Chapter 30
JAKE
I hung up the phone and stared at it, wondering why I’d lied to Olivia when I told her I was in Shanghai.
I’d been back in Moustiers for a few days.
And in that time, it had become clear to me that my trip to Asia had done nothing to change how empty the house still felt and how much I wanted to hear her voice.
But I resisted the urge to call her. It would have been selfish of me and a distraction for her.
Besides, nothing had changed. I was still the emotionally barren man I’d been when she left. I just had more free time on my hands.
She deserved better than that.
In a moment of weakness, I’d invited my mother to visit.
I’d gone through that scrapbook she’d kept of my achievements again and realized there were things I needed to know about my childhood and about him that only she could answer.
It was just a coincidence that she was coming the weekend of Lucie’s wedding. Or was it?
I slumped down in my chair and ran my hand over the package I’d received earlier.
My address was written on the envelope in Lucie’s curling script, and I already had an idea of what I’d find inside.
I slid my thumb beneath the corner of the envelope, tearing it open to find a photo of myself staring back at me.
“Fuck,” I mumbled as I flipped through the pages of the magazine, painfully recalling that weekend. It wasn’t like I didn’t replay those moments a dozen times a day in my head, berating myself for not having been stronger.
As I continued to flip through the magazine, my phone rang, and Lucie’s name flashed across the screen. I picked it up. “Speak of the devil. I just opened the magazine.”
“You’re only now looking through it? I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for your feedback,” she chastised. “ Alors , what do you think?”
“It’s an amazing magazine, Lucie. You should be proud of yourself.” I tossed the offending photo aside. “You did, however, neglect to tell me that my face would be splashed all over the front of it. I thought I’d be hidden somewhere toward the end.”
“Are you kidding? Have you seen the other men we featured? I don’t think they would have sold many copies.” Lucie huffed.
“You could’ve warned me.”
“Then you would have said no.” Well, there was no arguing with that. “So now that you’re back in France, can I count on seeing you at my wedding?”
I sighed. “You know weddings aren’t really my thing. Couldn’t I just offer you an expensive gift, and we can pretend I was there for the awkward dancing?”
“Ha! I knew you would try to get out of it. Would it tempt you if I told you Olivia will be there?” she cooed.
“You’ve kept in touch?” I tried to imagine Lucie and Olivia hanging out but couldn’t.
“We had drinks a couple weeks ago. She’s lovely. Maybe a little bit too sweet. I’m afraid I might corrupt her.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
“Does that mean you’ll come?” I could hear the scheming behind the innocent question.
“No, my mother will be here that weekend.”
“Bring her!” she insisted.
“Lucie, we both know I’m not coming.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” she needled, and I could almost imagine her pouting over the phone. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed that you’ll come to your senses.”
* * *
My mother and I hadn’t seen each other since my father had passed away, and then it was only to meet with his lawyer to sign papers for the inheritance.
So it was strange to see her stepping out of the black BMW that dropped her off from the airport.
She was as elegant as ever in a loose white cotton dress, her pale blonde hair pulled back in a chignon, and oversized black sunglasses obscuring most of her face.
“Moeder,” I mumbled as I kissed her cool cheek. The scent of Chanel N°5 enveloped me, evoking memories of other awkward embraces and of the ghostly trail of perfume she always left behind when she abandoned me to the babysitter.
“Jakob,” she said as I bent to pick up her suitcase, and she slid her sunglasses off, surveying the house. “My goodness, this is much larger than I expected. You must have a lot of visitors.”
The subtext wasn’t lost on me: I had plenty of space; why hadn’t I ever invited her?
“Yeah, people do tend to just show up and expect a room.” I thought of the few times that had happened this summer and then, of course, my mind drifted to the one guest I never wanted to leave.
As I showed her around, she sniffed. “I don’t understand why you don’t spend more time here instead of traveling for most of the year.”
“It just never really felt like home.” Until this summer .
“Well, you certainly wouldn’t know that.
” She gestured at the herb garden, the artfully placed candles, the antique vases, and painted ceramic bowls and other objects that Olivia had collected over the summer.
I hadn’t touched anything since Olivia left, and her presence was everywhere.
“It looks like someone loves this place.”
A knowing smile tugged at my mother’s lips.
I didn’t respond. And frankly, it surprised me that she was curious.
She’d never asked about girlfriends or pressured me to get married.
She’d never once mentioned grandchildren, and I always imagined that, given her resistance to motherhood, the idea of having grandkids to take care of held little appeal.
“You have a cat?” She nodded toward the bowl of half-eaten cat food on the terrace.
“He’s more of the village cat, but for some reason he likes it best here.” The cat and I had made a tentative peace since I’d been back. Though I still caught him searching for Olivia, and I was sure he was holding a grudge against me for scaring her away.
I showed my mother to her bedroom—the guest suite that had been overrun with boxes.
Olivia had redecorated it with the old photos she’d found.
My mother studied each photograph as if she were discovering a Renaissance masterpiece at the Louvre, even pulling her bifocals on to study a glamorous portrait of herself at Les Deux Magots.
“I certainly was pretty here.” She smiled. “Did I tell you that I’ve started modeling for an ad campaign for de Bijenkorf? I may even do a runway show in Paris for fashion week this fall. Can you imagine? At my age?”
“Why not?” I wondered aloud. “You’re still stunning.”
She peered over her glasses at me. “Is that a compliment? I don’t know if you’ve ever given me one before.”
I would have given you thousands if you’d been around to hear them . “Of course I have, but maybe not enough.”
She sighed. “And I haven’t given you enough either. I’m so impressed with all you’ve accomplished, Jakob. You should know that. And I’m so pleased to finally see it all in person. Thank you for inviting me.”
