Sylvie smiles. “I don’t know about that. But my parents were married for forty years until my dad died. And—” She takes a deep breath, for this is something she doesn’t generally talk about, knowing that her American friends will not, as a rule, understand. “There was infidelity from the beginning.”
Angie nods. “Aah. Now I get it. Of course you’re going to feel that way if your dad had affairs. At least that explains why Clothilde’s such a bitch. She probably had it pent up for years.”
Sylvie cannot help a burst of laughter. “It wasn’t my father. It was my mother.”
Angie’s hands fly to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I should never have said that.”
“Don’t be. Clothilde’s a total bitch. Even I know that. What I’ve never been able to figure out,” Sylvie says sadly, “is why my father stayed. She was so vicious to him, and she’d leave him every summer to go and live with her lover. Can you imagine?”
“He knew?”
“Yup. But he refused to talk about it with me. I have no idea if he put up with it because he didn’t want to split the marriage up to protect me, or because he loved her. I think it was probably a bit of both.”
“That’s hard,” Angie says. “How did you find out?”
“I haven’t thought about this for years.” Sylvie takes a sip from her cup, casts her mind back all those years. “My mother was in France for the summer. I was sixteen, and alone in the house while my dad was at work. I loved being alone in the house; I was fascinated by everything of my mother’s because it was all so different from everyone else’s, and I used to snoop through her stuff, especially her clothes, which were so beautiful.
“And of course, in the back of her lingerie drawer, cliché of clichés, there was the stack of handwritten envelopes.”
Angie’s eyes are wide. “Did they smell of perfume?”
“No, Angie. Felipe isn’t a woman.”
“Ah yes. Good point.”
Sylvie laughs. “It was obviously from someone in France, and I ran downstairs to grab the huge old French dictionary, and spent the next five hours translating the entire collection.”
“Did you speak any French? And what did the letters say?”
“Yes, I spoke French but not nearly well enough to read the letters properly. They were from her lover. He lived in an apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine, and shipped his wife and children off to their home in the hills below Grasse for the summer, where he would visit them on weekends, squiring his elegant mistress, Clothilde, around the hot spots of Paris during the week.
“He sounded rich. And fun. And exciting. He sounded like everything my dad wasn’t, and I just felt … sick. I understood why my mother took off, but I wished I didn’t. I remember wishing I’d just left well enough alone. It was information I didn’t want to have.
“Did you talk to either of them about it?”
“How could I? I wanted to protect my father, and my mother would have flown into one of her rages. I was terrified of her; I would never have dared confront her.”
“Didn’t you just hate her?”
“I did, but I hated her before that. And I loved her too,” she says sadly. “I was so torn with all these different feelings. Mostly, I think, I wanted her to love me. I’m not sure my mother has ever truly been capable of love. She can love on a superficial basis, if you’re beautiful, and clever, and a perfect reflection of her, but show any independence, contradict her in any way, and her love swiftly turns to hate.”
“Not really hate.” Angie is shocked.
“Oh yes. She has told me she hates me just as much as she has told me she loves me. Possibly more. I spent my childhood wanting her to love me, trying so hard just for her to love me.”
“God, Sylvie. That’s horrible.”
“It sounds horrible, but it just was it was. I didn’t know any different.”
“So … what happened to Felipe?”
“This went on every year for the next twenty years. When Felipe died, my mother flew to Paris to pay her respects to his wife and children. Can you imagine? They knew! Apparently it was an open secret. His wife, Odile, had made it quite clear to him that they didn’t do divorce in her family; he could do what he wanted as long as he never embarrassed her.”
Angie shakes her head. “I knew those French were weird.”
“It gets even weirder. After Felipe died, Odile and my mother became best friends! She’d still go to France every summer, but she’d stay with Odile in Grasse. There were definitely affairs after that, but no one lasting. Isn’t that the most bizarre thing you’ve ever heard?”
“What about your dad?”
“That’s the horrible irony. My father finally dies, giving Clothilde the freedom she’s always wanted, and months later she has the car accident and ends up disabled and in a home. Not a huge amount of choice among the men there.”
“No wonder she adores Mark,” snorts Angie. “I’m surprised she never made a pass at him.”
“Are you kidding? She did! She denied it, but you don’t come to the door in a silk negligee when your son-in-law comes to visit, then make sure you bend over far lower than necessary while pouring him coffee.”
“Ew. Old people’s boobs. Thanks for that.”
“My mother wasn’t old people. Her boobs were done years ago and they were fantastic. But still, can you believe that? Actually, forget I asked that. Mark ran for the hills, terrified.”
They both laugh.
“She still practically climbs on top of him, purring. She’s always telling me I have to make more of an effort or he’ll leave me for the better-looking woman down the road.”
“Which better-looking woman down the road?” Angie perks up. “Me? Because I’ll take him!”
“Get your hands off him.” Sylvie playfully slaps her hand. “I think it’s the French mentality. She doesn’t get that you don’t have to dress in silk lingerie with immaculate hair and full makeup in order to keep your man. In fact, Mark would hate me to look like that. You know my husband: He hates any kind of artifice. She refuses to believe that he can find me beautiful with no makeup and, as she puts it, ‘shapeless hippie clothes.’”
