Page 65 of At the Ready

By the time we are on the sidewalk with our luggage, the front door pops open and a short, slim woman looks out. JL told me she’s seventy, but while her skin is somewhat weather-beaten, she looks ten years younger. Over a white T-shirt and denim skirt, she wears a black apron, the bib top proclaiming her Queen of the Kitchen. Her cropped, silvery hair is a mass of tight curls and I wonder if she has it permed. “Déguédine!” she calls out in a raspy, impatient command. I wonder if she smokes.

“Bien sûr, Maman,” JL calls to her. He whispers in my ear, “She wants us to hurry up.”

I expect to see her beam with welcome, but her lips are pursed as she looks down on me from the small porch. I paste on a smile, push in the handle of my suitcase, and trudge toward the steep, narrow wooden steps. When JL tries to grab the bag from me, we end up in a little tug-of-war, which he wins.

“Why don’t you have the ramp out?” he challenges the woman on the porch.

“I’m not a cripple,” she snarls.

“I didn’t say you were, but the ramp would make walking easier.” Under his breath I hear him grumble, “Replace the steps with a permanent ramp.”

When I start forward, I understand his point. The ten steps are narrow and steep, but the railing helps me keep my balance when only half of my foot fits on each step.

At the top, I look into the narrowed eyes of JL’s mother before noticing another woman, about our age, hovering. She’s taller than Madame Martin and model-thin. Her resemblance to Audrey Tautou is striking. Bobbed brown hair and short, straight bangs flatter a narrow chin and forehead, and high cheekbones. Dressed in skinny distressed ankle jeans, topped by a bright pink cropped sweater that shows a strip of her flat abdomen, her á la mode style enhances the impression she could be making a living on the runway if she was twenty-five years younger.

I flash a questioning look toward JL. He never said anything about siblings. Superficially, she could be his sister, or maybe a cousin. I scoot to the side so he can stand next to me on the porch. He puts down the bags and moves forward to embrace his mother.

“Bonjour, Maman.” He kisses her on both cheeks, but she doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, she moves back and crosses her arms across her chest.

He sniffs ostentatiously. “Still smoking? I thought you’d agreed to stop after the doctor told you your lung capacity was deteriorating.”

One hand creeps down to the pocket of her apron and she fiddles with something inside. But instead of answering, she asks, “Qui est cette femme?” Her voice is rough and accusatory.

My heart sinks briefly, then warms at the big smile that lights up his face as he throws an arm around my shoulders. “C’est ma blonde, Michelle.”

“Ta blonde?” she exclaims. “Mais non. Impossible.”

Eyes wide, the woman’s jaw drops as she takes a step back. Her open mouth displays slightly pointed teeth. Predatory. Is she a vampire? Too muchBuffyandTwilightI guess. Still, I’m relieved there is no sparkling, although she’s not out in sunlight either.

Jaw clenched, JL starts. “Ce n’est pas possible.”

His mother says, in careful English, “It is possible.”

My heart plummets. JL said his mother had a surprise for him. At least she didn’t jump out of a cake. Questions dart around my brain like a pinball, but without the lights and bells.

Why did JL call me his blonde? The reaction of his mother makes me wonder what difference my hair color makes. Does she buy into the stereotype? Think I’m an airhead? Or vapid? Or maybe just American? This conversation is already beyond me, but the hostility in Louisette Martin’s voice makes me want to find Yannick and Jean-Claude and have them take me back to the airport.

JL smolders, and not in a good way as he faces the woman. She cringes.

“What are you doing here, Angélique?” His voice is rough with emotion. I wish I knew what that meant.

Licking her lips, she looks down at well-worn sandals. “I’ve been helping your mother.” Then she puffs up like an angry cat. “More than you do for her.”

Before he can respond, his mother chides her, “Angélique, JL does what he can.”

“With money only, from a distance.”

“Who are you to criticize me, Angélique?”

If looks could kill, she’d be lying on the floor—a crumpled, burnt heap. “After all this time, why can’t you let go of the past?”

“Stop it, both of you. Angélique has been very kind to me the last few months since her divorce. You should be happy someone is here to help me, JL. Especially since you refuse to move back from Chicago.”

“We’ve been over this, Maman.”

“Well, I for one am happy Angélique has come back into our lives.”

“She dumped me years ago for the man she’s now divorced from. No reason for her to come back into our lives.”

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