This sudden effusion of emotion baffled me. Was this the same woman who’d raised me? My mother had clearly changed since she’d left my father and moved back to the Netherlands.
“Are you hungry? I thought we could go to a restaurant tonight,” I suggested.
“Oh, why don’t we make something here? I can make a nice salad. With fish maybe? And you can choose an expensive bottle of wine from your cellar.”
“You cook?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment.
“You’re like your grandmother, amazed that I know what a frying pan is. Yes, I have enrolled in cooking classes. I don’t always enjoy it, but it was a challenge I set for myself.” She plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you some frikandellen . Your grandmother’s recipe.”
The image of my mother frying sausages over a hot stove, draped in pearls and a Hermès scarf, while my ninety-year-old grandmother supervised, was so strange I almost laughed. My grandmother was the consummate homemaker, always feeding me whenever we went back to the Netherlands for the summer.
“I’ll have to visit her soon,” I promised. “I’d like to see you cook for her in person. I have a hard time imagining it.”
“Well, you will see. She likes my cooking. Most of the time.” She smoothed her hair and studied me. “And there is someone else who likes my cooking that I want you to meet.”
“Really? A boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say it was boyfriend.” Before the implications of that hit me, she was up and walking toward the door. “Now, show me your kitchen.”
* * *
By the end of the next day, my mother had revealed herself to be not only a decent cook, but an amateur of new age philosophy who was happily pursuing a polyamorous relationship.
She was also eager to make amends for my miserable childhood. I’d brought out the scrapbook, and we’d gone year by year through the pages. “I have much guilt, Jakob,” she admitted. “I never wanted to be a mother. I tried it but failed miserably. So I do understand why you don’t want children.”
“Actually, it’s not that I don’t want children,” I answered, surprising myself. “I just don’t want to end up like him .”
There I’d said it out loud, admitted that my father’s shadow still hung over me despite all I did to construct my identity in opposition to him.
Deep down I was terrified that I’d wake up one day and see him staring back at me in the mirror.
I’d already inherited his fucked up emotional legacy, and I sure as hell didn’t want to pass it on to anyone else.
“You’re not like him,” she said adamantly. “Except in the way that put yourself away in your little box. I was the one who suggested it when you were small because you were such a sensitive little boy. I wish I hadn’t now.”
A memory came back of her comforting me after the cat incident. Telling me he couldn’t hurt me if I tucked myself away inside somewhere where he could never reach me. I’d applied that to nearly every area of my life since then. The shock of understanding had me reeling.
“I’m just so relieved that despite having your father as a role model, you still turned out to be a good man. And I hope that one day we will be closer. I would like to get to know this man you have become.”
And again, to my utter astonishment, I found myself saying, “I’d like that too.”
She lit a cigarette and continued. “I can’t help but feel that you are unhappy somehow.
And I just want to say that it is never too late to change.
To open yourself to other people. I learned that lesson too late, but now, I’m trying to fill what’s left of my life with people I care about.
That’s why I want you to be a part of it.
Even if I don’t deserve your love or forgiveness. ”
My throat constricted. I’d held on to my resentment of her for so long, it was hard to let go of the childish belief that either of my parents had known what the hell they were doing.
As an adult, I understood now that we were all just trying to figure life out as we went along.
Maybe my parents hadn’t done their best, but they were only human after all.
Maybe it was time to forgive them and stop hiding myself away in that damn glass box.
“And as for what the future will bring. I’m sure the universe will give you a sign.”
I rolled my eyes. That was a step too far. I was not about to start praying to the universe. “I don’t believe in signs.”
We packed away the old albums and she agreed to let me treat her to dinner.
On the drive down to the coast, I pulled up to the Domaine de la Ruche.
Harvesting was nearly finished, and old Reynaud was sitting on his terrace with some of the local men and women who’d come out to help.
It dawned on me that I could actually participate in the harvest this year.
“You know, I have some time on my hands. I could help you with the fermentation next week,” I told him, excitement bubbling up in me like champagne at the prospect. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
“ Enfin !” He laughed and patted me on the back. “I’ve been waiting years for this.”
He insisted on showing my mother around the vineyard and I could tell he was smitten, just as he had been with Olivia.
I was watching the sun setting over the vines, turning the sky a magnificent coral and purple, when my mother came rushing back toward me. “You must take a photo. Quickly, quickly.”
She spun around, opening her arms up to the sky, striking a pose. Shaking my head at this new hippie version of her, I took a couple shots of her alone and then one with Reynaud.
“It’s a pity you don’t have your Leica anymore. Although the phone now is almost as good,” she said. “You’ll send me the photo before you forget?”
“Sure.” I knew I would forget. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used the phone for anything other than checking email or taking calls.
I scrolled through the photos, sending them to her as I went. When I got to the last photo of her with Reynaud, I swiped left, and another image appeared, knocking the wind out of me.
I stared at the screen unable to believe what I was seeing. At first glance it was identical to the portrait I’d taken all those years ago of Olivia’s grandparents, the one I’d hung on to as proof that real love did exist.
But the couple in the picture wasn’t the Petersons. It was us. It was the photo of Olivia and me that Claire had taken in her vineyard.
We were both laughing. Olivia was leaning into me, and I had my arm around her like it was the most natural thing in the world, my face half-buried in her hair while King jumped at my side.
I remembered everything about that day—the golden light filtering through the leaves, Olivia’s laughter wrapping around me, Claire’s exasperated cry, and the dog’s excited barking. I remembered how right it felt to hold Olivia in my arms. Most of all, I remembered how I hadn’t wanted to let her go.
So why had I?
“Jakob, are you all right?” I heard my mother’s voice through a tunnel.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I knew is that I’d had something beautiful, and I’d let it go.
I prayed it wasn’t too late to get it back.