Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (28 page)

“MERDE!” SÉBASTIEN SAID
for
the third morning in a row, as he sat down to read the paper.

This time, I sighed. “Now what?”

He tossed me the paper.
Des
Bannerman to be First-Time Father!
was emblazoned in massive font across
the top of a national tabloid. I quickly took my phone out of my pocket and
looked up
The Times’s
arts section. “Oh. My. God.” It appeared to be
true. There was a comment from Des’s publicist, acknowledging the relationship
and pregnancy, but no due date or other facts, simply a request for privacy. I
bolted out of the chair and ran upstairs to Des’s room, where I quietly knocked.

“Yes?”

He looked utterly exhausted,
sitting in a chair by the window, his hair an unruly mess.

“Are you all right?” What else
could I ask?

With a groan, he leaned forward in
the chair and held his head in his hands. “I take it
it’s
in the paper.”

I confirmed his fear. “Your
publicist kept it to a minimum.”

A deep, awful-sounding groan
escaped him.

“What can I do?”

“Thanks, but I don’t think there’s
anything anyone can do until the paternity test has been done.”

I squeezed his hand. “So, it might
not be your baby? How far along is she?”

He sat upright and shrugged. “Six
weeks. Barely. There is a chance, but to be fair, she’s utterly lovely. I
cannot imagine her being like… that.”

“She’s the woman in yesterday’s
paper?”

He nodded. “She is a caterer.
Makes fabulous tabbouleh.” He snorted, erasing some of the tension in the room.

I heard someone clear his throat.
Des and I looked up together to find the doorway crammed with concerned faces, Ted
at the forefront. I rose to my feet as Ted walked in.

As I went to leave, he whispered,
“Close the door, will you?”

As I pulled it shut behind me,
Hillary said, “So, it’s true.”

I followed Des’s cue and said,
“Early days. He’ll get it sorted out.”

In our room, Sébastien asked me what
I knew. I told him about the photo in the previous day’s paper. “A hell of a
way to find out one’s going to be a father,” he muttered.

“Makes it easier to forgive him
for all the other stuff, doesn’t it, realizing his life is always under a
microscope?”

“Yes, chérie, it does.”

I sat down on the loveseat in our
room and patted the space beside me. “Sébastien, sit with me.”

As we sat side by side, staring
out the window, I approached the one critical topic we had yet to discuss:
children. I was nervous, really nervous, but the subject had been presented,
and I needed to know where he stood on having children, more children.

As we watched snowflakes fall, I
said, “Given recent history, you might think I’d been keeping this a secret,
but I haven’t. I wanted to talk about this a long time ago, but, given all the
upheaval and perhaps a certain amount of cowardice on my part, I haven’t asked.
Sébastien, do you want more children?” My breath was tight in my chest as I
waited for his answer, knowing the plummet to earth would hurt so much more
after just getting things back on track.

Tears sprang to my eyes as the
silence stretched between us. When he saw the storm of concern in my eyes, he gathered
me to him. “Chérie, I wouldn’t have told you I loved you if I didn’t want to
explore the future with you. Forgive me for giving in to stereotypes, but I
assumed that you would want to have your own children, sooner or later. Do
you?”

My head was nestled between his
neck and shoulder, my hair tangled around my face, stuck in the dampness of my
tears. I managed to say, “I don’t know when, but someday.”

I moved so that I could look at
him easier. “I think you will understand this, because of Gisella. I loved
Mikkel with absolute certainty. I had no doubts about our future together, but
when he didn’t call me after leaving Seattle, I felt misled. When I learned
he’d died, I was so ashamed of myself for having doubted he loved me. I was
ashamed that I had thought so little of him, that I could believe he would use
me for a summer fling. I spent so much time feeling
that
, it was only
when I returned to England that I realized I might be pregnant. I took a
pregnancy test. Two blue lines. I was pregnant.

