Page 42 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Marie-Christine approaches, her own laughter mingling with the joyous cacophony. “She's a natural,” she remarks in French, watching Annie with a fondness that I recognize well. “Now let’s get some candles in that cake.”
When I return to the yard, Annie is recounting a tale of her culinary misadventures to my brothers-in-law, her animated gestures painting a vivid picture.
“And there I was, expecting a chicken dish, and out comes this plate with a full rabbit!” she exclaims, her mock horror dissolving into chuckles. “Eating the poor Easter bunny wasnotwhat I had in mind!”
“Just burgers today!” Anne-Laure’s husband, Bruno, declares as he opens the grill. “Hopefully it will match to the Texan barbecue you’re used to.”
“Honey,” Annie sets her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “Ain’t nothing like Texan barbecue, but I appreciate the thought. Wait, is that blue cheese you’re putting on the burger?”
“It’sRoquefortblue cheese.”
“Well, that changes everything!”
The laughter that follows is a symphony to my ears.
Amidst the whirlwind of streamers and the sugar-fueled excitement of her friends, Léa, the birthday girl, stands out in her princess-pink dress, a tiara perched jauntily atop her curls. She's a vision of childhood joy, even though adolescence is on the horizon.
But when her eyes meet mine, she beckons me over with the solemnity of a queen in her court.
I excuse myself from the group and crouch down to her level as she takes my hand, pulling me to a quieter corner of the garden.
“Uncle Mathieu,” she begins, her brow furrowed with the wisdom of her grand old age of eleven, “are you going to make Annie your princess?”
Her question hits me with the force of a freight train, and for a moment, I'm speechless, my mind a whirlpool of emotions. “Léa, I… I'm not sure yet,” I manage, the truth of it sending a tremor through my voice.
She looks up at me, her eyes earnest and wise beyond her years. “You should do it like in the stories,” she advises with a nod. “Be brave like the knights and tell her your heart. That's what they do. They fight dragons for love.”
I chuckle, the blend of innocence and wisdom too much to ignore.
“Fight dragons, huh?” I say, ruffling her hair. “Well, I don't know about dragons, but I think you might be onto something with the bravery part.”
Léa's smile is brightens. “You'll see, it'll be perfect. You're my uncle, the bravest person I know. Annie will say yes.”
She darts back to her friends, her words trailing behind her like a cloak of certainty.
Maybe it's time to stop overthinking and start listening to the simple truths that only the innocence of a child can reveal.
The afternoon unfolds like a scene from a storybook, with the golden light of the afternoon sun warming the yard. Annie is in the thick of it, running and mingling with all ages, her hands as sticky with frosting as any of theirs from the cake she helped decorate—crookedly, but with such charm that my mother declared it a masterpiece.
My father claps me on the back, his eyes following Annie as she orchestrates an impromptu game of tag.
“She's something special, that one,” he says in a voice rich with approval, which from my father is not a common occurrence. “Fits right in, like she's always been here. She needs to work on her French though…”
Right then we hear Annie call out, “Un… deux… trois… je suis, um, I’m coming for ya!”
As I stand in the backyard, the scene unfolds like a painting of French provincial scene come to life. Marie-Christine, Éliane, and Anne-Laure are the very picture of maternal efficiency, each moving with a grace that's almost balletic. Anne-Laure, with her apron tied neatly around her waist, deftly juggles a platter of snacks while simultaneously refereeing a minor dispute between two of the younger cousins.
Annie, her laughter ringing, chases after little Antoine, her arms outstretched in an exaggerated monster pose. “I'm gonna get you!Je vais t’attraper!” she cries, her voice playful and light. Antoine squeals in delight, his little legs pumping as he darts through the garden, narrowly avoiding a collision with the rose bushes.
Marie-Christine, ever the picture of calm, sits on the garden swing, her newborn cradled in her arms. She watches the chaos with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “You can't outrun Auntie Annie forever, kiddo!” she calls out and then glances at me. “Oops, did I say afaux pas? She’s just such a natural with the kids.”
Léa is “it” now, with the agility only an eleven-year-old possesses, weaving around tables and chairs, her giggles filling the air as she chases Annie.
“Hold up!” Annie raises a hand in feigned exhaustion and then puts her hands on her knees. “You're too fast for me!” she pants theatrically as Léa gives her more than a little bump, earning a burst of laughter from Anne-Laure.
“Gotcha!” Annie two-hands me in the stomach and I double over—not entirely faking. I must remember, Annie is strong. That’s what ranch life can do to a woman.
“I’m ‘it’, am I?” Just as I lunge for Léa, I misstep and end up tumbling onto a cushioned garden chair, eliciting a chorus of playful jeers from all around the yard.
