17. French

CHAPTER17

French

Wyn

“When Pépé kicks it and we inherit his fortune, we’re buying a plane so we can take family vacations like the Kardashians,” Manon decreed.

“If I ever do anything like a Kardashian, shoot me, bro,” Sabre declared.

“Only if you make me the same promise,” Yves replied.

“Double suicide it is,” Sabre agreed.

I looked between the front seats of our rented Denali to the back where my two big boys were crunching my girl in between, and I watched them solidify their agreement with a fist bump.

They were being funny, even if it disturbed me greatly that Manon was cold-bloodedly spending her inheritance before she got it.

But I wasn’t surprised since she’d been confronted by the enormity of it considering Remy had just driven into the back drive of his parent’s home in New Orleans. A drive that had been paved in bricks in the 1910s. A drive, Remy had told me, that replaced the dual line carriageway that used to be there when it became clear automobiles weren’t going away.

The residents and guests staying at the house used that ingress, also using the stately porticoed door to the side for entry into the home. Other guests used the front door that faced the veranda at an angle to the side. An odd arrangement, that Remy explained when I’d asked after it.

“It’s about the windows, baby,” he’d said.

And when he’d shifted my perspective, I saw he was right.

Because beyond the regal white columns, past the graceful hanging lantern, if you didn’t get stuck on the manicured, potted, conical miniature evergreens dotting the porch among the curlicued wrought iron furniture, the fifteen-foot-high windows flanked by their narrow black shutters gave more than a glimpse of the opulence within.

Therefore, if that large, two-story home with its front veranda, top balcony and wide yard of velvet green skirted by a black-painted iron fence and trimmed by bird baths and meticulously tended greenery wasn’t in-your-face shouting, The people inside are loaded!, a view through the windows did.

Colette was an only child of two only children. Thus, Colette had inherited her family’s estate. Something they’d managed to build even if it had been 1883 when her great-grandfather left the plantation he could no longer maintain as he’d lost his free labor of enslaved human beings. So, he’d sold it, moved to the city, and made a second fortune in printing.

However, that fortune took a turn for the worse when Colette’s father died of polio when she was little.

Since she was too young, and her mother didn’t feel any need to keep her eye on things, the printing business suffered. This was due to the fact Mrs. Cormier left it in the hands of men who preferred to siphon money from her and her cossetted daughter, rather than keeping them in the style to which they were accustomed.

It took years, but that business eventually went bankrupt.

Even though Colette was of age when that happened and had a degree in English from Tulane, neither of them considered procuring paid employment.

Therefore, Colette and her mother were barely hanging on when Guillaume entered the picture.

I had no idea why they chose to make their official home in New Orleans rather than in Toulouse, where Guillaume’s family was from, and where his family’s business, which centered around shipping, was still maintained.

I just knew that Guillaume swept into Colette Cormier’s life like a tornado, dashing her into a whirlwind of international travel, parties on yachts, gambling in Monaco, frolicking on the Riviera, and turning around the Southern belle’s drooping fortunes, including spending tens of thousands on a complete restoration of her family home.

The inside, even I had to admit, was a dream of peaches, creams and pale yellows, greens, pinks and blues with ornate furniture, heavy, perfectly swagged draperies and Aubusson rugs.

The sitting room (my favorite, outside—something else I didn’t like to admit—Colette and Guillaume’s bedroom, which was impeccable) had a ballerina-pink wall that depicted a hand-painted mural of a grove of trees.

What I had never understood, even before I knew how his parents treated him, was how Remy grew up in that place.

It was gorgeous.

But it was like a museum.

I also knew, before what I’d recently learned, that Remy didn’t have an emotional attachment to the home he grew up in, and he had plans for it when it was his.

He’d told me years ago he intended to sell the house and donate the proceeds to the EJI.

“Far too little, far too late,” he’d muttered. “But that money should take care of the people who earned the man the means to build that house in the first place.”

