Chapter 29 #3
“Going back means I can stick to the rules of the purchase, like not leaving the house empty for over seven weeks, doing home improvements over a five-year schedule, and participating in local matters—like getting the village some internet.”
“And you’re just leaving your eighteen-year-old daughter to fend for herself?”
“Sabine’s taking a gap year.”
“What!” said Iris.
“Hell’s bells,” said Bill.
“I’ll defer my acceptances,” said Sabine. “It’ll be fine.”
“This is how it begins,” said Iris.
Bill got up and paced. “Deferring one year isn’t the end of the world, I suppose. She’ll get a job. It’ll be good for her.”
“Actually, Sabine’s going to travel.”
“See?” said Iris.
“Not everything is about work,” said Marlow.
“But you need to support yourself,” said Bill. “What if you can’t get remote work? What will you do? Forage for mushrooms with that man, Sylvain? Sell them by the side of the road?”
“I’m actually thinking of starting a h?tel disséminé.
That’s the French version of the albergo diffuso—what they call it in Italy.
It’s what Camille did in Montsouris, and what we could do in Mirabelle.
Madame Belleville offered us her place—it’s giant.
And there are several other houses we could use, and the businesses on the square—it could work. ”
“Oh for God’s sake,” said Iris.
“Now’s probably a pretty good time to say I had my eye on the restaurant,” said Noah. “I asked Rémy about it at the fundraiser. It’s up for one euro, too—”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” said Bill.
“You’d come to Mirabelle, open a restaurant?” asked Marlow.
“Why not?” said Noah. “Pierre will help me translate with Rémy. And in case you’re wondering, I’d check to make sure there weren’t any back taxes.”
“It’s a goddamned mutiny,” said Bill.
“I’m thrilled Sabine wants to take a year off,” said Marlow. “She has the rest of time to work hard—I mean, that’s all she’s ever done. She’s not going to wreck her life. I guarantee it.”
“So do I,” said Sabine.
“What about your commitments here?” asked Iris. “Are you abandoning those?”
“I only have the coach-house, our lease is up January 1, but I’m pretty sure my friend Gustavo from work will sublet it. Our rent will be covered.”
“You’re throwing everything away. You’ll regret it,” said Bill.
Marlow looked at her overwrought parents and suddenly felt compassion for them.
They’d pictured things differently for their children.
Bill thought Marlow would get into finance, even if she had to start at the secretarial level.
Once, after too many scotches, he’d said that when Marlow had gotten straight As in math and business during her high school graduating year, he’d pictured them starting an investment firm together—something small but mighty.
He’d apparently also pictured walking her down the aisle to marry some mutual fund manager.
Iris had likely pictured leisurely Sunday afternoons at the yacht club, then having her children and grandchildren home for pot roast. Marlow had focused on how embarrassed by her they’d always been, not their concern at a missed opportunity for something safe, stable, and secure.
It was too bad how much time they’d all spent in their own heads. Maybe things could be different now.
“I agree with your father,” said Iris. “You’ll regret this folly.”
“I don’t think so,” said Marlow. “Nothing’s for sure, but at this moment, I’m giving up on productivity, ambition, the chase, and yes, OK, success. I’m just going to be for a bit.”
“This is that work–life balance bullshit I’ve read about,” said Bill. “You’ll snap out of it when you remember nothing’s free.”
Marlow, Noah, and Sabine said nothing. There was silence at the table.
“Can I see you in private for a moment?” Iris asked, code for wanting to speak her mind but realizing they’d lost the advantage. She stood up. Her napkin fell to the carpet.
“Get dessert going,” she said to Noah as she headed for the living room. Bill followed.
“You’re going to rock this,” said Noah. He went into the kitchen.
“Uncle Noah’s right,” said Sabine, clearing plates and heading after him.
Marlow stared at the chandelier. Its crystals cast rainbow sparkles onto the wood paneling. What did the future hold?
Luc had talked about life in Mirabelle being simple and affordable. He wanted the best for her, but he was also happy to have her just be, which was all she wanted right now.
And him. Maybe she wanted him, too.
She pulled out her phone and sent him a WhatsApp:
You can finish my portrait next week. See you in your studio.
Rémy surely had more fonctionnaire curveballs in store.
And she had not been happy about the new competition for the “mayor of Mirabelle” honorific.
Marlow had no idea how to apply for a French work permit, or, for that matter, start a h?tel disséminé.
And could she write a new screenplay and finally shoot a real feature film, not just a cool fourteen seconds on Instagram?
She’d been a little lost in France. But like Monsieur Dupuis, the man in Guillaume’s story who’d originally bought Maison Perdue, she’d found the path to her new home with a little help from friends.
She was OK.
Yes, lost. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.