What Mother Never Told Me (9 page)

It was fear that seized her mind and twisted her thoughts. No longer an emotion but an entity, some real thing with a power greater than her own will. The same fear she’d felt the night when she gave birth to her alone in her apartment. Her brown baby. The night when she’d recognized that everything she’d done, all she’d worked for, the love she’d finally found, would be destroyed, stripped from her, leaving her with nothing, the same nothing she’d endured all her life. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to go back down that road.

“Emma, honey…”

Emma turned away from her ugly past. She’d never told Michael what she’d nearly done to their child. And she never would. He may have forgiven her for keeping the truth of their
daughter’s existence for all these years, but
that
he would never forgive.

She forced a smile.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Concern carved a line between his sleek black brows. “You’ve been out of sorts all evening.” He came up to her, stroked her cheek with a brush of his fingertip.

She sighed at his familiar touch and clasped his hand to her face, closing her eyes. “I’m fine. A bit tired.”

He draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Then let’s have an early night.” He kissed the top of her head.

Suddenly she clung to him, pressing her head to his chest, seeking comfort in the steadying beat of his heart. Michael was her life. Everything she’d done, every decision she’d made, had been for him. His love for her had been the only love she’d ever known. The only kindness she’d ever been given. She’d grown up an outsider, scorned and snickered about in that little backward town of Rudell. She hated it there almost as much as they hated her—almost as much as she hated her mother. But so much had changed since then. Everything except her fear. Her fear of confronting her daughter and confessing not what she had done, but why.

Emma tilted her head up to gaze into the dark pools of his eyes, the edges lined with concern. The jangling of her nerves began to quiet like a church bell that had rung out the hour. Even after all these years, Michael remained incredibly handsome. The same endearing smile that won her heart still had the power to make her stomach seesaw and her pulse pound. His touch continued to stoke the fire within her. Michael was her life. She’d given up everything to live forever in the halo of his love. It was his love that gave her sustenance, flowed through her veins, pumped through her heart.

Emma’s entire being suddenly overflowed with emotions so powerful that her eyes filled and glistened. “I love you so very much,” she whispered. “So very much.”

Michael held her close. “I love you, too, Em.” He stepped back, holding her shoulders. He looked into her eyes. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

She turned her head away to hide the betrayal. “I’m fine, really.” She took his hand. “Let’s eat and go to bed.”

Throughout the night Emma couldn’t dispel the image of her daughter standing in her doorway. Each time she closed her eyes Parris’s eager face loomed before her. Her voice echoed in her mind. She’d grown into a beautiful young woman. A beautiful young woman without her. The woman she’d scorned and turned her back on was responsible for raising the woman that Parris had become.

There’d been so many times throughout her life in Europe that she’d doubted her decision, regretted what she’d done. And her guilt would wake her from sleep, guide her through the darkness of the chalet to the kitchen table, put a pen in her hand and pull her fingers across the paper to find out how she was doing, was she well, was she happy, did she ever ask about her? Too many letters were warped by her tears, the ink flowing in black and blue rivers of sorrow. With the new day the ocean’s tide of guilt would recede. That is the prayer she whispered throughout the night, that the bright light of morning would blind all those in her path to the sorrow and the fear she held in her heart.

Parris awoke with a start.

She sat up and put her feet on the floor. She walked to the window and peeled back the white draperies. The town was
still very much asleep. The few signs of life were the occasional car or abandoned cat or dog scurrying for shelter. In the morning dimness, houselights and the illumination of the streetlamps resembling probing cat eyes appeared to float, disembodied against daybreak.

There was still at least an hour before breakfast would be ready in the main hall. Nervous energy pushed her back and forth across the room. Noon was an eternity from now. She was certain she would leap out of her skin long before then.

Fishing through her suitcase, she pulled out a red pullover sweater and a pair of jeans. She needed some air.

