30. Deserved Defeat

CHAPTER30

Deserved Defeat

Wyn

“This is all kinds of fucked up.”

That was Sabre.

“We’ll leave before she’ll even be up tomorrow, Sah.”

And that was Yves.

“Yeah, because, unlike ninety-nine-point nine percent of grandparents in the world, she isn’t going to deign to drag herself out of bed to say goodbye to her only son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren before we go and, you know, before she dies.”

And that was my dramatic daughter.

“She’s asked us to meet her in the mural room before she retires to bed, something we all understand is very likely the last time any of us will see her, so we’re going to give your grandmother her wish and meet her in the mural room,” I declared.

“Who says ‘retires’?” Sah grumbled.

Colette did. Those were her words when she met us in the hall when we arrived back from taking Guillaume out for some gelato after we returned from the party at Beau and Katy’s.

We’d lingered over gelato.

It was late.

We were leaving the next morning at eight to get to the airport.

She had incurable cancer.

She needed to get to bed and so did we.

“Up and at ’em,” I prompted when none of my children moved.

They were lounging on Remy’s and my bed where they’d thrown themselves after we trooped up with excuses of using the loo and freshening up before we met Colette, but instead, we all filed in here to have an impromptu family meeting.

However, even at my command, my kids didn’t get up and at them. Since they were not paying me a lick of attention anymore, I turned to their father, who was standing at my side. He was also who all of them were watching.

He had his eyes to the bed, an expression on his face that made my heart leap into my throat.

“Remy?” I called.

He continued to stare at our kids, and I didn’t know if he was lost in thought, or he was very much right there, seeing them vividly.

I curled my fingers around his and whispered, “Remy.”

He didn’t answer me.

He asked our children, “Do you know how fantastic you are?”

Oh God.

Well, that answered that.

He was seeing them vividly.

I pressed close to his side.

“Yeah, Dad,” Manon answered swiftly.

“You’re smart and funny and kind and loyal,” Remy went on.

I started pumping his hand.

“And we got hella style from Mom.” Sah tried to inject some levity.

“Like Dad isn’t killin’ it in the style department.” Yves tried to help.

But Manon was reading the room.

“You’re fantastic too, Daddy,” she said.

Remy cleared his throat, squeezed my hand and announced, “I just want you to know that. Know I think it and know it’s true. Don’t ever forget it.”

Manon looked to me.

Sabre didn’t move his gaze from his dad.

Yves got up and gave his father a hug.

The kids didn’t get the lowdown of Remy’s conversations with his parents, but I did, so I wasn’t surprised, even if I was moved, at what just happened.

Sometimes we assume people know we feel as we feel and think as we think. We hope our love, and the reason we feel it, is understood.

But in the end, sometimes we just need to say it.

Remy was going to go on living after he lost his mother not really knowing what she felt.

I understood entirely why he’d need to share what he’d just shared with his children.

There were two more hugs for Remy and the kids moved out.

But I recaptured his hand and held fast as he moved to follow them.

He looked back at me.

“You okay?” I asked a stupid question.

“I’m the happiest I’ve been in five years, and I’m coming apart. The polar opposite sensations are weird, but that’s where I’m at.”

I liked the honesty but wasn’t thrilled about where he was at.

Which meant I was forced to do the only thing I could do.

I nodded and said, “I get it.”

“And I’m proud,” he continued.

I smiled at him. “We have great kids.”

“No,” he said. “I mean, yes, we do. What I meant was, I’m proud of myself. I stumbled along the way, but I broke the cycle.” He jerked his head to the door. “They will never feel that tightness I felt when I saw Mom get mad this morning. And all their lives, they knew they were priorities. They knew their health and development and education and feelings were important.”

“They knew they were loved,” I whispered.

I watched his corded throat move as he swallowed.

Then he nodded.

I reached in and touched his lips with mine.

I didn’t pull very far away when I said, “And so are you.”

That was when Remy touched my lips with his.

We headed out, and I knew my husband was still experiencing polar opposite sensations.

I, on the other hand, was suffering only one.

This being tamping down murderous intentions as the words that tightness I felt when I saw Mom get mad bounced around in my brain.

It was no surprise the scene was set when we entered the mural room, the children already there, as was Guillaume.

As was Colette.

I saw immediately this swan song was not going to be playing for sympathy.

Oh no.

And I could have called it.

Colette was not going to go out like that.

Our last memory wasn’t going to be that.

No, she sat in the middle of the sofa wearing sage velvet pajamas, edged at the hems and the sleeves of the matching robe in delicate dusty pink lace. Her hair was pulled severely back at her nape, exposing for the first time how truly gaunt her face was. But nonetheless, she not only hadn’t taken off her makeup, it looked like she’d refreshed it, so she still looked a version of stunning.

But the shocking red of her signature lipstick was gone, a nude pink in its stead, as one would do.

One didn’t go to bed in shocking red unless it accompanied your ensemble.

