French Lessons, page 6
To be honest, she was the only person I ever enjoyed talking to. My colleagues at the hospital teased me for being quiet. But I wasn’t shy; there were just so few words I felt any need to voice aloud. Even with my girlfriends, I remained close-lipped and aloof. I think that’s what drew them to me, and ultimately drove them away.
I’d taken enough psychology electives to understand why I felt comfortable assuming the tall, dark, mysterious archetype. It was so much easier to play a role than to be myself.
“Are you hungry?” Effie asks me as she opens the oven door. Mouthwatering scents waft into the room—of roast chicken and baked apples and something sweet, perhaps the soufflé.
“Now I am,” I laugh; on cue, my stomach begins to rumble. “If that smell is any indication, you’re an incredible cook.”
“Ah, merci. I trained in Paris. Well, briefly.”
“You did?”
She casts her watery blue eyes upon my face and offers me a small, enigmatic smile. “I only took a few classes—I needed to get away for a time, and it seemed like a worthwhile pursuit—but I couldn’t stay away from the chateau for long. And I never intended to make a profession of the culinary arts.”
“But…isn’t that what you’ve done?”
She gives me a curious look.
“I’m sorry to be blunt, but…” I search for the right words, leaning against the round stone table at the center of the kitchen. Like most of the other décor that I’ve seen in the chateau, the table looks very old but well maintained. A cobalt blue wine bottle containing a bouquet of daffodils is the only surface decoration.
“I know this all happened very suddenly, and under tragic circumstances. And I apologize for just showing up. But I want to understand... Well, what’s your role here?” I ask Effie in a low, soft voice. “Are you an employee? A cook? No one explained anything to me before I arrived. I didn’t expect Renée, and now I find you—”
“There is no need to apologize, Vida,” Effie tells me warmly, stepping away from the oven, rounding the table, and pressing a cool hand upon my cheek. Normally I feel uncomfortable when a stranger, or even an acquaintance, touches me, but from the moment I met her, I’ve been at ease in Effie’s presence. As I lean against her hand, I remember how my mother used to smooth her palm over my forehead and cheek whenever I was upset, whispering, “Hush now, dear heart. All will be well...”
“I’m the caretaker of the chateau,” Effie says, drawing me away from my reverie as she removes her hand from my face and smoothes down the front of her striped apron. “Renée assists me, performing errands and odd jobs that are beyond my age. We have no assigned duties; we just do what must be done. And since I enjoy cooking, I cook, but I’m not a hired chef. Though I do hope you will enjoy my meals, Vida. Please let me know if you have any requests.”
“Thank you. I just…” I spread my hands helplessly. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I’ve never owned a house, let alone a chateau. How should I pay you? Are you paid by the month or—”
“Your aunt Josephine set up annuities to finance both my and Renée’s wages for decades to come. You need never concern yourself with paying salaries; checks are issued by mail from the estate executor.”
“You mean, from Monsieur LeGrande?”
Effie’s mouth twitches up at the corners, as if she’s trying to suppress a smile. “Of course. Monsieur LeGrande. So…” She claps her hands together. “May I make you lunch? We eat dinner early here, but I’m afraid the roast won’t be done for, ah, two more hours, at least. Perhaps you’d like a sandwich? Some brie and apple on fresh-baked bread?”
I think of the macaron I had at the coffeehouse for breakfast, and my stomach grumbles again, emphasizing its emptiness. “Yes, thank you. But if you’d rather I made it myself—”
“Sit.” Patting my shoulder gently, she urges me to take one of the sturdy oak chairs surrounding the table. “We’re here to take care of you, Renée and I.”
“Oh…” I shift uncomfortably, staring at the daffodils. “I appreciate the thought, but you’re here to take care of the chateau, not me, and I’m perfectly capable—”
“You are the mistress of the chateau now, Vida,” Effie asserts in an incontestable tone. Up until this point, her words have been unassuming, but now, with her shoulders squared and her chin subtly raised, I detect something imperious, though well meaning, in her bearing. “You are as much a part of this house as…” Her translucent eyes alight upon the grand old fireplace. “As the stones and the rafters.”
