This time, there’s no stopping Mom’s words. They rush in and fill my head, playing on a loop. I’m worried you’ll be let down. You know how he is. I’m worried you’ll be let down. You know …
“Please, come inside,” the artist woman is saying, and I blink. She is regarding me with concern; the shock and frustration must be plain on my face. “You are tired from your journey, non?” she adds, opening the door all the way. “And perhaps you would like to call your father?”
I don’t know what I would like. Part of me would like to return to the airport, go back across the Atlantic, reverse everything. Another part of me would like to sag down in a heap on the ground, wailing like the little French girl on the plane.
I do neither. I remain glued to the doorstep, my thoughts whirling. I have to call Mom, too, of course, to tell her I arrived. But that means also telling her she was right.
“I can prepare you some chocolat chaud—hot chocolate,” the woman adds, and I glance up at her. “Your father, he said you enjoy this, n’est-ce pas?”
I feel myself loosening. That is what I would like, I realize. Some hot chocolate to drink. The rest I can figure out later.
The fact that Dad remembered that I love hot cocoa, that he bothered to mention it to one of his artist friends, is enough to propel me forward, into the house. It’s a relief to set down my heavy suitcase and tote bag in the dim entrance hall. A bunch of identical skeleton keys hang from a hook on the wall, and a bucket full of paintbrushes sits in the corner. I watch as the woman drops her paintbrush into the bucket. I realize that, even though she’s a chic artist stranger, she’s put me a bit at ease.
“Thank you, um … Madame … ?” I trail off, unsure of how to address her.
The woman smiles at me, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “I am Vivienne LaCour. Please, call me Vivienne.”
“Okay.” I fiddle with my bracelets. “It’s nice to meet y—” I begin, but then Vivienne catches me off guard by stepping forward and kissing me once on each cheek.
Right. I remember reading in my guidebook that this is how French people greet each other, and say good-bye. As I stand there awkwardly, I decide I hate this custom.
Vivienne steps back and studies me once more, her expression a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. I wonder what she makes of me, if I’m not exactly how one might imagine the great Ned Everett’s daughter to be. Then she claps her hands and turns around, leading me into a big, airy kitchen.
“S’il te plaît, have a seat,” she tells me.
I sink into a chair at the old oak table. The kitchen is rustic, with brass pots and pans hanging from hooks, and windows facing a sprawling garden. From where I sit, I can see a red barn and a glimmering blue pool. My spirits lift. Dad’s vacation home is even nicer than I expected. Maybe I can get by here for a week on my own. Maybe.
“Are you staying at the house?” I ask Vivienne as she places a saucepan on the stove. She nods, pouring milk into a pan. “Are there other people, too?” I add. I hope I’m not being impolite. I’m still foggy and disoriented, and I want to get my bearings as much as possible.
“Only my daughter, at the moment,” Vivienne replies, stirring the milk.
“You have a daughter?” I blurt, surprised. Vivienne seems too hip, somehow, to be a mom.
“Oui,” Vivienne says. She glances up, and raises her eyebrows at something behind me. “Ah. Here she is now.”
I spin in my chair, rattled by the sight of a girl standing in the kitchen. How did she enter so noiselessly? She looks to be around my age, maybe slightly younger, and she’s gorgeous, with long golden curls and sloping blue eyes. Her lacy white nightgown enhances her ethereal appearance. I am suddenly certain that hers was the face I spied in the second-story window.
Vivienne clears her throat. “Summer, this is Eloise. Eloise, this is Summer.”
Eloise stares at me so hard I feel caught, like a bug under a cup. She does not blink or smile. In theory, I should be pleased that there is a peer here, someone whom I could potentially befriend. But I do not get a friendly vibe from Eloise. Not at all.
Finally, her icy blue gaze darts over to Vivienne, and rapid-fire French shoots out of her mouth.
“Pourquoi est-elle ici? J’ai pensé que—”
“Pas maintenant.” Vivienne’s voice is stern. “Sois polie. Dis bonjour.”
I sit still, listening closely, wishing I understood anything besides bonjour.
Eloise crosses her arms over her chest, and looks down at me imperiously. “Hello,” she says in the rote, resentful tone of a student forced to read her homework out loud. I’m pretty sure I won’t have to worry about her kissing my cheeks anytime soon.