“I love your clothes!” protests Angie. “And you always look gorgeous.”
“Thank you. My mother seems to think it’s not nearly gorgeous enough, and Mark’s about to do a Bill, or at the very least leave me for some hot young woman in a miniskirt and heels.”
“You don’t think that.” Angie is about to laugh, until she notices an expression in Sylvie’s eyes. She leans forward, frowning. “Do you?”
Sylvie shrugs. “Not really. But … sometimes I wonder what he gets up to when he’s not here. Let’s face it, it’s not as if he wouldn’t have the opportunity. Why wouldn’t he have a girl in every port? Then I wonder if my mother’s right, if I should be making more of an effort. Maybe I should be the one buying the red lace underwear.”
“He’d think you were having an affair,” Angie teases. “Not to mention that Mark loves you and he wouldn’t do that to you. Furthermore,” she continues. “If he was, I’d have his balls for breakfast. Just so you know. But he isn’t. No way in hell.”
Sylvie, finally, smiles. “I love you,” she says, reaching over to hug Angie. “You always make me feel better.”
“I didn’t say it to make you feel better,” Angie whispers in her ear. “I said it because it’s true.”
11
Sylvie
The air is completely still, the sunshine warm, as Sylvie kneels in the vegetable garden, pulling out weeds with gloved hands. Happy to listen to the birds as she works, she sits back on her haunches after a while, pulling off the gloves and surveying her work with deep satisfaction.
Years ago, she lived near the center of La Jolla, right on the street, her next-door neighbors almost touching on either side. At that time, she loved being surrounded by people, welcomed the constant movement, the ease of running into town to pick up supplies, pushing Eve in a strol
ler and running into so many friends.
The older she has become, the more like her father she is, coming to love the quiet, appreciate a peaceful life. She had always thought her father loved it for balancing out the whirlwind of her mother, but now she knows it is genetic, was part of his makeup, just as it is part of hers.
She checks her watch with a frown. It is far later than she thought, and Mark hasn’t packed yet. Where is he? She is about to go inside for her phone when she hears the distant hum of his car.
He pulls into the driveway, climbing out of the car and shouting over to her. “I’m late!” He waves, moving toward the back door. “Have to run into the shower.”
“What happened?” Sylvie yells back. “Where’ve you been?”
“Got caught up in a conference call. Didn’t realize the time.” He disappears inside.
* * *
While Mark is in the shower, Sylvie gathers his clean clothes from the laundry room, passing Eve’s door as she takes them upstairs.
She knocks and opens the door, listening for a second, frowning as she hears what sounds like retching noises from the bathroom.
“Eve?” She puts down the basket. “Eve? Are you okay?” She pushes the bathroom door open to find Eve on her knees, vomiting into the toilet bowl. “Oh, love.” Sylvie pulls Eve’s hair out of her face, rubs her back until her stomach stops heaving, pressing a hand to her clammy forehead.
“You’re not well,” says Sylvie, unable to get a read on her temperature. Eve feels cold and clammy rather than hot. “Do you want me to bring you some tea? Or some crackers maybe?”
“I’m fine,” Eve says. “Dad brought me some ice cream and I just overdid it. I ate the whole thing way too quickly and then felt completely sick. No fever.” She gives a wobbly grin. “Don’t worry.”
“I love you.” Sylvie bends down and kisses the top of her daughter’s head. “Brush your teeth,” and she slips out of the bedroom and into hers and Mark’s with a niggle of anxiety firmly lodged in her chest.
* * *
The doors to the balcony are open, sunlight pouring in. Sylvie can’t resist stepping out for a moment, gazing down at the gravel courtyard below, a small fig tree replacing the giant one that had been cut down, much to Sylvie’s horror, a few weeks before they moved in.
To the side of the house is a pergola, an old grapevine twisting up and over the beams, a clematis scrambling around the vine, covering it with large purple flowers.
Huge terra-cotta pots, mossy and old, hold large camellias, their glossy dark green leaves showing off the beauty of the white flowers. More pots are grouped together around the driveway, different sizes, all now a greenish white, thanks to Sylvie sponging them religiously with live yogurt to encourage the mold, all filled with varying sizes of lavender, santolina, boxwood balls.
A weathered bench, faded green pillows piled on either side, is on the porch, and Sylvie sits down for a moment, closing her eyes in the warmth of the sunlight until she hears Mark shut off the water and walk into the bedroom.
“Hi, love.” She puts her arms around him as he bends his face into her neck, inhaling her smell, grateful, oh so grateful, he didn’t let a recent moment of potential weakness turn into something he knew he would always regret.
“Do you really have to go?” Sylvie pulls away with a pout, hating how she sounds like the insecure wife she always vowed not to be, a wife filled with resentment at being forced to live this fractured life. I won’t be that woman, Sylvie vows. Not now, not ever. She forces the pout off her face.
“Hey.” Mark gathers her in his arms, kissing the top of her head and holding her close. “You know it’s not forever.”
Sylvie rests her head against his chest, smelling his unique smell—Tom Ford mixed with Mark—feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt, how safe she is in his arms, and wonders where this sadness comes from.