“While I was absolutely terrified
at the idea of being a single mother, I was thrilled to have a part of him still
with me. Unfortunately, there were complications. After a mad dash to the
emergency room, I was told nothing could be done. All the decisions were taken
out of my hands. I had a miscarriage. The doctor said it might have been the
stress or shock. I wasn’t far enough along that anything could be determined.”

He held me while I cried, while I
mourned Mikkel, our child, my worries. He stroked my hair and murmured sweet
things in my ear. When I calmed down, he left briefly, returning with a warm
cloth and box of tissues. I patched myself up without looking at him. It wasn’t
smeared mascara and a red nose I worried about.

“What are you thinking?”

He wiped the warm washcloth gently
under my eyes, scrutinizing me as if to make sure he did a thorough job. “It
takes a lifetime to reveal the details of one’s life to another. At least, I
believe so. Right now, I feel sad. That time in your life was quite tragic, and
you were alone during it.” His words turned my thoughts to the girls and their
feelings of being shut out. When he had my full attention again, he said, “It
doesn’t surprise me that it took you a long time to be willing to fall in love
again. I’m just amazed that you fell in love with me.”

“You were so easy to fall in love
with,” I whispered against his mouth.

He pulled back just a fraction,
and I saw perfect happiness bloom across his perfect features. Warmth and
tenderness rang clearly in his voice. “When we have babies together, I would
love for them to have their mother’s eyes. One blue, one green. They would,
from the very beginning, know how unique and incredible they are.”

OVER THE HOLIDAYS,
I’d
mentioned I’d like to go to Seattle to see my mom, and
Sébastien
surprised me with a plane ticket to visit her. Very cautiously, he had asked if
I would like company. I quickly accepted.

“Bon, then I will get one for myself.”

A long weekend around Valentine’s Day worked for the four of
us. I was excited to see my mother and a little nervous at seeing Mr. Harper
again. I felt excited and nervous about introducing them to Sébastien.

I’d stayed at work until 4:00,
making sure everything was covered. My goal was to be packed by 7:30, so that
Sébastien and I could have a relaxed dinner together. I was flying out in the
morning to have a few days alone with my mother before Sébastien arrived to
enjoy a long weekend with us.

Half of my clothes were at my apartment and half were at
Sébastien’s, which made packing to go to Seattle a challenge. Finally, after a
quick trip to his place, I returned to my apartment and organized all my
clothes, deciding what to take. Looking at the chrome mantle clock in my
closet, I saw that I had just under an hour. With a large case open on the
floor, I stuffed in everything from jeans to cocktail dresses. After quickly
packing everything, I sat on the suitcase to zip it.
I’ll be paying an
overweight fee, for sure.

With a flushed face and my hair a bit on the wild side, I
locked the door behind me and rushed to
Sébastien’s.
Letting myself in with my new key, I took in the heavenly scent of whatever was
for dinner.

“Hello?”

“In here!” Sébastien called. I
followed his voice to the dining room, where he was setting the table. “How did
it go?”

“I’m done packing. I’m yours for
the rest of the evening, especially if part of the evening gets spent in the
tub.”

He gave me a wicked look. “I’ll
get extra towels!” A few days earlier, we had taken a bath together and flooded
the bathroom. What had started out as a sensual experience had devolved into
wringing out sopping towels amidst bouts of laughter.

I followed him into the kitchen and
helped him take containers out of paper bags so we could serve ourselves
Moroccan take-out.

“While ‘that’ sounds incredible,
my back is killing me.”

“From this morning?” His voice
sounded funny as he piled his plate with couscous. I realized he was
embarrassed. In response, I blushed at this morning’s wake-up call, which had
required quite a bit of flexibility on my part.

“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe.
Schlepping clothes from here and the dry cleaners didn’t help.”

Once we were settled at the table,
he admitted, “My timing is terrible, but maybe having time to think about it is
good… I would like for us to live together.” He put his fork down with a clatter
and took my hand as I held my breath. “Any thoughts?”

