Chapter 27
Tara
The lunch rush is finally fading, and we are entering that brief, golden lull between chaos and cleanup.
Lola, Papi’s sous chef, is talking animatedly to a produce supplier on the phone. Papi is at the bar having a heated discussion with the bartender about what is better: mezcal or tequila. My vote goes to mezcal.
In the dining room, the guests are either finishing up lunch or waiting for their checks.
Well, except for our table of regulars, three old men in Dodgers caps arguing about baseball while sharing a bucket of beers.
They come in when we open at eleven in the morning and leave when we close at ten in the evening.
I’m wiping down a table when the bell above the door jingles. I look up, ready to tell whoever walked in that the kitchen’s closed and we’re only serving drinks.
I smile wide when I see who it is. “Aubert!”
He seems taller, which is absurd since I saw him only a few weeks ago.
He hugs me, lifting me off my feet for a second. “So good to see you, Tara.”
I laugh, breathless. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he says simply.
I lead him toward the bar where my father is. “Papi, this is Aubert.”
My father wipes his hands on a towel and reaches over the counter to shake Aubert’s hand. “So, you are also here all the way from Paris?”
Aubert nods politely. “Yes, sir.”
“Call me Juan.”
“Nice to meet you, Juan, sir,” Aubert repeats with a grin.
“Get the boy a drink, mija.” My father chuckles as he walks back to the kitchen.
“Only non-alcoholic for you, Aubert.” I pull a glass from the shelf. “Drinking age is twenty-one here in the States.”
Aubert sighs dramatically. “And that would be the only drawback of studying in America. I took a tour of USC this morning and wow! I really want to go there.”
“So, you’re officially done with your bac, huh?” I slide a tall glass of lemonade toward him, condensation already beading down the sides, then lean my elbows on the bar counter in front of him.
“Yeah. I’m interviewing for an internship at the L.A. Times.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but I can see he’s practically bouncing at the idea of working at an American newsroom. “It’s at the sports desk! Not exactly world-changing journalism, but if I get it, I get a press badge and free coffee.”
“You just want access to the Lakers locker room,” I tease.
“Oui!” Aubert admits. “And maybe meet LeBron.”
I laugh, and it’s easy, like it always is with Aubert, as it used to be with Gustave.
Then his expression softens. “Tara, Papa told me what happened with the Louvre and your job in Philadelphia. I’m so sorry. How are you doing?”
I half-shrug. “Fine.”
He tilts his head knowingly. “I’m so sorry. Maman can be…vicious.”
Giselle had made it sound like Gustave was the one who’d fired me, but it was Simone. Still, Gustave could’ve stopped it. In fact, he should’ve stopped it.
“Papa said you didn’t want to go back to the Louvre,” Aubert adds carefully.
I straighten. “Aubert—”
“I know, I know,” he cuts me off. “What happened was awful. I told Papa it wasn’t you, but he sometimes acts without thinking.”
“I’m not going to discuss your father with you,” I say gently but firmly. “You understand, right?”
He rolls his eyes in that teenage way that makes me laugh despite myself. “I don’t get you grown-ups. You’re two people in love. Why can’t you make it work?”
That stops me cold. My heart does a little painful twist. Gustave told him he loves me? He told his son he loves me?
Dios mio!
I clear my throat, not wanting to dwell on that. “You hungry?”
“Oui!” Aubert says eagerly. “Papa told me the food was amazing when he was here yesterday. He wouldn’t shut up about the salsa.”
Obviously, Gustave was openly talking to Aubert about us, about me.
I motion for him to follow me into the kitchen. “Did your father send you here to butter me up?”
“Absolutely,” he admits without shame.
I narrow my eyes. “He shouldn’t involve you in this.”
“Too late,” he replies cheerfully. “I’m already very involved and invested.”
We step into the kitchen and find Papi standing over a massive pot, humming to Vicente Fernández.
“Tara, sirvele algo*, si?” he calls over his shoulder.
“I’m on it, Papi.”
I plate two tamales, drizzle them with green sauce, and set them in front of Aubert.
Aubert takes a bite and immediately closes his eyes. “Mon dieu.”
“None of that French blasphemy in my kitchen,” Papi says with mock sternness.
“It’s delicioso*, Juan, sir.”
“Good to hear, mijo*.”
Aubert eats like a man starved.
“I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your messages,” I admit softly. “It…hurt too much.”
He looks up, eyes solemn. “It hurt him, too…once he realized…ah…qu’il avait la tête dans le cul…do you say that in English?”
“Is he saying his father has his head up his ass?” Papi remarks as he passes by us to get to the pantry.
“Juan, sir, you speak French?” Aubert exclaims.
“Un poquito*,” Papi says before he disappears into the pantry.
Aubert smirks. “I like your father.”
“Everyone does,” I say softly. I love seeing Aubert here. Love that he likes my father.
Aubert eats a little and then gives me a sheepish look. “Can I tell you something?”
I send him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Depends. Is it about your father?”
“Oui, but don’t throw a tortilla at me.”
Despite myself, I am amused. Aubert is a sweetheart, no two ways about it. “No promises.”
