The Feud, page 11
When I make it to the front door, I see Marcie and Sylvie through the glass panes that flank the double oak entryway.
Sylvie’s face is cast downward, her expression in the shadows, but Marcie wears a light smile as I open the door.
Sylvie looks up and I’m surprised to see her expression is placid, not the normal disdain she usually bears.
I step back, inviting them inside. “Good dinner?”
“We ate at Biaggio’s.” Marcie steps just inside the threshold but doesn’t come in any farther. Sylvie walks past her but doesn’t head up the stairs. “Sylvie and I had a very good talk and she would like to speak to you as well.”
My eyebrows rise in surprise over the fact that my daughter proactively wants to have a conversation with me. The entire time she’s been living under our roof she has never once initiated such a thing.
I turn to Sylvie. “How about we talk in the kitchen over some lemonade?”
Sylvie nods, her eyes casting downward in an uncharacteristic display of shyness.
I toss my head in the direction of the hallway leading to the kitchen and suggest, “Why don’t you go pour us two glasses and I’ll be there in a minute? Miranda has some sugar cookies in the tin on the counter if you want some.”
Shockingly, Sylvie murmurs as she walks away, “Merci.”
It’s French but at least it’s a word I know and wasn’t said in such a way as to keep me in the dark. It comes as a genuine compliment.
When Sylvie is out of earshot, I turn toward Marcie. “What kind of magic did you just work?” I question incredulously.
Marcie smiles but her eyes pierce through me. Her tone is stern. “No magic. I just promised her that I would do everything I could to help her return to the Mardraggons if, at the end of the two months, she’s not happy.”
That, I don’t like. She’s supposed to be my ally, not Lionel and Rosemund’s. If Marcie knew what awful people they are, she never would’ve promised that. “I don’t know if that’s overly helpful.”
She chuckles, hitching her purse up higher on her shoulder. “No, I don’t suppose you would feel that way. It’s in direct opposition to your interests. But I am confident that Sylvie will make the right decision in the end. Assuming the judge does what he’s promised and takes her wishes into account.”
“And if she chooses wrong? Going back to the Mardraggons is not what’s best for her.”
Her eyes twinkle as she repeats. “I’m confident she will make the best decision for herself.”
I narrow my eyes on the principal, but I read something within her tone that relaxes me slightly. This woman wants the best for all of her students and, in particular, given the personal time she took tonight for Sylvie, she’s not going to do anything to hurt that little girl—that’s if she has a good understanding of what’s going on.
I can accept the ambiguity in her words. “She will not be loved over at the Mardraggons the way she will be here. I understand she might have some comfortability there, but they are not a warm family.” I wait for Marcie to affirm that she had figured that out for herself or to act affronted that I would cast such aspersions. She merely stares at me. “For fuck’s sake, they make her call them by their first names. What grandparents do that?”
Marcie lifts her shoulder. “Some people are just progressive that way.”
I understand she’s not going to give me what I want and suspect it’s a lot like Todd Gillam’s role with Sylvie. They are devoted to that little girl and have no loyalty to either me or the Mardraggons.
All I can do is fall back on my own confidence that my family—and me, in particular—are what’s right for Sylvie. I’m going to make sure the next two months leave her feeling safe and secure and wanting to stay here with us.
I stick out my hand in gratitude. “I really appreciate you taking time tonight. I can’t imagine how difficult your job is but to show this level of interest in Sylvie goes above and beyond. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
Marcie’s hand is warm and soft but her grip is sure. “Treat that child like a princess, and you will have repaid me. Because that means things will have worked out in the end.”
“You have my promise.”
I see Marcie out the door and don’t close it until she’s in her vehicle and pulling down the driveway. After locking up, I join Sylvie in the kitchen where I find her sitting at the butcher-block table. Two glasses of lemonade sit there along with the cookie tin. She has a half-eaten sugar cookie in her hand.
I pull out the chair opposite her, take a moment to enjoy a sip of lemonade, and as I’m setting it down, I ask, “How did things go?”
It’s like Sylvie grew up or matured in the time she’d been gone. She doesn’t glare at me or look away. Her gaze locks on me. “Ms. DeLeon has convinced me to give you a fair shot. I understand that I am stuck here and that if the judge is going to take me seriously, I have got to show him that I made an effort. So, I’m going to.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “It was that simple? Haven’t I been saying the same thing to you?” I try for levity, but it seems to fall flat because Sylvie’s expression remains stoic and unapproachable.
“She also pointed out that things weren’t exactly better over at Lionel and Rosemund’s house. The truth is, I know them only slightly better than I know you. Neither situation is good for me. Ms. DeLeon said that you might be willing to take me back to France to visit. I know the Mardraggons would not.”
I would absolutely take her back to France to visit as much as she wants and as my schedule allows. Hell, my parents love traveling and they would happily take her back there frequently… possibly even for an entire summer. But I don’t promise that right away. I’m more curious about something else.
