Cooking for Picasso (47 page)

“Yes, Mom,” I said quickly, kissing her forehead. “I love you.” She smiled sweetly and lifted her hand to stroke my face—first one cheek, then the other. Then she took my hand and squeezed it.

Filled with emotion I said, “I've come to take you home.”

“Home?” she said wonderingly. “Really, home?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then she said softly, “I love
you,
my brave Céline. Always my sweet one.” She sighed. “Where did you come from?” she asked with sudden clarity, sounding just like her old self, lucid and curious. “California?”

“No, Mom, I've been to France. I found Grandma's
mas,
” I began. Her eyes widened, but then her eyelids fluttered and I feared she was falling back into a druggy sleep. “Mom, I found Grandma's painting. From Picasso,” I said more urgently. She murmured something unintelligible. “Mom?” I said. “Can you hear me? Everything's going to be all right now. I went to France and I found what you wanted there. You were right. Picasso
did
give Grandma a painting!”

I didn't realize that Gil had come to the doorway and was standing behind me now. I tried again. “Mom, did you hear me? Grandma's painting from Picasso. Mom, I found it!”

She opened her eyes once more, as if it took an extreme effort to do so. But this time, she didn't look at me. Her gaze went beyond me, toward the doorway where Gil was standing.

She stared at him for a time, then smiled knowingly and looked back at me again, just as I was saying to her, “I found it!” She must have heard the last word differently, as she looked from Gil to me.

“I'm so glad you found
him,
” she whispered conspiratorially, squeezing my hand once more. And just before she sank back to sleep she added, “He looks as if he loves you very much.”

D
ANNY AND
D
EIRDRE
never knew that I'd gotten in to see Mom. I slipped out just as my P.I. warned me that Danny was on his way up. Gil and I took the private jet to Los Angeles so I could pick up a few things from my apartment before returning to Nevada. While Gil camped out with his computer in my living room to handle the money transfers from the sale of the painting, I worked with my lawyer via phone on the emergency court order so I could go back to see Mom without being harassed by my step-siblings.

But in the early hours of the next morning, my mother passed away peacefully in her sleep. I heard about it from my P.I., who was still keeping an eye on her for me. After he delivered this devastating news, I sank onto my sofa and just sat there, quiet and immobilized for the rest of the day.

Deirdre waited another twenty-four hours before she got around to officially notifying me. “Mom just died in her sleep,” she lied as we spoke on the phone. “There won't be a wake. Her body's been flown to New York to be buried with Dad's. It's the way she and Dad wanted it.”

For all the world she sounded like a murderer hastily trying to bury the evidence. As far as Deirdre knew, I hadn't seen Mom since she'd had her stroke, yet Deirdre never once asked if I wanted to sit with my mother's body to say goodbye to her. My sister's smug tone told me she was enormously pleased to be the one in charge, as if that conferred some sort of superiority on her. She continued ticking things off on her to-do list, sounding more as if she were planning a party instead of presiding over a death.

“One more thing. Danny says to let you know—don't expect much from Dad's estate. The expenses for Mom's care were very steep,” she recited in a parrot-like way, which told me she was reading a rehearsed speech she'd composed with her lawyer. “Céline?” she inquired, having noticed for the first time that I'd said nothing throughout the entire phone call.

“Goodbye, Deirdre,” I said, and we hung up.

Gil emerged from the next room. He told me that his lawyer had arranged the transfer of my share of the money from the sale of the painting to a new bank account for me in France. Just by the skin of our teeth we wired Gil's repayment of his loan in time. But there were still a few documents we had to sign in person in France.

“Ready when you are,” Gil said simply. When I told him what Deirdre said, he paused. “Céline. Let's talk about this. Do you want to stop in New York for the burial?” I shook my head, but I finally burst into tears. He came to me swiftly and held me as we sat there, until I just couldn't cry anymore. I clung to the warmth and strength of his chest. He kept making soothing sounds and kissed the top of my head. I raised my tear-streaked face and nuzzled it to his cheek.

