Chapter 8 #4
The flight on Wednesday night was on time, and arrived in Paris at the crack of dawn on Thursday half an hour early.
Dominique had managed with carry-on, and was in a cab leaving Charles de Gaulle airport at six-thirty a.m., and reached the city at seven-thirty.
There was some early morning traffic. Dominique had the keys to Marie-Aurélie’s house and let herself in silently at eight in the morning.
It dawned on her that maybe she should have warned her mother after all.
She was about to terrify two little old ladies if they heard her walking in.
They might hit the alarm and call the police, thinking it was a burglar.
Dominique wasn’t sure whether to be totally silent or to make lots of noise so she didn’t startle them.
She opted for silence, since they might still be asleep.
She assumed that her mother’s friend would be asleep in one of the guest rooms, and she headed for Marie-Aurélie’s room on tiptoe, knocked gently, opened the door, and gave a leap backward, not sure what she was seeing, or who.
Her mother was propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, looking like a princess, with her hair brushed, smiling at a very distinguished-looking man in pajamas who was serving her breakfast on a silver tray, with a proper pot of tea.
He was pouring her a cup, as they looked ecstatically at each other.
They stared at Dominique in astonishment, and the man in the pajamas set the teapot down, handed Marie-Aurélie her cup of tea, and removed the tray.
And it was quite obvious that he had very shortly before been occupying the other side of her mother’s enormous canopied bed.
He put on a silk robe as Dominique watched him in amazement.
It looked like a love scene in an old movie.
Dominique was mortified to be the intruder.
“Maman, I’m so sorry. I thought…I was worried about you…I wanted to surprise you…”
“You did,” Marie-Aurélie confirmed with a smile, and glanced at Clément, who was smiling too. He thought it was funny, and wasn’t embarrassed. “Do you remember Clément Bertrand? You met a long time ago.” He executed a brief bow at the introduction.
“Of course,” Dominique answered. “I asked you about him a couple of months ago and you said you hadn’t spoken to him in forty years,” Dominique said, as she came through the open doorway and approached them. They looked perfectly at ease in their nightclothes together.
“That was true, but you reminded me of him, so I did a search on my computer and found him, and we began writing to each other.” She smiled at him again. “And then we had lunch, and things just kind of progressed from there.”
“When was that?” Dominique asked.
“About a month ago.”
“Things seem to have progressed quite nicely since then,” Dominique said, and sat down on the duchesse chair in her mother’s bedroom. The room was filled with beautiful antiques worthy of Versailles, and Clément looked right at home there.
“Yes, they have,” he agreed, and all three of them were laughing.
Dominique had walked in on her eighty-five-year-old mother’s love scene with her boyfriend of forty years before.
And they had apparently been kindling some old flames.
“I’ve been taking care of her, but she’s not a very good patient, I’m afraid.
She won’t follow instructions, she doesn’t like the wheelchair, and she won’t use the crutches.
And now I’ll let you two ladies enjoy a visit while I dress.
Would you like a cup of tea?” he offered.
Dominique smiled and shook her head. He was charming, exquisitely polite, and still very handsome, and her mother looked twenty years younger than when she’d last seen her.
She didn’t look a day over sixty, and neither did he.
Dominique felt like a clumsy intruder as her mother grinned at her, mildly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t said anything about Clément. We wanted to see how things went before we told anyone.”
“No, I’m sorry, I should have warned you I was coming. I didn’t expect to walk in on a love scene. He’s still very good-looking, and very nice.” She glanced inquiringly at her mother, who was smiling and enjoying the scene.
“Yes, he is. He’s wonderful.”
“And very much in love with you,” Dominique said cautiously. He had looked it when Dominique saw him taking care of her. Marie-Aurélie nodded agreement. “You too?”
“It seems that way.” Clément had disappeared into Armand’s old dressing room, which didn’t bother Marie-Aurélie anymore.
Forty years before, that had been intolerable, but Armand had been gone for forty-seven years now, long enough for her to recover from the loss.
There was room for Clément in her life now.
There hadn’t been before. Dominique could see that.
They both looked so happy together. She was happy for them.
They had waited a long time for this. Dominique glanced at her watch.
It was nine in the morning Paris time. “I should really take a flight back to New York today. You’re in good hands.
And I left a mountain of work on my desk in New York. ”
“Stay and have dinner with us,” her mother encouraged her, Dominique hesitated, and then decided why not?
She was curious about Clément and to find out what he was like.
She remembered him as being polite and kind, but a lot of years had gone by.
He was modestly famous now and respected in the art community.
He came back half an hour later, impeccably dressed in a suit with white shirt and tie. He looked like a banker going to a meeting, not an artist.
“Dominique is going to have dinner with us tonight,” Marie-Aurélie told him, and he looked pleased.
“I think I’ll let you ladies enjoy each other’s company today and I’ll come back at dinnertime.”
“All right, but I still want you to spend the night tonight,” Marie-Aurélie said softly, and he bent down and kissed her gently on the lips.
“As long as Dominique doesn’t mind,” he said politely. He didn’t want to cause a problem and Dominique still looked shocked.
“Of course not. I’m the intruder here. Thank you for letting me stay for dinner,” Dominique said. “I’ll catch an early flight in the morning, and I’ll still be able to get to my office by noon, with the time difference.”
She spent the day chatting with her mother, fluffing up her pillows, and helping her dress for dinner.
Marie-Aurélie looked very chic in a slim black skirt and a cream-colored twinset, with her pearls.
Clément returned in a pin-striped suit for dinner with Dominique.
Her mother had it catered from the Atelier of Joel Robuchon and it was delicious.
The conversation was light and lively and Dominique was increasingly amused that she had walked in on her mother’s love life, which looked more romantic than her own.
Her mother commented on it that afternoon.
“It’s lovely being with a man who doesn’t have personal obligations or attachments.
He doesn’t even have children. It’s just us.
Armand and I never paid much attention to it, but there was always the specter of Armand’s wife hanging over us, wondering if she would make trouble or interfere in some way.
She never did, but the possibility was always there, a bad surprise one day.
Now all Clément and I have to do is decide where we want to have dinner, and who we want to see.
He stays here a lot now,” Marie-Aurélie admitted.
Dominique didn’t ask her what their future plans were.
At their age it was almost an ironic question.
Destiny would decide their future. Their plans were irrelevant.
And she heard what her mother had said about being with a man with no attachments.
It sounded wonderful to her too. She hated sharing Bill with his wife, and worrying about what she was going to do about it, if anything.
Clément seemed like an ideal partner for her mother at this stage in life.
Dominique had no objections whatsoever if her mother was happy, and clearly, she was.
Dominique kissed them both when she went to bed that night.
She was leaving in the morning before they got up and she wouldn’t see them.
“Take good care of each other,” she said gently.
“And I hope I’ll see you both soon.” They smiled warmly at her.
Her surprise visit had been a happy gift.
Marie-Aurélie was still in pain from her ankle, but Clément was taking perfect care of her.
They were a happy couple when Dominique left them.
Dominique couldn’t help wondering if it would be another twenty years before she had a man of her own too, without “attachments.” Her mother had earned it and Dominique was pleased for her.
Looking at them, it was clear to Dominique that the old adage was true: Love has no age.