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Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Ethan

I stare at Sylvie across the kitchen table. She's gone from sullenly picking at her food to eating with gusto. I know that by no means indicates she's suddenly become a well-adjusted, happy little girl. In fact, I get the distinct impression this renewed zeal for nourishment is almost her way of getting strong for an epic battle.

She may have started eating with either me or the entire family for every meal, but she still isn't engaging. She'll reply to questions with one- or two-word answers, or sometimes we only get a shoulder shrug. If she's given an open-ended question that requires actual discussion, she'll often slip into a volley of French that none of us can understand. My little girl spends most of her free time in her bedroom and always has a book in her hand anytime one of us checks on her. The television goes wholly ignored.

My frustrations are high as are those of my parents and siblings. We're desperate to make a real connection with Sylvie, but we're also realistic. It's only been ten days since Alaine died and two days since Sylvie came to live with us. It could take weeks for her to adjust, and we need to give her time.

But… time is ticking. The judge will be evaluating her situation in two short months and I am not a man of patience. Never have been. I'm the type who works hard and pushes even harder to get things done. I don't know or understand failure and as I sit and watch my daughter eat breakfast—this perfect little stranger with the sharp tongue and wary eyes—I know I'm standing on the precipice of failure.

It is not a feeling that sits well with me, rather leaving me in a foul mood, especially since none of the family joined us this morning. It's back to normal life on the farm with Kat, Trey and Wade up and at the barn by seven a.m. and our parents running into town to eat at their favorite café. Retired life definitely suits them.

Lifting my coffee mug, I take a sip and stare thoughtfully at Sylvie. She has her head bent over her plate, eating nothing but a sliced baguette with marmalade and fresh fruit. Miranda somehow found out that is Sylvie's favorite breakfast and provided it this morning.

Shockingly, I saw Sylvie bestow an actual, genuine smile at Miranda as she murmured "Merci" in gratitude.

Could it really be as simple as providing her with the comforts of home? Or maybe it's that bread and jam have nothing to do with her current predicament and are something she can give herself grace to enjoy?

I tuck those thoughts away in my personal mental folder I've named How to Win Over Sylvie.

"After we register you for school today, my mom is going to take you shopping for clothes," I say. Of course, Sylvie already knows this is the game plan as I told her last night when I checked on her before bedtime. But it's hard to initiate conversation with this girl at the best of times.

"I don't want to go to a public school," Sylvie says, talking around the food in her mouth. She swallows and lifts her gaze. "Why can't I go to Prescott? I like it there."

Because all the Mardraggons go there, I think, and they turn out to be pretentious pricks.

"Because I think you'll have a more rounded experience at Shelbyville Primary."

"It's not fair," Sylvie exclaims, her voice pitched higher than usual. She drops her knife smeared with marmalade and it clatters loudly when it hits the plate. "You're making my life miserable and I hate you."

That shouldn't hurt since I hardly know her but those are words I'll never forget, no matter what becomes of our relationship. Rather than allowing it to bring me down, I decide to open up a part of myself I've held tight the past week, allowing a moment of anger. "Do you think I asked for this? You know, my life got disrupted too and it's not been easy having you dropped on my doorstep."

Sylvie's face screws up tight and she erupts into what I am quite confident is a string of French curses. "Espèce d'ignorant, que connais-tu de la misère? Tu es un con avec une cervelle d'oiseau. Un idiot, qui est née dans les bas-fonds. Je suis révoltée de savoir que nous sommes parents et je vais vous rendre la vie aussi misérable que la mienne peut l'être."

I keep my expression impassive, my finger tapping gently against the side of my smartphone that sits face down on the kitchen table. "I'd prefer that you speak to me in English, especially when I suspect you're calling me names."

Sylvie smiles sweetly, but the tight lines say it's purely manufactured. "I said I'm sorry I'm such a burden to you."

Not what she said, but I let it go. "I'm sorry if I implied you're a burden. You are not at all. I am merely pointing out that this is difficult on everyone. It's been a shock to me and I'm trying to adjust, same as you."

"Not same as me." Her voice is small and it tears at me. "You didn't lose your mom, did you?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I don't have any strong feelings about Alaine dying. Not in the sense that it affected me, since I barely knew the woman. But a profound sense of sadness overwhelms me on Sylvie's behalf. Sorrow for what this little girl has lost. "No, I didn't lose anyone and I'm really sorry you did. It's not fair to you at all."

