She: Part 2 (24 page)

“Of course,” I smile at his mother. I can’t think of another person that I’d rather be photographed with.

“Fine,” Logan concedes, “but let’s take it outside.”

“I’ll admit I was a little sidetracked by seeing you two canoodling, but I did notice that this is all new,” Rupert says about the roof terrace when we all step outside.

“To you and me both,” Logan tells him. “I saw it for the first time about twenty minutes ago.”

And what a breathtaking twenty minutes they were
, I think.

“This is Gemima’s birthday present to me,” he announces happily. “I still can’t believe it,” he smiles.

“Gemima, this is magnificent,” Mary-Gene says, looking around in awe.

“You did all of this by yourself?” Rupert asks.

“I designed it myself, I picked everything out based on what I thought Logan would like. Then today Mercy and I had some hired help to get everything into place. They did a great job,” I say, giving credit where credit’s due.

“So did you. This is very impressive,” Rupert gives his approval.

“Absolutely,” his wife agrees.

Logan and I grin at each other before he says, “It’s abso-
fucking
-lutely, mom. Nobody says absolutely by itself anymore.”

“Duly noted, kid, now go and stand over there,” she points to the large ceramic pot with the somewhat-battered tree in it.

Logan and I obediently stand where we’re told and follow her further instructions.

“I feel like I’m going to Prom,” I mutter out of Mary-Gene’s earshot, feeling a little stiff. I shake my body out and attempt to look more casual.

“You look stunning, baby. You don’t take a bad photo, I know that for a fact. I was there when your company portrait was taken, remember?” he smiles.

“I’m glad you’re thinking about that right now,” I say, remembering the other presents that I have to give him tomorrow, one of them being a photo from that very shoot.

“Why?” he asks.

I shrug, playing nonchalant. “Just am,” I say, before giving him a cheeky grin, which totally gives away that I’m hiding something.

His eyes narrow and I laugh, enjoying the tease. Then in an attempt at distracting him, I tell him, “This is the first time we’ve posed together as a couple.”

“Lots of firsts tonight,” Logan chuckles.

“First quickie…” I begin.

“First time doing it outside…”

“First dinner with the in-laws,” we list them all, pausing between each one to smile for Mary-Gene’s camera.
She must have enough by now
, I think, her finger hasn’t lifted from the shutter since we’ve been standing here.

Logan’s arm tightens around my waist. “If they hear you call them that they might just combust with excitement,” he beams. “A bit like I am right now,” he laughs.

I watch him as he laughs, reveling in how happy my words have made him. “One day I’d like to call them that,” I tell him with a wink.

“Un jour vous le ferez,” he nods confidently.
One day you will do
.

And just like that, our guests disappear from my awareness as everything in me focusses on Logan and I. We’ve done it again: both admitted that, more than spending the rest of our lives together, we want to do so as husband and wife. Joy becomes me at the very thought of it.

Ignoring the fact that we’re supposed to be posing, Logan turns inwards to face me, his free hand cupping my face as he brings his lips to mine. “I’m so in love with you, Gemima,” he whispers.

It’s my turn to beam at him. “Ditto, baby.” I lean forward to kiss him, but our embrace is cut short by his mother’s next words.

“Oh,
look
at them,” Mary-Gene coos. “Rupert, how do I take videos on this thing?”

I smile against Logan’s lips. He pulls back, rolling his eyes playfully.

“And that’s enough with the camera,” he says, ending our photo shoot. Hand in hand we walk back across the terrace, before Logan asks, “Who would like a drink?”

“That’s a great idea, Loges,” his dad pats him on the back.

“Yes, and I’ll get dinner heating through,” I add. “You sit and relax,” I say to them all, “I’ll bring the wine out.”

“I’ll join you,” Mary-Gene says at once.

She links her arm with my free one and I’m tugged from Logan’s hand as she pulls me away from him and Rupert into the apartment, towards the kitchen.

“Your dress is to
die
for, Gemima. You and Logey match so perfectly, and y’all make
such
a handsome couple,” she says very quickly and I can’t keep the smile from my face. She’s so exuberant and bubbly. “Are y’all fixing to come to Charleston anytime soon?” she asks, though before I can answer, she adds, “I don’t care what Logan says, I can’t
wait
to show you off!”