P
arris stood beneath the overhang of a wine and spirits store watching the entrance to Voile Bistro on the opposite side of the street, as if the very act of staring would make something magical happen. She tugged the short brown leather jacket a bit tighter around her slender body, willing mind over matter to chase the morning chill away. She wasn’t certain what she hoped to accomplish by standing there, perhaps divine a sense of her mother, the woman who’d given her up for a life that she could not live with a child hanging on her hip.

Did she have other children? Did she ever marry? Where and who was her father? The plate glass window of the shop revealed nothing more than what appeared to be a successful business tucked on the other side. Successful enough that Emma was known by name.
Travanti
. Her father’s name or the
name of the man she’d married? Or the name she’d taken for reasons that only she would know?

Questions tumbled through her mind as she witnessed the sleepy town stretch its limbs and take its first steps into the new day. The heavens were streaked a magnificent purple from the night of heavy rain and already the dew drops, resembling eager beachgoers, were stretched out into thin layers of water waiting to be dried by the sun.

She’d been emboldened when she’d stepped out of Le Moulin du Port and began the half hour walk toward the center of town. The streets were barely lit by the sleepy sun struggling up and over the mountaintops, while trying to snuggle back down into its blanket of clouds.

For the past hour she shared duties with the lamppost, holding up the corner, and she was sure that soon someone would call the authorities to report the loud noises coming from her empty stomach. Feeling more foolish by the moment and increasingly hungry she turned to leave, but slowed her step when a car pulled to a stop in front of the bistro.

Her nerves popped as a woman got out of the car, fumbled with a set of keys and opened the front door. Parris stood rooted in place as the woman turned to close the glass door and their gazes collided.

The woman’s eyes widened ever so slightly then settled, in resolve or perhaps resignation. She didn’t move as Parris crossed the street and came to stand in front of the door.

It was the woman from last night
. She was sure of it. Did she work here, as well? Were they friends and business partners? “I wanted to see the owner,” she said, speaking slowly so that her words could be made out through the glass that separated them. “Emma.”

Emma’s heart pounded so ferociously in her chest she strug
gled to breathe. What was she to do? Turn her away again? Pretend…pretend what? Her temples throbbed as a sliver of perspiration trickled down the center of her spine. Her nostrils flared as she drew in air. Holding on to the doorknob, she was certain, was the only thing keeping her from crumbling to the ground.

“Do you know what time she will be in?”

This was her escape. She could say that Emma was out of town for several weeks. She could tell her…

The door slowly opened and Parris stepped gratefully beneath the threshold. “Thank you.” She assessed her with curiosity. “We met last night, didn’t we? At Ms. Travanti’s house.” When she didn’t get a response she pressed on. “I was told this was her restaurant. Is that true?”

Emma turned away, drew up her shoulders and exhaled the one word Parris longed to hear.
“Oui.”
She heard the breath of relief puff on her back. “Are you a friend of hers?”

“I’m her daughter.” She pulled the yellowed letter from her purse. “She wrote this letter to my grandmother many years ago after she’d come here to live.”

Emma flinched. She walked to the pastry counter, keeping her back to Parris. “She never spoke of a daughter. Ever. Perhaps you have the wrong person.” Slowly she turned around. “How can you be sure?”

“I can’t. But I promised my Nana that I would find her. This is the place I have to start.”

Emma looked deep into the eyes of her child, seeing the questions, the turmoil and the determination carved on her face. How much had Cora told her? How much of a picture had she painted? Did she include her own role in Emma’s defection?

“Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be great. Thank you.”

Emma went to the door and locked it, put the CLOSED sign in the glass then returned behind the counter and began perking the coffee. Before long the bistro was filled with the aromas of fresh brewed coffee and warmed croissants. Emma placed a tray of the airy pastries in front of Parris and poured her a mug of coffee.

She sat down opposite Parris at the round table. “So you
say
you are Emma’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

She lifted the cup to her lips. “What is your name?”