“Why would Lionel and Rosemund not take you back to France? They own the winery there.”
Sylvie looks conflicted for a moment, then she admits, “They only care that the winery makes money. They never went to visit it. I overheard them talking to Uncle Gabe that they wanted to sell the winery after Maman died.”
I don’t know how I feel about that but admittedly, the way Sylvie referred to Alaine tugs at my heartstrings. That is the first time she’s referenced her mother like that and there was so much love and longing in her tone, my heart aches for her.
As for selling the winery, I’m adamantly opposed to the Mardraggons having any measure of success. I’m not sure whether selling the winery would be a failure or a good business maneuver, but a bit of sadness is what strikes me. “But that’s your legacy.”
Another first happens and Sylvie actually shows some positive emotion.
Gratitude.
I can see it swimming in her eyes that I understand something about her.
“Maman taught me everything she’d learned about wine making. She always told me that I’d be running the winery one day. I’ll be very sad if it gets sold because no matter what happens, I want to go back there one day.”
I hate the Mardraggons as much as they hate me. I can’t fathom doing anything that would ever put a dime of my money into their pockets but for some strange reason, I have the overwhelming thought of buying the winery for Sylvie to take over one day. My entire family would call it foolish but apparently rationality isn’t always at play when you’re a father.
I push that thought aside with a note to get up with Todd Gillam and find out what the deal is with the ownership interest there. In particular, why the Mardraggons would ever want to sell it when making alcohol is in their blood.
Instead, I say, “I’m not saying this so you give me more of a chance than the Mardraggons… but I can absolutely promise you that if you stay with us, we will get you back to France to visit your friends as often as possible. My parents love to travel and they can take you during school breaks and over the summer. I’ll make time to take you myself.”
Disbelief washes over Sylvie’s face but she quickly brushes it aside. She also blinks her eyes repetitively, indicating that my offer may have touched her deeply.
Again, she gives me one French word. “Merci.”
Even if she gets up from the table and walks to her room right now, I’ll consider this evening a solid win. But I feel the need to say more. “Sylvie… I know this is hard on you and I think you’re a smart girl and you can understand that it’s been hard on me too. But I don’t want this to be difficult for either one of us. I appreciate that you’re going to give this an honest effort and I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. If you need something I’m not providing, please let me know. I will do whatever I can to make this work for you. And that includes if, in the end, you want to go back and live with the Mardraggons. I will help you do that too.”
It’s a calculated risk to put that out there but I’m dead serious. It feels like a good risk to take because again, I’m confident I can provide Sylvie the life she needs. One she will ultimately come to treasure. There is no way that any child could ever be satisfied with that cold-fish family. And I’m already one step ahead by offering her the opportunity to go back to France to visit.
She nods her understanding and that will have to be good enough for me.
“All right… You have school tomorrow. I’ve gotta ask—do you have any homework? And has it been done?”
“I didn’t get it done. I’ll go up and do it right now.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s late. I’ll write you a note for tomorrow.”
Sylvie shakes her head, looking horrified. “Oh no… I love doing homework. I’ll get it done.”
I blink in surprise. “You love doing homework?”
And it truly is a miraculous night because she smiles at me for the first time. “I love school.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I’m glad to hear that. I liked school too.”
Look at that.
Our first thing in common.
CHAPTER 12
Marcie
I’m halfway through my dirty martini when my phone rings. I pick it up off the bar, recognizing Michelle’s ringtone. “You’re ten minutes late,” I grumble, eager to see my sister since she and Carmen were gone all last week to Mexico for spring break.
“I won’t be able to make it. Carmen’s got a sore throat and I think I’m going to run her to urgent care.”
That makes me sit up straighter on the barstool. This new steakhouse just opened and it’s busy tonight, so I’m at the bar until my sister joins me for dinner. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Do you want me to meet you there?”
“Seriously?” Michelle says teasingly. “You’re around kids your entire life and you know better than to get bent out of shape over a little sore throat. If she’s got strep, we’ll get antibiotics and it will be fine.”
“I was only offering because I don’t want to have to sit here by myself like a lame ass.”
Michelle laughs. “Maybe you’ll meet a hot guy. You are sitting at the bar, aren’t you?”
I look around balefully at the crowd. Not a single hot guy in sight. “Yeah, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Once I finish this drink, I’m out of here.”
“I’ll call you as soon as she sees the doctor but stay and have dinner so you can see if it’s any good. If you drink more than one dirty martini, take an Uber home.”
“Yes, Mom.” I say goodbye and set my phone face down on the bar top. I quarrel with the toothpick in my drink loaded with two olives and ruminate over my sister’s continued belief that I need a man in my life.
It’s odd that Michelle pushes me so hard on this, especially since she hasn’t bothered dating anybody seriously since her own divorce. Michelle’s counterargument is always that she’s perfectly happy being single and I don’t understand why I can’t be perfectly happy being single too.