I laugh, and then reply, “We, uh, haven’t talked about visiting, but I’d love to see where he grew up. Your home is near the ocean, isn’t it?” I remember.

Mary-Gene reluctantly lets me leave her side to attend to the pan on the stove.

“That’s right,” she smiles at me as I peer over my shoulder at her. “It’s a beautiful home, we’ve had it north of forty years. I’d love to have you come and stay. This summer, maybe?”

I’m not quick enough to hide my surprise at her eagerness.

Noticing that she’s bombarded, she says, “Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’, I know I can be a little pushy sometimes. You’ve probably already got plans for the summer. Doesn’t matter,” she continues, not letting me get a word in edgeways, “whenever you’re able to visit, we’d love to have you.”

“Thank you,” I say hastily, when she takes a breath. “I’m looking forward to it, whenever it comes about, though, not so much the flight. I’m not the biggest fan of flying,” I admit.

“Me either, sweetheart,” she shakes her head. “You just need to take full advantage of those little liquor bottles that they give you. Knock ’em all back,” she winks at me, “you’ll be right as rain.”

And there I have it — my first piece of advice from Logan’s mother: get drunk. Instantly I warm to her even more.

Grinning, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back to her for a moment to stir Mercy’s pot of deliciousness once more. When I turn around again, I’m startled to find Mary-Gene standing
right
beside me. Instead of laughing off the fact that she made me jump — which would be the
normal
thing to do — I attempt to disguise my shock by turning my jump into an awkward little dance move.
Really
,
Gem
? Mercifully, Mary-Gene is staring into the pot on the stove, meaning that she doesn’t see my awkwardness in full bloom. Either that, or she chooses to ignore it.
Be cool
, I tell myself again.

“So, Gemima, has Logan had you over to his apartment often?” his mother asks me. “You seem to be familiar with it,” she says, gesturing to me and the stove.

I look at her and falter slightly. I suddenly wonder how much I’m allowed to tell her, though given that Logan admitted that he loves me in front of her, I presume my next sentence to be an acceptable amount of sharing.

“Yes, he’s been very hospitable,” I tell her. As I continue, my sharing grows exponentially, “If we’re not here, then we sleep at mine.” I become unstoppable. “We basically live together,” I blurt out.

Her eyes widen in surprise, though she looks thrilled by the news. “So soon?” she says immediately.

I give her the simplest answer that I can think of. “When you know, you know,” I smile, feeling a what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son talk coming on.

Sure enough, Mary-Gene presses, “And you have this
knowingness
about Logan?”

The expression is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” I blanch: I just swore! Suddenly my calm resolve crumbles and I enter dangerous American Mouth territory. My automatic babble-mode takes over, and I say at high speed, “We’re not shy about our feelings for one another. And, well, to be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. G — can I call you that? — I have a terrible proclivity for speaking my mind at
all
times, even inappropriate times — Logan and I call it my American Mouth — so if you want to do the whole what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son thing, then ask away.”

She looks comically alarmed by how many words I managed to get out without taking a breath. “You can talk as good as I can; I like that, dear,” she compliments. “No one has ever asked to call me Mrs. G before,” she grins, “I think I’d prefer Mary-Gene or MG. It’s more personal.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I nod my understanding.
Dammit
! “Shit, sorry, I mean: yes, Mary-Gene.” I swore again! I need to get some control of myself; it’s time to start channeling my inner Southern Belle.

Totally ignoring my swearing — an action that reminds me that she has seen and heard a lot worse from her son when he was a teenager, which perhaps has desensitised her — Mary-Gene says, “As for the intentions-talk? It’s not necessary. It’s abundantly clear to me that the pair of you are besotted with each other. And frankly, darlin’, I’m ecstatic that you’re so gorgeous,” she exclaims. “You’re boast-worthy. So is Logan; together you’re a perfect match,” she smiles, satisfactorily.

Oh
,
wow
! “I…uh…thank you,” I stammer, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks once more. “So I have your approval, then?”

“Top marks, kid,” she says, giving me two thumbs up.

