Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“This is probably a bad idea,” Marlow said, trying to keep her head clear.
“I don’t think so at all,” said Guillaume, standing so close she could count his eyelashes.
“What do you see in me? We’re very different.”
He laughed. “I have my reasons.”
“Wouldn’t it be good to list them?”
“Wouldn’t it break the moment?”
Get out of this. Now.
But she didn’t move.
“Come, take a shower with me. And then, as you are calling Yves and asking him to do you this favor, you could think of me, and nothing would seem quite so bad.”
She’d be a vile human if she didn’t sort out this romantic triangle nonsense immediately.
“A—thing—happened with Luc,” she blurted.
“Ah.”
“I don’t want to seem like an asshole, because usually I’m not an asshole, but this all sort of … crept up on me. The best thing to do, I think, is to press pause in the romance department. It’s gotten complicated. And I made things complicated enough in France with the house.”
She put distance between them until the coffee bubbled. He poured two little cups, brought her one, then took up his station at the island.
“Was Maison Perdue damaged in the storm?” he asked, obliging with neutral territory.
“Not much. But there is some damage in Mirabelle. We’re cleaning it up.”
“My lawyer is preparing Ruth’s paperwork, so that will be ready when she returns.”
“Thank you so much.” Now she really felt like a heel. Guillaume had been so helpful, and she’d slept with another man.
“And you will need land transfer papers from Rémy. She will be in Nenier tomorrow.”
Oh joy. Rémy.
Given Marlow had come straight from the hardware store run, and Luc had dropped her off, she was without a moped, so Guillaume offered her a lift home. She put her dishes into the dishwasher. He did the same. They were suddenly close again.
“I only wish I were competitive,” he whispered, “because then I would not acquiesce—is this a word in English, too, acquiescer? I would see who is the better man. Fight for your hand.”
Not once had Marlow ever had a man offer to fight for her. And yet. “That thinking is old-fashioned,” she said. “And not evolved.” But it was also hot. So very hot. Damn. Weak knees again.
She explained the whole roster and situationship shenanigan as reported by her helpful teen. A possible state of affairs that Marlow was still trying to wrap her head around.
“And what did Luc think of this?” Guillaume asked.
“He politely declined. You?”
“Thumbs up.”
She gaped at him. “Really?”
“I did not know it was called this,” he said, “but I too have a few … situationships.”
She raised her eyebrows. Well well. Wasn’t that an interesting development.
“I can tell you more if you want to discuss it further. Perhaps in the shower?”
“If kissing you was a bad idea,” said Marlow, “having a shower together is worse.”
“Bah non. It is an efficient use of our time, that is all. I require a shower, and we have more to talk about. We can do both at once.”
“I think I’ll stay here and wash the dishes,” she said.
“That is what the dishwasher is for.”
“Then I will stand here like a fool and contemplate life.”
The moment he was gone, she texted Violet for advice. Her attempt at juggling two men hadn’t gone well at all. Just remembering how that had imploded kept Marlow from running upstairs and joining Guillaume.
After he had showered and changed, alone, Guillaume drove Marlow to Nenier. On the way, Marlow’s curiosity got the better of her.
“You said you have a few situationships … Why not something more? Why not a steady girlfriend? A fiancée? A wife?”
He shot her a bemused smile.
“Have you seen you?” she asked. “You’re a catch.”
“You think so?”
“Come on. You’re charming, smart, kind, wealthy. The full package, as we say.”
“Oh is that what we say.”
“You’re being so coy!” she said.
“What is this ‘coy?’ ”
“It means modest. Aloof. Cryptic. But being, you know, sexy at the same time.”
“Merci,” he said. “That does not sound so bad.”
“Oh, it is, it really is.”
They arrived at the Nenier parking lot. “Here we are,” he said.
“That’s it? No answer?”
“Perhaps I don’t want a long-term commitment.”
“Why not?”
“Mmm,” he murmured, cocking his head as if considering it. “That is for our next conversation, I think.”
There was that coyness again. Infuriating.
“And this is where I leave you.” He kissed her on both cheeks, and in spite of herself, she lingered when their faces were close.
Honestly, Marlow. Both ways is how you want it, and you make everything that could be simple so, so hard.
She got out, they exchanged smiles and a wave, and he drove off. Their conversation had only made her more curious about him. She looked forward to their next time together for sure.
Marlow looked at the Nenier square. Bundles of sticks and branches were piled near the dumpsters, and detritus that had been broken or damaged in the storm was tied neatly in bundles. People had been busy.
Just as she headed for the Mirabelle stairs, Sabine called. Marlow stayed in the lot where she had a Wi-Fi signal. “Finally! Terrible uncommunicative daughter. When will you be home?”
“Tomorrow, I think. Probably. Or maybe in a few days.”
“Oh. OK. Which is it?” Marlow smelled a rat.
“A few days.”
“What are you up to?” There was a pause. “Or, rather, first things first, where are you?”
“Uh … Paris.”
“You’re what?!”
“Mum, don’t make a federal case out of it. I came to Paris with Aubin on sort of a whim.”
“Whims aren’t half-in half-out, they’re either planned, ergo not a whim, or—”
“A non-whim semi-plan that I cooked up just before we came. No federal case required.”
“And why was it necessary to keep me in the dark?”
“Because you always make a—”
“Do not say federal case.”
“—federal case of it.”
“Where are you staying?” Another pause. Please don’t let her answer be—
“With my father,” said Sabine.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Marlow felt a stab in her chest.