“I know,” she murmurs. “I just loved being with you unexpectedly. I’m not ready to say good-bye so soon.”
“Lovebug—” He holds her at arm’s length to look into her eyes. “It’s only seven days. There’s a possibility I may be able to get back on Wednesday after the pitch. How’s that? I don’t like leaving either. Trust me, there’s nothing I’d love more than to just stay here with you, but there are too many clients I need to visit.”
“I know. I’m sure this is … I don’t know, premenstrual or hormonal or something—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “You’re the one who always says we have the perfect relationship, and whoever decided married couples had to live together twenty-four/seven was out of their minds.”
“I do think that. At least, I did. I think so much of my accepting our independent marriage was also about protecting myself. It allowed me to hold a piece of myself back in case anything ever happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he reassures gently.
She dismissed him impatiently. “I know, I know. That’s not the point. The point is I wanted it in the beginning, and then I got used to it, but I’m in a different place now, and I want you to be home more.” It is the same conversation they always have, and Sylvie knows they will keep going round and round in circles until a change is made.
There is a silence before Mark sighs. “I want to be home more too,” he says.
“So make it happen.”
“It’s not as easy as that. Sylvie, why are we having this conversation now, when I’m leaving?” The frustration in his voice is clear. “Why are we having this conversation again?”
“Because it doesn’t just go away if we don’t talk about it,” Sylvie snaps. “You’re the one with the power to change it, and it doesn’t make any sense why you don’t take on a head of sales to do all the traveling. I’m starting to think you don’t want to be home more.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Mark forces a patient tone. “You know the deal. You know it’s only because I have such long-established relationships with the clients, they don’t want to see anyone other than me. We’ve discussed it so many times, it’s not something I can change. Not yet. I do hear you, and I want the same thing. I just have to figure out how to transition. Sylvie, I love you more than anything. I will make this happen.”
“Are you just saying that to appease me or will you actually do something?” she grumbles, allowing him to pull her close.
He sighs. “Sylvie, I will do something, it just may not happen in the time frame you want.”
“What does that mean? How long will it take? A year? Six months?”
“Within the year,” he mumbles into her hair. “I’ll figure it out within the year. Now, stop being so grumpy and give me a proper kiss good-bye. I promise I’ll be back earlier if I can.”
12
Sylvie
Eve shuffles sleepily downstairs, fleecy pajama bottoms pooling around her pink fluffy slippers as she blearily sits down on a stool and yawns.
“Morning!” Sylvie smiles. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, but it’s too early. It smells good in here. What is it?” Eve bends down, leaning her head on her arms before opening one eye to see a candle sitting in the middle of the counter, the only candle that has no imperfections on the surface, that will not require a second pour.
The only candle that is, by anyone’s estimations, perfect.
Eve sits up. “Candles! Mom? Have you been up all night making candles? Because if you say yes, that’s a serious problem.”
“I won’t say yes, then,” Sylvie says lightly. “Tea?”
“Mom! I worry about you. You never sleep anymore.”
Sylvie laughs. “You worry about me? When you’re wasting away to nothing?” She silently berates herself as the cloud passes over Eve’s face. Damn. Why did she have to say anything? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But you don’t need to worry about me. Apparently, it’s the curse of middle age. No one else sleeps either.”
“O … kay. But they’re not making candles and jewelry
all night long.” Eve stretches over to bring the candle closer as her eyes widen with surprise. “Mom! You made this? It’s perfect!”
Sylvie basks in her daughter’s unfiltered praise. She and Eve had always been so close—Eve the dream child—but these past few months, as the pounds have dropped from Eve’s frame, she is often the surly teenager Sylvie never dreamed she would have.
Sylvie never knows what Eve’s mood will be, hating how much Sylvie lets it affect her own life. When Eve is happy and content, Sylvie feels as if she is basking in sunlight, but the mere hint of a scowl throws Sylvie into a well of anxiety.
She knows this pattern well. Lived it for years, only Clothilde was the one to control her moods. Detach with love, she tells herself, repeating the words like a mantra, knowing the only way to retain her sanity is not to let the moods of others affect her own.
Detach with love. Detach with love. Detach with love.
Eve inhales the scent of the candle again. “What’s the smell? I love it.” Eve inhales yet again. “It kind of smells like your perfume.”
“That’s the tuberose. But it’s mostly fig. I’m hoping your grandmother will prefer it to the ones she always makes me buy. It will save me a fortune.”
Eve shoots her mother a look of disbelief. “Even if she loves it, she’d never tell you. Or she’ll wait until someone compliments the smell and reluctantly confess you made it, only after informing them you clearly inherited her wonderful nose for perfume.”
Sylvie bursts out laughing. “Darling daughter, that is exactly what she’ll do. How do you know so much?”
Eve shrugs. “I heard you describe her as narcissistic once upon a time. I had no idea what it meant, so I looked it up.”
Sylvie cocks her head with a smile. “And you discovered she’s self-obsessed?”
“Um … you could say that.” She grins.
“She’s still your grandmother, though. She still loves you. Well, she loves in the only way she knows how to love.… You really should go see her more.”