He grins but sobers quickly. “After everything happened…I’ve never seen him like that…he was broken. He was also angry, but that was mostly at himself. He drank too much. Usually, he ignores how he feels…you know, becomes le Comte. But this time, he was…a man. Miserable.”
I exhale slowly, not sure what to do with that information.
“I know he messed up.” Aubert puts his hand on mine. “He knows that, too. He said he treated you like…like a problem to manage, not the woman he loves.”
Yesterday, Gustave told me he loved me, and now Aubert is telling me, repeatedly, that his father loves me. Dios mio! But these men know how to put pressure on a woman.
“I told him that Maman was the one who sent the photo to the tabloid. She got it from my phone.” His jaw tightens.
“I didn’t know she knew my passcode. Papa was furious.
He threatened to take everything away from her.
Maman has some family money, but Papa has more, and it’s the de Valois name that gives her… you know….social power.”
I run a hand over my face. I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to know how Gustave finally defended me. I don’t want to be a weak idiot who gives in to the man she loves after he treated her like…what did Aubert say?
A problem to solve.
Like hell!
“He did remove Maman from the de Valois foundation. So…no hanging around the Louvre or any of that. And told her if she ever said one bad thing about you, he’d take the rest away.” Aubert seems super impressed with his father.
“The rest?”
“Yeah. He told her that if she ever tried to hurt you again, he’d make sure she was living in her sister’s attic in Marseille.” He gives a short laugh. “Maman didn’t take that well.”
No kidding!
He lowers his voice. “He also got Giselle fired.”
“He what?” Color me shocked!
“Papa is usually laid back about his influence. You know because he’s a de Valois.”
I did know that, so I nodded.
“He doesn’t show it off or use it often.”
No, he just kowtows to the demands of being a de Valois…whatever that means.
I pour myself a glass of lemonade because this conversation is making my throat dry. “Giselle will be fine, I’m sure.”
Aubert snorts. “I don’t think so, Tara. Papa’s made sure she’ll never work in any major European museum again.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
“He hates himself for not believing you. He said”—Aubert hesitates, eyes darting down, then meets mine again, earnest—“you’re the only person in his life he can be himself with.”
I’m not sure what to do with everything Aubert told me.
Gustave is behaving like a man in love; like a man who is remorseful for what he did…and what he didn’t.
I look at Aubert as a thought strikes. “How did your Papa find me?”
Aubert’s eyes lit up with mischief. “I totally stalked your sister’s Instagram.”
“You what?”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “I follow Marisol. She posts everything—her projects at UCI, her roommate’s cat, your mom’s jewelry shop, the restaurant…. She tagged Mi Tierra in a photo of your dad making tacos. A photo with you in it, saying her sister was back from her Parisian adventure.”
“More like misadventure.” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Oh, Marisol….”
“She’s got great social media game,” Aubert adds unhelpfully. “And you should see the comments. Everyone loves your family. You’re like celebrities.”
I lower my hands and give him a stern look. “Social media is the bane of our existence.”
“Better than a GPS,” he says proudly. “Papa was…is grateful. If I asked for a Ferrari, I’d get it.”
“A Ferrari? In Paris? In that traffic, you’re better off walking.”
He finishes the last of his tamale, and muses, “But in LA?”
“Aubert, I never thought you were the Ferrari kind.”
“I’m not! I’m making a point about how grateful Papa is.” He drinks his lemonade. “I have a bicycle in Paris. Do you think I can navigate my life here with that and the Metro?”
“Depends upon where you go to school and where you live.”
He pushes his empty plate away, lounges back, and studies me with his storm-gray, intelligent eyes that are so much like his father’s—only softer.
“He loves you, Tara,” he says. There is no pretense, no hesitation. “And I don’t think he’s ever loved anyone before…well, except me.”
“The boy is campaigning hard for his father,” Papi announces as he comes out of the pantry.
“Are you eavesdropping, Papi?” I accuse.
“This is my kitchen, mija,” he replies unabashedly. “So, Aubert, what’s the plan, huh?”
Aubert gave Papi a wickedly pleased look. “I’m on assignment, Juan, sir. I call it: Operation Win Back Tara.”
Papi walks up to us and puts an arm around Aubert. “I like this boy, Tara. I like him better than his father.”
“Everyone does, Juan, sir,” Aubert says cheekily.
Papi gives Aubert a measured look. “Mijo, you cleaned your plate. I like that. You stay, eh? I’ll teach you how to make proper Mexican food. None of that Tex-Mex nonsense.”
Aubert laughs, easy and warm. “Thank you, Juan, sir, though I have no idea what that Tex-Mex nonsense is.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” Papi leads him away to the pot of pozole as he explains to Aubert what hominy is.
As I watch them—my father and his son—connecting in my family’s kitchen, surrounded by home and comfort, I realize something I haven’t dared admit, which is that I’m not angry anymore.
I’m frightened.
* Serve him something (Spanish)
* Delicious; masculine (Spanish)
* Darling; male (Spanish)
* A little bit (Spanish)