“See? You overreact about everything.”
“No, I react exactly the right amount to my daughter visiting her deadbeat father who hasn’t once been a real or even a decent parent. Are you moving in?”
“I might.”
“Jesus. Why?”
“Because I’m going to try to go to the Sorbonne. And if it works out, he offered to let me stay with him. His apartment is five minutes from the university.”
“I thought you said yes to U of T!”
“Not exactly. I just said that to get you off my back.”
“So you lied about that, too? I don’t understand,” Marlow said, tears rising.
“I love it here in France, Mum, and I love Maison Perdue. I’ve just been feeling unsure about school, and I decided to go to Paris with Aubin, and we did plan to be back that same day, but it’s been going well, so I stayed. It isn’t more complicated than that.”
Marlow sat on the stone wall and took a breath. The evening air had cooled. “When will you be home?”
“I don’t know. Probably a few days, a week at most. I’ll keep in touch now. I promise.”
“Do you have money?”
“I have my bank card. But just so you know, other than the train ride here, I haven’t had to buy anything. It’s been really nice. Yves has covered everything.”
Of course he has, thought Marlow. He’s making up for lost time.
Trying to look good, the magnanimous father.
All her years as a single parent, covering every pair of cleats, every art class, tutor, rent payment since the day she was born—wiped out in one visit to Paris.
When Sabine came back to her, if she ever did, Marlow would look like a stingy, no-good shell of a mother, and Yves would be the star.
It had already happened, far as she could tell.
At least she was calling him Yves and not Dad.
“Sabine,” Marlow said, jaw clenched, “get back here now.”
“No.”
“I swear to God—”
“What? You’ll ground me? I’m not twelve.”
“You’re no adult either! You’re out in the world, in a foreign country, with a boy—do you even have contraception?”
“Give me some credit!”
“Why should I? You’re AWOL, making bad decisions with a boy Guillaume has already pegged as entitled and directionless with a nose for trouble. Like I’m not going to fight to get you back from the two worst influences on the planet!”
“I’m going to stop talking, because I don’t want to say anything I regret. Only, you had a chance to be chill about this, and you ruined it.”
“I ruined it?” screamed Marlow. “How is your bullshit behavior my fault?”
“This is not bullshit, this is my life!” Sabine yelled back. “And like it or not, I’m having a good time, and I’m going to attend La Sorbonne in September thanks to my dad!”
And there it was. “Dad.” Marlow hung up and headed for the Mirabelle steps but stopped midway, breaking down, shaking and gasping for air, unable to get to the top.
Sabine, in the bedroom chair in Yves’ apartment, stared at her phone. Aubin sat on the bed, one headphone on, listening to music, the other off so he could hear what was happening.
“That didn’t sound like it went well,” he said.
Sabine burst into tears. She rushed to the bed and curled up into Aubin’s arms.
“Tighter,” she said as she sobbed. He wrapped his arms right around her and pulled her in until it subsided. It felt good to be hugged so hard by him.
“I’m ruining everything,” she muttered into his shirt.
“No, you are not. Hear this from a ruiner of many things.”
That made her laugh. She wiped her nose on his shirt.
“Is it hard? Yes. Are you reaching for things? Yes. You deserve to have both parents if you want. You deserve all the love everyone has to give you.”
It was the perfect thing for him to say. She spent a long time in his arms. She could hear both his heartbeat and Rue Xavier Privas below. Tourists. Revelers. The lovers of beer pong.
“I know it’s only, like, nine o’clock,” she said, “but I’m so tired. Can we go to sleep?”
“Sure.” He set up his pillows and blanket on the floor, then went to brush his teeth. She lay back. It was hot. She had no desire to get under the covers, no desire to get changed.
He turned out the lights, took off his pants and T-shirt, and lay on the floor.
“Can you come up here?” she asked. He did, lying beside her, no part of his body touching hers. Respectful. “Can you come closer?”
His hand, lying there, was touching hers. She intertwined her pinky with his. Then she turned on her side. He did the same. They faced each other.
“Closer.”
He moved closer. She put her hand on his chest. He felt strong and lean, muscles defined even at rest. Her hand wandered up his neck, felt his Adam’s apple and jaw line. Her fingers traced the contour of his face. He had a bit of stubble after two days of not shaving.
“I want to kiss you,” she said.
“OK.”
She did. It was good. Full of electrical charge. She let her hand roam some more, but never below the waist. He didn’t move.
“Can we do more than kiss?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to take the advantage. You have too much happening. There is time for that if we want to go more.” He kissed her again, soft and slow, and moved back to the floor.
“Are you sure?” she said over the edge of the bed.
“No.”
They laughed, and she lay back, saturated with desire, but also comfort.
The valley got dark. Marlow thought about calling Violet, or calling Noah, but in the end did neither. She didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation and going through the emotions all over again.
She went home, hovering on the step between her house and Luc’s.
His door was ajar, candles were lit—the power likely wasn’t back, but it was also clearly a romantic invitation.
She was tempted to let herself walk through his doorway, fall into his arms, and then his bed: a place where she could feel good and forget about everything else, especially Sabine’s choices and feeling abandoned by her own kid.
Instead, she stepped inside her dark house, closed her curtains and crawled into her own bed. Tomorrow, she had to get the transfer papers. Once she’d submitted them, should she paint the house for Ruth? Or go to Paris and steal back her daughter?