Sylvie glares at me. "You don't care. You hated my mom. You hate all Mardraggons."

"I didn't hate her. But I hardly knew her. Your mom and I were barely acquaintances and I know it's probably hard for you to understand how she got pregnant—"

"I know how sex works," Sylvie snaps angrily.

Yeah, I'm not going there so I ignore it for now. My tone is soft, patient, and I hope she really listens to me. "None of this is fair to you and if I could just let you go back to Lionel and Rosemund, I would. But I can't. You're mine now and I'm going to continue to hope you learn to like me and my family just a bit in the next few months. I'm going to hope you give us a chance."

Sylvie's lip curls, revealing her teeth before she sneers in French. "Je ne vous donnerai aucune chance. Je suis une Mardraggon et ne serai jamais une Blackburn. Vous et tout le monde de cette ferme, pouvez aller au diable." Her expression morphs and a placid, duly obedient look falls into place as she switches to English. "Now… if you'll excuse me. I need to brush my teeth before we go register for my new school."

I sigh as Sylvie stands from the table. I wait until I hear her on the staircase before flipping my phone over and stopping the recording.

I have no nefarious plans in recording our conversation other than to find out what in the hell she's saying. I am at a distinct disadvantage in the communication game if I can't understand her. Last night I found an app that can translate recordings and I'm hoping to glean clues from her French tirades. I suspect she's being more truthful in her feelings, just as I also suspect she takes great joy in the fact I can't understand her.

That is going to change though.

?

Shelbyville Primary is where my siblings and I attended school from pre-kindergarten to fifth grade. It's where my dad went to school and his parents before him. It's where Sylvie will be completing her fourth grade year as well.

In the binder of information that Todd Gillam left with me two days ago are Sylvie's school transcripts from the town of Saint-émilion, where she lived with her mother. It's also where the Mardraggon winery is located. There are partial transcripts of the three months she attended Prescott Academy here in Shelbyville after Alaine brought her to Kentucky as well.

Shelbyville Primary School sits on the outskirts of town by only half a mile. I haven't been to campus since I left fifth grade, but it hasn't changed much, at least on the outside. Worn redbrick facade with two large flagpoles out front display the American flag and the Kentucky state flag. To the right is the kindergarten through second grade playgrounds and to the left is the recess area for the third, fourth and fifth graders.

Inside, the lobby and reception area are bright and child-friendly, the walls adorned with colorful artwork and educational posters. As soon as I enter with Sylvie, the familiar smells transport me back in time. Things are a bit different in this day and age as we had to walk through a locked and secured door, a metal detector and then sign in electronically as guests. We wait in the small reception area for someone to give Sylvie the grand tour.

Sylvie shows absolutely no interest, slouching in her chair with her chin tucked into the palm of her hand. She stares at the floor in boredom as students and an occasional teacher walk by. They all smile and exchange pleasantries with me, but Sylvie gives her standard cursory one-word answers if someone asks how she's doing.

After about ten minutes of waiting, I'm getting antsy. I have a million things to do and probably only enough time today to do ten of them. While I'm all for doing whatever is necessary to situate Sylvie in her new school, I don't have time to sit around doing nothing.

Pushing up out of the straight-backed chair, which groans slightly under me, I approach the receptionist sitting behind a glass window. She slides it open and smiles.

I glance at my watch. "Can you tell me how much longer we're going to wait? I have a really busy day."

Before the receptionist can answer, a woman breezes around the corner wearing an apologetic smile. "Mr. Blackburn, I am so sorry to keep you waiting. We had an emergency involving one of the children that I had to attend to."

The petite woman sticks her hand out for me to shake and two things strike me in sequential order. The first, she is incredibly beautiful with dark red hair and sparkling blue eyes framed with long lashes. Her Kentucky accent is covered in a layer of raspiness that threatens to send a shiver up my spine, amplified when our hands touch.

The second thing I realize is that I know this woman. Or at least I've seen her around. She's familiar but I can't place her exactly.

"I'm Marcie DeLeon. You actually know my sister Michelle—her daughter Carmen rides at your barn."