She turns toward me, and her gaze softens. “Every house has a story, and this house’s story has many chapters—some with happy endings, some with very sad ones.” Drawing in a deep breath, she rests her hand upon my head lightly, and her lips curve into a fond smile. “Your chapter is just beginning. And I hope you experience nothing but joy within these walls. I will do everything I can to ensure your happiness here.”
Surprised by her words, and moved to the brink of tears by her kindness, I find myself at a loss. I take her hand from my head and gently squeeze it. She’s wearing several rings with large, impressive stones—a ruby, an emerald, a pearl-and-diamond band. I don’t know enough about jewelry to guess at whether or not the gems are real, but they’re lovely, the facets flashing as they catch the afternoon light.
“I…I think we’re going to be great friends, Effie,” I say finally, lifting my eyes to meet her sky-blue gaze.
“Moi aussi,” she smiles, slipping her hand away from my grasp and casting a glance toward the cupboards in the corner of the room. “Now, tell me—would you prefer white bread or wheat?”
“Wheat, please” I say, as another voice chimes brightly, “White for me, Ef!” and, a moment later, Renée gusts into the room. Her majestic hair springs out around her head like a lion’s mane, and she’s wearing an expectant grin, glancing back and forth from Effie to me.
“Figured I’d find you lot back here.” She nods toward me conspiratorially, hands on her hips. “Did Effie give you her speech yet about how she’s only an amateur cook, not the world’s most brilliant chef?”
I smile. “Yeah, she said something like that.”
“Well, bollocks. She ought to have her own cooking show. I mean, just take a whiff!” Renée walks over to Effie and loops an arm around her shoulder. I’m surprised to realize that Effie is a little taller than Renée, so she must be taller than me, too. I hadn’t noticed the height difference when we were standing together outside.
“You’re too modest, my friend,” Renée tells the older woman affectionately. “Sometimes it’s all right to brag yourself up a bit—especially when you’re baking a soufflé.” Renée’s golden brown eyes roll back blissfully; then she gives me a stern, heart-stopping stare. “Vida, prepare yourself. Effie’s soufflé is a religious experience. An orgasm for your mouth.” She pauses thoughtfully, lips pursed. Then she winks at me, one mischievous eyebrow raised. “Almost puts sex to shame.”
“Oh, Renée…” Effie chuckles, ruffling Renée’s curls before ducking out of her embrace to fetch two loaves of paper-wrapped bread from the cupboard. “You’re a pathological flatterer.”
“Only with people I like. And I always mean what I say.”
“I know you do, ma chére. Will you hand me the bread knife? It’s there on the counter. See?”
As Effie begins to make the sandwiches, Renée seats herself in the chair beside me, leaning back with a tired-looking, but content, smile. “So how do you like chateau life so far, Doctor? I suppose you weren’t expecting to inherit a pair of odd girls like us.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I admit, bending forward and supporting my chin on my hands. I watch Effie’s nimble fingers cut into a bright green apple, slicing the white flesh into paper-thin segments. “But I’m grateful for the company. I was a little worried about coming over here and becoming a recluse. You know, having tea parties with the mice.”
“Oh, there aren’t any mice here,” Effie assures me as she finishes with the apple and, without missing a beat, begins to cut into a round of brie. “Spiders, though…” Her pale eyes close for a moment as her shoulders shudder. She shakes her silver head woefully, frowning. “I have a fear of spiders, Vida, and, unfortunately, the spiders seem to know that I do.”
“They’re harmless, though. Silly daddy long legs attracted to the damp of an old house.” Renée meets my eyes; she blinks slowly, still smiling. “Are you afraid of spiders, Doctor?”
I shake my head.
“Mm, I didn’t think so. Well, then… What are you afraid of?”
The question startles me. Loneliness, I think. Intimacy. Being vulnerable. Being hurt. And, I add, my mouth curving up into a bashful smile as my eyes glance over Renée’s medusa-like head of hair, I’m a little afraid of you.