Fortunately, I had stuffed a large
bite in my mouth, so I had a minute to ponder. I started out with a joke. “I
love the idea of not having to renovate my apartment.” After spending most of
my free time at his place the past few months, my apartment had remained
basically untouched. “I also love the idea of all my clothes being in one
place.” Finally, I said, “Mostly, I love that you asked me. I love that you
want to live with me. It’s such a big step. I need to wrap my brain around it.”

“You’re right. Hopefully, while
you’re in Seattle, you’ll figure out you can’t live without me.”

MY MOTHER STOOD
out in a
crowd. Even bleary-eyed, I had no trouble spotting her in baggage claim. Tall,
lanky, perpetually upbeat, she was wearing a wide grin. Once she spotted me,
she made a
whoop
sound and raced over, wrapping me in her arms. We clung
together, swaying back and forth.

She held onto my arm tightly as she stepped back and allowed
her soon-to-be husband into our group.

Without thinking, I exclaimed, “Mr. Harper!”

“I think you’re old enough to call me John.”

My mom swatted his arm, clearly remembering she had always
insisted I call him by his last name. Stepping away from her, he pulled me into
a hug, which I happily returned.

“John! It’s great to see you.”

Then the three of us sized one another up. There were subtle
changes in the older two, including a few more laugh lines etched into the
corners of their eyes, deeper grooves alongside their mouths, and fine lines
crisscrossing their foreheads that spoke of years of surprise and sadness, as
well as happiness.

“This is weird!” I announced.

“Yes, it is. You’re a sophisticated grownup, not all gangly
and awkward anymore,” John teased. “Let’s get your luggage and go home.”

I finally spied my bulging
suitcase. “Oh, there it is!”

John offered to get it. “You’d
better let me. It probably weighs more than you!”

As he corralled the bag, I nodded
at him. “He’s really handsome, Mom. I don’t think I noticed it when I was
younger.”

“I did!” she immediately
responded, waggling her brows. While I was genuinely happy for her, I was not
quite sure how to handle this side of my mother.

He staggered over melodramatically
before placing the bag down and pulling the handle up so he could roll it on
its wheels. A few minutes later, we were on the road in my mother’s ancient
Jeep. We drove under a lead-gray sky, past rolling hills covered with evergreen
trees, and talked about everything from Christmas to lunch. My stomach rumbled
at the mention of food.

We pulled up in front of her
bungalow-style house. It had been painted since I was last there and was now a
deep shade of rust with dark charcoal trim.

When I was younger, my childhood
home had been a place of comfort. After Mikkel’s death, though, it held too
many memories and quickly came to represent both heaven and hell. My eyes drifted
to the top floor, to the tiny dormer window dressed in lace. My bedroom.
Memories made there caused me to wince.

“The house looks great! You’ve
done a lot of work.” I focused on the positive.

My mom gave John all the credit;
he turned out to be quite the handyman.

“Why don’t we walk to the café on
65
^th
, unless you’re too tired, Kathy?”

I chuckled. Only she called me
that. “Sounds great.”

We ambled down the street as she
remarked on old and new neighbors. Her narrow street with its closely-spaced
wooden houses and sloping lawns was so different from any neighborhood in
Paris; I felt like a fish out of water.

“Which café?” I searched my memory
with little confidence that any I had frequented as a kid still remained.

“The Bryant Corner Café. We went
there last time you were home.”

We escaped the cold, damp air inside
a beige, flat-roofed café with bright red doors. A few intrepid northwesterners
sat at tables outside, under an overhang, sipping coffee and reading their
papers al fresco.

While I perused the menu, my phone
rang. It was Sébastien. “Excuse me, it’s him.” With a huge smile, I said,
“Hello!”

“
Bon matin
, chérie.”

“Thank you. How are you? How was
your day?”

