French Lessons, page 9
Renée, poised next to Effie and the open doorway, bites her lower lip, crossing her arms over her chest. She tosses me a pained look before taking Effie by the shoulders and leading her further into the hall, shutting the door with a soft click.
Another private discussion.
This time, I’m grateful for the solitude.
Chapter Five
I draw a deep, shaky breath into my lungs and try to quell the emotions surging, electric, within my chest. Emotions that have been inwardly shocking me since my arrival at the chateau, though, sitting here in this bedroom, I feel dangerously charged, my hair standing on end.
I haven’t been in a space my mother occupied since the last time I went to her apartment, after she died, to sort through and pack her belongings. That had been painful—picking up her hairbrush, still threaded through with long, dark strands; tossing out her garbage, with its empty blueberry yogurt container. Realizing that she had yogurt for breakfast on her final day, never knowing it would be her final day. If she had known, would she have made herself something decadent—crepes with piles of whipped cream—instead? Would she have bought her favorite frappuccino from Starbucks and then taken a walk through the park where we used to feed the sparrows? Would she have phoned me to tell me, at last, the secrets she’d kept so close ever since she arrived in America?
I stand up and walk over to the long, low dresser, its surface draped with a dingy lace scarf. I trail a hand over the rough fabric, swallowing down a choking sob. I expected my French adventure to be an emotional one, given the unfortunate circumstances of my arrival and the connection with my mother, but I didn’t expect this: this overwhelming sense of helplessness, of the heavy yet fleeting weight of time, of loss beyond measure…
I’ve never been a crier, and I’m crying, again, on my first day in Ville Etoile. Stepping onto foreign soil has changed me somehow; I feel foreign—unpredictable.
“Vida.”
Renée’s voice—so deep and calm—startles me from my thoughts. I hadn’t heard her open the door, hadn’t heard her step back into the room. I turn to face her with a small, sad smile, hands on my hips, head tilted to one side. “Everything all right?” I manage, though my throat is tight with held-back tears.
“Fine,” she says softly, smiling back. Then she extends her long fingers toward me and nods her head of gleaming curls. “Care for some soufflé, Doctor?”
“Oui.” I laugh hoarsely. “And I’m afraid that’s the extent of my French language skills.”
“Ah, vraiment? Well…” Her smile teases me. “It is a useful word, oui, quite useful. Sometimes I think it’s the most beautiful word. And the hardest to earn.” She arches a brow, thumb grazing the back of my hand. “But you’ll need to know a bit more French than that in order to thrive here. What do you say we make a bargain?”
I regard her, half-amused, half-suspicious—and utterly mesmerized by the shape of her mouth... “What kind of bargain?”
Her lips slant into a mischievous grin. “I’ll give you French lessons, Doctor, if you’ll agree to overlook my dear Effie’s occasional…ah…eccentricities.”
I bite my lip. “I’m not sure what you—”
“Sometimes she’s given to nervous fits is all,” Renée explains smoothly. She tilts her head back a little, curls springing over her shoulders, brown eyes glinting with flecks of gold. “But she’s utterly harmless, and it’s best if you don’t pry—”
“I would never—”
“Don’t be offended, please. I can tell you’re the respectful sort. This is overprotectiveness on my part, nothing personal. And…well, if I’m honest, my motivation isn’t entirely unselfish.” Voice softening, she gives me an arch look. “You know what they say: French is the language of love. It makes poets of us all—from thieves to mechanics, politicians to princesses. Perhaps, Vida Toujours, it might even succeed in making a rather reserved American doctor less reserved…and, well, a little more French.”
I chuckle. “What does it mean to be French, according to Renée Chanson?”
“Ah, sweetie… To be French is to be free, libre—in every sense of the word.” Her eyes flit to my mouth, her own lips parting. “Now, then, that’s your first lesson. Say it with me, Vida. Libre.”
I smile self-consciously. “Libre.” I repeat the syllables, fond of the sound, of the sensation of my tongue against the roof of my mouth, of my lips coming together and apart again: “Libre, libre…”
Renée nods her approval, one eyebrow raised. “You’re an apt pupil, aren’t you? I expected as much.”