Needless to say, with three astute children who knew they had deep roots in Southern upper-class society, they’d asked the question, and Remy and I’d had an uncomfortable conversation with them to explain that they were the descendants of slave owners.

Their reactions told me not one of them would make a peep when Remy sold his childhood home, part of their legacy, and invest it in a better legacy, justice.

But now, I had less unpleasant things to turn my mind to.

They still weren’t pleasant.

This was because Guillaume had come to stand outside the side door.

He was tall and straight and remarkably handsome, even in his eighties.

And it was an odd sensation to intensely dislike a man who looked so like three I adored.

But there it was.

“You good, Sah?” Remy murmured before he opened his door.

“I won’t tackle him and punch him in the face, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sabre answered.

My eyes again darted to the back.

“He’s good, Dad,” Manon threw in, her gaze on me.

She nodded to me.

She’d keep her brother in line.

But I knew the children I’d raised, and I knew she wouldn’t have to.

He might not ask the man for a game of catch, but Sabre would be civil.

I still nodded back to my girl because she was being sweet, looking after her dad.

We got out, and although Guillaume came down the steps and allowed his fond gaze to linger on all of us, his arms didn’t open to anyone but Remy.

I felt my hands clench into fists.

Remy walked into those arms, and that was when I felt my daughter’s fingers close around my tightly balled ones.

I shifted so I was holding her hand.

Perhaps noting that Remy did little more than pat his father on the back before he started to pull away, he wasn’t going to push it with an audience, so Guillaume let him go and turned to me.

“Ma belle Wyn,” he murmured, his voice throaty, his eyes soft with shimmers of wet, openly and unabashedly overcome that Remy and I were back together.

“Guillaume,” I replied, letting my daughter go and walking to him.

I kissed his cheek and suffered my own hug.

He then turned right to Manon like Sabre nor Yves were standing there and gave her the biggest smile imaginable.

“And how is the most beautiful girl in the world?” he asked.

“I’m good, Pépé,” she muttered, jumping forward to give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.

I stiffened when he corrected her, because when he did that, it always rankled me.

“Je vais bien,” he said. “Où ça va, merci, Pépé, et toi?”

He was constantly on all the kids to speak French (especially Manon), something they were all haltingly fluent in because their father spoke it and we’d been to France often.

“Ça va,” she forced out trying not to show she was forcing it out. “Et toi?”

“Bien, ma chérie. Surtout maintenant que tu es là,” he replied. (Good, my darling. Especially now that you’re here.) Then he turned to the boys. “Mes beaux petit-fils!” he cried.

“Pépé,” Yves greeted, coming forward to get his brief hug before popping back.

“Granddad,” Sabre said, and Guillaume’s head ticked because he was stringent about being Pépé, or if necessary, but it was not preferred, Grand-père.

Their hug was swift and awkward, and Guillaume’s gaze was on Remy when it was over.

“We’ve had a long flight. We need to get in and settled, Dad,” Remy made a pass at explaining his son’s behavior.

But now I had an understanding why Guillaume demanded his grandchildren use his native language, one that was not native to them, when they referred to him, and Remy steadfastly called him “Dad.”

It was the same insolence that Sabre just demonstrated.

I wondered if Remy ever called him Père or Papa.

“Bien sûr,” Guillaume murmured. “There are no surprises. The boys are in Velvet. You and Wyn are in Silk. And you, my darling,” he turned to Manon, “are in Matelassé.”

I clenched my teeth because the Velvet Room was a large room with a king-sized bed, and it was the only dark, clearly masculine room in the house.

It had been Remy’s, and the painstakingly treated walls that were awash in violet and shimmering champagne were gorgeous, as were the drapes, which were acres of iridescent purple satin with a green sheen. The armchairs were covered in a bright blue-purple velvet, with the bed covered in black of the same fabric.

But there was one bed.

And my sons were no longer boys. They were grown men who hadn’t slept in the same bed since they were, if memory served, in single digits.

They probably wouldn’t mind.