“It was perfect, except that I
spent the entire day in meetings with no time for lunch,
then
I came
home to a cold empty house and ate leftover Moroccan food, which reminded me of
the taste of it on your lips. And soon, I will go to bed alone.”

“Sorry! If it makes you feel any
better, I’m sitting here with my mother and John. We’re at a café eating
breakfast. I’m going to have crab cakes and scrambled eggs with pesto!”

He told me I was cruel, ignoring
his loneliness.

“You bought the ticket. You should
have thought of that.”

He laughed hard, leaving me
feeling better.

“Good. I’ve never heard you sound
so pathetic.”

“I’m going to say goodbye before
you criticize my manhood. I just wanted to make sure you had arrived safely.”

“Your manhood is perfection. Thank
you for making sure I’m safe and sound. By the way, I left you a little present
under your pillow. I hope you like it.”

I heard him walk down the hall,
and then the bedroom door hinge groaned. A moment later, his laughter was
muffled as he inhaled my perfumed bustier.

“Is your day better?”

“Much better, chérie. Thank you
for the thoughtful reminder. When can I call you tomorrow?”

“Anytime! I love you.”

“I love you, chérie.”

A moment later, I hung up the
phone and let out a long, happy sigh.

“She’s in love!” my mom declared
with joy.

“I’ve never heard you speak French
before. It was so… unreal.”

Changing the subject, I said, “Speaking
of unreal and before I forget, I just want to go on record and say that the
girls will completely understand if you don’t invite them to the wedding. It’ll
definitely change the tone, that’s for sure.”

“Are you kidding? Our wedding has
turned into the social event of Seattle. Not that Seattle knows it… yet.”

“Once Tiziana and Des hit the
runway, it’s going to be chaos unlike anything you’ve experienced,” I warned
them.

John suggested, “Since the wedding
is going to be aboard a boat in the middle of Lake Union, it is highly unlikely
that the paparazzi can do anything but buzz around overhead.”

My mom and I looked at him kindly
and then at each other before we burst out laughing.

Patting the back of his hand while
she got herself under control, my mom said, “Just wait until you meet Tiziana.”

Having no idea what he was in for,
he said, “That bad?”

I took the bull by the horns. “She
doesn’t mean any harm, nor does any harm actually occur, most of the time. She
just has a way of… owning a room.”

“Okay! I believe you. Whatever
your mom wants.” John appeared to give in to whatever the universe and Tiziana
might have been sending his way.

Seeing their affection for each
other was touching. They were very comfortable together, very attuned to each
other. My heart ached when I realized how long she had been on her own and the
loneliness she must have felt.

“John, I am really grateful that
you and my mom have found each other. I can see that she’s very happy.” The two
gazed at each other blissfully. “So, tell me what other decisions you’ve made
about the wedding.”

It was a short conversation. Nothing
had been truly settled upon, other than a date in late summer.

After the waitress arrived bearing
food, John lifted his coffee cup. “To the Ehlers women, two strong and capable
ladies! Thank you for welcoming me into the family.”

I dug into my food, relishing each
scrumptious bite of my breakfast. I relaxed, finding the familiar and laid-back
manner of the Pacific Northwest soothing. People walked slowly here, made eye
contact with strangers and greeted them. Drivers waited patiently at the red
light without inching into the intersection. I’d forgotten the friendliness of
the people who lived tucked in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. It was not
better. Not worse. Just very different from Paris.

***

John
surprised me on the way back home when he asked, “Keep up with your painting?”

It suddenly occurred to me he
might be the best person to talk to about my desire to find a way to “get art
back in my life.” He might even know someone locally who was doing something
similar to Aksel Pedersen. The more people I could talk to, the better. For the
moment, I answered, “Not in the way you mean. I mostly renovate apartments for
artistic expression.” I admitted, “It’s been years since I’ve painted.”

“You have more natural talent than
anyone else I ever taught. I always thought it was a shame that you didn’t
pursue it.”