“Hey there,” I mutter, my tongue feeling clumsy. I remember that, as a kid, I loved the book Eloise, about the lively little girl who lived in the Plaza, in Manhattan. Now all positive associations with the name are fading rapidly.
“You’re really from New York?” this Eloise demands. Her English is impeccable, her accent barely noticeable. I catch her silently critiquing me, sizing up my messy, frizzy hair (I try surreptitiously to smooth it down) and the orange juice stain on my white T-shirt (turbulence on the plane; spillage).
“Not New York City,” I clarify, resenting that my cheeks are flushing. “More, like, upstate.” I fiddle with my bracelets. I’m sure that Eloise would wrinkle her pert nose at Hudsonville.
Actually, now that I’m thinking of Hudsonville, I realize who Eloise reminds me of: my classmate Skye Oliveira. The term mean girl would be too kind to assign to Skye. She and her pack of flawless friends prowl the school halls in their designer ankle boots, hunting for fresh prey. Apparently, Skye and her ilk translate to France.
Vivienne comes over to the table, handing me a huge mug—really, it’s more like a soup bowl—filled to the brim with the thickest hot chocolate I’ve ever seen. Yum. I thank her and I take a sip, savoring the sweet, rich warmth.
“Wow,” Eloise says snidely. “Royal treatment for you, Summer.” I glance at her over the brim of my mug-bowl, wishing I had the guts to empty its contents on her head. Ruby would do something like that; my best friend is not cowed by the likes of Skye. “Maman never makes me chocolat chaud,” Eloise adds, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I can prepare you some now, Eloise,” Vivienne says, her tone tight. She is setting delicate floral plates on the table, along with a basket of golden croissants and jars of jam. I’m grateful; my hunger has returned full-force. “Come have a bite with us.”
Please don’t have a bite with us, please don’t have a bite with us.
“No time, Maman,” Eloise snaps, tossing her princess-like hair. I feel instant relief. “I have to get ready for class.” She gives me a smug, pointed look, as if I’m supposed to feel jealous of this class. I ignore her, gulping down more cocoa.
“You should not have slept so late, then,” Vivienne says, sitting down beside me with her own mug-bowl of cocoa. “Are you going out again tonight?”
“Probably, with Colette and everyone,” Eloise replies lazily, studying her nails; they are short and painted pale pink with tiny black hearts in their centers.
This Colette must be delightful. I imagine a double of Eloise and repress a shudder, reaching for a plate.
“D’accord,” Vivienne says, sipping her cocoa. “I am anyway having dinner out tonight with Monsieur Pascal.” She is quiet for a moment, then takes a croissant and slices it down the middle with a bread knife. She glances at me, looking thoughtful, and then looks back at her daughter. I start to get a really bad feeling. “Ah. Eloise?” Vivienne adds, in a fake-casual tone.
No. No. Nooooo.
“Oui, Maman?” Eloise answers, her voice full of suspicion and hesitation. Rightfully so.
“Perhaps,” Vivienne continues, very busy spreading jam onto one half of her croissant, “you would like to bring Summer out with you this evening?”
Bingo.
My stomach somersaults down into my flip-flops.
I understand that Vivienne is trying to be helpful, that I am stranded here with no father and no purpose. But the idea of spending time with Eloise and her evil minions is about as appealing as stabbing myself with the bread knife. I hazard a glance at Eloise and see that she is shooting daggers at her mother. At least we’re on the same page.
“There’s, um, there’s no need,” I speak up, too loudly. I grab a still-warm croissant from the basket. “I’m not really … the going-out type. And, um, I’m pretty beat. You know, from jet lag.” As I say this, exhaustion does start to seep through me.
“Well, see how you feel later,” Vivienne tells me, and then looks at Eloise again. “You go to Café des Roses on Boulevard du Temps, non? What time?” she asks her daughter. I remember that my cabdriver called Boulevard du Temps “the main drag,” though I think it best not to pipe up with this factoid right now.
Eloise’s face flushes. “Around. Nine,” she says through her teeth, as if the act of speaking pains her. She shoots another glare at Vivienne, and then turns and stomps out of the kitchen. I’m reminded of how Mom and I fought in our kitchen, all those hours and an ocean ago.
