Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
JEMMA
Luca blinks at me, completely baffled. “Why on earth would you think that?”
I swallow hard. “Elias said his mother was with his grandma, and then he pointed up.” I mimic the kid, using my pointer finger. “Heaven.” I gulp. “With your mom.”
Luca lets out a lively chuckle, everyone turning their gaze to us.
He leans in and whispers in my ear, his breath smelling of rich wine. “His grandmother, Mia’s mother, lives upstairs. Both very much alive, I assure you.”
“I see that. Now.”
The boys stop fidgeting next to me and dash over to their mother, excitedly shouting, “Maman.”
Relief and joy flood me.
“Jemma, voici ma belle-mère et ma femme, Mia,” Henri says, introducing me to his very much alive wife and mother-in-law. “They don’t speak much English,” he adds.
His wife is beautiful in that I woke up looking like this kind of way with her full shoulder-length blonde hair artfully disheveled, yet perfectly styled, natural-looking makeup, except a dash of red across her thin lips, wearing casual jeans, white sneakers, and a blazer thrown over a white, boxy tee.
Simple, but utterly stunning. The grandmother is just an older version of Mia, but slightly more elegant and donning a little more makeup, with the evidence caked into her laugh lines.
“C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer,” I stumble over my words, but I’m pretty sure I said it was nice to meet them.
Our meal plays out for another two hours and mostly in French.
Luca is kind enough to pause every so often to translate snippets for me.
I don’t bother to pay attention or keep up with the conversation; their rapid-fire French is a little too much for me.
But the red wine and the b?uf bourguignon are more than enough to keep me entertained.
The dishes seem to multiply, a continuous parade of new-to-me cuisine.
Just when I think there can’t be anymore coming, a cheese plate is set in front of me.
I might burst if I eat another bite, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I take a little nibble.
Seriously, how do they all stay so fit when they eat like this?
“I hope you saved room for dessert.” Henri comes up from behind me, setting some sort of puff pastry in front of me.
Okay, it’s official—I’m going to burst. There’s no more room for this food. I smile and graciously accept the elegant pastry with zero intention of consuming it.
As I absentmindedly poke at the puff with my fork, Elias—who managed to win the spot beside me—asks a question, taking me completely off guard. “Do you love Christmas, Jemma?”
“Eh . . . um”—my gaze drops back to my plate”—I used to really love Christmas.” Under the table, I wring my hands together nervously.
“Used to?” he presses, his voice soft and sweet.
Ugh! Why did I say that?
I want to reel the words back in. I’ve had too much wine.
Elias blinks, waiting for my response.
I swallow down the lump lodged in my throat. “Um—well, Christmas was my mother’s favorite holiday. Since she passed away, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it anymore.”
“Je suis désolé,” Elias whispers. I’m sorry.
“What was her favorite part of Christmas?” Mylan chimes in, clearly too naive to read the room or notice the massive frown clinging to my face.
“Christmas cookies.” The words catch in my throat as tears threaten my eyes.
I quickly divert my gaze to my nearly empty wine glass, desperate to keep my tears from spilling over. If I make eye contact with anyone around the table, I won’t be able to hold it together.
“Cookies?” both boys question, their voices coming together in a curious harmony.
“Yes, cookies. My mom and I would spend an entire day making Christmas sugar cookies using insanely old cookie cutters and a recipe that was passed down from her mom, my grandma. We would make dozens of snowmen, trees, snowflakes, and reindeer, and then we’d decorate them with an icing recipe that was mostly powdered sugar, but it tasted delicious.
To be honest, the whole recipe was mostly sugar and Crisco, but it was so good.
” I nervously stroke the stem of my wine glass.
“We would dance and sing along to Christmas music while my dad taste-tested. He called it quality control. My mom would slap his hand when he got too greedy. Those were some of the happiest times of my life.” I can’t believe how this memory pours out of me, as if it’s been locked away deep inside, just waiting to spill out.
When I look up, Luca’s watching me.
Reaching for my wine, I lift the glass to my lips and take a small sip, as it’s all that’s left.
Luca reaches under the table and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. His touch makes me want to melt into my chair.
“Henri, remember how much Mamam loved the Christmas markets?” Luca asks.
Henri smiles, nodding.
“She used to drag us to every market in Paris. She loved the one at the Tuileries Garden. We always had to get there while it was still light out, so she could map out her plan, and then we’d stay until the very end. I remember one year when we had to literally pull her to the exit.”
“That was her last Christmas,” Henri adds.
“It’s like she knew.” Luca takes a swig of his red wine.
This time, I’m the one squeezing Luca’s hand.
* * *
After lunch, I’m left alone at the table with Mia and her mother, while the Dubois men insist on clearing the table.
I refill my glass, nodding and smiling along to a conversation that I struggle to follow.
I catch bits and pieces. I’m pretty sure they’re saying how much they pity me.
But either way, they seem to have their own language, and I don’t just mean French.
Determined to make myself useful, I grab one of the serving dishes and head toward the kitchen.
As I round the corner, I notice both Luca and Henri leaning against the counter, facing the window that overlooks the courtyard, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.
Not wanting to interrupt their discussion, I quickly set the dish down, still going unnoticed.
As I pivot to leave the room, out of the corner of my eye, I watch Henri lean into his brother. In a hushed voice, he whispers something. The only part I can translate is, “You need to tell Jemma.”
My chest tightens. Tell me what?