Chapter 31 Cateline #2
I’ve only been to the Opéra national de Paris on the talent side of the curtain. If Giselle were here, we’d both be squealing. Instead, it’s just me.
When we enter the venerated and stately building, captured by the grandeur of it all, I feel like a little girl all over again. The lights, the balconies, and the gilded woodwork are magnificent. We have prime seats for the performance, Giselle.
“Don’t you have a cousin named Giselle?” Connor asks.
“My mother and aunt competed over whose daughter would be the prima ballerina.”
“Is there a ballet named Cateline?”
“No. My father picked it. My mother was furious, which made her even more determined to see me on that stage.”
“And you made it.”
“I made it,” I answer, not feeling as bitter as I used to.
When the show begins, I watch with awe and reverence.
At one point, Connor leans in and whispers, “See that move? I can do that one.”
I hold back a laugh, but smile and quietly scold him to be quiet. Yet, I cannot get enough of his joking, the way he smiles at me, and how thoughtful this trip is, especially when I’m supposed to be assessing his behavior. He gets an easy A, an outstanding five stars.
Afterward, I can’t stop talking about the details and skills the dancers possess.
“So, you’re happy?” Connor asks as we walk hand in hand along the canal on the way to dinner.
“This is much better than finding googly eyes in my office.”
He kisses the back of my hand. “That’s because it’s not a prank.”
We pause on a bridge.
“Connor, what is this?” I ask.
He kisses my hand again. “This means I’m happy because you’re happy.”
“No, I mean this.” I wave my hand between us.
“This means I proved that I’m not a caveman.”
“This means that you passed the program.” But there’s more to us than coach and student. However, I don’t want to think about what’s going to change when the thirty days are over. I don’t want to think about not being able to return to Concordia, having to close the school, and start over.
What will I do instead? Change has been happening and it started with my heart, led to Connor, back home now, and then where?
The next day, we rent a car and pass through Orleans on our way to my hometown.
It’s a snapshot, frozen in time since I was last here so many years ago. Old wine barrels overflow with flowers, Monsieur Martin sweeps the sidewalk in front of his patisserie, the bistro tables are as white as ever, and the pigeons peck for crumbs.
It’s as cute and quaint as I remember it, yet nerves dance in my belly, but they don’t perform a graceful ballet. It’s more of a stomp-march. The heavy feeling persists as I worry about seeing my mother again. My father works constantly, so it’s debatable whether he’ll even be home.
As the car rumbles up the rock-strewn road, a slender figure stands in front of the white house with chipped paint. Years of winter weather gusting off the river gave it a beating. A second figure joins the first. They’re stiff and unsmiling. Mère and Père.
Connor brings the car to a stop. “I take it the Berghiers aren’t known for their warm welcomes.”
“Are you referring to when we first met?” I ask.
His lips lift with amusement. “Though it turned out okay. I think this will too.”
I’m not so sure. My hand rests on the door handle. “Did you feel like this when we arrived at the cabin?” I ask, gazing through the windshield.
“If you’re feeling numb, then yes. If you’re feeling nervous, then no, but I’m here for you.”
I let out a sigh. “More like somewhere in between. It’s like fizzy bubbles from soda when they go up your nose—”
He chuckles.
“Trepidation and a little bit like I’m eighteen all over again.” I sense I pressed rewind and am reverting to the girl I was when I left.
“Has it been that long?”
“It’s been that long,” I confirm.
“Just think, after my visit, I came out the other side better. Stronger. So will you.”
Connor exits the car first, walks around to the passenger side, and helps me out. We walk hand in hand to greet my parents.
My mother gives me a surprisingly warm hug. My dad pats me on the back.
They ask, “Is this your bodyguard?”
I laugh and translate.
Connor smirks. “You could say that.”
I explain that I’m his coach from Blancbourg and he’s a football player for the Boston Bruisers.
He looks like he wants to say more, but holds back because even without the language barrier, their expressions convey a lot. Relief and wariness. Joy and anger. It’s hard to tell. Connor was right. The Berghiers don’t necessarily wear their emotions on their sleeve.
They invite us inside for coffee. Even though I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, being back here doesn’t feel like home. It’s oddly formal and stiff, but not like the etiquette that I teach. It’s almost like I never lived here. Like I’m a stranger.
Connor remains a warm and friendly but protective presence. He sits upright and minds his manners. No kicking his feet on the table and rocking back in his chair.
After my mother brings coffee and biscuits, I tell my parents what I’ve been doing.