Later, sitting dry-eyed at my table while we ate the supper he'd cooked, I told him, “I swear to God, I don't know who these people are that I grew up with. I loved them because I thought of them as family. But they never loved Mom. So, they were never my family. How
could
they not love her? I wanted to rescue her. And now she's gone. God, what's the point of everything I've just been doing?”

“You made sure your mother knew that she at least had
your
love,” Gil said simply. “Right up to the end, you were there for her. So, no justification needed.”

“My love didn't stop her from being a victim,” I said bitterly. “It's as if everything that I thought was important in life is now all up for grabs. I really don't even know who I am anymore.”

“I know where you can go to find out,” Gil said quietly. “But it's up to you.”

The look in his eyes gave me the strength I needed. My suitcases were already packed.

So that night, we boarded the private jet once more, and we headed back to France.

O
NDINE WAS SITTING AT HER
kitchen table in the
mas
when the telephone rang again.

It was Arthur, calling from the maternity ward. “Julie's fine. She wants me to stay with her a little longer, but I'll come back to the
mas
to sleep tonight. Then I have early meetings first thing tomorrow, but I'll pick you up at noon to go see the baby,” he said firmly, clearly determined to control Ondine's exposure to his wife. He sounded irritated, as if the baby's earlier-than-expected arrival was a deliberate plot to keep Julie in France longer than he'd scheduled.

Ondine politely pretended to accept his plan. But after they hung up, she decided that as soon as Arthur left in the morning, she'd get Monsieur Clément to drop her off at the hospital; she couldn't wait to see Julie and dear little Céline, and she wanted to be certain that they were both really all right.

The more Ondine thought about it, the more she believed that it would be wrong to break her promise to Luc by telling Julie about Picasso being her father. But a nagging feeling persisted, and finally she understood why.

“
Somebody
in this family ought to know the whole story about me and Picasso and Luc and Julie. I never promised Luc I wouldn't tell Picasso's
grand-
daughter who she really is! It might help Céline to choose wisely and find her true destiny. But, will I still be alive when she is old enough to listen? When she grows up, will she ever come to visit me? Or will Arthur poison her against me? I wish I could tell her now—but how can you whisper a secret to a baby?”

Then, inspired, Ondine reached for her pen. As she wrote, the kitchen echoed with the sound of her pen scratching its way across the last of the
Café Paradis
stationery she'd kept from the old days:

Cher Céline,

I am entrusting you with a secret I have told no one, not even your mother. I feel it is important for you to know exactly who you really are, but I hope that after you have read everything I have to say, in the end you'll understand that it's really up to you to decide who you wish to become, and to find a path to the life you truly want…

W
HEN AT LAST
she got to the end, Ondine uttered a satisfied, “Hah!” and signed it,
Your loving grandmother, Ondine.
She folded the letter into its envelope and sealed it.

“But how do you mail a letter to a baby?” she brooded. She decided she would entrust it to Monsieur Clément, so he could keep it with the painting in a safe place. And yet, it wouldn't be wise to leave this letter lying around here even for one night, while Arthur was still sleeping over.

She pondered this quietly for awhile; then she came up with a temporary hiding place where Arthur would never look. At least her letter would be safe from prying eyes until she could meet up with Clément tomorrow to give it to him, so he could lock it up with the painting in his safe.

Ondine felt much better as she picked up her basket and went outside. The sun was still hot, scenting the flower fields; and a light wind mingled its fragrance with that of the salty sea.

“Such a bright, happy day!” Ondine sighed as she dragged a small stepladder over to the cherry tree at the far end of the terrace. The cherries hung there like dark rubies, and quite soon she'd picked enough to fill her basket for the fresh
tarte
she would bake for Julie.

When she finished she was panting with pleasure, and, feeling a bit short of breath, she left the stepladder as it was. Peering up into the tree in the heat of this day had made her light-headed. Turning now in the direction of the terrace, she felt dizzy, then experienced a queer little pain in her chest.

The next thing she knew, she'd fallen into the soft grass under the tree, just like a ripe fruit. There seemed to be a brief flash of time and consciousness, as if she'd clicked the shutter of an old-fashioned camera and her view had disappeared and gone black momentarily, before reappearing.