But the truth is, if I evaluate myself deep down, I know I’m the type of woman who is built to be with someone. I love partnership, having somebody not only to depend on but to care for, being one half of a unit. And I miss physical affection. Not that I had it much in the last few years of my marriage to George. He’d become cold and distant and I never understood why until I found out he had been cheating on me.
It was a severe blow to my morale and self-confidence and I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. So, while I may want a serious relationship in the future, I’m not sure I have the confidence to go about doing it.
Lifting the martini glass to my lips, I glance around the restaurant.
I like this new place. It’s different from most places in Shelbyville, the interior a contemporary design featuring large, starburst-like chandeliers that create a dramatic effect against the dimly lit space. The open kitchen is visible behind glass partitions, adding a modern and interactive element to the dining experience. The dining area is a combination of neatly set round and square tables draped in crisp white tablecloths. Modern tan leather chairs provide a cozy seating option for guests. The flooring is dark hardwood and the walls are paneled, enhancing the chic, stylish interior.
The idea of sitting at the bar all alone eating dinner seems pathetic somehow, but I’m hungry and have really been wanting to try this restaurant.
“Be bold,” I murmur to myself, deciding to stay for a meal.
As I sip on my drink, I admire the walls paneled in rich wood that matches the color of the curved bar, which has a polished granite top that speaks of luxury. The floor is terrazzo tile with alternating dark and light tones, and above the bar, industrial-style pendant lights hang from the ceiling.
Unfortunately, I almost have a huge choking fit because walking into the bar is my ex-husband George and his new wife, Madeleine. I panic for a moment because I don’t want them to see me, nor do I care to have any interaction with them. My marriage ended on a horrible note and George has a mean streak. He hated the way I battled to get the minimum I was entitled to in the divorce and any time we happened to run into each other, it was not pleasant.
George Foyette is a classic narcissist who thinks the world revolves around him. He enjoyed tearing me down during our marriage. A general practitioner, he thinks his medical degree makes him better than anyone who doesn’t have one. He is fourteen years older than I am, but the age gap never really mattered. Certainly not to George, who likes his women a lot younger than himself. Even though I am educated with a doctorate in education, George never thought I was good enough to do anything other than cook and clean for him. He certainly wasn’t ever proud that I run an entire elementary school.
I take in his new wife. Madeleine is beautiful—all blond curls, overly white smile and new double D’s he bought her—and only twenty-four years old. The age gap between her and George is much larger than the years between George and me, though I’m not sure that matters to the young woman. I don’t know if she loves him or if she’s looking for a golden ticket, but it doesn’t matter because she’s as complicit in the affair as George was. Now they have their own child, and while it doesn’t necessarily hurt my feelings that George willingly gave Madeleine a baby when he wouldn’t do it for me, it only serves to remind me that I’d been taken for granted in that relationship for way too long.
I swivel on my barstool, giving George and his new wife my back as they walk in. To my great luck, they walk right by me. I think I’m safe, but through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I see when George turns around and spots me.
A malicious smile splits his face as he tugs on Madeleine’s hand and nods my way.
Madeleine doesn’t look happy to see me, but George pulls her along, drawing up right next to my barstool.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“None of your business, George. I stopped being your business when we divorced.”
His face flushes red. He doesn’t like anybody battling against him and takes great offense that I would dare do so.
He sneers. “It’s pathetic, you sitting here all alone at this bar drinking, perhaps waiting for somebody to come sweep you off your feet.”
I want to snap back a retort, but frankly that hurts a little and I’m embarrassed. I almost slide off my stool, intent on hiding in the bathroom until they leave, when a deep male voice says from behind me, “She’s not alone.”
Ethan Blackburn.
I knew it was him before I even twisted my neck to glance over my shoulder to watch him settle onto the adjacent stool. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, loud enough for George and Madeleine to hear.
He doesn’t do anything overt to make it look like he’s here on a date with me or that we’re even here as friends. He reaches across me to hold out his hand to George. “Ethan Blackburn.”
George reluctantly shakes Ethan’s hand, appraising him, who is not only younger but a million times more handsome. As George got older, his jowls sagged and his belly grew. “Dr. George Foyette.”
Ethan looks at me in question as he ends the handshake.
“My ex-husband,” I explain and then nod toward the blond at George’s side. “This is his new wife Madeleine. He was cheating with her during our marriage and she got pregnant.”
Ethan doesn’t spare George or Madeleine another glance but instead bumps his shoulder against mine and says loudly enough for them to hear, “Looks like you got the better end of that deal.”
I can’t help but laugh. Ethan’s implying that not only did I get the better deal in losing a whole husband but also that I’m here with him, and anybody stacking the two men against each other would know that Ethan is the way better choice, based on looks and presence alone.
George’s mouth flattens in disapproval and I smile back at him. “Have a good evening.”
Without another word, George pulls his young wife away and they melt farther into the bar area. I watch them leave, the joy at stunning him speechless quickly diminishing and replaced with embarrassment.