“Oh, no, I’m terrible at languages. I should apologize in advance—”
“You’ll be brilliant, Doctor. Never mind the past.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Besides, have you ever had a teacher like me before?”
I flush, gazing deeply into Renée’s amber eyes. My high school Spanish teacher was a short man with no enthusiasm for his subject, and in college, the Spanish professor—a distracted elderly woman—could never quite remember my name. “Well, no. I can’t say that I have.”
“So there you are. We’ll be brilliant together. Now come along, or Effie will throw a wobbler. She’s been slaving for hours over this meal.” Renée urges me out into the hallway, still holding my hand; I walk beside her, taking quick steps to keep up.
“I really wish she hadn’t gone to so much trouble.”
“No, no, she loves going to trouble for people. Trust me. It’s her hobby of choice. Well, besides gardening, of course. Do you have a green thumb, Vida?”
“No.” I shrug. “I’ve never had a yard, much less a garden. My mother always wished for a garden, but the best she could do was assemble some potted herbs on the terrace. And she had baby roses that she kept indoors, over the kitchen sink.” I chew on my bottom lip and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, willing away the memory of those same roses wilting in my apartment window after my mother’s funeral.
“Well, I’ve a black thumb myself,” Renée laughs, giving me one of her coy, breath-stealing smiles. “I’m positively toxic. When her roses are in bloom, Effie won’t let me near them. She’s afraid they’ll croak at the sight of me! And she’s probably right.” Her hand glides out of mine as we begin to descend the front staircase. “So I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my talents lie elsewhere—or maybe I flatter myself to think so.”
“You should be very proud of your paintings.”
“Oh, I am, sweetie. Almost all of the time. Occasionally. Well, at any rate, they’re an improvement to blank canvas, wouldn’t you say?”
Renée breezes through the hallway and dining room, guiding me past the rounded kitchen door and into a heaven-on-earth of culinary scents. My stomach nearly leaps out of my mouth; despite painful memories and tears, I’m suddenly famished. “Effie, you’re a kitchen angel,” I sigh, pausing with my hand on the back of a chair to breathe in the intense, mouthwatering aromas.
“Ah, but I am undercover. I keep my wings in the pantry,” Effie says, giving me a quick wink. She brandishes two loaded blue toile plates in her hands and places them carefully upon the stone table. “Please, sit, both of you. I’ll join you in a moment. Just checking on my soufflé…”
I take the chair before me, and Renée slides into the seat to my right, smiling at me as she unfolds a lace-edged napkin over her lap. “Prepare to be gluttonous. Effie always insists on seconds.”
“Or thirds!” Effie pipes up, her silver head pointed toward the open oven. “I made far too much food for three little people.”
“Then perhaps we should set a place for the chateau ghost.” Renée picks up her fork, gazing at me mysteriously. “All proper old mansions have ghosts, you know, and this house is no different.”
“I’m not sure I believe in ghosts,” I smile. “At least not of the Casper variety.”
“Well, believe it or not. But if you catch a bloke in a smashing sailor costume gliding down the stairs some night, just give him a wave and let him go on his floaty way. We call him Barmy Billy, don’t we, Effie?”
“You call him that, oui. I don’t call him anything at all.”
“Anyway,” Renée grins, waggling her fork, eyes gleaming with excitement, “story goes that he was betrothed to one of the misses who lived in this chateau, but she tossed him while he was off at sea, got herself married to another man—a banker, of all the dull things. Poor Billy drowned, none the wiser, but he still comes back to seek out his unfaithful bride.” She gazes up toward the ceiling thoughtfully. “Appears most often on full moons. I’ve tried to strike up a conversation with him, but he never talks back, only nods his little sailor cap and drifts on.”
I blink. “Are you serious?”
Renée laughs but nods her head. “Of course I’m serious, Doctor. It isn’t so odd. What’s that line? There are more things in heaven and earth…”
I spear a slice of chicken and roll my eyes back with pleasure as the flavorful juices meet my tongue. “Well, I have to admit—this food is supernaturally good. What’s the French word for bliss?”
