AllFreeNovel
Share Us
At the same time JL says, “No, I never called anyone that before you, Micki.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I put my fingers in my ears. I don’t know what to believe. Does it matter if he’s no longer with her? Guess it does, because when I hear her call him Beau again, my stomach turns over.
“Beau’s mine. You will see. Tante Louisette will never let you have him.”
A chill goes over me as if a hyena snaps at my heels, and I wrap my arms around myself. Why is she so intent on winning JL back? Then a possible motive knocks the air out of me. JL is worth a lot of money these days. Is that why she’s pegged him as husband number three?
JL ignores her, takes my hand, and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I will stop toying with you, ma chouette.”
“Don’t call me that.” The smirk on Angélique’s face means she thinks she’s won.
JL’s expression is full of tenderness. “All right. If I can’t convince you, I’ll come up with something else.” He scratches his jaw. “Ma blonde means my girlfriend. It has nothing to do with your hair color.”
“Non,” Angélique cries. “JL, je t'ai aimé toute ma vie. Tu m’es promis.”
“How can you say that? You broke that promise. You.” JL moves toward her, but she runs out of the room. “André, Christophe, put on your coats. We’re going home.”
“But, Maman, we’re hungry,” a treble voice calls out.
“We’ll stop at McDonald’s on the way home.”
JL freezes, hands clamped to my wrists in an unbreakable grip. His mouth works soundlessly. Then, with a bellow, he declares, “Incroyable. Elle ne peut pas être sérieuse.” I can tell he’s trying to convince himself.
I pull back but can’t work free. When his fingers slacken, pain shoots down my right arm as my muscles release. My neck aches. My left hand wavers between rubbing my arm or my neck. With a sigh, I drop back onto the bed.
JL grabs my wrist and gently pulls me to my feet. “So, you are ma blonde, yes?”
“Bien sûr. Bien sûr.” I try to add Beau, but the word sticks in my throat. Instead, I take his hand and cross the threshold, back straight and head high.
* * *
JL
I rub Micki’s hands until feeling flows back in her crushed fingers. Then we walk into the living room, hand in hand.
Maman must have just come in. I shiver from the lingering chill she brought from outdoors, along with a whiff of smoke.
“Maman,” I say warningly. “Tu m'as promis que tu arrêterais de fumer.”
Her lips purse as she throws the packet at me and gives us the stink eye. Of course, it’s empty. She bares her teeth in a not-so-humorous grin.
Angélique is back by the fireplace. “I thought you were leaving.”
“No. Tante Louisette insists we stay.”
His mother taps a foot. “I can’t believe you were so rude, JL. Living in America has not improved your manners.”
“Where are the boys?”
Maman smiles broadly. “In the kitchen, playing video games on their iPad. I gave them a petit goûter.”
Then she motions Micki to sit down and picks up a tin-glazed faience Quimper plate. The salad-size dish is part of a tea set I bought her while stationed in Europe. I had a week of leave just after Angélique broke our engagement. Maman flew over and we spent it in Paris, seeing all the sights. The Breton peasants, in their eighteenth-century garb, are cheerful reminders of good times after bad. She fills it with creton, wedges of cheese, and woven wheat crackers.
“Triscuits,” Micki says with delight.
“You know them?” Maman is incredulous. “They are a French-Canadian…” She waves her hand around, trying to think of the English word she wants. “Chose,” she says, giving up the struggle.
“Thing,” I say. “Chose means thing.”