Maybe not the right person.

His words stung, but not wanting
conflict, I calmly explained, “I was thinking practically. I needed stability.
The certainty that I could pay bills and have options was very seductive.
Sébastien’s daughter, Chantal, is a sculptor, though.”

He took the hint and asked about
her. We talked until we arrived at the car, pulled my suitcase out of the back,
and wrestled it up to the front porch. “Sorry!” I felt ridiculous at having
brought so much. “Where to?” There were three bedrooms upstairs, two tiny and
one large.

“We’ve turned your old room into a
study for John. The other bedroom is set up for you. From the looks of things,
you’re going to need to hang up clothes downstairs, as well.” I assumed she had
switched the rooms on purpose, and I was grateful.

To make light work of taking the
suitcase up the narrow stairs, I grabbed the handle while John took the other
end. Once back downstairs, I had a chance to check out all the changes. “This
new kitchen is gorgeous.” The fir, craftsman-style cupboards warmed up what had
once been an all-white kitchen. “You’re getting a little more colorful, Mom! I
take it that is your influence,” I said, praising John.

Then I spied a painting hanging in
the small dining room. “God! I can’t believe you hung that up.” It was a
landscape study of mine. Roughed out in raw umber paint, it was lines slashed
against a grayish-blue canvas scattered with puddles of dark orange, red, and
yellow.

“You were about fourteen when you
started it, if I remember correctly. You spent all day staring at the garden,
sketching vignettes until it was too dark to see. The next day, when we went
back, you did the preliminary layout on the canvas and hated it, decided you
didn’t want to finish it. But I kept it! When your mom and I were clearing out
my studio at the old house, we unearthed it. I think it’s incredible. Beautiful.
There’s confidence in the strokes but a lightness of touch; nothing’s
overworked.”

The oils had aged well with time.
The depth of color helped give life to my incomplete rendering of the Japanese
gardens in autumn at the local arboretum. “I remember feeling frustrated.” I
stood nose to canvas, observing the brush strokes. “Even though I was looking
at all the impossible but natural color combinations of the changing leaves, I
felt like an imposter. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to try to capture such a
riot of color.”

I was touched to see many of my other
creations hanging alongside John’s. When I was younger, I had protested my
mother’s desire to hang up my work. I was too embarrassed. It appeared she had
finally done as she wanted.

We sat, catching up, until my
eyelids drooped. John noticed and said, “Terri, the poor girl is tired. Kath,
have a shower and take a nap before dinner.”

I admitted to my fatigue. “Sounds
perfect. Can you make sure I’m awake by 5:00? That’ll give me a couple hours of
sleep. Are there any plans for later?”

My mom shrugged her shoulders.
“Only if you want there to be. Otherwise, I thought I would make dinner.”

Knowing we would go out when
Sébastien arrived, I was happy to stay put and catch up. “Perfect.” I rose to
my feet and so did they. “Thanks for everything.” My mother wrapped her arms
around me, and we swayed back and forth again. “If you keep doing that, I’ll
fall asleep.”

She let go and said, “Scoot.”

In my tiny, crowded bedroom, I
pushed the window open a sliver, stripped out of my travel clothes, and put on
a T-shirt before collapsing beneath the down comforter. The damp, cold air
carried the pinging of raindrops. In no time at all, I fell sound asleep.

***

When I
woke, it was dark, leaving me disoriented. The sound of the rain, which still
poured, was a soft, gentle reminder of where I was. After showering, I pulled
on my University of Washington sweatpants and a purple hoodie before going
downstairs in search of life. Finding my mother in the basement sorting through
a closet, I asked if she needed help.

“Nope, just making room for some
of your clothes, if you need it.” She pointed to a stack of boxes in the
corner. In a very gentle voice, she told me, “Those are yours. Don’t know if
you want to sort through them while you’re here.”

Mikkel. My past
. “I’ll think about that,” was all I could promise.