Chapter 19
Luca slid down from Gilbert’s shoulders and took her hand, leading her to a red SUV. She could have laughed at the brand, a Citroen, the type of car she and David had bought used—falling apart, really—for touring Europe on their honeymoon. Gilbert took the scenic Wine Route toward Strasbourg.
Questions pounded in her head. Her marriage was not the trusting relationship she’d thought it was.
David hadn’t trusted her to discuss his becoming a donor much less tell her about Luca.
Did he not talk to her for fear she’d object, and he wanted a child so badly he’d chosen not to risk telling her?
Did having a son have anything to do with not making a will?
Claire remembered discussing making wills, but it was one of those things she hadn’t gotten around to, and neither had David.
It was unlike him not to have all his records up-to-date.
She was the one who often had the overdrawn checking account, never him.
A burning sensation brushed the edges of her throat. But if he had drawn up a will, wouldn’t he have included a provision for Luca, or at least set up a trust for his college education? Did David fear her discovering Luca if he had a will?
David could have written a will and given it to his attorney with instructions not to reveal it to Claire until his death. David should have left instructions for an executor to set up a trust for Luca—even if was a shock to Claire, at least she would have known.
As the road curved, sunlight sparkled on the snow-covered mountains, blinding her.
She didn’t want to admit the truth, but it was clear: David didn’t want her to know about Luca, even in death.
A sound like cracking ice broke through every belief she held about her marriage.
She had thought they were soulmates. She believed their marriage was based on trust and honesty.
The reality was they were mates who kept secrets for the sake of their marriage.
The question of why David told Luca about her and not her about Luca burned a hole in her heart. Whatever the reason, the look of love for his Papa David on Luca’s face was worth every bit of pain and confusion Claire endured.
Luca’s voice brought her back from her thoughts to the car. “Those mountains—” he pointed, “they are the Vosges. And that castle? Built in the thirteenth century. I hope you have time to visit Kaysersberg. I take you, happily. In these vineyards…Riesling grapes.”
“How are you so young and knowledgeable?” Claire asked.
“I am not so young, I am almost eight.” He sat back. “Maman taught me.”
Claire checked Gilbert’s face. A mixture of, what she thought were, humor, pride, and grief tugged at his eyes.
“But Onc teaches me, now.”
“Why do you call Gilbert, Onc?”
Luca’s giggles bounced like bubbles. “When I learn to talk, I could not say the “cle” sound in oncle, the French word for uncle, so I called him Onc, with a long O.”
Claire repeated, “Onc.”
“Bien.” Luca clapped and turned. “Onc is not difficult to say. Try to say Riquewhir!”
Claire closed her eyes, fearing the word would bring tears. “What did Papa David tell you about me?”
“That you are very pretty—he was right. You travel much to India and China, is that right?”
She nodded. “I did.”
“Not anymore?” He leaned forward to peer at her between the seats.
“No…I was fired.” She laughed. It was funny when she thought about it, now that there was no danger of the model being hurt.
“Fired is meaning no job?”
“That is correct. My invention…well…it blew up while the model was wearing the bathing suit, and she was very frightened—but she wasn’t hurt, and my boss fired me.” A trill of laughter convulsed her, and she bent over her knees, giving into a fit of giggles.
Gilbert patted her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Trying to control her laughing, she wiped away tears. “I was pretty upset when it happened, very disappointed actually, but now, it’s pretty funny. The invention kept pumping air and wouldn’t stop. The tubing swelled to the size of a car tire, and I had to destroy the contraption.”
“Being fired is not a good thing, is it?” Luca asked.
“No, it’s not a good thing, Luca. But I think I tried way too hard, and it is best that the invention didn’t work because if it had, I wouldn’t have met you and Onc.” She tapped her finger on Luca’s nose. “And I’m very glad to be here with you both, now.”
“Bien.” Luca’s smile reassured her.
So what if she lost a job of twenty-three years?
The court would settle David’s estate after the holidays.
She didn’t need to worry about finding a new job for a month.
Tightness crept up her spine. David should have included Luca in his will.
Now that she knew about Luca, she had to inform the attorney and set up a trust for Luca.
But when she informed the court that David had a son, the estate would be sent to probate court again, blocking money she needed for another year.
The tightness spread across her shoulders.
Who would hire a fifty-year-old woman who’d been fired?
She couldn’t even collect unemployment. How would she pay for health insurance?
And the taxes on the house? And the airfare to France she’d charged?
She shook herself and focused on appreciating the stunning scenery.
Gilbert turned on the radio, and Nat King Cole crooned his chestnut song.
Luca sang along and Gilbert joined him.
“Why are all the Christmas songs American? Surely there are French carols?”
“The Christmas markets, restaurants, hotels, and radio stations play American songs because they are universally recognized and popular. The French carols are played in churches and in homes.” Gilbert beat his thumbs against the steering wheel in time with the music.
“We have French words to some of the same carols,” said Luca. “Guess which one this is, Mon beau sapin, mon beau sapin—” he sang
“Oh Christmas Tree?”
Luca slapped the car seat. “You are a very fast learner.”
She didn’t tell him she recognized the song from the melody rather than the words.
As they passed the sign for Riquewhir, a miasma of emotions churned in her.
Fear had disabled her from experiencing this joy with David.
She deeply regretted preventing him from being a full-time, well-loved father, yet at the same time, anger gnawed at him for keeping the joy of loving this child a secret. She chewed at her chapped lip. Why?