“I must apologize for my daughter,” Vivienne says quietly. She picks up her croissant half and takes a dainty bite. “She is having some … stress right now.”
Stress? Like what? She ran out of conditioner? A boy didn’t smile at her?
Instead of responding, I follow Vivienne’s lead—I saw my croissant into (uneven) halves and slather strawberry jam on both sides. I take a big bite. The jam is sweet and tart, speckled with small seeds, and the croissant is the perfect blend of flaky and buttery. At least the culinary aspects of my day have proven successful.
“Eloise is taking an art class for lycée—euh, for high school students—this summer,” Vivienne continues, stirring a spoon in her cocoa. I can’t tell if this is an explanation for Eloise’s “stress” or just a way to fill the silence.
I nod, chewing. I do feel a small prickle of jealousy; I’ve always wanted to attend some sort of cool summer program. Mom, though, ever practical, always encouraged me to get a job.
A job. “Oh,” I say to Vivienne, swallowing. “I was supposed to—um, be my dad’s sort-of summer assistant? Do you know where his studio is?”
Vivienne nods, looking distracted. She gets up and crosses over to the window. “That is the studio,” she tells me, pointing to the red barn, her rings glinting in the sunlight. She takes out a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and unlatches the window.
I want to go check out this barn studio, but my head feels heavy. It’s all hitting me: the grueling trip, Dad’s absence, my stunning but strange new surroundings. It’s probably been twenty-four hours since I’ve slept—or has it been even longer? I can’t calculate now.
I start to ask Vivienne where the house phone is so I can call Mom, and Dad, but my question is swallowed up by a big yawn.
“Eh, bien, you need to rest, non?” Vivienne says, turning to me with a cigarette between her fingers. “There is an empty guest room up on the second floor,” she adds. “Next door to la salle de bain—the bathroom.”
I wonder if Dad set aside a room especially for me. It doesn’t matter, though. All I need is a bed I can collapse on. I stand and deposit my plate and mug in the sink, thanking Vivienne and hoping she’ll help me carry my suitcase upstairs. But she seems lost in thought, gazing out the window and lighting her cigarette. It bothers me that everyone seems to smoke here. Mom would not be pleased by that.
Dazedly, I leave the kitchen and retrieve my bags from the front hall. Across from the kitchen there’s a winding staircase and I climb it carefully, bumping my suitcase along behind me. The old, worn-in steps moan and groan, and I think of ghosts.
When I reach the landing, it’s clear that the room immediately to my left is the bathroom; the door is shut and I hear the shower running. But over the water, I hear another sound: someone crying. A girl.
Eloise? Why is Eloise crying? I feel a mix of concern and intrigue, half wondering if there’s more to the girl than what appears.
The door next to the bathroom is wide open, so I step through it, drop my bags, and frown. This must be the guest room. It’s minuscule, with only a twin bed and rickety chest of drawers. The walls are bare except for a cracked mirror and a large painting of a grandfather clock that’s floating in a blue sky. Weird.
At least there is a small window that overlooks the garden, letting in the dappled sunlight and the smell of blooming things. There’s also a ceiling fan; I tug its cord to turn it on, and the blades spin lazily, barely stirring the stale air.
I shut the door and flop onto the bed. The mattress is hard and unforgiving, the pillow flat. I think of my room back home, with its double bed and many pillows. I think of my air-conditioning turned up high, my stacks of books on the shelves, the colorful Renoir and Degas posters on the walls. I’d chafed against the familiarity before, but now I long for it. Miss it.
I roll over and peer down at my Whitney Museum tote bag. I wish I could take out my cell phone and scroll through Instagram. I wish I could text Ruby. I’d tell her about Eloise, and my best friend would give excellent advice. Maybe I’ll call Ruby right after I call Mom. And Dad. Which I’ll do soon. I’ll just close my eyes for a little bit first.
As my eyes drift shut, I hear the faint ringing of a phone downstairs. It sounds like Vivienne answers it, and she begins speaking in agitated French. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Already, my thoughts are melding together in that slumber-like way.
