Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I t was the third week of January and the day before the big trip to France. Estelle had her suitcase open on the floor of her walk-in closet, mulling over her final outfit options, imagining herself in the scenes of the proceeding days—in the office of the international film production company, in the swanky apartment of Natasha Morceau, and sitting at a café with her love Roland, people-watching. She knew French women had an eye for design that they didn’t hesitate to enjoy the finer things in life. Estelle wanted to fit in—if only for a moment—before she returned to Nantucket, where she belonged.
Hilary was on Estelle’s bed, watching her and drinking from a mug of tea. Behind her was a stack of wedding magazines. But she hadn’t opened them since she’d swung by to say good luck. Estelle knew that most of Hilary’s wedding was already set. All Hilary had to do was sit back, relax, and wait for time to pass. But Estelle also knew that her youngest child wasn’t her most patient one. She stepped out of the closet and touched Hilary’s shoulder gently.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Estelle asked.
Hilary pressed her lips together. “I can’t stop thinking about marriage.”
Estelle cocked her head with surprise.
Hilary spread her palms across her thighs and gazed out the window. It was snowing again. It had been a spectacular year for it.
“All these stories you’ve dealt with lately,” Hilary said. “They involve Grandpa Chuck and Grandma Margaret; his second wife, Mia; Roger Albright and his first wife and his mistress. It doesn’t give me much hope for my marriage.”
Estelle sat at the edge of the bed next to Hilary and took her hand. She studied her eyes, remembering that it wasn’t so long ago they’d thought Hilary was going blind. It was a miracle she could still see.
“But Marc loves you, Hilary,” Estelle said softly. “He loves you so much that he left his life out west for you. He wants to start a new chapter with you. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Hilary bowed her head. “What if it ends in disaster?”
Estelle placed her head on Hilary’s shoulder. “There is always the possibility of disaster. But we love and live anyway.”
She thought of the shipwreck of the La Boheme; she thought of the photograph she’d seen of its stern, sticking out of the sea.
Hilary carried Estelle’s suitcase downstairs and put it in Roland’s car truck. They hugged a final time, then drove off to the airport. Ordinarily, they took the ferry to the mainland and flew out of Boston, but Roland had arranged for a special private plane for the benefit of Chuck’s comfort. It had been a long time since Estelle had flown on a private plane. She felt giddy and eager to stretch her legs and sleep somewhere over the ocean.
If I can sleep at all, she thought. I’m so nervous!
When they arrived, Chuck, Oriana, and Reese were waiting for them at the airport. Oriana and Reese had brought Chuck to Nantucket and then texted last night to say they wanted to swing over to Paris, too. “If there’s room on the plane!”
Roland had told them the more, the merrier.
Estelle led the charge onto the private plane and set herself up next to Roland. Chuck was seated on the other side of the aisle. Like always, he was dressed to the nines in a pair of corduroy pants and a button-down, and his hair was styled with gel. There was a rumor going around that Chuck had a girlfriend at his retirement facility, but Estelle hadn’t felt brave enough to ask the man himself. Oriana had heard the gossip, but she was too frightened to ask, too.
Everyone wanted to give Chuck Coleman space and time to heal—and write his next chapter. He was ninety-three, but he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.
The plane took off smoothly. Before Estelle knew it, they were far over the blue ocean, popping champagne and telling old stories. Estelle told a joke that made Oriana laugh so hard that champagne burst out of her mouth.
Oriana explained that she had several client meetings set up in Paris. “I haven’t been in ages,” she said dreamily. “But I can’t wait to get my hands on a perfect baguette.”
Reese rubbed his palms together happily.
“If only Rachelle could come,” Chuck said, crossing his ankles.
“She’s busy at the restaurant,” Estelle said sadly. “Maybe we can make a last-minute pit stop in Rome. We have the private plane for a little while. Don’t we, Roland?”
Roland beamed. “I’ve already asked the pilot if he’s free.”
Estelle and Chuck cheered with joy. Within the week, they’d be seated at a grand table at Rachelle’s restaurant, eating to their hearts’ content.
But right now, they had a job to do in Paris. Two jobs, actually.
The first was Estelle’s meeting with the production company. To get it out of the way, Estelle decided to head immediately to the hotel, freshen up, and go to the production company offices. They welcomed her with a glass of champagne and a platter of fine fresh cheeses and cured meats.
“Bonjour, Madame Coleman!” This was Pierre, a man she’d spoken to via Zoom several times. His accent was even more pronounced offline. “We’ve been very much anticipating your arrival!”
Estelle beamed. “It’s a dream come true to be here and chat about the film script. As you know, I wrote that book many years ago, but it’s still close to my heart.”
