Chapter 18 Gustave
Gustave
She wants to leave right after we eat, but Aubert, who can read a room better than most politicians, doesn’t let her. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”
Tara blinks. “I wasn’t planning to stay—”
“You should,” he cuts in, already rising. “It’s raining. You can’t leave in Paris in the rain. It’s against the law.”
I glance out of the windows. Sure enough, the city is cloaked in gray, rain droplets streaking down the glass in lazy trails.
She hesitates. Looks at me. I nod.
We sit in the living room and talk—well, Aubert and Tara talk, I watch them, mesmerized. I’ve never seen Aubert interact with Simone this way…but then it’s a nonsense comparison. Tara is only a decade older than Aubert, and they have LA in common.
They start talking about music, and discover a shared love for Los Fabulosos Cadillacs, an Argentinian ska band. Clearly, my son and woman have questionable taste in music.
That leads to other music they both like, which results in Aubert raiding my vinyl collection. “Let’s pick a soundtrack for the afternoon.”
Tara grins, relaxing. “I do love a good soundtrack.”
We spend the next hour sprawled across the large velvet rug in the salon, flipping through my old records and the ones Aubert’s collected from flea markets and dealers.
Tara pulls out a Francoise Hardy and immediately declares it perfect. Aubert puts it on.
We sit on the floor, drinking more coffee. Tara sways slightly to the music, humming along, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, wild and soft.
“What was it like growing up in LA?” Aubert asks her.
“Good! Normal, I guess.” She shrugs. “What I love about LA…and I felt it even more when I was working in Philly, is diversity. Food. People. Professions. Socio-economic statuses. It’s such an eclectic mix.”
Aubert stretches out, leaning against the couch, arms behind his head. “Paris is diverse…except when you climb the social circles, then it’s old and white.”
My son and I have never discussed race, so it’s interesting to hear his perspective on it.
“In the US, wealth is also old and white,” she reminds him.
They both look at me, and I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’m old and white. And like they say in America, so sue me.”
The morning turns into afternoon and then evening.
She tells us stories about visiting her abuela in Mexico City. About growing up with her sister, Marisol, who sounds like a delight. I learn more about her life because of Aubert’s curiosity—things Tara and I haven’t had time to discuss, given our short time together.
“I want to tour Mexico. Go backpacking. Is it safe?” Aubert asks.
“Yes! Well, as safe as any place is. You have to be as careful in Mexico and in LA as you have to be in Paris.”
We order takeout in the evening because we’re hungry. Greasy Chinese because Aubert insists.
All day, I can feel her questions.
She doesn’t understand why I let her meet my son when I won’t acknowledge her to the world. I trust Aubert. I can lie and say that’s the reason, but the truth is, I want my son to meet the woman I’ve fallen in love with.
She’s not just some woman in my bed; she’s in my apartment, on my rug, talking with my son.
Aubert takes selfies of the three of us laughing like loons. It feels normal, like we are a family. An ease that we don’t have with Simone.
I ask him to send me the pictures—something to treasure, keep with me, after she’s gone.
The one I love most is the photo where Tara is leaning back against my knee while I’m looking down at her, smiling. It isn’t posed. In another, my arm is around her, and Aubert leans in between us, his grin wide as Tara stretches her hand out to capture the perfect selfie.
I have a car take her home. I had wanted her to stay another night, but she told me that’s a bridge too far for her with Aubert here.
She’s also not ready to make this more than it is.
And I can’t fault her for it. After all, it’s what we decided.
No promises. No illusions.
Only three and a half months, slipping through our fingers.
I close the front door and lean against it for a moment, exhaling.
Aubert is waiting for me when I get back to the living room.
“Cognac?” I ask.
He nods. We take it to the porch that’s still wet from the rain, even though the skies have cleared.
He warms the amber liquid in his hands. “She’s lovely, Papa.”
I take a sip of cognac, nod. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention her to anyone.”
His gaze shifts to me. “Of course.”
“She’s not a secret,” I explain. “Not to you. But it’s not for public consumption.”
He gives a dry smile. “And Maman.”
“Oui.”
“But why?” He holds my gaze. “Do you think it’ll be a problem because she’s American or of Mexican descent?”
I drink a little more of the alcohol as I lean against the railing of the balcony. It’s wet and dampens my pants. “We’re from different worlds. Do you think she wants to live with a photographer in her face?”
“Celebrities live their lives the way they want. Also, Papa, you’re not even that famous,” he points out.
“You remember what happened with the divorce?”
He groans out loud. “You have to stop worrying so much about protecting me. I’m a grown-up. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want the drama. I doubt she wants it.”
“Have you asked her?” he challenges.
“Aubert, you don’t understand what—”
“Oh, please, Papa, don’t pull the ‘you’re too young’ card,” he snaps. “You like her. You really like her. You introduced me to her, which means she means a whole hell of a lot to you. Why not keep her?”
I clench my jaw. “I barely know her. And anyway, she leaves in August.”
“She can stay. I’m sure you can find her a job at the Louvre or at any of the many museums we have in Paris. She’s an art restorer…she can—”
“It’s temporary, Aubert.”
He glares at me. “You keep telling yourself that, but I know you, and I saw what I saw. What are you so scared of, Papa?”
Of losing myself. My way of life. Her…eventually.
“Relationships don’t last in our world, Aubert, which is why I want you far, far away from it for as long as possible.”
Ultimately, he’ll have to take over the business in some manner, oversee it. But while I’m alive, I’ll do everything to ensure he has a normal life, not one burdened by expectation.
“Papa.” Aubert puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tara is great. She’s bright. I doubt she cares about your money or your status.”
“She doesn’t.”
“But what I liked best….” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentle. “Was seeing you with her.”
I frown.
“I’ve never seen you look like that. Light.” And then, with mischief in his eyes, adds, “Younger, even.”
“I’m not that old,” I mutter.
He laughs. “You know what I mean. Seeing you together…it felt like joy.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My child saw too much.
I rub a hand over my jaw.
Aubert lets out a long exhale. “Your life is entirely your business, Papa, I know that. But for what it’s worth, I think she’s good for you. And I think you’re good for her. You know she’s madly in love with you, right?”
I close my eyes for a long moment.
I neither confirm nor deny his statement.
Yes, I know. Of course, I know. I’m not blind.
“Anyone who sees you together can see it. And you wear a glow that screams how you feel about her.” He tilts his head and smiles cheekily. “One look and Maman will know as I did.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re crazy in love with Tara.”