved traveling with Hugh.
But Camille didn’t say that. She knew when not to push.
She lifted her fork and took a bite of her crepe, resisting a groan because then she really would be labeled as a first-timer in France, when in fact, she was one of them. Or she had been once.
“My watercolors are not that special,” she told Isabelle after she’d swallowed. Her sister started to argue, but Camille continued, “And my schedule with the publisher is security, not safety. I have a child to provide and care for, and I don’t think that sticking with a job that offers good pay and a flexible schedule is playing it safe. I’m being responsible. I don’t have the luxury of taking risks.”
Or, she didn’t mention, the desire.
Isabelle went quiet, and Camille couldn’t help but feel surprised. When it came to the topic of art, Isabelle was always eager to talk at length, but it seemed that her sister had decided not to push things, either. Camille studied her sister as she ate, watching as a little frown appeared on her forehead.
“So,” Camille said, changing topics. “How’s Hugh? You said he was in Japan?”
Isabelle took a bite of her food and nodded. “You know Hugh. Always on the road.”
Yes, Camille did know.
“How’s Mum?” Isabelle asked.
“Mum is Mum,” Camille said, her heart softening when she and Isabelle shared a knowing smile. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Would she care if you were?”
Camille considered this. Her mother was busy with her own life, the new one that she made for herself immediately upon their return to England. With each passing year, she seemed to throw herself deeper into her business, and with quite a bit of success.
She stopped by for holidays, birthdays, and the occasional school event. They even had the rare mother-daughter phone chat or lunch a few times a year. Their relationship was pleasant, better than some of Camille’s friends had with their mothers, but it wasn’t what anyone would define as close.
“I don’t usually share details of my life with her,” Camille replied with a shrug.
But then, she didn’t usually share details of her life with anyone. Not even, she realized with a twinge of guilt, with Isabelle.
“You got that from her,” Isabelle replied with another conspiratorial smile. “We both did.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Camille asked, intrigued.
“Oh, nothing like that.” Isabelle shook her head quickly. “I just mean that Mum isn’t exactly demonstrative. Even when she was married to Papa, he was the one who cuddled us and held our hands.”
It was true, not that Camille liked to reflect on that time in their lives or think of Papa as anything other than what he had turned out to be.
“Well, I’m not like Mum when it comes to Flora. She gets all the hugs she wants, whenever she wants, and sometimes even when she doesn’t. I tell her I love her all the time. Probably more than she wants to hear. Like, I shout it out the window at school drop-off.”
Isabelle laughed. “You don’t.”
Camille grinned. “I do.”
Isabelle shook her head but she was still smiling. “That’s the kind of mother I want to be.”
Camille’s hand froze mid-reach for her wineglass. This was the first time Isabelle had ever mentioned any interest in having a child. Up until now, she’d only ever seemed to find them inconvenient, which of course they would be if you were jet-setting all over the planet.
But now Isabelle was in Paris full-time.
Hugh, however, was not.
Camille opened her mouth to press her sister on this but then decided against it. Isabelle was probably just making conversation, keeping things light and relatable. They didn’t have much in common anymore, after all.
“You’re a good mother,” Isabelle said, and the look in her eyes told Camille that she meant it.
Coming from her sister, who had been there for her on those dark days and months when Camille needed someone, this was high praise. Of all the people in her life, she valued Isabelle’s opinion the most.
Other than Rupert’s.
Camille pinched her lips. There she went again.
“Flora’s growing up so fast,” she said wistfully. “Some days, I miss the little girl who used to hold my hand and skip beside me.”
Some days? More like most days.
Isabelle nodded along silently, no doubt growing bored by Camille’s tales of motherhood. Camille knew how it was. She would have probably been the same way, had she not had Flora.
But she knew just how lucky she was that she did have a child—and how frightfully close she could have come to never knowing her or loving her. Had she and Rupert not crossed the line that fateful night but remained friends, then she wouldn’t have her beautiful daughter and all the little irreplaceable moments that had transpired since then.
It didn’t seem possible, how close she had come to missing out on the best thing that had ever happened to her.
If she hadn’t taken a risk.
If she hadn’t opened her heart.
Camille sat a little straighter in her chair. Well, she’d tempted fate once and it had been on her side.
But she wouldn’t tempt it twice. She couldn’t.