“We go to a Winstub—wine bar.” Luca skipped ahead. An ancient, half-timbered, tilting building decorated in white lights and teddy bears, and silver ornaments claimed a busy corner.
As they entered a cavernous dining room, a cacophony of conversations, clattering dishes, and Burl Ives bellowing A Holly Jolly Christmas filled the wood-paneled room. White pine chairs, with hearts carved out of the chairbacks, surrounded tables sporting red-and-white-checked cloths.
Luca followed the hostess and pulled out a chair. “Madame Clair? S’il te pla?t.”
“Merci.” Claire raised her eyebrows at Gilbert who smiled.
Luca sat next to her. “So, you speak French!”
“Only a few words.”
Gilbert sat at Claire’s other side, plucked up her napkin, and placed it on her lap. She was surrounded by two charming French gentlemen.
Afternoon light streamed through arched stained-glass windows and sparkled in Luca’s eyes. “Then I teach you. I taught Papa David, and he taught me English. So, I teach you French.”
David had pretended not to be fluent in French to give his son the opportunity to teach him.
She could have sobbed at David’s kindness, his thoughtfulness, his unselfish love.
But why not share this with her? Did he not trust her to accept his donorship?
Did he fear she’d divorce him? Before she’d met Luca she might not have been so understanding of David’s decision.
Their marriage was based in some trust, but their trust only went so far, on both sides.
Gilbert patted her arm. “Claire may not want to learn.”
Luca frowned. “You like me to teach you?”
“Oui!”
“Bon. That means, good.”
“Bon.”
“See? You learn very fast.”
She would never tire of his bubbling giggles, so vibrant and joyous.
He must have inherited his laugh from Sophie, for David’s laughter was much deeper.
Claire opened the menu and held it close to her face.
She’d do anything to have David here with her, delighting in this beautiful child.
The more she knew of Luca, the angrier she grew at herself for being afraid, and not giving David the happiness he deserved.
He should be here with his son. This joy should be his, not hers.
“Onc! We have Flammkuchen?” Luca leaned close to Claire. “Sounds terrible—like it will catch you on fire,” he snatched her sleeve, “but it is like pizza, only better, with French cheese.” He let go of her and smiled.
Her laughter burst.
“But she might wish the specialty, choucroute?” Gilbert asked.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. The flaming pizza sounds perfect.”
Luca slapped his leg. “I knew it. Americans love French pizza.”
Gilbert laughed with her and ordered wine, salads, and Flammkuchen.
Luca lifted the saltshaker. “Le sel.”
She was grateful he started with a word she remembered. “Le sel.”
Gilbert lifted his napkin.
Luca whispered, “La serviette.”
Claire repeated words until the food arrived. Then she learned words of appreciation, like magnifique and délicieux. Wanting no more lessons, she longed to change the conversation. “What did you ask Santa for?”
Luca’s face crumpled. He dropped his fork. Gilbert patted her hand and rubbed Luca’s back.
What had she done? “I’m so sorry. American children—”
“It’s all right. Just a bad memory, eh, Luca?”
He nodded fiercely, as if the action would stop his tears. Gilbert pulled him onto his lap and hugged him. Luca gripped Gilbert’s shirt and buried his face between Gilbert’s shoulder and chin.
Claire’s heartbeat thundered. How could she make this better if she didn’t know what she’d done?
Her heart squeezed. She was a terrible person to hurt this child.
She would have been a terrible mother. She should leave.
She watched Gilbert, figuring it was grief etching deep lines on either side of his mouth and clamping his jaw tight, like a lock, as he rubbed circles on Luca’s back.
Why had she brought up Santa? Was he not part of French Christmas?
She’d seen plenty of them in the markets.
Whatever the reason, she was sorely lacking in mothering skills.
Luca quieted. Gilbert kissed his forehead and handed him a handkerchief. Luca blew his nose. Gilbert whispered, “Would you like to tell Claire about your maman?”
Luca nodded and looked at Claire. She thought her heart would cleave, witnessing the pain afflicting this joyous boy. Although Luca had handled the news of David’s death better than she had, she now fully grasped why Gilbert didn’t want to tell him. How could she make this better for both of them?
“Last year I wrote a letter to Santa and asked him to make Maman better—she was very sick. But he couldn’t do it.
” His cheeks reddened. “Maman said God couldn’t make her better either, so she had to go to heaven and tell God how angry we were.
I don’t believe in Santa anymore.” He kicked his foot out. “And I’m still mad at God. You, Onc?”
“Oui.” Gilbert’s voice was gruff.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t believe in Santa either. I just pretend.”
Luca sat up. “You do?”
Claire nodded. “And I’ve been angry at God many times. I still am.”
A quiet calm settled over them like a cloud sent from heaven. Claire wished she knew how to help Luca be happy again. They’d been having so much fun before her Santa mistake.
Luca leaned against Gilbert, breathing deeply. “Onc, can I take the rest of the Flammkuchen home for Remy?”
Claire jumped to change the subject and pretended she didn’t know about their dog. “Who is Remy?”
Luca pulled Gilbert’s sleeve. “Onc, show her photos. Remy, he is our dog, the best dog in the entire universe.”
Claire oohed and aahed over Remy photos, laughing at Remy’s foibles, all the while vowing to never hurt Luca again. She would have to figure out a way to help him with his grief like Marti helped her with hers.
Gilbert paid the bill and thanked the waiter. “Ready for a boat ride?”
Claire’s hands trembled. She ran a lipstick over her chapped lips, smiled, and gripped Gilbert’s elbow. She hoped she had the courage to board the vessel.