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The writers’ circle had agreed not to have a critique session onboard John’s sailboat but to postpone it because spouses and children and friends would be along. Besides, neither Philippe nor Carol had solved the problem of finding a stapler, and it wouldn’t be easy in a sea breeze to hang on to loose pages.
Saturday morning, John dressed hurriedly, rented a car, and picked Emily up. Cufflinks were not an issue while dressing this morning, he thought. He was in a pink polo shirt, khaki shorts, and deck shoes—no socks, like the preppie he was at heart.
On the way to the parking lot in Bois de Boulogne where he’d meet everyone and lead the parade, he offered Emily a pain au chocolat he had picked up at his favorite patisserie the night before.
“When can I move in with you, Dad?” Emily said, licking a bit of custard that had squeezed out from between the flaky layers. A morsel of chocolate perched on her lip, and she nudged it into her mouth with a finger.
“I don’t know where I’d put you just yet. I’m working on it with all my might,” he answered.
“Mom is driving me crazy, worse than ever. All she does is shop and get her nails done.”
She was not running up credit cards that he had any responsibility for, John noted with satisfaction.
“She has an addiction,” he said. “I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can.”
They arrived at the pre-agreed meeting spot. John climbed out of his car and scanned the skies. Cloudy in Paris, as usual. On the coast he would probably find a whole different weather pattern, as usual.
Anjali and the friend she’d said she’d bring arrived a few minutes later, emerging from a nearby Metro station. Emily climbed out of the little rented Opel to greet them with John.
In her introduction, Anjali didn’t go into how she’d first met the quiet young woman accompanying her.
“Sir, this is Pearl.”
“Please, it’s John, today and every day,” he said to both girls.
John gave both of them the bisous, the traditional French greeting. He couldn’t help thinking that the tradition of a kiss on each cheek was nice. You got to smell women’s perfume. In summer, though, it was a tradition that would be better experienced among people other than certain French, who in hot weather developed pungent body odors and were quite unconcerned, even sportive, about it. Americans, he thought wryly, on the other hand believe that the human body should never smell of anything but shower gel, topped off by a favorite cologne.
But these two young ladies smelled dainty.
Carol and a little girl emerged from the Metro. Carol was no longer in an Armani suit but cropped black yoga pants and a long knit top. Svelte, thought John.
“Hi, everyone, this is Louise. Darling, say hello.”
Louise was a tiny-boned girl with her mother’s blue eyes and a set of strawberry blonde curls. She mumbled a hello.
What a cutie, John thought. He knelt beside her.
“Hi, did you bring some books?”
“I’ve got a backpack full of them,” Carol answered for her.
“Good! Now we’re just waiting for Philippe and his wife,” John said.
At the name “Philippe,” Pearl startled, then relaxed again.
“Where’s your car?” asked Carol. She was expecting a luxurious ride to Cherbourg with John, in a Mercedez or BMW. Or something better. Bentley? Rolls?
John realized he had made a public relations mistake, renting a cheap car. Yet even the Opel had been scary expensive.
He gestured to the car, with paint beginning to peel on its hood. It had been the cheapest one Anjali could find for him online.
When John gestured to a beat-up heap of a car, Carol felt rooted to the earth. She was stunned. So, she thought, another surprise from John. He’s not married. Maybe he’s not rich anymore? Or is he ridiculously frugal? What other first impressions are going to crumble? Maybe he’s not really tall and handsome? She recovered herself and smiled.
“Looks rather reliable, doesn’t it,” she said.
Just then a beat-up silver Peugeot pulled up next to John’s car. Pearl was staring with wide eyes as Philippe and Elodie emerged from the car, both of them staring hungrily back at her.
“Meredith!” her mother cried joyfully and rushed to hug her girl.
Philippe leaned his hip against the car for support. A confusion of feelings raced through him: relief to see her looking in her right mind, anger over the wrenching several weeks—no, years—they’d been through, worry whether she would finally be long-term sober and could really be brought home.
He walked up to the hugging mother and daughter and threw his arms around them both.