Realization hits. I just saw this woman a few days ago and I also remember that my sister was trying to set me up with Marcie's sister Michelle, who is buying Lady Beatrice.

It's all a moot point, so I don't let it fluster me, simply saying, "Nice to meet you. And I certainly understand about the emergency."

And I do. I might not have had fatherhood on my list of priorities, but I definitely like kids. A good chunk of our business focuses around training them.

I glance back at Sylvie. "I'm here to enroll my daughter. I was told that we would get a tour."

Marcie nods with a broad smile showing even teeth. "That's me. Your tour guide. And I wanted to personally welcome Sylvie to our school. While we have other bilingual children here, she will be our first one who speaks French."

Marcie pulls away from my grasp and brushes past me to stand in front of Sylvie who reluctantly lifts her face to make eye contact. Marcie bends slightly at the waist, putting her hands on her thighs. I notice she's wearing a pair of black skinny pants, black high-heeled pumps, and a black-and-white checkered blouse with a high neck and bow. It's very chic and frankly, it looks like she'd be at home in Paris.

Marcie smiles at Sylvie. "Bonjour, Sylvie. Je m'appelle Mademoiselle DeLeon. Je suis heureux de te rencontrer."

Sylvie's eyebrows raise in interest and she replies. "Bonjour."

Marcie reaches her hand out to shake and Sylvie accepts it. Marcie then regretfully admits, "I'm sorry, but that's the only French I know and I practiced it this morning because I knew you were arriving. Maybe you can teach me some?"

I can see Sylvie is struggling not to be charmed by the kind principal and her smile slips a little as she nods.

Marcie glances over her shoulder at me. "I can give Sylvie the tour and take her on to her first class. You're more than welcome to join us or if you need to get off to work…"

She gives me an out with that, allowing me the chance to escape back to the world I know and love, despite its challenges. I should go.

Instead, I find myself saying, "I wouldn't mind a tour of the school."

Marcie straightens and beams a brilliant smile that dazzles me. "Excellent. We'll do the tour, escort Sylvie to her first class and then you and I can take a few moments to talk about what she hopes to accomplish the rest of this year."

?

"And this is going to be your classroom," Marcie says as we stop outside a closed door with a thin rectangular pane of glass that allows you to see inside. Desks are grouped together in sets of four and all the kids are working with their heads down, pencils moving furiously over paper. Sylvie glances in and I can see over her head a young male teacher standing at a whiteboard talking. "Mr. Bartlett is your teacher. He's taught at Shelbyville Primary for two years. I have it on good authority he's one of the funniest teachers here."

Marcie waits to see if that will elicit a reaction from Sylvie, who has been quiet during the tour, although she has in no way been taciturn the way she has been with me or my family.

I can see that Marcie has questions and concerns regarding my daughter. She turns to me and asks, "Do you think you can find your way back to the reception area? I'll meet you there and we can have a few minutes to chat in my office. I'll see that Sylvie gets settled in."

"Sure," I say, and immediately feel awkward because I don't know what to do. Marcie probably expects me to give my daughter a hug, but I know Sylvie would be horrified by any overt sign of affection. It leaves me in the untenable situation of trying to come up with a plan on the fly. Awkwardly, I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze. "Good luck on your first day. I'm sure you will do great."

Marcie beams at the gesture but to my utter shock, Sylvie throws her arms around me, taking advantage of the fact I'd bent down slightly. Her arms wrap around my shoulders and I start to wrap her up in a hug, the natural reaction to such a gesture. She presses her temple to mine, lips near my ear, and says, "I despise you. I'll never forgive you for any of this."

I'm so shocked I release her and almost stumble back. She flashes a toothy grin, which I understand is completely for Marcie's benefit, followed by a jaunty wave. "See you after school."

Marcie gives me a bright smile and opens the door to the classroom, leading my daughter inside. When the door closes, I exhale a massive sigh of relief to be away from Sylvie for a few minutes, frustrated that she's rattled me so much.

The receptionist shows me into Marcie's office to wait for her return. I pace around, unable to sit still. Barely five minutes pass from the time I left Marcie until she is walking back into her office, apologizing for taking so long. "Sorry about that. I hung around outside the door and nosily watched to see how she settled in. That young lady has some issues."

