A French Kiss in London (8 page)

Chapter Eight

The road became a real pleasure once they passed the sectors where rush-hour traffic was very intense. The Jeep slid smoothly on the highway. From the speakers, Bon Jovi proclaimed his eternal love in a sensual, abrasive voice.

“I’ve always loved car rides, but only next to a flawless driver,” said Linda, looking through the window at the rushing-by landscapes.

“And do I qualify?” he teased.

“Yes,” she answered, truthfully. “You’re an amazing driver.” She cleared her voice and went on, “If you’ve proceeded on
inviting
me to meet your mother, tell me something about her. What does she do? What kind of person is she? You didn’t even tell me her name.”

Gerard turned down the volume on the CD player.

“Well, let’s start with the essentials: her name is Chantàlle Léon. She taught elementary school French almost all her life. Now she’s retired and lives in her sister’s house. My aunt Sophie is also a widow. Her husband—an Englishman called Thomas Barry—died in a terrible car-crash many years ago. Since then, my mother and Aunt Sophie share the house. They’re both fanatical gardeners,” he continued, glancing at her with a smile. “They have an impressive garden and recently they started a small business, selling floral arrangements. Both of them make sachets and my mother is a true artist at handmade jewelry. She’s always trying to stuff my pockets with stones and other knick-knacks, which are supposed to protect my aura or something.”

Her lips spread in a warm smile. She loved listening to him, as he spoke of his family.

“You don’t believe in these things?” she asked.

“I believe in the individual’s self-protection. The rest depends on God, on fate, you name it. But first of all, I think our destiny depends on us.”

“Interesting point of view. I agree.”

“In any case, if Mom gives you a charm or any other such thing, accept it. Even if it freaks you out and you’ll put it in a dark corner,” he advised. “Otherwise, she’d feel very offended.”

“Thank God you told me!” she joked. “The last thing I want is to become your mother’s enemy, or get on her bad side. Anyway, I’m not so rude as to refuse a gift. You’ve really made me curious. Your mother seems an extremely interesting woman.”

“You’ll meet her right away,” he replied, focusing his gaze ahead. “We’re almost there.”

He turned right and drove on to a road, which resembled a country path. It was bordered by old trees and at the end of it was a house.

Linda noticed that, around here, houses were built at three or four miles distances from one another. That gave the entire area a private, even isolated appearance.

The building toward which they were heading was simple, painted white. As they drove closer, the house seemed a stranded island in the middle of a green abyss.

“You weren’t kidding when you said she’s got some impressive gardens,” she remarked admiringly. “The surrounding property is enormous!”

He smiled and eased the car behind a red, compact BMW, which sat parked along the small lane facing the house.

“The property is not so big. It just seems that way when compared to the house, which is tiny. It’s got only two bedrooms.”

“But it’s so pretty,” she said, studying the white building with its single story, dark-red roof and matching windowsills and doorframes. “Looks like Snow White’s house!”

Gerard leaned across to open her door, before climbing out of the car. Hand in hand, they walked toward the house. She glanced around curiously, marveling at the sight of all the shrubbery, trees and floral arrangements—veritable artworks of vegetation.

Before Gerard could knock, a woman opened the door. She was smiling widely, exuding an almost palpable energy. She was short, a tad plump, with blonde, unruly hair and inquiring brown eyes.

“Welcome, my darlings!” she exclaimed in heavily accented English. She embraced first her son, then Linda. As Linda had expected, the woman’s eyes watched her curiously, but not in the upsetting, analytical way she was used to.

“Mom, this is Linda Coriola. She is…”

“I know who you are, dear,” Gerard’s mother interrupted him, addressing Linda. “I recognized you right away. I saw your picture in the newspaper a while back. I can see you’re a real beauty!”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Leon,” Linda replied, smiling. “It’s a pleasure meeting you!”

“Call me Chantalle, please,
chérie
! Come on in!”

The interior of the house was cool and a sweet, warm light revealed a somewhat exotic décor. The furniture, rugs and drapes were old fashioned, but of an excellent taste and quality, just like the elegant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Paintings decorated the walls and all sorts of decorative objects were scattered all over the place. Linda was sure that Chantalle—and perhaps her sister too—had manufactured them.

Chantalle led the couple to the living room. In front of a window, beyond which stretched their vast garden, were two small sofas with a square wooden table between them. This corner, in its particular setting, seemed to Linda a small, private piece of Heaven.

Chantalle urged them to have a seat, then brought some strawberry juice, which she’d made herself.

“I’ve never tasted something so delicious,” said Linda sincerely, savoring the cool sweetness of the drink.

“Thank you, darling,” replied the woman and sat on the opposite sofa, facing them. “We have a small strawberry plantation. There’s nothing like home-cooked food. Sophie should finish preparing lunch soon. She’ll be joining us in just a moment. Until then, tell me about yourselves. Gérard told me you’ve met at the clinic,” she said, giving her son’s name its natural French pronunciation.

To Linda it sounded foreign and exotic—not unlike the man himself. She glanced at Gerard, who buried his nose into the juice glass.

“Yes,” she answered. “I have been making donations there for a while. Since I live in London now, I want to get involved more. I try to help in any way I can with the curing and comforting of those poor children.”

Chantalle watched her for a moment, then said, “You have a kind, generous soul. Few rich people think to give away even a penny of their fortune, not to mention do all the good you are doing.”

Linda laughed softly, tracing the floral pattern on the glass with her finger.

“I’m not exactly rich, Mrs. Leon…Chantalle,” she corrected. “I had the luck to be born in a family with a good financial status, and the privilege to follow up on my passion for sculpture. Art pays pretty well.”

