Chapter 61 Jean-Paul
Chapter 61
Jean-Paul
Jean-Paul sleepwalked through dinner, distracted and jumpy. Every so often, he stole a glance at Rosalie. His supposed daughter, Rosalie. He has a daughter. Rosalie is his daughter. He played with the phrase as though it would change the outcome. All night long he kept telling himself it was a mistake. One-night stand. One-night stand. The more he railed against it, the more he knew it was a pointless battle. He knew what he had done.
When they returned to their room, Renée asked him what was wrong. He stepped into his pajamas, avoiding her stare, telling her everything was fine. She believed him. Why wouldn’t she? If she had pressed, he had an arsenal of responses, none of which were I’ve betrayed you in the very worst possible way.
She chattered on about Henry. About forgiveness. About Sienna and Lucy. All her notions about apologies and imperfect people worthy of a second chance would float right out the window when it came to his own secret. He hated knowing he was about to upend their lives, that something worse was closing in.
After an empty kiss, she quickly fell asleep. He watched her features soften, listening to the steadiness of her breath. He envied the ease with which she slipped away from him, and he wondered if she was already preparing herself.
The call from the hospital comes at dawn, and Renée is up and out the door to let the others know. He’s already decided that when she returns, he’ll tell her. There’s no other way. He should have never made a decision like that without her.
“That was strange.” She steps through the door, closing it behind her. “Rosalie slept in Penny’s room last night. I guess this thing with her mother has her upset. Penny’s going to take her to the hospital. Why don’t we take a walk after breakfast?”
He’s already lacing up his sneakers. “Why don’t we take a walk now?”
They’re strolling down the gravel driveway, the birds chirping, the morning dew dotting the foliage. She’s in good spirits, better than he’d expected despite all that’s transpired. She’s a lot more forgiving than he is, and he’s banking on that compassion to save them. He imagines this is what it’s like when your life flashes before your eyes. He can’t bear to disappoint her. The sinking feeling hits him like a brick, and his heart thumps wildly against his chest.
“Renée.”
She’s staring up at the cloudless, blue sky. “I love days like this.”
He refuses to look up, focusing on the path in front of him.
“Can we switch the fondue for the crème br?lée tonight?” she asks.
“Renée. We need to talk.”
“It’s just a simple switch—”
“We need to talk about Rosalie.”
“That girl. My heart breaks for her. Has she said anything else about her father?”
“We need to talk about Rosalie’s notebook.”
“The green one. What about it? She carries it with her everywhere, all her research on the inn.”
“The research is about me.”
“Why would she be researching you?” They’re in front of the gazebo, and she stops. “Jean-Paul?”
His head drops.
She starts to say something, but freezes: “No.”
He saves her the indignity. “I’ve never cheated on you.”
She tilts her head as though she can’t make out what he’s saying.
He reaches for her hand, but she snatches it away. “Rosalie told you she found her father.” She shakes her head, the information not processing. “I don’t understand. You either slept with that woman or you didn’t.”
Every ounce of courage has dissolved. He tells himself maybe the data isn’t accurate. There has to be an explanation better than the one he’s about to give. One that won’t hurt as much.
“I understand,” he begins with a whisper. “What transpired this week ... it’s made you doubtful about fidelity, and I’d never jeopardize what we have ...”
“But . . .”
“But. There’s something you need to know.” He can’t bear the agony on her face. “I fucked up.”
“Fucking up is sleeping with that woman.”
“I didn’t. I’d never.”
She stares at the ground, anywhere but at him.
“When we couldn’t get pregnant . . . when they told us . . . I was devastated . . . I did something . . .”
“Just say it, Jean-Paul.”
“I donated to a sperm bank.”
“You did what?” She gives him the courtesy of not having to repeat himself. “Why would you do that?”
He didn’t know then, and he knows less so now. He was angry. Bitter. He wanted children, and she refused to adopt. Refused surrogacy. But how could he tell her that? His head falls in his hands. “I don’t know, Renée. I should have told you. We should have considered other ways to have a child together.” He wasn’t lying. “I felt helpless. And I had to do something that didn’t make me feel so weak and small. There were other couples ...”
“What were you thinking?” she asked, her tone bathed in the desperate need to understand.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking, I was just young and stupid ... thinking maybe I could give ...”
She exhales, all the air and tranquility leaving her body. “You did this ... you did this huge thing without telling me?”
“I meant to. I wanted to tell you. But you were so upset ... they told us we couldn’t have kids ...”
“ I couldn’t have kids.”
She turns her back to him, and he realizes what he’s done.
“So your sperm somehow ended up ...” She touches a hand to her forehead, her words laced in spite. “This is some one-night stand, Jean-Paul.”
“How else could I be a DNA match with Rosalie?”
“Maybe it’s a mistake. Another Jean-Paul De La Rue.”
“It’s possible. I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea what this means? There can be more of you. Sons. Daughters. We have no idea how many are out there ... who else will come out of the woodwork. Did you even think about this when you made the donation?”
He lowers his head again. “I didn’t.”
“How could you keep something like this from me?” The betrayal seeps through. “We aren’t those people. We don’t lie to each other ... we don’t keep secrets. What are we supposed to do now?”
He tries to maintain a semblance of calm, but he’s already disappointed her too much. He knows that face. The one of regret, where her eyes cloud with longing and shame. He knew the ache she carried, unable to give them what they both desperately wanted.
A tear slides down her cheek. “I hate that Cassidy Banks shares something with you that I never can.”
“Let’s find out if Cassidy went through a registry.” And then he moves closer, gazing down at her. “Renée, I know you’re upset. I know this isn’t how we intended things to happen ... At the time, it was in the abstract. I never imagined someone finding me. I didn’t realize when one of our past guests had us all sign up for that ancestry site a few years back ... I didn’t know what I was opening myself up to. I frankly forgot about it.”
He watches the way her eyes follow him, the ache spreading wider.
“But we’re here. And Rosalie ... she’s been ... a delight. And I know how unfair this is to you, but ... I think I’m a father ... I’m Rosalie’s father ... and I know you’re hurt, and I know I should have told you, but I need you. I don’t know how to be a father without you.”