Chapter Thirty-One
I was unprecedentedly nervous as we drove through the streets of France in our little rental car.
Maybe it was the intimacy of sharing such a small space with him, or perhaps my jitters had more to do with the fact I would soon stand on the corner where my biological parents had stood so many decades before.
Tonight was the night I might meet Sébastien Allard.
“You doing okay?” Lucas asked, expertly piloting the car around a line of pedestrians attempting to herd children across the street. I was immeasurably thankful for him. He made driving through unfamiliar streets in a foreign country seem so easy and casual.
Then again, for Lucas, easy and casual were completely on brand.
“I’m okay,” I said. Whatever happened or didn’t happen tonight, I would be just fine.
I ran my clammy palms over the simple denim pants I’d chosen for our evening excursion.
The cinched elastic waist had a wide red sash belt.
I convinced myself, after trying on everything in my suitcase twice, that this was both casual, because denim, and nice, and because no buttons or zipper.
Ultimately, I chose the most comfortable option in case I threw up or tried to run and fell down.
If I couldn’t be cute, I could at least be prepared.
My well-loved ice-blue turtleneck offered a small measure of comfort on a night of uncomfortable anticipation.
I relaxed a bit when we broke free from the congestion and chaos of Nice. The sun hung low in the sky, signaling the end of yet another beautiful day. I tracked silhouettes of birds through a cotton candy–pink sky and tried to imagine how dinner might end.
“You did great in class today,” Lucas said, breaking the silence. “Did you enjoy the introduction to plating?”
“Yeah,” I answered instinctively. “It was interesting.”
He watched me for a prolonged moment before returning his eyes to the road. “I don’t know what we’ll find at the bistro,” he said. “Maybe just a nice meal, but if you want to leave at any time, tell me. I won’t hesitate to pay our bill and walk out or ask you to explain.”
I looked away. The potential for the night to end poorly was astronomical, and he knew it. I appreciated the support, but somehow his acknowledgment inflated my anxiety.
“Sophie?” he nudged. “I don’t always know what you’re thinking. You have to let me know tonight so that I can help.”
I rolled my head against the seat back, waiting to catch his eye. “Thank you for being so kind.”
He frowned. “This is the bare minimum and absolute least I can do.”
“Distract me.”
He redirected the conversation to our classmates, and we dissected who we thought they were and the places they might call home. Chef hadn’t wasted any time on icebreakers, so we had very few clues. Hypothesizing passed the time, and before I knew it, our destination came into view.
I removed the photograph from my handbag and raised it toward the restaurant on the corner, lining up the views. “Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “I think this is really it.”
Lucas parked, and we met on the sidewalk, then appraised the dark brick walls and large glass windows. The sign on the roof matched the one in the photo, though the one before me was nearly a half century older, more rusted, sun bleached, and worn.
“Before we go inside, would you like a photograph taken here?” Lucas asked. “Like the one with your mother?”
I nodded, speechless and eternally thankful for his thoughtfulness. I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own and would’ve missed the opportunity.
“Chin up,” he said, demonstrating the move, then smiling. “There.” He took the photo with his phone, then forwarded it to me by text.
“Can we take a selfie with the two of us?” I asked. “Is that weird?” It seemed strange not to commemorate the fact we came together.
He slid by my side and swept an arm around my back. I leaned against him on instinct, comfortable and safe. We took turns capturing the memory with our phone cameras.
I closed my eyes and absorbed the moment, drinking in the crisp fall air and rich, buttery aromas wafting from the restaurant.
I made it, Mom, I thought. I found the spot where you had your last carefree summer.
I wish you were here with me, but I also think you kind of are.
Thank you for telling me about Sébastien and giving me this chance.
“Ready?” Lucas asked, moving toward the door. “Deep breath.”
I obeyed and followed him to the threshold.
“I didn’t say it earlier, but you look very nice tonight,” he said. “That shade of blue is your color.”
My cheeks warmed. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so. I’m kind of a mess, in case you can’t tell.”
“I think you’re doing great.”
I led the way through a set of tall wooden doors with brass handles that opened onto a sea of vintage black and white octagonal tiles.
A service counter centered the room, and tables lined the walls and windows.