But I lift my gaze and offer Renée a subtle shrug. “Hospital work cured me of my childhood fears—blood, death, and… Well, failure.” I narrow my eyes and breathe out. “God, I was so terrified with my first patient. I only had to splint her arm, but I felt certain I’d mess it up; I almost threw up. But I got past it, and with every patient I treated, I became a little more confident as a doctor.”
“I’m not surprised.” Renée’s eyes trail over me, beginning with my face and ending with my fingers, now woven together on the rough tabletop. “That was one of the first things I noticed about you, Vida—your steady hands.”
A tremor quakes inside of my chest, and I feel my cheeks begin to warm, but I don’t look away.
“You exude confidence. And calm. Well…most of the time.” Her mouth moves into a slanted, teasing smile.
I bite my lip. I’ll probably—almost definitely—regret asking this, but my curiosity gets the better of me: “Okay. So…when don’t I seem confident?”
“Now, for instance,” Renée answers quickly, smoothly, holding my gaze; her eye color deepens as the light streaming through the windows grows less yellow and more burnt orange. “The moments come and go. But sometimes, when I’m looking at you, it’s as if someone else looks out at me through your eyes…” Her voice, soft already, trails off as she folds her arms upon the table and leans toward me. “And I would like to get to know that hidden-away person. I think we’d get along like old chums, if she’d only give me a chance. I’m not so scary, truly. Am I, Effie?”
Effie chooses two plates from the drying rack by the sink and laughs lightly. “You’re a terror on that Vespa, ma chére. But on two feet? No, not scary at all.”
“You see?” Renée’s eyes sparkle. “And our Effie never tells a lie.”
There’s a tremendous clatter, then, as both of the plates slip from Effie’s grasp and fall to the clay tiles, shattering on contact into bouncing white shards.
“Mon dieu!” Effie covers her mouth with her hand, blue eyes wide and disbelieving. She slowly shakes her head. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Never mind, Ef,” Renée tells her in a gentle tone, rising from her chair and tiptoeing around the broken pottery. “It’s been a strange day for all of us. Stay where you are. I’ll go fetch the broom.”
“Can I help?” I ask, eying Effie with concern. Her porcelain skin has flushed carnation pink, and she’s staring down at the scattered shards with a conflicted expression, as if she isn’t certain whether she ought to be angry or upset.
“Here, give me a hand.” Renée tosses me the dustpan, and she begins to sweep the floor with a handmade broom; its long handle is a sanded-down tree branch, and its bristles are stitched together with bright red twine. I kneel down and position the dustpan against the tiles as Renée sweeps the sharp debris in my direction. She, too, looks worried, agitated, casting quick glances toward Effie as she works.
When all of the broken bits have been swept up and discarded, Renée gestures for me to sit again. “Excuse us for a minute, Vida,” she says, stowing the broom in the corner, pressing a hand against Effie’s shoulder and guiding her toward the door beside the stove, leading outside. The two women pass through the door, shutting it closed behind them, leaving me in the kitchen alone.
I take my seat uncertainly, feeling out of place. Was it my fault, somehow, that Effie became rattled? Maybe, despite her friendliness, she resents my being here—especially so soon after Josephine’s death. I wouldn’t have come so soon if Monsieur LeGrande hadn’t insisted that I would be welcome at the funeral… But he’s a lawyer; he might not even know Effie or Renée. If he did, wouldn’t he have mentioned them to me?
I hear the murmur of voices through the walls—no, the window. There’s a small window above the sink, and it’s open slightly, permitting the muted outdoor conversation to strain quietly through the screen.
I make a concerted effort not to eavesdrop, distracting myself by humming the theme from Star Trek while running through the state capitals in my head. But I get stuck on Connecticut, and as I wrack my brain, trying to think of a city, any city, in that state, I catch a few words spoken in Renée’s husky English accent: “We’ve been through this, Effie, hundreds of times. It will all work out, you’ll see. And this way, you’ll keep your promise to—”
Hartford! I think it’s Hartford…
I begin to hum louder, eyes flitting around the snug, warm-colored space. I notice that Effie hadn’t quite finished with the sandwiches yet; the bread, cheese, and apple slices are all on separate cutting boards, waiting to be assembled. So I stand up and take the last two plates from the drying rack, making the sandwiches slowly and marveling a little over the fact that, ordinarily, I would be engaged in my hospital rounds at this hour of the day.