I blink in surprise that she picked that up. While quiet, Sylvie had been very pleasant toward the school principal and there's no way Marcie overheard the vicious things she said.

She must see the surprised look on my face because she goes on to explain, "I know a little bit about the circumstances of why she is with you. The head of school for Prescott Academy called to discuss her transition."

"Well, that was nice of him," I mutter.

"Her," Marcie clarifies. "Their head of school is a female. But yes, that was very nice of her to do so. I understand that Sylvie has only been with you a few days and that she lost her mother not long ago."

I wonder just how well-informed Marcie is. "Have you lived in Shelby County all your life?"

Shakes her head. "Originally from just outside of Louisville. I moved here after I married and stayed after I divorced. But I've been here long enough that I've heard the stories about the tensions between your family and the Mardraggons. I'm assuming that has bled into your relationship with Sylvie."

I snort. Hard. "There is no relationship. She's been in my home for two days now, Lionel and Rosemund Mardraggon have clearly filled her head with stuff, and the child refuses to have an honest conversation with me or anyone in my family."

"Aren't you being a little hard on her? She's only nine."

"Going on thirty," I say, then soften my tone. "And no, I'm not being hard on her. I'm only telling you the truth of how it's been. But my family and I are resolved to let her work through this and to do whatever we need to give her the space and time to come to grips with things. We're very much aware that she is still grieving the loss of her mother. And since you seem to be aware of the history between our families, then I'm sure you can understand there are some inherent tensions that may arise. Sylvie arrived on my doorstep filled with hate and bitterness."

"And is there any chance she's feeling that from your family?"

I want to be offended but it's a fair question. There is no love lost between our families and any time we run into one another in public, if we aren't avoiding each other, we certainly aren't being nice.

"I can assure you that not one negative word has been said about the Mardraggons in Sylvie's presence."

As much as I despise the lot of them, I'd like to think that our family has values and good principles. We know how hard things are on Sylvie and the last thing she needs to hear is negativity about her own bloodline. While I know the Mardraggons have not extended the same courtesy, I've discussed it with my parents and siblings, and we made a pact to hold our tongues and speak only respectful things in front of her.

Marcie's expression turns sympathetic and she nods in understanding. "How is it actually going between the two of you?"

"It's not going at all," I reply tersely. "Half the time she speaks to me in French, and I don't even know what she's saying."

Marcie laughs, a husky, rapturous rumble that sounds way too good to my ears.

But I frown at her. "She's not just speaking to me in French—she's saying horrible things to me in French."

Marcie tilts her head in question. "Like what?"

I pull out my phone and navigate to the app I used to translate the recording from this morning. With a few taps of my fingers, I play the original recording and, admittedly, if you didn't know what Sylvie was saying, it just sounds like a frustrated girl speaking the musical, lilting language.

Marcie looks at the screen curiously. "That was her?"

"Over breakfast. Want to know what she said?"

Marcie nods.

I push another button and a mechanical, computer-generated voice spits out the translation. "You look like a troll and you smell like one too."

Marcie doesn't laugh. "She's an angry little girl."

I toss my head in the general direction of Sylvie's classroom. "When she hugged me just outside Mr. Bartlett's door, that was all for show and completely fake. She told me she despised me."

"Oh dear," Marcie murmurs. "I'm sorry. May I suggest counseling?"

"It's high on the priority list. My mother called around yesterday, but finding a therapist in this area is not easy. We're looking in Louisville right now and finding nothing but waiting lists."

Marcie nods, her expression grave. "We're at an all-time shortage of counselors and therapists. Especially for children. I'll reach out to some of my contacts, but if I can help in any way… if you need me to talk to her, I'm glad to. I don't mind intervening, even outside of school. As the principal, that's part of my duty." She bends over her desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper. "Here's my phone number. Call me anytime you need to."

When I take the number from her, I'm not sure what it says about me that I actually hope I need to call her for some reason. I wouldn't mind hearing more of her sweet southern voice.

Instead, I tuck her number into my back pocket and hope things don't get so bad that I have to use it. "Thank you for all your help."

"My pleasure. We'll take good care of Sylvie here at school."

I nod, offer a small, grateful smile and then leave her office, my mind blessedly already moving on to the things I have to do before Sylvie comes home at the end of the day.

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