“Because men can be attracted to a woman or they can answer to a woman—rarely do the two overlap. But that one”—she motioned toward the living room where the piano thundered its way through “La campanella” by Franz Liszt—“he surprised me last night. Deferred to you in a way that says he respects your authority asla patronnebut still looks at you like a woman. When you told us about Jean after the children were in bed, I could see in his eyes that he wanted to help, wanted to fix things like men always do. But more than that, he wanted to encourage you. Affirm you. That’s a rare breed.”
He was all those things. More. And in a different world, maybe she could act on it. But honestly, she couldn’t even imagine what that world would look like. She shook her head. “I’m done with romantic attachments, Maman.”
“Don’t say that.” Maman dried off her hands and came over to where Zelie sat, took her chin between her cool, still-damp fingers. “You’re a young woman in the prime of life. You have too many years ahead of you to resign yourself to living them alone.”
Why,whydid the blasted tears have to be hovering constantlyat the back of her eyes? “You weren’t that much older than me when Pappa died. You never remarried.”
Her mother let her chin go and sank into the chair beside Zelie’s. “That was different.”
“How?”
But Maman’s smile said it all, even before she spoke. “Your father was the love of my life. He gave me all I dreamed of and more. I loved him, I loved being his wife, I loved dedicating myself to you and Antoine. That was my purpose, Zelie, all I ever wanted. I had it. And now I get to care for Elise and Blaise and fuss at your brother to find a good woman and settle down. I’mhappy. I don’t need another husband. Don’t want anyone who would make the memories dim.”
Zelie had to look away. Where had she evencomefrom? Her mother had never yearned for more, not like Zelie had. And her father had certainly not instilled in her any unpopular ideas about young women building careers of their own or being the leaders of men. How, then, had she been bitten by this bug of independence? Or wanderlust or adventure seeking or whatever it was that Jacques had hated so much?
She shook her head. “Don’t you see, Maman? I’m not cut out for that sort of love, that sort of marriage. I don’t regret marrying Jacques—how could I? I have Blaise and Elise. But my marriage... it was in ruins long before Jacques died.” She’d tried to protect her mother from that disaster, but she’d probably known. Mothers always did.
And indeed, no surprise lit her face, only compassion. She reached over and took Zelie’s hand. “It takes two to reduce a marriage to ruin,mon chou. I will not say no fault is yours—you’re as stubborn as I am, after all, and I know the grief that caused me over the years. But I will also say notallthe fault can be yours. Jacques should have been able to see in a glance that he had as much hope of taming you as bridling the wind. He should haverealized that he wouldn’t be able to change the very thing that caught his attention to begin with. He fell in love with you because you were unlike anyone else—and then he grew frustrated when you refused to conform.”
Her throat too tight for words, Zelie could only nod. So many nights, even now, she would dream of that look on his face. The disappointment in his eyes, the frustrated line of his mouth. The way he’d take the last sip of the one glass of cognac he’d allow himself every evening and thunk it down onto the table in accusation.You could drive me to drink,he’d said once, just once, when he set that glass down.But I won’t give you the honor of being my undoing.
He’d said it aloud only that one time, when Elise was a newborn. But she’d heard it in that clink every night thereafter. Every... single... night.
“Not every man would be such a fool, Zee. I’m sorry Jacques was killed. He was a good man, for all I wanted to slap him silly for the way he tried to break your spirit. Faithful, honest. He never would have asked for a divorce, so you could have wrestled it into some semblance of working. But he’s gone, little one.” Maman squeezed her hand and kept on squeezing. “He’s gone, and you’re not, and you deserve to live. Deserve to love.”
Live, yes. Zelie could grant that much. And love too—she’d love her children, her mother, her brother. She’d love her friends and colleagues. But more than that?
No. She didn’t have enough left to give to a man. Perhaps Marcel was as handsome as he was kind, perhaps she appreciated all he’d become to her—but she’d already learned her lesson. She wasn’t the sort of woman anyone wanted for a wife. Even if they thought they did.
Thankfully, Elise burst into the kitchen, saving Zelie a response. Her eyes were bright, her hair a bit wild from the wind as she swung, despite the braid Zelie had put in before they went outside.
She’d missed the feel of her daughter’s silky tresses in herfingers. Missed the way Elise wriggled and wiggled and giggled and asked ten times, “Are you done yet?”
Now the little one bounced on her toes. “He’s playing! Monsieur Marcel isplaying. Can I watch? Can I have my lesson?”
Zelie smiled. Before the war, Elise had always loved to watch Zelie play and had begged to learn. But she’d been so young, her fingers so small...
No, that wasn’t it. Zelie hadn’t had the patience to teach her, she could admit it. She’d taught her which keys were which and let her play, but she’d never taken the time to give her real lessons, and Jacques had said they weren’t to hire a tutor for such “trivial nonsense” until she was five.
Then he’d died and they’d fled Paris and Zelie had installed them here and... she’d failed her, that’s what.
But Marcel had taken one look at the rapture on her daughter’s face last night after dinner and asked her if she played. Then, when she’d shaken her head, if she’d like to. He’d promised her a lesson each day until they left, and more whenever he saw her again.
Zelie stood and held out a hand. “Let’s wait for him to finish this piece, then we’ll ask if he’s ready.” It would keep her occupied while Zelie took Blaise out.
Raoul and Antoine both lounged in the room, a newspaper split between them. Marcel, of course, sat at the old upright in need of a tuning and brought it to life.
She was used to seeing him at sad, worn instruments, thanks to their Wednesday meetings. What amazed her was how, no matter the setting or the piano, he looked perfectly at home. At Grigoryan’s Bösendorfer or an out-of-tune Pleyel. On stage at the Paris Opera or beneath a cloud of smoke at a hole-in-the-wall bistro.
Maman slipped in behind them too and took the cushion beside Antoine, but she didn’t reach for a paper or book or her knitting. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and smiled.
Elise tugged her closer to the piano. Zelie positioned her beside it, so that she could see his hands move but wouldn’t be in the way of his arms as they traversed the eighty-five keys this model had.
Elise’s little fingers soon curled over the side, and though Zelie couldn’t see her expression from where she stood behind her, Marcel obviously did when he looked over at them. And judging by his grin, it was as awed as it had been yesterday.
He finished the piece with a flourish and then turned on the stool toward Elise. “Are you ready for your first lesson, Mademoiselle Bellerose?”
“Yes, please,monsieur.” The bashful voice was in stark contrast to Elise’s boisterous expectation in the kitchen, but Zelie could understand that too. It was intimidating, standing on the cusp of the thing you most desired. When limitless potential suddenly became cold, hard facts.