“Good,” I giggle, smiling broadly.
Not too bad for our first dialogue
, I say to myself. Leaving the food to warm through, I pick up the two bottles of wine that I put on the kitchen island earlier this evening and I walk with Mary-Gene back outside, to join Logan and Rupert around the table. I naturally head straight for the empty seat beside Logan, and fall into it feeling very gratified about how the evening has progressed so far.

A moment later Logan has the first bottle open and once we’ve each got our glass in hand, we raise a toast.

Speaking before anyone else can, I say to Logan’s parents, “Bienvenue à Paris de nouveau. Je vous souhaite une merveilleuse visite.”
Welcome back to Paris
.
I wish you a wonderful visit
. I immediately surmise from their blank facial expressions that they don’t understand a word of French, and so hurriedly repeat the sentiment in English.

“Merci,” they say together, making Logan and I laugh. OK, so they understand
one
word.

After taking a sip, Rupert says, “Gemima, tell us about yourself…”

Speak clearly and be poised
, I give myself a pep talk. I begin talking, and for the next ten minutes we chat back and forth about my youth in Florida, my family, and my reasons for coming to Paris eight years ago. Internally I celebrate how easy they are to talk to; the conversation flows effortlessly with everyone partaking, and fortunately I make zero inappropriate comments. So far, anyway.

“What does your father do back in Florida, Gemima?” Rupert asks me.

“Uh, nothing. My father was killed when I was four,” I tell them.

“He was
killed
?” Logan says, looking shocked.

I nod innocently. “I told you that, didn’t I?” I’m sure we spoke about him during our first lunch date.

“Baby, you told me that he
died
not that he was killed,” he says, looking concerned.

“Well, he did die,” I shrug, wanting to lighten the suddenly gloomy mood. This mood-change is the exact reason why I don’t talk about his passing; because it seems to instantly bring everybody down. I know my father wouldn’t like that, which is why I usually use the word
died
instead of
killed
. This choice of word has saved my mother and I a lot of questions over the years, but Logan, I suddenly realise, might be the only person that I disclose
all
of the details to. “It was a wrong-place, wrong-time kind of thing,” I tell everyone. “So, it’s been mom and I since then,” I say, moving things along. “When her second marriage broke up she joined me here in Paris, and as you know, Mary-Gene, she set up her salon and the rest is history.”

“I’ve been on every visit since it opened,” she tells me, excitedly. “Friday six o’clock,” she recites her upcoming appointment. Picking up my mobile phone which I left sitting on the table, Mary-Gene hands it to me, saying, “Do you have a photo of your mother? I might recognise her.”

I start hastily flicking through my photos, bypassing the most recent one hundred which are all of Logan from our recent French Riviera retreat, and then the next hundred which are all of the nineteen-twenties decor.

Rupert asks Logan, “What’s this?”

Glancing up from the screen, I see him indicate the small forty-nine plaque, and Logan and I immediately smile at each other, before I tell his parents, “Your son is a real romantic.”

“
Me
?” he chuckles. “You’re the one who stuck it there.”

“Yes, but
you
are the reason why,” I laugh. “Tell them how sweet you are,” I say, returning my attention to my phone while Logan fills his parents in on his grand romantic gesture. After I find a charming image of my mom and I, I look up just in time to see Rupert and Mary-Gene’s startled expressions.
Deer in headlights
. Yup, that’s how I must’ve looked when Logan told me.

“You don’t do things by halves, do you, son?” Rupert utters.

“It’s not in my nature,” Logan grins.

* * *

A short while later the elevator pings, delivering Buddy to the penthouse and we all hurry inside to greet him.

Like Logan, Buddy is still in his work clothes, but I suspect that his reasons for being so are quite different to Logan’s. He’s holding a small child, maybe two or three years old, in one arm and a baby bag in the other. He dumps the latter by the elevator door, as he bounds forward to embrace Mary-Gene.

“MG,” he smiles, hugging her tightly, before naturally handing the smiley toddler over to her. She goes all gooey-eyes over him immediately. Then Buddy shakes Rupert’s hand, kisses me on each cheek — very French — and he greets Logan by patting him on the backside like men in sports teams do. “‘Sup?” he says to his best friend. Then he asks Mary-Gene and Rupert, “How are my favourite seventy year olds?”

“Peachy, kid,” Rupert tells him and Mary-Gene nods in agreement.