Surrounding her were magnificently wrapped presents.

So we weren’t going to be pushed to offer sympathy.

We were going to be reminded of what Colette thought we would be missing when she was gone.

Again, not a surprise that she didn’t decide to speak to all of us one by one so she could tell us how much she loved us. Share her favorite memory we’d made. Explain how she treasured time spent with us. And then impart some nugget of wisdom we could call on in our futures to make a tough time easier, or a hard decision into a quick one, her lasting gift.

We were going to be given things that we would feel bad we didn’t want because they reminded us of her, and since she’d given them to us in her current state, we would feel obliged to keep them anyway.

Pure Colette.

God, I wanted to scream in her face.

I didn’t.

I sat in a chair, Remy perched on the arm of it, and I pointed out the obvious.

“We’re all here, Colette.”

“Yes,” she said instantly. “And we’ll start with you.”

She picked up a somewhat wide, definitely long rectangular, jeweler-sized box wrapped in linen-colored paper and tied with a strip of a champagne satin. In the exorbitant bow were two perfect ivory roses.

I’d seen a lot of jewelry boxes in my time, but none that unique shape.

She held it out to me.

Remy got off the arm of my chair in order to fetch it.

He handed it to me, resumed his seat, and I saw the roses were real.

I unwrapped the parcel.

Inside was an ivory velvet box, and when I opened it, I saw a long strand of pearls resting in a cloud of alabaster silk.

“Those are my five times great grandmother’s pearls,” she proclaimed grandly.

Dear God.

She’d given me slave pearls.

I felt bile race up my throat as I stared at the necklace in horror.

“Every first Cormier woman has owned those pearls for the last one hundred and eighty-five years,” she went on.

I swallowed difficultly, lifted my head, and croaked, “Thank you.”

Sadly, it sounded not only sickened, but like a question.

Colette’s brows drew together in confusion.

She powered through that and stated, “I hope you one day give them to Manon.”

Pearls were not the most expensive luxury jewel you could buy, except these looked perfect. They shone because they’d been well cared for. Each pearl appeared perfectly matched to the others. The strand was very long, and the unnecessary clasp was extravagant and encrusted with diamonds, the better to show it off.

I’d gauge, depending on who made them, and the quality and carats of the diamonds, they were worth anywhere from $20,000 to $35,000. Maybe more.

I would, indeed, one day very soon give them to Manon.

And then she could decide what to do with them.

“I…this is so generous of you, Colette. Thank you again.”

She dipped her chin to me, looked to her side, and put her hand on a wide, rectangular box that was so tall, it was resting on a slant from the floor against the couch.

“This is for you, Sabre.”

It had no roses, and because genders had colors apparently, the satin ribbon was black.

He opened it, and when he glanced at what was inside, his expression was my feeling of five minutes before.

“That’s your five times great grandfather’s cavalry saber,” she explained. “A saber for Sabre,” she ended on a quip.

I looked to Guillaume, who was standing behind the couch, off to the side, not close, but also not far from Colette.

His lips were thin, and he was studying his wife with an expression I’d never seen him give her.

Distaste.

I was wrong.

This wasn’t a swan song.

She was punishing us.

“You’re giving me a Confederate sword?” Sabre asked, openly insulted.

“Sah, just take it,” Manon murmured.

He ignored his sister.

“You know I’m a Yankee,” he told his grandmother.

A hysterical giggle nearly escaped my mouth.

“I believe at the time Arizona was in the hands of the Spanish,” Colette said, also openly insulted.

“I believe at this time being a Yankee is the state of an educated mind,” Sabre fired back.

I pressed my lips together, doing it so I wouldn’t let out a whoop.

“You cannot escape the fact you have Cormier blood,” Colette snapped.

“Whatever. I can’t take this on a plane,” Sabre replied.

Guillaume entered the burgeoning fray smoothly, stating, “I’ll keep it safe for you. Now, Colette, if you would carry on. They need to be up early, and it’s late for you.”

“I’m not certain I want to carry on,” Colette retorted. “I’m handing them their legacy. It doesn’t matter who lost that war. It still holds value, and it’s part of this family’s history. That saber is in pristine condition. It’s worth thousands of dollars.”

Sabre opened his mouth.

“Son,” Remy said.

Sabre closed his mouth.

But he didn’t reopen it to thank his grandmother.

She waited, which meant we all waited.

But my firstborn said nothing.

Colette sighed with irritation and turned to the seat beside her.

She held out a box wrapped like mine toward Manon. It was much smaller and only had one sweetheart rose.

“This isn’t tainted,” she spat.

Manon took it, opened it, and I could hear her swift intake of breath.

“Those are the earrings your grandfather gave me on our honeymoon. They’re diamonds, radiant cut, nine carats total,” she pronounced.

Now I understood Manon’s breath. We’d all seen Colette wear those earrings over the years, and we’d seen it often.