Overhead lighting shone through an array of old-fashioned bottles on shelves, casting rainbows over the space. We’d taken a step back in time.
Dozens of candid photos filled the space beside the door. The images all featured people standing outside the building just as Lucas and I had a moment before. I wished I had an instant camera, so I could add our photo to the collection as well. I opened my mouth to say as much, and then I saw him.
A small square photo near the collage’s center featured Sébastien Allard. He looked just as he had in the photo with my mom, minus the apron. I raised my photograph to compare the two versions of him.
“That’s him,” Lucas said, confirming my suspicion.
In the photo a group of people in matching aprons stood at his side.
“He worked here,” I whispered. Then, scanning the other photos, I saw him everywhere, and watched him age before my eyes.
The group varied year to year, but Bastien was in every photo.
His clothing and hair style changed most notably at first, then his posture and size.
He grew tall and broad, gained facial hair, then lost it.
Became thin again and eventually a little stooped.
I wouldn’t have recognized him in the latter pictures if I hadn’t noticed him in the first. But now, I thought I’d know the eyes anywhere. I thought they looked a little like my eyes.
A willowy woman in a black dress and shoes approached, greeting us in French.
I wanted to ask if she knew the people in the pictures, but I needed a moment to think.
Lucas responded congenially, speaking briefly in French before changing to English, for my benefit, as he had the entire trip so far.
She nodded and led us to a nearby table for two. “I’ll be back with some glasses and water.”
My heart pounded as I admired the dining area and chatting patrons, immediately in love with the energy all around us.
The atmosphere reminded me of Chez Margot.
Though the aesthetic was completely different, the feeling of connection between the staff and guests was obvious and strong.
The man behind the bar called out to families as they entered or left.
I slid my gaze to Lucas, suddenly too timid to pose the questions I’d traveled from America to ask. Maybe he would do it for me. I could hide under the table and wait.
Lucas set one giant hand atop mine on the place mat. My eyes widened unintentionally at the unexpected touch.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
My bobbing knee stilled, and my vibrating frame went rigid. “Sorry. I can’t believe he works here. We found him, but what if—” I couldn’t say the words, couldn’t bear to think them.
What if I was too late, and I’d lost him too?
Lucas offered my fingers a comforting squeeze, and every thought in my head focused tightly on his touch.
The hostess reappeared, and I pulled my hands onto my lap, suddenly terrified and wishing I hadn’t come. If I didn’t ask, I couldn’t know he was gone. If I didn’t meet him, he couldn’t tell me he didn’t want me.
An older woman strode alongside the hostess to our table, eyes homed in tightly on my face.
She looked closer to my mom’s age than mine, beautiful and lean with sleek silver hair.
Her porcelain face showed evidence of laughter and a lifetime of smiles.
Her smart brown eyes suggested she missed very little of what happened around her.
I envied her gray cashmere sweaterdress and knee boots. Why did I wear pants?
Lucas rose to greet her, hand extended.
I popped onto my feet a second later, unsure what was happening.
“I’m Mary Allard,” she said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a family dinner, and I hope you’ll stay. I hear we might have a loved one in common.”
My breath caught at the sound of her last name, and my knees buckled. My fear returned with a resounding whoosh. Logically, I had no reason to worry, but emotionally, my panic alarms had all sounded. The possibility of rejection crushed my lungs before Lucas finished making introductions.
The hostess poured glasses of water for each of us and left a carafe on the table.
Lucas and Mary took seats, and their eyes turned to me.
I drank greedily from my glass, then set it down with trembling hands. “I’m Sophie Bianco,” I said, mouth parched despite the recent drink. “I’m looking for my father, Sébastien Allard.” I set the photograph on the table, and Mary’s eyes misted with tears.
She pulled the photo into her hands and smiled gently at the image. “I was Bastien’s wife,” she said. “We were married for forty-one years.”
A ravine ran through me at her use of past tense.
“I’m very sorry to tell you we lost him last fall,” she added. Her clarification was a punch to my heart, and my head lightened with the knowledge. Sébastien was gone too.
“I wish it wasn’t true,” she said, voice cracking as she spoke. “I miss him every moment of every day. We all do.” She motioned to the restaurant. “He was beloved. And a very, very good man.”