“Everywhere you see so-called
artists
without any talent, who are starving. If you’re paid well, it means you’ve got some real talent there. Besides, I’ve also seen in the newspaper some photos of your sculptures. You have something special, a style wearing your fingerprint. It’s no wonder my boy has fallen for you.”

Linda, who was just sipping some juice, choked and coughed noisily, splattering droplets of juice and panic everywhere.

Gerard laughed out loud, as he patted her back.

“Mom, stop it! She is not used to your directness. Please, excuse my mother,” he told Linda. “She’s used to telling things straight forward and sometimes that’s bothersome.”

“Why should she be bothered, dear?” Chantalle was scandalized. “Or don’t you love my son?”

Linda had barely managed to recover her breath, only to lose it again as she groped for a non-incriminating answer. She was saved by Sophie, who appeared in the doorway.

Gerard stood and embraced her tightly, exclaiming, “Auntie, you finally bless us with your presence! Let me introduce someone. Linda, this is my aunt Sophie.”

Linda got to her feet and took the woman’s hand. She was a suppler, brown-haired version of Chantalle and was wearing a pink apron tied around her waist.

“It’s so good to meet you, Mrs. Sophie. I’m Linda Coriola.”

Sophie took both her hands in hers, analyzing her from over the top of her glasses.

“You seem familiar, dear,” she said in a soft, pleasant voice. Unlike her sister’s, Sophie’s English was flawless.

“She’s the sculptress we saw in the paper,” Chantalle put in. “Don’t you remember us admiring one of her statues? The one you said resembled Gerard.”

“It’s a representation of Apollo,” Linda clarified.

“Oh, I remember now,” Sophie said and her face lit up even more. “I’m so happy to meet you, dear. Welcome to our humble home. But how come you know our boy?”

“She’s his girlfriend,” Chantalle intervened again, before Linda could say a word. “Will you bring that food this year, or shall I come and help?”

“No need. I’ll serve lunch right away,” answered Sophie, her hands on the youths’ shoulders. Then she turned around and hurried back to the kitchen.

“An Apollo who looks like me?” Gerard asked, raising an eyebrow.

Linda sighed and shook her head.

“Drop it,” she whispered.

“Not a chance. I can’t wait to see the exhibit.”

The meal was excellent, the food simple but very tasty—chicken soup, spicy steak with creamy mashed potatoes, and a delicious strawberry-pie.

Conversation flowed smoothly. Linda discovered she liked the two women very much. They were energetic, funny, completely indiscrete and always making spicy comments.

Sophie and her husband hadn’t had children because of her incurable sterility. So the woman regarded Gerard as though he was her own son. He seemed perfectly happy to have two mothers—a biological one and a surrogate one. Both of them loved and spoiled him. The women overwhelmed him with questions about his work, as well as his personal life.

“Have you finished developing that snake venom treatment?” his mother asked.

“More or less. I’ve already obtained promising results and I have hopes for another new treatment. Linda and I leave for Romania next week.”

Three pairs of eyes stared at him in amazement. Two voices exclaimed simultaneously, “Romania?”

“
We
?” asked a third voice, accentuating the word. No one took any notice.

“Yep. Remember Jean-Paul Battiste, Dad’s friend? He discovered a cure for cancer, made from a plant. We’ll exchange notes. Problem is he lives in Romania and he can’t come here. So I’m going there and taking Linda with me,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders.

Linda felt steam coming out of her ears.

“We haven’t settled that yet,” she told him in a caustic tone, emphasizing every word.

“Well, it was as good as settled,” he replied jovially. “Tomorrow I’ll make plane reservations.”

Under the curious gazes of the two women, she decided it was best to continue her discussion with Gerard in private. She took a deep breath and forced down some more juice.

“Do you want anything else, darlings?” asked Sophie.

Everybody declined graciously, after praising the food, so she rose to clear the table.

“I’ll do it,” said Chantalle, but before she could get to her feet, Gerard stood.

“Let me help, Auntie. You know how I like to stick my nose into kitchen business. And I recall you saying something about a broken door-knob.”

“Oh, yes,” his mother answered. “It’s true,
mon fills
. The back door knob is broken. Maybe you want to take a look at it.”

Aunt and nephew went out loaded with dishes, leaving Chantalle and Linda alone.

“It’s hard without a man in the house,” remarked the older woman. “Seems to me I’ve read something about you having been married?”

“Yes, I was. I divorced almost a year ago.”

“Why?”

Generally, indiscretion got on Linda’s nerves. However, she’d already come to respect the woman in front of her and she realized the questions didn’t come from vulgar curiosity, but from the natural interest a mother has regarding her son’s lover.

“We weren’t compatible,” she finally replied. ”He was too jealous, too possessive. I lacked patience. I think the most important thing was that we didn’t really love each other.”

Chantalle linked her hands on the table, a gesture that was habitual for her son as well.

“You’re right. Love is the most important thing in a relationship. It’s essential. All the others are auxiliaries. And now you fear marriage, don’t you?”

Linda measured her words carefully.

“No, I don’t. Nonetheless, I often wonder if it could be that I’m just not made for this kind of commitment.”

“When you love someone, this kind of commitment becomes your biggest wish. To be with the loved one, always. To live the present, to build a future together and forget the past. Gerard loves you.”

Linda opened her mouth to say something, but Chantalle continued speaking.

“I can see you love him too. Don’t deny it. Don’t break his heart because of some ideas without foundation.”

Linda gazed out the window, disconcerted by the woman’s insight and by the simple way in which she’d put a matter that seemed so complicated to her own mind.

Chantalle stood up.