“Now what should I do?” Ondine asked herself, perplexed. The sun was setting and there was a chill in the air; but when the wind stirred in the grass, she thought she heard a familiar voice whispering to her, like the swish of the sea with its rushing sound, as if someone were holding a seashell to her ear. Someone who loved her, and would guide her soul home with his sheltering, soothing voice.

“Luc?” Ondine said wonderingly. “I thought you'd been gone all these years,
mon cher,
but it turns out that you've been here all along, out in the garden the whole time, watching over me!”

She was still lying on her back and gazing at the darkening blue sky, where the moon was already hanging like a lustrous pearl.

“Ah,” Ondine sighed, “what a good day to be born.”

N
OT FAR FROM
Ondine's house, Madame Sylvie had stopped at a roadside farmstand to pick up a few fresh things for dinner and to chat with friends before heading home. Then she continued down the long, dusty road, until a sudden, strong impulse made her halt right there in her tracks like a horse.

“Ondine!” she cried aloud, startling the birds in the trees and the rabbits in the grass. From somewhere overhead, an owl hooted.

Madame Sylvie did not hesitate. She turned right around, and hurried back to Ondine's house.

T
HE GRAND OPENING OF
L
E
Mas Ondine
was stimulating enough to assuage some of my grief. Now that I was a full partner in the
mas,
I was less inclined to brood about the past or worry about the future. I was taking that one step at a time, even though it was a terrifying thrill to be hurtling through life's challenges with Gil. Every time I saw his face, after being apart for even just a few hours, I felt my entire being flooded with joy. And because I saw this exuberance mirrored in his gaze as well, I threw away the inhibitions that had once served as my armor, and I put my faith in the strength of being unarmed.

When I wasn't working with Gil on the menus and bookings, I was busy with makeup jobs on movie shoots in Europe. I could afford to be selective about assignments now, and I took an apartment in Cannes as my new business base, since so many Hollywood companies were filming abroad these days. Meanwhile Gil won his second Michelin star for our restaurant,
Pierrot.
And things looked promising for the future of the newly opened hotel, too. But the competition at this level was more fierce than any I'd ever known, and it kept us on our toes.

“We're booked up for most of next year,” Gil reported one bright morning at the
mas
. While he spoke, the postman came zooming up in his little car to deliver the mail. When he saw us standing in the doorway he deposited the letters in Gil's hands with a brisk
Bonjour!
then tipped his cap and drove on.

“This one's for you,” Gil said, sorting through the envelopes and handing one to me. It was from the twins' lawyer. A check was enclosed representing my share of my parents' estate. Gil watched as I read the amount aloud for his amusement.

“Two thousand five hundred dollars,” I said, showing it to him. If I had ever considered sharing some of my good fortune with Danny and Deirdre, this final fillip from them clinched my resolve to never have anything to do with them again.

Gil shook his head. “The bandits!”

“I think I'll donate it to that little church nearby,” I said, recalling how the sweet sound of its old-fashioned bells pealing gently on Sunday had comforted me when I returned from America.

Months passed before Deirdre saw a restaurant review and got wind of the fact that Gil and I were “an item”. This prompted her to send a Christmas card signed with an uncharacteristic,
So, what's new with you??!!
But she and Danny never found out about the painting; my entire Picasso escapade remained a secret among Gil, me, our lawyers and Gil's friend Paul who bought the
Girl-at-a-Window
.

And, of course, dear Aunt Matilda. Gil unexpectedly insisted that we share the good fortune from the sale of the painting with her in order to help her hold on to her house in Connecticut. He said, “Thanks to you, Céline, we're going to make much more money now that we've got the
mas
in full swing again. That's enough for me. So, use whatever you need from my share of the painting's sale to help your aunt, and anything else you feel you need to do. Of course, she and her friend Peter are welcome to stay at the
mas
as our guests any time they like.”

“Yes, I do want to help out Aunt Matilda,” I agreed. “But I'm also going to set aside enough money so that we never, ever again have to go to a loan shark to hold on to
Le Mas Ondine
!”

I didn't really think there could be any more big surprises in store for me. I was wrong.