“Parris.” She smiled wistfully. “Nana said she named me after the place where my mother had come to live.”

“I see.” She lowered the cup and embraced it, the warmth softening her bones. “You came from the States. I hear an accent. Southern?”

“I grew up in Rudell, Mississippi.” She lowered her head and chuckled. “I’m sure you never heard of it, not many people have.” She looked at Emma. “You’re not a native of France, either. But you’ve been here a while.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I just have a keen sense of sound. I guess it comes from listening to music and singing most of my life.”

A singer, like Cora
. “Professional or hobby?”

Parris took a bite of her croissant. “I’m aiming for professional. I’ve done some shows. I even have a record deal offer.”

Emma’s fine brows rose. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations. You must be good.”

Her soft expression lit from inside. “So I’m told.”

Emma leaned forward. “Tell me what
you
think.”

“Really?”

Emma bobbed her head. “Yes. Tell me.”

Parris drew in a breath. “Well, when I sing…nothing else in the world matters.” Her eyes danced with emotion, traveling to the special place that was only hers to understand. “I feel transformed and the music, the lyrics, are my lifeblood, what keeps me alive. I become the words and the need to convey their message is more powerful than anything else.” She blinked and Emma came back into focus. She smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes.”

“We all need our passions, Parris.” Her petite hand slowly curled into a fist. “Something that drives us and gives our life meaning. If not, what is the point of it all?”

“What’s your passion?”

“To live the life that I dreamed of as a girl, the life that was denied me. To be accepted and loved without condition. That is my passion. Everyday.” She pushed up from her seat and stood. Her chest rose and fell. She pressed her lips tightly together lest she say more than she should.

Parris looked up at this woman standing above her and something inside her shifted out of place, leaving her feeling suddenly unbalanced. She was a stunning woman, who defied a fixed age. Her skin was nearly translucent and clear. Her hair—thick, silky and black with fine streaks of gray—gave her fine features an even more regal appeal. Behind her glasses her deep set eyes seemed to hold hundreds of stories and images that Parris could only imagine. She had the bearing of someone important, not ordinary help, even though her dress was simple; a powder blue oxford shirt, ironed to precision, the sleeves rolled to expose long pale arms and a pair of simple navy dress slacks that gracefully fell from her hips and kissed the tops of her ankle boots, with a hint of something very subtle and expensive that wafted around her when she moved.

“I really must get started preparing for the lunch customers.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.” She draped her purse on her shoulder and stood. “Thank you for breakfast. How much do I owe you?”

Emma waved off the question.

“You didn’t tell me when Emma would be coming.”

“I’m certain that you are wasting your time, but I’ll be sure to mention to her that you were here,” she said, sidestepping the question. “If she decides to come in.”

“But you were at her house last night. Won’t you see her there?”

Emma lifted her chin. “She comes and goes as she pleases.” Emma walked toward the door and opened it.

Parris stood in the doorway. Her gaze rested on Emma. “Thank you for your time.”

Emma nodded.

Parris turned then stopped. She faced Emma. “Can you give her this number?” She reached in her bag and took out a card that she’d taken from the front desk of the bed-and-breakfast. “This is where I’m staying.” She handed Emma the card then walked out.

Emma stood in the frame of the glass door and watched as her daughter became silhouetted against the brilliance of the morning sun and Emma prayed that the light would blind her to the truth.

Parris returned to Le Moulin. Marie was in the front room rearranging the flowers on the table.

“Oh, you’re out early. I missed you at breakfast. You went sightseeing?”

“Something like that.”

Marie stopped what she was doing. She brushed her hands on her apron. “France is no place for sadness.”

“Is it that obvious?” She reached for a bright red apple from the bowl on the table.

“Very plain to see. May I ask why you are so sad?”

“Long story.”

Marie raised and lowered her right shoulder. “All I have to do today is whatever I choose. And I make no excuse. I’ve earned it,” she said with a grand swing of her arm, the loose sheer sleeve of her dressing gown flapping like a wing. “Come with me to the garden. I have more flowers to disengage.”

