“I will talk to her about lying to you,” he added.
“Don’t. I will handle Sabine myself. Do not speak for me in any way.”
She imagined screaming at him an inch from his face that she’d worked her ass off to be a good parent—an act of heroism, as far as Marlow was concerned—and how all that was not a race easily won, but now he was sauntering in at the finish to take the effin’ ribbon.Herribbon.
“Did you need something?” he asked.
Right. Just spit it out, perhaps at a lower decibel.
“My boss at the festival, Oscar, wants you to attend a one-day conference, first week of September. It’s paid, plus airfare and hotel. I said I’d ask.”
“That is in three weeks, no?”Yes of course it was in three weeks!
“I’m waiting for the greenlight of three films at the moment, but I’m sure I can do it.”
“Thank you,” she said with relief. “I’ll send details. I can’t afford to screw up at the festival right now, so …” Shitty way to finish, true. “And don’t let Sabine ruin her life there with you. And don’t say anything to her about this call.” Even shittier.
“You have my word.”
She hung up and sent a message to Oscar saying Yves was in. There. She’d been a grown-up—mostly. She felt like crawling into bed. Or, rather, finding Guillaume, and seeing if they could crawl back into his. Or maybe Luc’s?
No. She’d go home, alone, and not do anything rash. Perhaps today Rémy would deign to give her the verdict about the land transfer papers. And if Rémy gave her the go-ahead to sell Maison Perdue, she could tend to whatever was happening with Sabine. Yes, she wanted to be the calm, rational parent, but she also wanted Sabine out from under the spell of Yves and back in the fold—something that might require going to Paris.
While Yves called La Sorbonne to arrange for late admission, Sabine and Aubin ran errands on Boulevard Saint-Michel. They tried to get her a data plan, because her cell phone was too old for an eSIM, but the man at the cell company insisted she needed her passport, and of course she hadn’t thought to bring it from Yves’ apartment. When asked why she needed a passport to buy data, he replied seriously, “Because,Mademoiselle, terrorisme.”
They stopped to buy acrêpe au citron et sucre à emporter,which Aubin told her she’d live on while attending school—fast, cheap, devour as you walk. As the man made it in the storefront window, pouring batter onto the round griddle, smoothing it in circles until it steamed and turned golden brown, she fretted again that she couldn’t see how La Sorbonne would accept her this late. But Aubin told her to trust in the universe, or, at the very least, how famous her father was, which meant he could open doors others couldn’t. The man in the window flipped thecrêpewith his flat knife, sprinkled lemon juice and sugar over it, folded it in four, and passed it out to them in a paper towel.
They swung by Shakespeare and Company to buy a pocket-sizedParis Planmap book—this way she’d be able to get around even if she didn’t have data.
Aubin had his nose in music books, so she went to see the bulletin board. There was the note from before: “Yesterday I turned nineteen! Far from home, penniless, pretending to be confident, trying too hard, terrified, free, living the dream, best birthday ever.” Now there was a new note beside it, scribbled on a Maison d’Isabelle napkin. It read: “Everyone is these things. I will be these things with you, so you don’t feel so alone.” It was Aubin.
She went right back to him and held up the napkin, smiling. “I don’t feel alone.”
“Good.”
“When did you write that?”
“One morning on my way from buying a baguette. I knew we’d come back—this bookstore is irresistible to you.”
“And so are you.”
She boughtThe Art of No-Budget Filmmaking. She’d have to hide it from her mother, but her conversations with Yves about creativity and striving for meaning had inspired her. The cashier stamped it with “Shakespeare and Company—Kilometer Zero Paris,” and they headed home along the Seine. She stopped on the sidewalk to kiss Aubin in public, the sort of PDA she’d always hated. She could still taste the lemon and sugar on his lips. Best thing ever.
Sabine and Aubin unlocked the door to find Yves on the phone with an entrance officer at the Sorbonne. Nothing Yves said would convince him that they should accept Sabine this close to the beginning of the academic year. He tried to explain how brilliant she was, that she had been one of only three students in Ontario to finish high school with a perfect score, but the entrance officer replied that many of their students had perfect marks because of the school’s excellence. La Sorbonne was La Sorbonne. It did not bend for others. Others bent to it.
“I tried, but it was not enough,” Yves said, hanging up. “What do you want to do?”
“I th-hink—it’s j-just—” stuttered Sabine, shocked at how suddenly things were not so perfect. One sob escaped. Aubin reached out and she collapsed into him, crying like a baby.
Yves got her a box of tissues, and after she’d calmed down and blown her nose, they sat beside her. Yves on one side, Aubin on the other.
“There are other universities in Paris,” said Yves.
“It’s not that,” she said, face stinging from salty tears. “When you asked what I want to do, I realized I still don’t know. There isn’t anything I really want to study, here or at home.”
“Before, I asked you what made you happy,” said Aubin. “It’s a different question.”
“This is very wise,” said Yves.
