Chapter 13
Sabrina took time off to spend a quiet day by herself on the anniversary of Malcolm’s death in June.
She spoke to all three of her children in the morning.
They were each marking the date in their own way.
Justin and Arabella were decorating the nursery, assembling the crib, and were going to spend the day together.
Coco was working, but was going to church in Milan to light a candle.
Lizzie was spending it with friends, and was sure their father wouldn’t want them to be sad or lonely, which Sabrina believed might have been true.
They each had their own interpretation of his wishes for them.
Sabrina made the children’s favorite pancakes for breakfast, and they had school at the convent.
Geraldine was going to school with the others now, she was speaking freely, and appeared to be almost normal, except for occasional nightmares.
After she dropped them off, Sabrina drove to Ciboure to the harbor.
Malcolm’s boat had arrived, and was in its berth.
They had put it in the water a few days before, and she wanted to see it and make sure it had arrived safely.
It seemed like the right day to pay the Sabrina Fair a visit in her new home.
She saw it from the other end of the dock, and it tugged at her heart the minute she did.
It was inevitable that she remembered what had happened on that day a year before.
The end had been so painful and so wrenching, watching Malcolm slip away hour by hour and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Seeing the sailboat he loved reminded her of all the happy times they had spent on it together.
He loved sailing it alone with her. And he loved working on it to keep it beautiful.
It appeared not to have suffered from the trip, and was as beautiful as ever.
Sabrina remembered how proud he had been when he bought it.
They had sailed from Maine to Florida on it.
It seemed odd to see it in France now. It was like a piece of her former life floating there, a reminder of another era that seemed so long ago now, only a year later.
But she had filled the last six months well.
She still hadn’t bought an apartment in Paris, but she was happy in her rented chateau, even if it wasn’t what Malcolm had had in mind for her.
But the chateau had given her a whole new life.
She wished that she could speak to Malcolm, even one last time, to ask him what he thought she should do now.
Should she start her life all over again, or was she meant to be alone?
She couldn’t hang on their children, and didn’t want to.
Should she tell them what she thought about their decisions, or stay silent?
How had he foreseen the future for her after him?
He wanted to retire so they could travel.
But then what would they have done? What did he have in mind after that?
Did he have a plan, or none at all? And who was she supposed to be without him?
He still owned a piece of her heart, and always would.
She lay on the deck of the Sabrina Fair in the sun and thought about him.
Did he want to release her or hold on to her forever?
Did she have a right to another life after him?
She wasn’t sure, and who was she supposed to ask for permission?
Their children or herself? She didn’t have the answers when she covered the boat again and left the harbor, but she had a strange sense of peace in her heart.
She stopped at a little church in Biarritz and lit a candle.
And then she drove home to Arcangues. Malcolm’s absence still hurt terribly, but it wasn’t as sharp anymore.
Sometimes it was a dull pain, and at other times she felt peaceful, as she did now.
She pulled up in front of the chateau when she got there, and saw Xavier drive in behind her.
He stopped his car near where she was standing.
She seemed quiet to him, and he sensed something different in her.
“Are you okay?” he asked her. She didn’t keep secrets from him. He guessed them or found out anyway.
“It’s the anniversary today,” she said quietly. “It’s been a year.” His face clouded immediately, and he reached out and touched her hand.
“I’m sorry. Do you want company, or to be alone?” She didn’t have a ready answer, but it was comforting being with him.
“Maybe both.” She smiled. “Do you want to come for lunch?”
“I’ll bring lunch. I’ll meet you on the patio in ten minutes.
” She smiled and walked into the chateau.
Xavier drove to the dower house and met her as promised ten minutes later, with a baguette, foie gras, Brie, and some peaches, in a basket with plates and cutlery and a bottle of champagne.
“Maybe we should celebrate him,” he said cautiously.
“Would he have liked that?” He had brought two crystal flutes with the bottle.
“Probably. He loved to have fun. He was good company.” He was a great deal more than that, but a year later, what was left?
Which memories were the ones that mattered most?
He and Xavier were so different. Xavier was two years older but seemed younger.
Malcolm’s career had been bigger and more solid.
And Xavier’s had disintegrated. But Xavier listened to her in ways that Malcolm hadn’t, and Xavier cared about what she thought.
Malcolm had been a father figure even though he was only five years older.
He had been the dominant person in the relationship and she had never questioned it.
And she and Xavier were more like partners, or maybe that was only because they were friends.
Xavier spread out their picnic on a table on her patio, and they sat in the sun and talked about the hotel. It was all they did now.
“Will you help me hang the gallery show this weekend?” she asked him. “It really matters how you hang it, an inch can make a huge difference in how you see a painting, and so can what you hang next to it. I want to lay it out and hang it myself.”
“I’ll help you,” he said, smiling at her.
“Can we do it at night? I have meetings all day.” They were only weeks away now from the launch of the Empress Eugénie.
They were opening on the Fourteenth of July, on Bastille Day, and they both wanted everything to be perfect.
It already was, but he made small improvements constantly.
She had a feeling that he was having more fun than he ever had as a CEO, but she didn’t say it to him.
He and Pascal had gone over budget, but not by much.
And they had potential investors begging to invest in the hotel now.
It was almost a certainty that it would be profitable.
They had done everything right and people were excited about it, both locally and internationally.
Sabrina and Xavier sat quietly in the sun for a while, and then he had to go back to the hotel.
She lay alone in the sun and dozed, then picked the children up at school.
She stopped in to see her mural while she was there.
It was beautiful, and she was proud of it.
And The Color of Hope seemed like the perfect name for it, with its brilliant Arcangues Blue ark.
—
She didn’t tell the children that it was the anniversary of a sad day, and they had a nice dinner together. Her children called to check on her late in the day, and Xavier sent her a text. “Thinking of you. You are my color of hope. Kisses, X.”
Sabrina spent the rest of the week getting ready to curate the opening show.
She had some definites, and some maybes, a few yeses that turned into nos, and one no that became a yes.
She laid it all out on the floor several times, trying it out, moving it around like a jigsaw puzzle until she thought she knew how the show should look.
She left the children at the convent that night, so she could work late.
When she and Xavier met on Friday night to hang it, she had her tool kit with her, and he laughed.
He had worn a tool belt around his waist. They were both prepared.
She showed him what she had in mind, and he loved it.
He suggested one change, a swap of two paintings.
She tried it and liked it, and then moved one more painting to another wall and was satisfied. She looked up at him, smiling.
“We’re good to go.”
“Are you sure? No more changes?” he teased her.
“You can never be sure until they’re on the wall.”
“Okay, boss.” He had total faith in her artistic judgment.
“We’ll adjust the lights after it’s all up. That changes things too.”
“Are all curators this meticulous?” he asked her, as he held a painting against the wall for her and she nodded.
“They should be. I hang all my own shows in L.A., or I used to,” she said.
“You’ll thank me when we sell every piece we hang.
” He trusted her, as he did in all things.
Her judgment and her taste seemed to be infallible.
She had never made any enormous mistakes that he knew of, unlike him.
But she was delicate about his, and never touched on his mistakes, unlike Brigitte, who hit them with a sledgehammer and left him bleeding in the road.
Sabrina soothed his wounds and touched his scars gently. She was a profoundly kind person.