When my aunt and uncle come up—Giselle’s parents—they exchange bitter words.
My mother has always been jealous of her sister for finding her way out of farm life and making a new one abroad.
Not that anyone needs to leave to be successful.
Some people are meant to spread their wings and fly, while others do better remaining in the nest. Connor and I are fliers, survivors, and success stories in our own ways.
I tell them about our trip to the United States and camping—I leave the part out about my visa expiring and not being allowed back in Concordia. Every few minutes, I catch Connor up so he’s not lost in the conversation. He cuts in a couple of times, adding details for me to translate.
My parents are noticeably aloof and don’t warm to him at all. Perhaps I should explain to them what Connor means to me.
What does he mean to me?
His copper eyes meet mine and I melt a little. His lips are lifted in a friendly smile as he makes an effort to endear himself to Dauphin and Henri Berghier.
Good luck, buddy. I tried for eighteen years and couldn’t pull it off.
But that aside, Connor is my future and I hope that I’m his.
We’re relaying the story of when we crossed over the rapids, which, looking back, is a funny and fond memory of me crawling across a log, when the front door opens.
A gust of unseasonably chilly air ushers in a man with a curl to his lip. The low line of his brow is all too familiar. He’s the sort that remained in the nest and right now I’d prefer he’d stay here, possibly locked in a birdcage.
My parents welcome Gaston like their long-lost son.
They fuss over him and ask if he’s hungry or thirsty, like he’s their ticket to whatever remains of their dream for me to be a successful ballerina.
I hate to state the obvious, but that ship has sailed.
What Connor said shortly after we met about burning the boats comes to mind.
I thought I’d burned this bridge when I left, but in a few long strides, Gaston crosses the room and lifts me out of the chair like I’m a sack of grain. He exclaims in French that I’m as beautiful as ever and is pleased that I finally came to my senses and returned home.
Without thinking, I rattle off a friendly greeting in contrast to the way I feel—like a python chokes me. Like I’m a helpless, pathetic teenager again, subject to my mother and Gaston’s desires. That I have to do what they say or else...
Coming to my senses, I push myself free from the arrogant brute my parents always wanted me to marry. He could use a few weeks at Blancbourg.
Gaston casts a dark look at Connor, who’s gotten to his feet. He stands several inches taller than Gaston, but they’re both muscular and well-built—the former from football and the latter from ballet and manual labor.
Connor extends his hand, all alpha, as if claiming his territory. “Connor Wolfe, nice to meet you.”
Gaston tips his chin up slightly and scoffs. He doesn’t offer his hand to shake. “I don’t see a ring on her finger,” Gaston speaks in broken English.
I press my shoulders back. “Let me remind you that I am not a thing to be bartered between families.”
“No, you’re a silly girl who leaves her family.” Gaston looks down at me like I’m a shame to the Berghier name.
“I’m a woman from a silly family who wanted me to become a famous dancer so they could have more money,” I say in French, not to be rude, but because I don’t want Connor to see me at their mercy.
Gaston clenches his fists. “You abandoned them and me.”
“You cheated on me multiple times. I went and got a college education and—”
“They sacrificed everything for you.”
“I didn’t ask them to do so. They made choices for me before I could make them for myself.” The seams of my life unravel before my eyes. Everything I worked so hard for comes apart in this simple exchange. I feel trapped and like they’ll try to keep me here all over again.
My pulse batters my chest and it’s hard to breathe.
“Cat, are you okay?” Concern pierces Connor’s eyes as he’s likely thinking about my heart.
I nod and stifle a sniffle. I can’t let them or him see me come undone.
“Come on now, don’t make a scene, Cateline,” my father says.
“Gaston has missed you all this time,” my mother adds.
I take note that they didn’t miss me.
“Now that you’re back, we can pick up where we left off,” Gaston says.
It’s obvious my parents told him about my visit and still want me to marry him. Aside from us being former dance partners, it would benefit their status in the community.
Connor steps closer and his gaze sweeps over me. “Hey, Kitty Cat.” His voice is low and gentle, bringing my focus to him alone. I block out everything else in the room. Apparently, he does too.
“When we were in Paris, you asked what this means.” He motions between us. “You taught me to be a gentleman. You taught me to love you. I want you to be Mrs. Wolfe.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. Tears pinch the corners of my eyes, but they’re the happy kind. For the first time since entering this house, I can breathe.
I plant a kiss on his lips and say, “I like the sound of Madame Wolfe.”