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“Um…”
I couldn’t say more because now that we’d discussed it, Remy was dead set on Christmas Eve for our remarriage ceremony.
“Oh my God, I’m going to fucking kill your fucking husband,” Noel threatened, because he knew he was acting under Remy’s orders for that.
“Think of this as a creative challenge,” I tried.
“Goodbye,” he replied and hung up.
“Let me guess, no luck on venues,” Remy deduced as I tossed my phone and purse on the bed.
“He’ll crack it,” I assured, and Noel might be going crazy, but not only did he secretly love it, he’d crack it. “Though, he said he has something promising for January first. What do you think? New year? New start? New marriage?”
“Same marriage, and we’re watching the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s because we’ll still be there on our honeymoon. That’s booked. And I got that room because of my name and a cancellation. I’m not changing it.”
I’d always wanted to see the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s, so I said nothing.
I moved to my suitcase.
“Don’t,” Remy grunted.
I stopped.
He then moved to my case, took it the three feet I could have rolled it to the sofa, hefted it up, and opened it.
I’d forgotten without really forgetting that he was like that.
Bea would be in fits, my husband not allowing me to lift my bag two feet to a couch.
But Bea could go spit.
I started unpacking while I asked, “Do you want me to go with you when you go to her?”
“Do you want to go with me?” he asked back.
I stopped with my hands pancaking my pajamas and looked at him.
“I want you with me,” he said softly.
I nodded.
Manon wandered in and promptly fell to her side on the bed like a wilting violet who had her corset on too tight.
“I always forget this place is so bluh,” she complained. “It’s gorgeous, but I can’t relax for fear of a docent coming in with a tour group.”
I swallowed a giggle and put my pajamas in a drawer.
“Your brothers have decided to get slaughtered, how about you join them?” Remy suggested.
“He wasn’t good for much as a father, but Pépé does make amazing cocktails,” she replied.
“It’s good he’s good for something,” I said under my breath.
“Oh my God, Mom, do I need to keep my eye on Sah and you?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured, grabbing my toiletry bags and moving toward the bathroom.
I was in the bathroom when I heard Manon ask, “I don’t get it, Dad. With things the way they were, why’d you name us French names?”
I didn’t hear his response.
Though I did hear the tone of Manon’s, “Dad?”
So I dropped my bags and rushed out of the bathroom.
Remy had zipped open his case while I’d been out.
But he was standing above it, immobile, staring at his girl.
“Remy?” I called.
He jerked and only semi-focused on me.
“All right?” I asked gently.
“Why’d I do that?” he asked in return.
Oh no.
I stared at him because I didn’t have an answer to this question.
He’d named all three of our kids. He was adamant about the names. He was adamant they be French.
I liked them, they were unusual (to me) and cool (to anybody, says me) so I didn’t object. And now I was glad (I would have selected Joshua, Emily and Matthew, and they were so not Josh, Em and Matt it wasn’t funny).
“I did it for him,” he said. And the next was a muted explosion, the force of which had Manon jumping to her knees on the mattress. “Fuck!”
“Manon,” I murmured.
She popped off the bed and left the room, closing the door behind her.
I then moved to my husband.
I put my hand on his chest and ordered, “Remy, look at me.”
He’d still seemed unfocused, but he immediately focused on me.
“It doesn’t matter why,” I stated. “They’re Sabre, Manon and Yves, and they were meant to be those people with those names.”
“Yeah, but I did it for him, Wyn. Shit.”
“But it doesn’t matter.”
“He doesn’t even like Americans, did you know that?”
I closed my mouth because I was many, many things.
A proud American among them.
“He thinks Americans are harried and uncultured and worship at the altar of the dollar. And he finds the enduring American dream of possibly wedging yourself into upper middle class and a country club membership, pitiful.”
I kept my mouth shut.
Then I opened it to note, “Of course he’d look down on the proletariat, Remy. His family has been bourgeoisie for the last three centuries. And let’s not forget he left his son to an abusive mother in order to worship at that altar of money.”
“Some of the time. The rest of it was to live his life however he wanted, including keeping his fucks. He had one here, probably always. He had women he visited in Paris and more in the country. Remember when I told you about that summer when I was twenty? Him and me in the garden at the house in Toulouse. He was smoking a cigarette and having a brandy and sharing with his son the finer points of being a man. Including how crucial it was to keep your mistresses happy, but your wife happier, just so she won’t ask questions about your mistresses.”