“Extase is ecstasy,” Renée tells me in a low tone, as she takes a bite of her stuffed apple. “But I’m going to go with scrummy myself. God, Ef, you’ve outdone yourself. You’ll make me fat yet.”
“Ah, fat or thin, you will always be beautiful, ma petite.” Effie brushes her hand over Renée’s curls affectionately before bringing her own plate to the table and sitting across from me with a tired sigh. She folds her hands beneath her chin, watching Renée eat for a moment, and then she turns her crystalline eyes on me. “You will have to tell me your favorite dish, Vida, so that I can make it for you. I want you to feel at home.”
I dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin and smile at the older woman. “You have already been so kind to me. I feel very taken care of. Thank you. I mean, merci.”
“De rien. But truly—what do you like to eat? And don’t be shy. I enjoy a challenge.”
There’s a cold fire burning in Effie’s eyes now: she’s determined to get menu ideas out of me, no matter how much I protest. So I set down my fork and consider for a moment. “It’s a little embarrassing. With my hospital schedule, I would often skip meals—and then gorge on potato chips and microwave pizzas. Some doctor, right?”
“Pizza?” Effie perks up, eyebrows raised high. “You like pizza?”
“Love it.”
Renée’s mouth curves. “Sadly, we don’t have any pizza parlors in Ville Etoile. Tragic, isn’t it? But Effie makes a mean Margherita.”
“Oui, oui, it is an old recipe that I won in a poker game in Marseilles—”
“What?” I nearly choke on a sweet bite of apple. “Poker?”
“Old Effie’s a card shark.”
“No, I’m only lucky.” Effie’s smile, bright at first, fades fast, and her eyelids lower. “At games. I’ve always been lucky at games. They’re a…distraction. Occupy the mind.”
Noticing the solemn shift in Effie’s mood, I glance quickly to Renée, who gives me an encouraging nod. “Well, if your pizza is half as good as this chicken, I’ll never go to a pizza parlor again,” I say weakly, and take another bite.
But Effie only looks up at me and gently nods, still lost in her thoughts. She begins to pick at her food.
“I’ve offered to give Vida French lessons,” Renée says, then, eager to change the course of the conversation. “I’m a bit worried for her, frankly—wandering this part of the country without a word of French, besides oui, in her head. The natives don’t always take kindly to English, Vida—or the English, for that matter. I’ve got to watch my own accent. But Americans…” Renée widens her eyes warningly. “If you can avoid mentioning your American-ness, best to. All that Freedom fry rubbish...”
“Oh, it is rubbish, and I’m sorry on behalf of my countrymen—and women.” I smile warmly at both of my companions, shaking my head. “I only hope I don’t prove to be a hopeless dunce as a student.”
“Don’t go on about that again. You’ll get the hang of it. Have a little faith in my methods, all right? I taught Effie English well enough.” Renée places her chin on her hand and gazes hard into my eyes, her mouth slanting to one side. “You’ll be fluent by Friday.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“Well, not this Friday. Some other Friday—in the future.”
I chuckle. “Now you’re talking science fiction, because by the time I’m fluent in French, it’ll be the year 3000. We’ll be flying around in space cars and communicating via ESP.”
Renée presses her fingertips to her temples and closes her eyes. Then she opens one eye—gleaming like a gem—and squints at me. “I just sent you a telepathic message. Did you get it?”
“I’m not psychic yet.”
“Pity.” She gives me an open-mouthed grin, gliding her tongue over her lower lip. “Well, ring me in the year 3000 when you check your mental answering machine. I think we’ll have a lot to talk about—in French, of course.”
I shake my head, laughing.
“Oh, the wine!” Effie springs up from her chair and hurries toward the small countertop wine rack. “Red or white, Vida?”
“None for me, thanks.” I take a sip from my water glass, watching as Effie pours red wine into Renée’s outstretched tumbler. Effie tilts some wine into her own glass, too, before returning the bottle to the rack and resuming her seat.
“Now, Vida, what would you like to do tomorrow?” Effie asks, looking a bit cheerier as she begins to drink. “Renée, you will be in Paris, oui?”