“Disengage?” she said, laughter rimming her voice.

“It sounds civilized, no?”

Parris smirked. “Sure.”

“Come.”

Parris followed Marie through the ground floor to the backyard. They exited into a wonderland. The ground exploded in a patchwork of vivid color.

“This is incredible,” Parris said, awestruck. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this.”

“It is my pride and joy. And very soothing. I could spend hours cooing to my beautiful friends, turning the soil, planting new life.” She knelt down near a bed of brilliant orange roses. “Sometimes in life we have to find the things that take us away from what troubles us so that we can reclaim our joy.” She glanced up at Parris, who stood with her arms folded beneath her breasts. “Don’t you agree?”

Parris shrugged slightly. “I suppose so.”

“If you could do one thing right now to make yourself feel better what would it be?”

There was only one thing. “Find my mother.”

Marie’s eyes widened for a split second. “I see. And that is why you are here, to find your missing mother?”

“She’s not what you would call ‘missing,’ not in the technical sense.” She paused to clarify her thoughts. “She left, many years ago, and came to France to live.” She looked boldly at Marie as if doing so would somehow wrench from her the information she desperately sought.

Marie remained silent as she gingerly turned the soil around her blooms and added fertilizer from the pocket of her apron.

“Maybe you know her.”

Marie shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Her name is Emma. Emma Travanti. She owns the bistro in the square and she lives in the valley. I went to her house last night when I arrived. The driver told me about the bistro. I went there this morning.”

“And…”

“She wasn’t there. I spoke to a woman who works there. The same woman who works at my mother’s house.”

“Wasn’t she able to tell you about your mother?”

“No.” She lowered her head a fraction and looked off into the distance then back at Marie. “Do you know her?”

“I’m sorry to say that I don’t. France is a big place. Are you sure it is the right person?”

“All I know is what my grandmother told me, that she’d come here years ago…right after I was born.” She tightened her arms around her waist. “And she never came back.” She said the words almost in stunned surprise, as if the reality of it were sinking in. She drew in a breath. “I made a promise to my grandmother that I would find my mother. And when I find her she
will
tell me the truth. She’ll tell me why.” She nodded her head as she spoke to reaffirm her commitment to herself and to Cora.

Marie watched the shadows of emotions move across her face and heard the underlying pain skimming the words. It took a lot for a mother to leave her child, extraordinary reasons. During her growing-up years, she’d lay in bed at night and pray that when she awoke her mother would be gone. Her prayers were never answered. She endured her mother for sixteen horrendous years until she left home, never to return. She couldn’t imagine being on a quest to find Lily no matter how extraordinary the circumstance.

“What will you do if you can’t find her? If you can’t fulfill your promise?”

“Go on with my life…somehow.” She frowned slightly. “But I know that once I leave here, no matter what happens, my life will never be the same again. It hasn’t been since my grandmother told me that my mother wasn’t dead after all.”

Marie snapped her head in confusion. “I thought you said that she left and came here after you were born.”

“She did. But for reasons that only she and my grandmother know, she wanted me to grow up believing that she was dead.”

Marie stretched out her hand, which Parris took, and helped pull Marie to her feet.

“Merci.”
She brushed off her hands on her apron. “One thing I have learned,
chérie
, is that we must be careful what we wish for.” She patted Parris gently on the back as they returned inside. “Sometimes the very thing we believe we need and want is the last thing we should have. Those wants bring their own set of consequences.
Oui?
”

Parris’s gaze ran over Marie’s face, searching for something beneath the surface, an answer that eluded her. But she saw nothing. “I’m sure that they do, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Marie studied her for a moment then smiled broadly. “A woman of determination. I like that.” They entered the main hall of the bed-and-breakfast. “Did you eat? Although we don’t offer lunch to our guests,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m sure Marc can prepare something for you.”