But they weren’t children anymore and shouldn’t be treated like they were.

“Thanks, Pépé,” Manon replied.

“Boys, get the bags, yeah?” Remy ordered, hitting the button on the fob to open the back of the truck.

The boys moved to the car and Guillaume looked to Remy.

“It’s getting late, and your mother isn’t feeling sprightly. But she wishes to see you, and once you refresh, she’s waiting for you in the mural room.”

Remy nodded, and as Sabre and Yves got close, he said, “One of you take the Gold Room.”

“Remy, this room hasn’t been prepared,” Guillaume stated.

“If it isn’t, I can put sheets on a bed, Dad. So can my boys. But my sons are grown and they’re not sharing a bed.”

“They’re brothers,” Guillaume pointed out.

“They’re grown men and they love each other, but it’s not cool to make them share a goddamn bed,” Remy bit back. “If I had two grown daughters, I wouldn’t ask them to share a bed either. If there’s space to have, I’d want them to have their own space. And there’s space to have. Right now, would you share a bed with Uncle Luc?”

“Of course not,” Guillaume hissed.

“Well?” Remy asked.

A muscle rippled up Guillaume’s cheek as father and son went into staredown, and I looked on, realizing something else I never quite understood.

Remy and Guillaume had these clashes often.

I had read it as an alpha father who had born an alpha son battling, the elder refusing to graciously relinquish control.

The reason it always irritated me was that I’d met Remy when he was an adult, and in some way or other this always happened, so I didn’t understand why Guillaume continued to test my man in irrelevant ways. I thought Guillaume should just be happy he’d raised such a strong, accomplished son, rather than constantly doing insignificant things that would remind him of his place.

Now I understood why Guillaume needed to establish his role with Remy.

My home, my marriage, my wife, my son—keep yourself in line.

I knew now the most important parts of that were his wife and his son, and regardless of what his wife had done to his son, it was Remy’s place to keep things as they needed to be for Colette.

From the stories Remy told me, even before he walked away from the family business to go to school to be an architect, he rarely stayed in his father’s line.

Now I knew he’d been so beaten down as a child, his inherent need was not to be held down by either of them ever again.

And even if Guillaume made the attempt, he knew that.

Therefore, as usual, it was not surprising when Guillaume gave in.

But I had to get a handle on how much it infuriated me, having learned what I’d learned, that the man still tried.

“I’ll ask Melisande to prepare the Gold Room for Yves.”

“Fantastic,” Remy clipped.

I opened my arms to encompass us all. “Let’s go in. I need to change out of these airplane clothes, and I’d love a glass of wine.”

“When you come down, I shall have one waiting for you, chérie,” Guillaume said immediately.

“I’d love that, Guillaume, thank you,” I replied, smiling maybe a hint too beatifically at him, as Remy clamped an arm around my waist and hustled me to the steps.

The arm fell from around me, but his grip on my hand was tight as he pulled me inside, up the stairs and into a room that had matching silk jacquard in pale sage on the duvet covers as well as panels in the white walls.

This was not the pièce de résistance.

The gold and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room was.

This was their guest suite, and it included a heavenly bathroom and a charming breakfast table in the corner by one of the windows that faced the street. And since those windows faced the street, this was the room with the balcony.

“You okay?” I asked just as my phone rang.

“I’m going into town tomorrow to buy a hip flask,” he muttered.

He was joking, which meant he might not be having the time of his life, but he was fine.

I tried not to smile.

Sabre came in shouldering Remy’s bag and rolling mine on its wheels across a possibly priceless rug. He did this bumping it into one of the two cream, button-backed, gold-framed regency chairs that flanked the fireplace. Likely equally priceless.

“Me and Yves are raiding the bar, what do you want?” he asked his father.

I burst out laughing.

My phone had stopped ringing, but it started again.

I pulled my purse off my shoulder to dig it out.

“Whatever looks the most expensive, pour me a huge glass of it,” Remy ordered.