Maybe somewhere, in an alternate timeline, there’s another me who’s reading charts, chatting with families and patients, stealing sips of coffee from the break room during precious lulls. If I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t given up my Chicago existence, I would be wearing green scrubs and a forced smile right now, counting down the hours until my next clock-out, my next nap, my next date with the next woman who will grow fed up with me before our one-month anniversary…
“Sorry about that, Doctor,” Renée says suddenly, and I turn around to face her as she steps over the threshold; Effie is close behind her. A waft of sweet, grass-scented air breezes into the room, competing with the tantalizing smells of cooking food. Renée shuts the door and approaches me, looking fresh-eyed and determined. She’s wearing a dazzling smile that I can hardly believe is intended for me.
And I’m grateful, all at once, that I’m not holding the sandwich plates, because if I were, I would have dropped them just like Effie did—though for a very different reason. My knees wobble beneath me, as weak as the smile that wavers over my lips. “Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Oh, fine!”
“Oui, all is well,” Effie confirms, crossing her arms over her chest and gazing at me warmly. “I’m sorry if my clumsiness startled you, Vida, but sometimes—not often—my nerves get the best of me.”
“Please don’t apologize. I…I feel like maybe I should stay somewhere else for a few days, a week, and give you two time to grieve—without a stranger in the chateau.”
But “no!” Effie and Renée call out at the same time, and Renée steps nearer, brazenly claiming one of my hands. “Vida, we—Effie and I both—are happy to have you here with us. If nothing else, you must believe that’s true.” Her tone is so vehement, her tiger’s-eye gaze shining with intensity.
I want to believe her, but I can’t help wondering… Well—why? Why on earth would Effie and Renée be happy to share the chateau with me during such an emotionally raw, vulnerable time in their lives? They don’t know me, and why should they wish to know me? They loved Josephine, and I’m her niece, but they’re under no requirement to treat me like royalty—or even like a friend—simply because I’m related to their dearly departed employer.
A cynical thought occurs to me then, and I hate myself for thinking it...and yet still wonder if it might be, at least partially, true: maybe Effie and Renée are just desperate to keep their jobs. Maybe they figure that indulging the new boss, plying her with delicious food and sweet-as-chocolate-mousse words, will secure their own futures at the chateau.
But one look into Effie’s kind, candid eyes makes me blush with shame for suspecting her capable of such a motivation. Renée isn’t as easy to read, admittedly, but her expression, too, is sincere, open, and I squeeze her hand lightly, even as I exhale heavy sigh.
“If you say you don’t mind my being here, I believe you,” I murmur. “But I want you to know—both of you—that whether I decide to live here permanently or not, I’ll make certain that you’re able to retain your positions, that you can continue to live here in the chateau for as long as you choose to stay, because…” I pause, considering. “I didn’t know her, but I’m sure that’s what Aunt Josephine would have wanted.” I look up and meet each of their gazes in turn—Effie first and then Renée. “It’s what I want, too,” I say softly, staring into Renée’s bright, watchful eyes and feeling something within me fissure.
“Vida…” Effie presses a hand to her chest, shaking her head slightly as her liquid blue gaze shines. “You have your mother’s heart,” she says, voice cracking, brushing a stray silver strand of hair back from her cheek. “And,” she goes on, clearing her throat and squaring her shoulders, sighing quietly, “your aunt Josephine would have been very proud to call you her niece.”
“Just as we are very proud to call you—” Renée stops short, giving me an odd, appraising, though less-than-serious look, free hand cocked on her hip. “Well, what should we call you? Boss? Chief? Ma’am? Ms. Toujours? Mistress?” She makes a small bow, still holding onto my fingers.
I smile, heart skipping as I take in her playful expression—and register the fact that her thumb is making slow circles against the back of my hand. The pads of her fingers are so soft and warm; I feel them intensely, like electric pulsations, as the sharp tips of her orchid nails graze my skin. “Just Vida,” I murmur, locking eyes with her again and chuckling lightly. “Or Doctor—since you seem to be so fond of the word.”
