“Yes, cookies.My mom and I would spend an entire day making Christmas sugar cookies using insanely old cookie cutters and a recipe that was passed down from her mom, my grandma.We would make dozens of snowmen, trees, snowflakes, and reindeer, and then we’d decorate them with an icing recipe that was mostly powdered sugar, but it tasted delicious.To be honest, the whole recipe was mostly sugar and Crisco, but it was so good.”I nervously stroke the stem of my wine glass.“We would dance and sing along to Christmas music while my dad taste-tested.He called it quality control.My mom would slap his hand when he got too greedy.Those were some of the happiest times of my life.”I can’t believe how this memory pours out of me, as if it’s been locked away deep inside, just waiting to spill out.
When I look up, Luca’s watching me.
Reaching for my wine, I lift the glass to my lips and take a small sip, as it’s all that’s left.
Luca reaches under the table and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight.His touch makes me want to melt into my chair.
“Henri, remember how much Mamam loved the Christmas markets?”Luca asks.
Henri smiles, nodding.
“She used to drag us to every market in Paris.She loved the one at the Tuileries Garden.We always had to get there while it was still light out, so she could map out her plan, and then we’d stay until the very end.I remember one year when we had to literally pull her to the exit.”
“That was her last Christmas,” Henri adds.
“It’s like she knew.”Luca takes a swig of his red wine.
This time, I’m the one squeezing Luca’s hand.
* * *
After lunch, I’m left alone at the table with Mia and her mother, while the Dubois men insist on clearing the table.I refill my glass, nodding and smiling along to a conversation that I struggle to follow.I catch bits and pieces.I’m pretty sure they’re saying how much they pity me.But either way, they seem to have their own language, and I don’t just mean French.
Determined to make myself useful, I grab one of the serving dishes and head toward the kitchen.As I round the corner, I notice both Luca and Henri leaning against the counter, facing the window that overlooks the courtyard, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.Not wanting to interrupt their discussion, I quickly set the dish down, still going unnoticed.
As I pivot to leave the room, out of the corner of my eye, I watch Henri lean into his brother.In a hushed voice, he whispers something.The only part I can translate is, “You need to tell Jemma.”
My chest tightens.Tell me what?
ChapterNineteen
JEMMA
The walk home is quiet.
Luca hasn’t said much since we left his brother’s house.I keep stealing glances at him, trying to figure out what’s changed.His mind seems far away, and his expression is just as distant.
Does this have to do with what his brother said in the kitchen—“You need to tell Jemma”?Part of me would rather not know what Henri meant, since I have a place to stay now.But the part of me that’s falling for him needs to know.Could it have something to do with Colette?
As the last bit of daylight falls behind the horizon, because apparently lunch is an all-afternoon event in France, I bite my bottom lip, mustering up the nerve to ask him, hoping I don’t regret it.
Clearing my throat, my question tumbles out, “What were you and your brother talking about in the kitchen?It seemed like you were deep in conversation.”
His eyes remain fixed ahead.“You were in the kitchen?”he asks, his tone evasive.
Answering a question with a question—not a good start.
“I wanted to make myself useful, so I brought in some dishes.”
“Oh.”He nods thoughtfully, but still offers no answer.
“I heard my name before I left,” I press.
Straight-faced, he responds, “Everyone was talking about you all day.It’s uncommon for one of us to bring someone new around.I’m sure Henri was just saying how well the boys took to you.That’s all.”
Suddenly, I’m questioning whether I heard the words that I thought I heard.I’ve been paranoid since I arrived.Maybe I’m self-sabotaging a good thing.After all, I’m not fluent in French.I probably misheard or misinterpreted the conversation.I should feel flattered that he brought me home and everyone—well, the English speakers—seemed to enjoy my company.And the boys did say Colette and Luca are fighting, so perhaps there’s nothing left to discuss, anyway.
A flicker of contentment washes over me, reminding me that all this anxiety might be a product of my own wild imagination.