The phone downstairs makes me think of my cell phone ringing before I got on the plane. I picture myself answering that call, but now I’m speaking in French, and lightning is flashing, and there are sunflower fields, and someone is crying, and softly, slowly, I switch over from the world of wakefulness into one of dreams.
Tuesday, July 4, 9:01 p.m.
The phone is still ringing. Loud. Insistent.
Didn’t Vivienne answer it? I think, burying my head deeper into the thin pillow. No, I remind myself. That was a dream.
Why is no one answering it?
I open one eye, then the other, and then I sit up on the bed. My hair is mashed against my neck. The quality of light streaming in through the window has changed: before it was bright, golden. Now it’s muted, rosy. The ceiling fan spins overhead. I get to my feet and stretch. I’m feeling groggy, but less cloudy than I was—when? A few minutes ago?
How long was I asleep?
Brrrring, brrrring, comes from downstairs. Brrrring, brrrring.
Rubbing my eyes, I open the guest room door. I expect to see Eloise emerging from the bathroom wearing a towel and a scowl. But the hallway is empty.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice croaky. I hear nothing but the shrill ringing.
Barefoot, I pad down the stairs and follow the ringing around a corner and into an elegant living room. There is a sea-blue sofa, a colorful painting on the wall, and a desk with a sleek computer—and the ringing phone—on it.
I’m hesitant as I lift the phone from its cradle.
“Uh, bonjour?” I venture.
“Summer!” Mom’s voice explodes over the line, anxious and relieved all at once.
“Mom?” I blink and push a hand through my matted hair. Hearing my mother here is deeply disorienting. I stand by the desk and look out the window, which faces cobblestoned Rue du Pain. The bakery is closed.
I bite my lip. This is the first time Mom and I are speaking since our fight.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Mom demands, and I feel a surge of guilt. “I checked your flight status first thing this morning and saw you landed, but it’s been ten hours!”
“Wait,” I say, turning in a circle, scanning the room for a clock. “Ten hours?”
“Yes.” Mom sighs, impatient. “It’s three in the afternoon over here. So it’s, what, nine at night over there?”
Ohhh.
Now it makes sense: the shuttered bakery, the
empty house, the rosy light. The summer sun must set even later here than it does at home. I picture myself asleep in the narrow bed upstairs while around me time was carrying on—Eloise and Vivienne going about their days, the sky over Les Deux Chemins turning from blue to dusty pink.
“I was taking an epic nap,” I explain sheepishly, plopping down into the chair at the desk. “Sorry.”
I wonder if this sorry, in some roundabout way, can serve as an apology for our argument. It’s certainly easier than reopening that can of awkward right now. Hey, Mom, remember how I freaked out when you said Dad might let me down? Well, turns out—you were onto something!
“No, I’m sorry,” Mom answers. I sit up straighter in the chair. Is that her version of a one-size-fits-all apology? “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she continues, sounding a bit calmer. “I wasn’t planning to call the landline, but I tried your father’s cell twice, and got no answer.” She clears her throat. “How is he, anyway?” she asks gruffly.
I swallow hard, staring at the dark computer screen. So Mom doesn’t know that Dad is in Berlin.
Maybe she doesn’t have to know.
My heart starts to beat faster. I don’t lie to Mom—thanks to my solid grades and subpar social life, I’ve never really had to. “Honesty’s a two-way street,” Mom likes to say, implying that if I’m forthright with her, she’ll be forthright with me. At this moment, though, I wonder if I can take a little vacation from honesty.
Because if I tell Mom the truth, her I told you so will haunt me for the rest of my life. She will immediately make me come home, and there it will go—my destiny, up in smoke. Yes, it’s upsetting and unsettling that Dad isn’t here. But the scared, squirmy sensation I had when I first arrived has abated somewhat. I’m feeling braver.
“He’s … fine,” I finally say, my palms clammy. I haven’t quite lied yet; Dad is, I guess, fine. Just, you know, in Berlin. “Busy,” I add, which also seems valid, given what Vivienne said about museum openings or whatever.
“Isn’t he always?” Mom snorts. Then she’s silent. I hold my breath, praying she won’t dig any deeper and hit upon a nugget of truth. “And—how are you?” she asks after a moment, her voice halting. “I mean, how is—you know, everything there?”