Chapter Eleven
Eleven
How much life could she cram into two and a half days? Zelie gave Elise a push on the swing secured from a tree limb, soaking in her little girl’s giggles even as she snuck another glance at where Blaise sat with a book, ignoring them.
His mood had quickly plummeted last night as they had dinner and got caught up. Had he thought she was coming to join them for good? Taking him out of school? She’d never said anything to make him think that likely, but every mention of Marseille or Pau or Paris had his frown deepening.
He’d scarcely said two words to her this morning—as opposed to Elise, who’d been chattering nonstop in a way that at once charmed Zelie and left her struggling to keep up.
She’d grown accustomed to succinct reports, quick exchanges, and mountains of paperwork.
A far cry from a talkative six-year-old who fluttered from topic to topic like the butterflies she’d apparently chased all over the countryside that summer.
Zelie had clearly been spending too much time at her desk. Her arms ached from the pushing. She stuck it out as long as she could, then declared with a laugh, “Maman needs a break. Swing on your own for a while?”
She was perfectly capable, of course. Elise pumped her legs and belted out a nonsense song as Zelie angled away from the swing and toward Blaise. She sat beside him on the step to the kitchen door.
He didn’t even look up.
“Grand-maman mentioned needing a few things from town today,” she said, glancing down at his book. He hadn’t turned many pages in the half hour since he’d planted himself on the step. “Would you come with me to pick them up?”
“Why? You don’t need me for that.” His tone was too hard for a boy who’d just turned ten. Too bitter.
Her eyes burned. Blast the tears, so close to the surface ever since she’d learned of Navarre’s arrest. I’m not like you. I only want to keep my children safe. Josette’s parting words speared through Zelie anew.
Guilt burned at the wound, eating away at her like acid. She was doing this for them, always for them. But how to explain that? How to convince a child that the separation was necessary, for their protection?
She reached out to smooth his hair down.
He ducked. Scooted a few inches away.
Zelie let her fingers fall. He was old enough to understand—so she would tell him.
Be honest about the reasons for all of this.
“I need you to come with me.” This time she didn’t pose it as a question—she stated it in the same tone of voice she used to dole out instructions to her agents. “We leave in half an hour.”
Before he could object, she pushed back to her feet, waved at Elise, and let herself into the kitchen.
When Zelie was a child, she couldn’t ever remember finding her mother in the kitchen, unless she was checking on something with their chef. When Maman had said they’d be staying at the farmhouse on the property and she’d be cooking their meals, Zelie had been dubious.
But Lizette Bridou, despite her finishing school education and years as the pampered wife of a diplomat, looked perfectly at home in the kitchen, an apron over her outdated dress and her hands white with the flour she kneaded into bread dough.
Zelie leaned against the workbench, far enough away to avoid the fine cloud that went whooshing out with each new punch. “Where did you learn to do that? I couldn’t bake a loaf of bread to save my life.”
Maman sent her a teasing smile. “Of course you could, if someone showed you once—and you paid attention. I learned while you and Antoine were both off at school. The days were too empty, the house too quiet. I discovered I love baking. Bread, pastries . . . you know, all the things so difficult to come by these days with the rations.”
Zelie watched the ease with which her mother stretched and pressed the dough. “You never did it when we were home.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly acceptable for a woman of my position, was it? And besides, when you were home, I wanted to be with you, not in the kitchen.” She sent a pointed look outside.
Zelie bristled. “I was only coming in to ask for the list of things you need from town. Blaise and I are going to do your errand running for you.”
Maman’s gaze flicked her way. “You don’t have to do that. I can go, you should—”
“No. I need a bit of time with Blaise, just the two of us.” She straightened, lifted her chin.
Her mother chuckled. “When did you get so good at giving orders?”
June, she thought but wouldn’t say. But that wasn’t quite true, was it?
She’d been the one giving most of the orders long before Navarre left for Algeria.
But while her mother knew what she was about, Zelie had decided long ago not to burden her with too many details.
So she went for the lighter answer and winked. “I learned from the best, Maman.”
Laughter spilled. “You never listened to me a day in your life.”
“Of course I did!” She paused, tilted her head. “Eventually. Most of the time.”