Pierre beamed and led her deeper into the production company, where she met investors and producers and, finally, the scriptwriter who’d taken the reins on her feature. The scriptwriter was a woman named Marion, with high cheekbones and luxurious chestnut-brown hair. Somehow, she reminded Estelle of Roland’s Aunt Jessabelle, the feisty older woman they’d lost last year. Her heart banged with recognition.
For more than three hours, Estelle and Marion chatted about the script. Because Marion knew Estelle’s book so well, talking to her felt like digging deeper into Estelle’s own brain.
“I hope you’ll find time to come back to France during filming?” Marion asked, smiling happily as they finished their meeting for the day.
“I plan on it,” Estelle agreed. “But it might be difficult. I have a huge family back home. They count on me.”
Marion tilted her head thoughtfully. “They count on you,” she said, “but they also count on you to live your own life and become what you want to become. This is a great weight upon a woman’s shoulder. She must carry her entire family, but she must carry her own dreams, too.”
Estelle’s heart swelled. “Well said.”
She knew that Marion was the perfect woman to handle her story. She truly got her.
After she met with the production company, Estelle returned to the hotel to meet with Roland, Chuck, Oriana, and Reese. Oriana and Reese had spent all afternoon milling through the city while Roland and Chuck had taken the opportunity to rest. Chuck’s coloring was healthy; his smile was infectious.
“I’ve taken it upon myself to make a reservation at an exclusive restaurant in the 5th,” he announced, clapping his hands.
“Brilliant, Dad,” Oriana said, swinging some shopping bags to and fro in her right hand. “I’ll get ready right now!”
Estelle met Chuck’s gaze that night at the restaurant over flickering candles. “Are you nervous?” she asked.
Chuck spread his palms out across the white linen tablecloth. A moment of secrecy passed between them. They were both so immersed in the story of Natasha and Vivian, the story of the sunken ship. Nobody else in their family could wrap their minds around it.
“I’m worried that seeing me will bring all that pain back to her,” Chuck said, speaking of Natasha. “But I know that if we don’t see her, she’ll never see Vivian again.”
Estelle hadn’t said this aloud. But she had a private hope that Vivian would “wake up” from her darkness when she saw her mother again.
Maybe that was naive.
But Estelle was a romance writer. Perhaps that meant she would always be naive. Maybe that meant she was perpetually preparing herself for heartache—because she wanted too much from the world.
Natasha had agreed to receive Chuck and Estelle at three p.m. the following afternoon. That morning, feeling too jittery to do anything else, Estelle wandered the streets of Montmartre with Roland, taking funny photographs outside of the Sacre-Coeur and the old haunts of Toulouse-Lautrec. It was hard to believe Paris really existed. It looked more like a painting than a real place.
At three, she knocked on Chuck’s hotel door. He answered it, already dressed and ready to go. “I was thinking we could take a cab,” he said.
The hotel receptionist called a taxi service to pick up Estelle and Chuck. Roland walked them out and saw them off, telling them to call if they needed anything. Estelle squeezed Roland’s hand a final time and said, “I love you.” Roland closed the door between them and watched them drive off.
Chuck and Estelle were wordless all the way to Natasha’s apartment. It was as though the past had crept up and sat with them in the taxi. It was too heavy.
Just like Penelope Albright’s apartment building in Manhattan, Natasha’s had a doorman. But unlike Penelope Albright’s apartment building, Natasha’s didn’t have some of the richest inhabitants in the entire city. They were upper-middle-class, older Parisians who’d worked hard and retired in their sixties. Through the lobby and up the elevator, they passed eight or nine residents. Estelle saw nobody under the age of forty-five.
Natasha lived on the fifth floor. The elevator dinged and let them out. When they turned down the hall, they saw a door open wide at the far end. In the doorway was a woman in her eighties—a gorgeous woman with a thick head of hair, thick eyebrows, and high cheekbones. Based on the fire in her eyes, Estelle knew already this was Natasha.
She was a woman who’d survived so much.
She was a woman who’d been wronged.
Chuck froze in the middle of the hall. Estelle studied his face and tried to imagine what he was thinking.
Maybe he was taken back to that stormy night in October 1982.
Natasha stepped forward. “Chuck?” Her voice was hesitant, and her accent was overwhelmingly French.
Estelle hoped her English was better than it had been in the past. Estelle and Chuck spoke no French, and she hadn’t thought to bring a translator.
“Natasha,” Chuck breathed. As quickly as he could, he cleared the distance between them and took Natasha’s hand. He gazed at her with shock.
A full minute passed before anyone said anything else.
“Please,” Natasha said. “Come in.” She hardly glanced at Estelle. But that was okay with Estelle. She was just along for the ride.