“Gotcha,” Sabre said, dumping Remy’s beat-up leather bag on silk jacquard.

I winced at the sight before I looked to my phone.

“Noel,” I said to Remy.

“Take it,” he replied.

I took it.

“Hey there.”

“You are Satan,” Noel stated. “First, the feathered de la Renta, that can happen in exchange for Fiona during awards season.”

“Fiona makes her own choices. Though I will present her with Oscar.”

“Do you want to be remarried in de la Renta?” he screeched so loud, I had to take the phone from my ear.

Remy’s brows went up.

I put it back and said soothingly, “I’ll talk to Fi.”

“Fine. But there is not a fucking venue in this fucking city that is not fucking taken on Christmas Fucking Eve.”

“Maybe we can do it in the backyard,” I suggested.

“Are you high?” Noel demanded. “Give me January first. I have an insane spot open on the first. It’s like, a miracle.”

“Um…”

I couldn’t say more because now that we’d discussed it, Remy was dead set on Christmas Eve for our remarriage ceremony.

“Oh my God, I’m going to fucking kill your fucking husband,” Noel threatened, because he knew he was acting under Remy’s orders for that.

“Think of this as a creative challenge,” I tried.

“Goodbye,” he replied and hung up.

“Let me guess, no luck on venues,” Remy deduced as I tossed my phone and purse on the bed.

“He’ll crack it,” I assured, and Noel might be going crazy, but not only did he secretly love it, he’d crack it. “Though, he said he has something promising for January first. What do you think? New year? New start? New marriage?”

“Same marriage, and we’re watching the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s because we’ll still be there on our honeymoon. That’s booked. And I got that room because of my name and a cancellation. I’m not changing it.”

I’d always wanted to see the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s, so I said nothing.

I moved to my suitcase.

“Don’t,” Remy grunted.

I stopped.

He then moved to my case, took it the three feet I could have rolled it to the sofa, hefted it up, and opened it.

I’d forgotten without really forgetting that he was like that.

Bea would be in fits, my husband not allowing me to lift my bag two feet to a couch.

But Bea could go spit.

I started unpacking while I asked, “Do you want me to go with you when you go to her?”

“Do you want to go with me?” he asked back.

I stopped with my hands pancaking my pajamas and looked at him.

“I want you with me,” he said softly.

I nodded.

Manon wandered in and promptly fell to her side on the bed like a wilting violet who had her corset on too tight.

“I always forget this place is so bluh,” she complained. “It’s gorgeous, but I can’t relax for fear of a docent coming in with a tour group.”

I swallowed a giggle and put my pajamas in a drawer.

“Your brothers have decided to get slaughtered, how about you join them?” Remy suggested.

“He wasn’t good for much as a father, but Pépé does make amazing cocktails,” she replied.

“It’s good he’s good for something,” I said under my breath.

“Oh my God, Mom, do I need to keep my eye on Sah and you?”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured, grabbing my toiletry bags and moving toward the bathroom.

I was in the bathroom when I heard Manon ask, “I don’t get it, Dad. With things the way they were, why’d you name us French names?”

I didn’t hear his response.

Though I did hear the tone of Manon’s, “Dad?”

So I dropped my bags and rushed out of the bathroom.

Remy had zipped open his case while I’d been out.

But he was standing above it, immobile, staring at his girl.

“Remy?” I called.

He jerked and only semi-focused on me.

“All right?” I asked gently.

“Why’d I do that?” he asked in return.

Oh no.

I stared at him because I didn’t have an answer to this question.

He’d named all three of our kids. He was adamant about the names. He was adamant they be French.

I liked them, they were unusual (to me) and cool (to anybody, says me) so I didn’t object. And now I was glad (I would have selected Joshua, Emily and Matthew, and they were so not Josh, Em and Matt it wasn’t funny).

“I did it for him,” he said. And the next was a muted explosion, the force of which had Manon jumping to her knees on the mattress. “Fuck!”

“Manon,” I murmured.

