Chapter Five #2
Melanie held his gaze, then continued. “Until we meet again, Kisses from your Amandine. How would you like to explain that, Gilles?”
He coughed and shot another glance at Melanie’s grandfather, who was still glowering at him. “I think perhaps this is a conversation between husband and wife,” Gilles said nervously.
“Yes, well, I thought our marriage was between husband and wife, too, but clearly I was wrong about that.” Melanie felt a surge of confidence as her grandfather nodded his approval.
Still, as much as it comforted her to have him here, this was her battle, not his.
“But, Grandpa Henry, I think maybe Gilles is right. He and I need to have a chance to talk alone.”
Grandpa Henry was glaring at Gilles now like he wanted to rip him limb from limb. Gilles, clearly shaken, took a small step away from him. “Are you sure, my dear?” Grandpa Henry asked.
“I am.” She could see in her grandfather’s eyes that he understood that as much as she wanted his support, this was something she had to face up to on her own. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go see Celeste? Gilles and I have some things to talk about.”
“I’m happy to stick around in case you need me,” her grandfather said, shooting another threatening look at Gilles.
“Grandpa Henry,” she said, turning to him. “You flew across an ocean to see the woman you thought you’d lost forever. Go to her. I know how much it means to you. I’m okay. And I’ll be right here when you get back.”
Grandpa Henry searched her face for a moment. “Yes, all right.” He narrowed his eyes at Gilles. “You’re a very stupid man,” he said, and Gilles’s mouth fell open. Her grandfather turned back to her, planted a kiss on her cheek, and whispered, “Good luck, my dear.”
“You, too, Grandpa Henry,” she murmured, kissing him on the cheek, too.
And then, he was gone, leaving her alone with Gilles, who was staring at her as if he’d never really known her at all.
Henry’s heart was heavy with concern as he made his way toward Celeste’s retirement home, just a ten-minute walk from Melanie’s apartment near the Jardin du Luxembourg.
He could have made it in five if he was younger and didn’t need a cane for support.
The proximity of his lost love to his granddaughter should have astonished him, but the truth was that in Paris, each arrondissement was like its own little village, and this was the same neighborhood Celeste had lived in all these years before, when he’d first met her.
The coincidence was that Melanie and Gilles had chosen to settle in the same area; it was one of the reasons why Henry had avoided visiting his granddaughter during the two decades that she had lived here.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to come; it was that he was certain he couldn’t bear being within blocks of the apartment where he had loved and lost Celeste.
But now he knew that he hadn’t lost her at all. She’d been out there living, breathing, having an entire existence without him. The thought made his heart happy and broke it into a million pieces at the same time.
How differently might his life have turned out?
He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have come back for her, and he would have done whatever it took to be with her.
But if he had found her, he wouldn’t have married his wife or had his son.
Melanie would never have existed. And how could he wish away a wife who’d been good to him, a son he’d loved from the very depths of his soul, and a granddaughter who was his favorite person in the world?
Beyond that, what would have become of his career?
All the songs he’d written over the years were about the deep love and the sense of bottomless loss he felt when he thought of Celeste.
Without the grief of losing her, without the overwhelming need to revisit their love again and again in his lyrics and melodies, what would he have written about?
He was so deep in thought that he almost walked right by the home.
He had expected a sign out front identifying it as an elder-care facility, but instead, it looked like any other building on the street.
He checked the address on his phone once more.
Number 18 on the rue Royer-Collard, just off the bustling rue Gay-Lussac. He steeled himself and went in.
“Bonjour,” said the young blond woman behind the check-in desk. “Puis-je vous aider, monsieur?”
“Bonjour,” Henry replied, adding haltingly, “Je suis ici pour rendre visite à Celeste Didier.” His French was rusty.
He had taken classes just after the Second World War as a surprise for Celeste, when he’d still believed they’d be reunited.
He had been fluent by the time he’d received word that she was dead—but he had barely spoken the language since then.
“And your name, monsieur?” the woman asked, switching smoothly to English. Clearly his accent had been a dead giveaway.
“Henry McGee,” he said, and she jotted something down on a ledger.
“Yes, Monsieur McGee, Madame Didier’s grandson has left your name on the list of approved visitors. You are here from the United States?”
“Yes.” It was all he could manage. His voice was hoarse, and he knew he sounded as desperate as he felt.
“Welcome. Right this way, monsieur.”
He was trembling as he followed her down a long hall to a locked door. She entered a code on a small pad to the right, and after the door buzzed, she pushed it open and gestured for him to follow.
Inside, the facility looked much like an old French apartment building.
In fact, it reminded Henry a bit of the place where Celeste had hidden him eight decades before.
“Is there no common area?” he asked, thinking of the retirement homes he knew from the States, spacious buildings with bustling activity rooms and restaurant-style dining.
“There is a room where the residents eat on the first floor. They’re able to take the lift, just there.
” She gestured to a modern-looking elevator that looked out of place in the old building.
“Aside from that, though, the residents spend most of their time in their own units. The building has been modified to accommodate the needs of memory-care patients, but it is designed to look and feel just like the apartments many of them spent their lives in.”
“Memory care,” Henry repeated. “How lucid is she?”
The receptionist frowned. “She has good days and bad ones, sir.” She didn’t elaborate further as she led him down a hall. “Here we are. Madame Didier’s apartment.”
She stopped outside of a door marked 0-B, and knocked loudly.
Henry held his breath, exhaling only when the door opened a moment later, revealing a small woman with long white hair that fell around her shoulders. He knew her instantly and took a step forward without meaning to. “Celeste,” he whispered.
But she looked at him without a spark of recognition. “Je vous connais?” she asked, and Henry had to blink rapidly to stop himself from crying.
“Yes, Celeste,” he answered in English, for when he’d known her, she’d been nearly fluent and eager to practice. “It’s me, Henry.” When she continued to stare at him, puzzled, he added, “Henry McGee,” his voice cracking.
“Madame Didier, Monsieur McGee is an old friend of yours,” the receptionist explained in French as Celeste squinted at her. “Your grandson, Jean-Luc, called ahead and said he would be visiting.”
“Grandson?” Celeste frowned and said in French, “How perfectly ridiculous. I’m not old enough to have a grandson.”
The receptionist shot Henry a look of apology. “I will leave you to it,” she said, switching back to English. Then she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Henry alone in the hall with the love of his life, who was staring at him like he was a stranger.
“Celeste,” he said in English. “It’s me, Henry. I knew you eighty years ago, when we were both very young.”