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Angélique is a study of how to look downcast and defiant at the same time. “Not that man. My second husband.”
JL’s jaw drops. “Sec-second husband? But you were such a devout Catholic.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Times change.”
He looks at his mother, but she just waves away any concern. “Men frequently marry several times. Why shouldn’t women have the same chances? Of course, she can have a place in our lives. Just because Angélique made a mistake when she was young is no reason to punish her now.”
JL’s mother gives me a long, assessing look. “I thought your friend would be one of the men from work, Max, perhaps. And what sort of name is Micki? A mouse?” She snickers at her joke. Been there, heard that, trying not to wince.
“The name her family and friends use.”
“Vous m’appelez Michelle si vous préférez, Madame,” I interject in my best French.
Unimpressed, Louisette Martin’s glare is a warning beacon. Her chest heaves as if breathing is difficult and she coughs several times. Then she turns on her heel and pushes past Angélique, who follows like an obedient dog.
When JL waves me in, I hesitantly cross the threshold and stop, leaving him just enough room to bring in our bags. Angélique moves down the hallway.
“Go on,” he says softly. “The living room is just to the right.”
I edge forward slightly, but with no intention of walking farther into Martin territory. “Not without you.” Angélique, who must have bat ears, smiles.
The bags thunk onto the tile. “Fine,” he huffs and slips his arm through mine, giving it a squeeze.
Louisette’s voice rings out sharply. “JL? Où est tu?”
“Ici, Maman. Une minute, s’il vous plaît.”
Giving me a look that pleads with me to be brave, JL steps forward. His grip is like a vise. I have no choice but to go with him.
Her face tight, Louisette points to a ladder-back wooden chair. “Bonjour, Michelle. Asseyez-vous.”
JL guides me toward the love seat and pulls me down next to him, entwining our fingers while his mother glowers.
She turns to the woman watching from a chair near the fireplace and finally switches into English. “Angélique, when do you have to pick up the children?” Smiling at JL, she says, “Angélique has two adorable sons, eight and ten.” Her eyes sparkle as if she is speaking of her own grandchildren.
“Bonjour, JL. Tu as l'air différent. Très viril,” Angélique simpers. JL seems not to notice the way she fawns over him. If I had said that he would have flexed a bicep. When she looks me in the eye, I see blazing hatred.
“It’s been close to twenty years.” As he says these words, he sticks resolutely to English. His tone is pleasant, but JL fixes his gaze on his mother, not on the girl begging for his attention.
“I need to leave in a few minutes, Tante Louisette. No sports today.”
“And you will all come back for dinner.”
“No, we don’t want to impose. Especially on JL’s first night back.” She wrings her hands.
Louisette gently takes the woman’s hands in hers. “You will come back. It is no imposition. And I want André and Christophe to meet my son.”
Loosening my grip on JL’s hand, I say, “Nice to meet you, Angélique. I am Michelle Press.” Not formally introduced and not knowing how good her English might be, I speak slowly, trying to make my voice pleasant and even. It’s not a reflection of the way I feel, neither pleasant nor even.
With no trace of a French accent, she says, “Pleased to meet you too, Madame. Where are you from?” Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I hear the ghost of the words, “and when are you going back there?”
My spine stiffens. “Chicago. Where JL lives.”
And then we sit, silent, silent, silent, while Angélique walks out the door.
* * *
JL