“Oui. Sorry, Doctor—I’d take you along, but this trip is all business. I’m submitting my work for an art exhibit to take place in May, and, to be honest, I’m a bit wired over it. Best if you don’t see me that way so early on in our friendship. Wouldn’t want to frighten you off.” She gives me a teasing smile. “That is…if I haven’t frightened you off already.”
I shake my head, heart somersaulting; Renée grins and lowers her fantastic Medusa curls, a blush stealing over her cheeks.
“Um…I’m up for anything, really,” I tell Effie, then, clasping my hands beneath my chin. “Though I’d love to have a look at some old belongings of my mother’s, if there are any still around. Do you know if—”
“Oui, oui, they are here. Only…” Effie taps a finger to her lip. “They’re stored away, kept safe. Along with all of the family’s keepsakes. Letters, mementos. Some photographs. If you’d like,” she says, giving me an odd look, watery eyes shining, “I’ll find these things for you, bring them to you. Of course, the letters are of a private nature, but Helene wouldn’t mind her daughter reading them, I think. Besides, everything in Ville Etoile is yours, as the heiress.”
A thrill races through me, lightning in my veins. “Oh, Effie, that would be incredible. Whatever you have, I’d be so grateful to see it. I…I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be.”
Effie gazes at me for a long moment, a small smile on her lips. Then she straightens slightly and glances toward the oven. “Now, seconds? Remember—you must save room for my soufflé!”
---
I take the pile of clean white linens from Renée’s arms and toss them onto the stripped mattress. We’ve spent the evening dusting and rearranging my new bedroom, though we were both already exhausted—Renée more so than me. “Oh, I’m used to sleeplessness,” she insisted when I told her that she should rest up for tomorrow, that I could manage the tidying on my own. “And what sort of welcome wagon would I be if I abandoned you to play Mary Poppins all by yourself? A bloody rude one, that’s what.”
Now all that’s left to do is make the bed and, finally, sleep.
I turn toward Renée, who’s trailing her feather duster over the dresser one last time, a faraway but peaceful expression on her face. “Thank you for all of your help today,” I say. She glances at me, smiling softly, and I watch her for a moment, my eyes tracing her shape with feather-light strokes. Then I laugh. “I wouldn’t have been able to manage at all without that cup of coffee this morning. I think you saved my life.”
“Mm. I’d like to make a habit of that.”
“Taking me to town for coffee?”
“No.” She lays the duster down on the lace scarf and leans back against the dresser, staring hard into my eyes. “Saving your life.”
I blink. Self-conscious, I lick my lips. I’m standing beside the footboard, one hand wrapped around the wooden poster, though I feel strangely weightless beneath Renée’s steady, golden gaze. “What if my life doesn’t need saving?” I ask, chagrined to hear my voice crack on the word need.
“Oh, Doctor, this isn’t about damsels in distress. Neither of us has ever been one of those, now, have we?”
“I wouldn’t think we have,” I agree quietly.
“Saving someone doesn’t always have to involve burning buildings or kittens in trees or miraculous medical procedures. Sometimes, something as simple as a cup of coffee, or the offer of a warm bed, can make all the difference in the course of a person’s life. Do you know what I mean?”
I shift under her intense stare. “You mean to change the course of my life?”
A deep, throaty laugh, and then Renée saunters toward me, her eyes captor to mine, though I’m keenly aware of the sway of her hips as she moves. Her sweet, fizzy scent surrounds me, heady; it’s the only air I breathe, and I breathe it deeply.
She whispers: “I already have, sweetie.”
And then she kisses me lightly—so lightly, too lightly—on the lips before walking over the threshold and closing the door with a soft, though decisive, click.
Her perfume drifts, like a slow-moving cloud.
“Wow…” I exhale, weak.
Despite, or maybe because of, the chasteness of that kiss, I’m thoroughly undone. I fall back onto the naked bed with a groan, raking one hand back through my short hair as I stare up at the decorative tin-plated ceiling and command my racing heart to slow. Less than two days in France, and I’m already swooning over a woman? Granted, said woman is immeasurably clever and quick, rakishly beautiful, deeply kind, wild, fierce as a lioness…