She popped off the bed and left the room, closing the door behind her.

I then moved to my husband.

I put my hand on his chest and ordered, “Remy, look at me.”

He’d still seemed unfocused, but he immediately focused on me.

“It doesn’t matter why,” I stated. “They’re Sabre, Manon and Yves, and they were meant to be those people with those names.”

“Yeah, but I did it for him, Wyn. Shit.”

“But it doesn’t matter.”

“He doesn’t even like Americans, did you know that?”

I closed my mouth because I was many, many things.

A proud American among them.

“He thinks Americans are harried and uncultured and worship at the altar of the dollar. And he finds the enduring American dream of possibly wedging yourself into upper middle class and a country club membership, pitiful.”

I kept my mouth shut.

Then I opened it to note, “Of course he’d look down on the proletariat, Remy. His family has been bourgeoisie for the last three centuries. And let’s not forget he left his son to an abusive mother in order to worship at that altar of money.”

“Some of the time. The rest of it was to live his life however he wanted, including keeping his fucks. He had one here, probably always. He had women he visited in Paris and more in the country. Remember when I told you about that summer when I was twenty? Him and me in the garden at the house in Toulouse. He was smoking a cigarette and having a brandy and sharing with his son the finer points of being a man. Including how crucial it was to keep your mistresses happy, but your wife happier, just so she won’t ask questions about your mistresses.”

I made a face, even though I did remember that story.

“Yeah,” he responded to the expression I made. “And I named our kids what I named them because I knew it would make him happy. I didn’t even think about why I was doing it. Like I didn’t think about why I left you.”

“Remy, just because your father is who he is, you’re a French-American man. You have dual citizenship. You made certain the kids did too.”

His face twisted because he thought he’d done that for his father too.

This had to be stopped.

So I got closer, lifting my hand to his neck, curling it around and squeezing.

“Remy, France is wonderful. You love it there. Your dad is who he is, but you love your Uncle Luc, your Aunt Francesca. You adored your grandparents and they adored you. You picked Paris for our honeymoon, for goodness’ sake, because you think it’s the most beautiful city in the world, and you know I do too. You might not be proud of your father, but you’re proud of being French. So stop it. It wasn’t like that. You’re you. You’re American. But you’re also French, and you gave that to our kids, and I for one think that’s a beautiful thing.”

“I hate it that he pushes them to speak French. I want them to speak French, but I know how it feels when someone pushes you to do something.”

He did know that.

Oh, how he did.

I didn’t focus on that.

“See?” I whispered. “You’re proud of who you are and that has everything to do with your heritage and you gave it to them. And I love that. For me. For our kids. And for you. And that’s why you gave it to them, honey. You didn’t do that for your dad. You gave them you.”

He spent a moment with that before he groused, “Shit, now it’s not you, it’s me who’s worrying that every reaction I have, every meaningful thing I’ve done had something to do with them.”

I wrapped my arm around his neck, set the other one to doing the same, and fitted myself to him, saying, “That’s what I’m here for, to help you see sense.”

He slid his hands over my hips to rest them just above my behind, with fingers encroaching, murmuring, “Yeah?”

I wanted to think how much I loved having his hands right where they were, having that back, having this kind of closeness with Remy again in my life.

What I didn’t want was to say what I had to say next.

But we were in this moment, it was truth and logic, and I needed to call it to his mind.

“And to remind you that they’re your parents. There’s no escaping that. They made you what you are, either because of them or in spite of them. And although it’s difficult for me to find any good in either of them, I know, even if it’s slight, it was there because they made you.”

Remy had one reply to that.

He dipped his head, and he kissed me, deep and wet and lovely.

When he broke it, his lips whispering against mine, “Let’s unpack.”

“Okay, honey.”

I touched my mouth to his, pressed close and then moved out of my husband’s arms in order to unpack.

Because once that was done, we could get on to the next thing.

And once that was done, to the next.

And eventually, I’d have him away from here.

And we’d be safe.

We’d be home.