“Some of the time. After trying your own way first.” Maman flicked a speck of precious flour at her and then, when piano notes wound through the air like a breeze, she let out a happy breath. “I miss hearing you play.”
Zelie laughed and reached for the mug of coffee she hadn’t finished earlier. It was cold, but never mind that. She wasn’t about to let it go to waste. “You’re not hearing me now. Though Marcel is an improvement, to be sure.”
“If I were to close my eyes—and if you weren’t here talking to me—I could convince myself it’s you.” She closed her eyes in demonstration and gave the dough under her hands a pat, then reached for a towel to drape over it. “He’s in love with you, you know.”
Zelie choked on the sip she’d been swallowing. She set the mug down before she dropped it and coughed the fluid from her protesting lungs.
Maman, of course, stood on and watched her with a smirk. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
A thump of her fist upon her chest didn’t actually help, but it at least presented a visual excuse for her lack of answer.
Maman waited her out. As Maman always did.
At least this time the watering of her eyes wasn’t from emotion. Zelie coughed once more and wiped away the moisture. “It isn’t like that.”
Maman gave a ladylike snort. She moved to the sink and used the old pump to wash her hands. “If you’re going to start lying to yourself, Zelie, I’ll have to come to Marseille and shake some sense into you.”
She would, too. “I’m not lying to myself.
I . . . yes, I know he looks at me in a certain way, but it’s not love, not like you mean.
We’re friends. I’m his boss.” He prayed for her every day.
Knew what to play on Wednesday nights to lure her into singing.
Had taken to sending records home with her of pieces she mentioned loving. “That’s all.”
How many times had her mother sent her that look? The one that said, I don’t believe you for a second. Try again.
Zelie moved to one of the hard chairs and sank onto it. “Men always look at me like that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Another of the looks. “Navarre? Henri? Lucien? Have any of the men you work with looked at you like that?”
Her brows knit. “Now that you mention it, no.”
“Because men can be attracted to a woman or they can answer to a woman—rarely do the two overlap. But that one”—she motioned toward the living room where the piano thundered its way through “La campanella” by Franz Liszt—“he surprised me last night. Deferred to you in a way that says he respects your authority as la patronne but still looks at you like a woman. When you told us about Jean after the children were in bed, I could see in his eyes that he wanted to help, wanted to fix things like men always do. But more than that, he wanted to encourage you. Affirm you. That’s a rare breed. ”
He was all those things. More. And in a different world, maybe she could act on it. But honestly, she couldn’t even imagine what that world would look like. She shook her head. “I’m done with romantic attachments, Maman.”
“Don’t say that.” Maman dried off her hands and came over to where Zelie sat, took her chin between her cool, still-damp fingers. “You’re a young woman in the prime of life. You have too many years ahead of you to resign yourself to living them alone.”
Why, why did the blasted tears have to be hovering constantly at the back of her eyes? “You weren’t that much older than me when Pappa died. You never remarried.”
Her mother let her chin go and sank into the chair beside Zelie’s. “That was different.”
“How?”
But Maman’s smile said it all, even before she spoke.
“Your father was the love of my life. He gave me all I dreamed of and more. I loved him, I loved being his wife, I loved dedicating myself to you and Antoine. That was my purpose, Zelie, all I ever wanted. I had it. And now I get to care for Elise and Blaise and fuss at your brother to find a good woman and settle down. I’m happy.
I don’t need another husband. Don’t want anyone who would make the memories dim. ”
Zelie had to look away. Where had she even come from?
Her mother had never yearned for more, not like Zelie had.
And her father had certainly not instilled in her any unpopular ideas about young women building careers of their own or being the leaders of men.
How, then, had she been bitten by this bug of independence?
Or wanderlust or adventure seeking or whatever it was that Jacques had hated so much?
She shook her head. “Don’t you see, Maman?
I’m not cut out for that sort of love, that sort of marriage.
I don’t regret marrying Jacques—how could I?
I have Blaise and Elise. But my marriage .
. . it was in ruins long before Jacques died.
” She’d tried to protect her mother from that disaster, but she’d probably known. Mothers always did.