Natasha’s apartment was small but beautifully decorated. Paintings hung on every wall; sculptures sat in corners; big, luscious plants filled the space. It took Estelle a little while to realize why the place gave her the creeps. It was because there were no photographs. Nothing indicated that Natasha had ever loved anyone or been loved. Estelle’s stomach went cold.
Natasha led them into the living room, where she had a drink cart set up and offered them wine, tea, or juice.
“Nothing, Natasha,” Chuck said quietly. “I don’t want anything.”
Natasha’s eyes were liquid. She sat down across from him and reached over to take his hands. Estelle sat by Chuck and tried to make herself very small.
“After all these years, Chuck,” Natasha breathed. “I cannot believe you are here with me.”
Estelle breathed a sigh of relief. It was clear Natasha’s English was better than it had been in the eighties.
“You look exactly the same,” Chuck said.
Natasha cackled and threw her head back. “I’m an old woman, Chuck. When you met me, I was in my late thirties. I still had so much to give the world, and there was still so much the world wanted from me. But it is not so, now.”
Chuck squeezed her hand harder. Estelle swallowed. Over the phone, Chuck had told Natasha only that he had something to talk to her about. He hadn’t mentioned Vivian’s name at all.
“When did you come back to France?” Chuck asked. He’d told Estelle he wanted to ease into it.
“I came back in eighty-three,” Natasha said. “It was after three consecutive fights with the Albright lawyers. I couldn’t take it anymore. The dream with Roger was over. He was dead; his money would never be my money. I needed to return to my home.”
“It must have been a terrible time,” Chuck said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Natasha waved her hand. “You had young children and a wife at home. I’m sure you had much to deal with yourself.”
Chuck bowed his head. His eyes stirred with memories.
“Your wife,” Natasha said. “Is she still with us?”
“She’s gone,” Chuck said. “She died ten years ago.”
Natasha sighed. “I am sorry to hear.”
“Were you ever married?” Chuck asked.
Natasha shook her head. “I’m rather proud about that. I had relationships, of course. One of them lasted twelve years. But I always found a way to retain my independence. It was important to me, especially after what those Albrights did to me.” She furrowed her brow.
“You really think they sank the boat?” Chuck asked.
“I am sure,” Natasha said.
“Penelope Albright told me herself that the captain of the ship was paid handsomely,” Estelle interjected. But immediately after she’d said it, she cursed herself. Why was she drudging up the past like this?
“I learned that myself,” Natasha said. “The captain told me. He was dying of grief and guilt. But his confession did nothing for me. The Albrights were too powerful.” She bit her lower lip. “My daughter and I became estranged shortly after that. I had no will to keep fighting.”
Estelle’s heart seized.
“How did that happen?” Chuck asked.
Natasha puffed out her cheeks. “My daughter fell in love with an islander. She wanted to stay in America and marry him. I insisted that she come back with me. The man she wanted to marry had nothing. No money. No prospects. I couldn’t understand it. But Vivian told me she had no interest in marrying for money. ‘Not like you,’ she said. That was harsh. I turned my back on her and went to the airport. After that, I didn’t know where she was or what had become of her. I never knew if she really married that broke young man from Martha’s Vineyard.” She shuddered.
Estelle reached for her purse and pulled out the picture of Vivian and Travis—the same one she’d discovered in the Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society. There was a lump in her throat. She handed it over.
Natasha took the photo. Her hands shook. “My beautiful daughter,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears. “My darling girl.”
A moment of silence passed. Estelle thought she was going to start sobbing.
But then Chuck took over. “Your daughter is back on Martha’s Vineyard, Natasha.”
Natasha’s gaze returned to Chuck’s. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice wavered.
“But she’s not doing well, Natasha,” Chuck said, palming the back of his neck. “She was checked into my retirement facility. She can’t walk or speak.”
Natasha’s hands went to her mouth. Estelle thought the older woman was going to scream.
“They said this might happen,” Natasha whispered. “They said the head injury was terrible. They said it could give her problems later in life. But I never imagined…” It seemed impossible for her to speak.
Chuck reached for Natasha’s hand. “That’s why I wanted to come find you, Natasha. Vivian has nobody. Her husband died earlier this year. She never had children. All she has left is her mother. And maybe her mother could bring her back to the world—if only just a little bit.”
Natasha’s shoulders shook. Tears spilled from her eyes.
But Estelle recognized Natasha’s expression. It was one of purpose. She knew Natasha would board the plane with them back to the United States within the week (after a brief stopover in Rome, of course). She knew she would be by Vivian’s side.
Motherhood is forever , Estelle thought. Natasha’s love is still necessary. It’s still enough.