We also knew she didn’t wear them because they were magnificent (and they were), but because Guillaume had given them to her in the first blush of love and marriage.

Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t punishing us. Maybe she felt this stuff genuinely had nostalgic family value, not to mention monetary value (even that saber), and she was trying to show she cared for us in her inept way.

I sensed this because Yves was the favorite, not Manon, and those earrings were worth quite a bit of money.

But they were priceless in terms of sentimental value.

And Colette wouldn’t think the pearls she gave me, a necklace she wanted Manon to have, were slave pearls. She’d think of them only as Cormier pearls.

“I can’t take these, Grandmama,” Manon said softly.

The line of Colette’s shoulders lightened, she smiled beneficently at Manon and replied, “I want you to.”

Manon twisted her neck in order to look up to her dad, so I did too.

He nodded.

Manon turned again to Colette, holding the box in both hands to her chest. “Thank you. They…were given in love and…worn with love. I’ll always remember that.”

Colette’s face warmed, and I was proud of my girl for pulling that off.

“Yves.” Colette held out another box.

Yves got up to take it, sat back down, opened it, and then pulled out a gold pocket watch, allowing it to swing from its chain.

“That is a Breguet,” Colette announced grandly. “It came over from France when your ancestors came here. Abraham-Louis Breguet is one of the finest watchmakers of all time. In fact, the watch he failed to finish for the queen, Marie Antoinette, before she was executed, is the most expensive watch in existence. That’s”—she lifted a hand to point a finger at the gold dangling from the chain around Yves’s finger—“not as grand, but considering how it appraised the last time we updated our insurance, it’s nothing to sneeze at either.”

I caught Guillaume and Sabre exchanging a glance that I read as Guillaume silently assuring my son, who had not been gifted a watch made by a royal watchmaker two hundred some years ago, that he would be taken care of by his grandfather.

Sabre didn’t care. He’d never been a “things” kid. If he had the right cleats and an abundance of food, he was good.

Oh, and stylish clothes.

“Thank you, Grandmama. It’s beautiful. It’s also cool,” Yves said.

My last born. Perfect.

I felt my lips tip up.

“And Remy,” Colette began.

My lips flattened and my neck tightened.

“This is for you.”

She held out a box to him.

Remy again left me to get it but came right back.

I craned my neck to see what it was, curling my fingers around his thigh for moral support as he opened it.

He set the box aside after he pulled out an eight by ten black and white photo that was framed in an exquisite silver frame.

It was a picture of a much younger Colette and Guillaume, both of them smiling happily, hugely, Colette in another frothy peignoir set, sitting in a hospital bed in the curve of Guillaume’s loving arm.

She was cuddling baby Remy close to her bosom.

Tears stung my eyes.

“What is it?” Sabre demanded menacingly, ready to do battle, and because of his tone, my gaze darted up to Remy.

His eyes were shining too.

“So you will never forget you were loved,” Colette declared.

My throat closed.

Remy looked to his mother and his voice was gruff when he said, “Thanks, Mom.”

“You were,” she said firmly. “And you are.”

No one said a word or made a noise.

Until Remy broke the silence by repeating, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Time for bed,” Guillaume announced.

Thank God.

Remy started it, and we all followed suit.

He got up and moved to his mother. Cupping her jaw, he leaned in and kissed her other cheek.

When he pulled away, he looked in her eyes and requested, “Please get up with us to say goodbye.”

“We’ll see,” she murmured, her gaze sliding from his.

We all followed suit with a cheek kiss for Colette, even Sabre and me, and then we collected our gifts and made our way out of the room and up the stairs, trooping right back into Remy’s and my bedroom.

The kids resumed their positions on the bed.

Remy sat in the couch and pulled me into his lap.

“I’m not keeping that—” Sabre started.

Remy interrupted him.

“We’ll have it appraised then put feelers out to history museums. Mom is right. That sword has significance. So does our family’s history. Not good significance, but if we do not keep wide eyes and open ears to the lessons of our history, we won’t learn from it. That sword doesn’t signify righteous rebellion, it’s an artifact of deserved defeat. As such, its existence is important, and we’ll find somewhere it can exist and teach valuable lessons. Once we find that, we’ll gift that sword, and your mom and I will give you the money it’s worth for you to use as you wish as your inheritance from your grandmother.”

“I don’t need the money, Dad,” Sabre said.

“We’re still giving it to you,” I replied.

“When you do, I’ll be donating it,” Sabre returned.

“And since it’ll be yours, that will be your choice,” Remy retorted.

Sabre didn’t say anything further.

“You okay, Dad?” Manon asked.

“I’m fine, honey,” Remy lied.

Since we all knew he did, we piled onto him (well, I was already on him, so our kids joined me), holding him close, showing him our love, and in so doing, giving it to each other.

I knew I’d never forget that particular Gastineau scrum.

I knew Remy wouldn’t either.

* * *

Of note…

Colette did not wake up early the next morning to say goodbye.