The Ruby Notebook (20 page)

Around one a.m., Jean-Claude pulls out his accordion and plays a reel before the next course. Over the music, he asks, “Whatever happened with that CD someone gave you, Zeeta? Ever find out who it was?”

Wendell and I look at each other.

Sabina chimes in, “What CD?”

Jean-Claude explains to Sabina and Julien that it was slipped into my bag. Amandine keeps her eyes on mine, watching my reaction.

I try not to let my emotion show. “He left some other things too,” I say evenly. “Some letters. Turns out he’s my father.”

“Your father?” Sabina says.

“
Oui,
” I say. “And actually, I’d rather not talk about it.”

Amandine wrinkles her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m not exactly happy my father’s a weirdo who won’t even introduce himself.” I stop there. I’m flushing, starting to break out in a sweat.

“He could have a good reason,” Amandine points out.

“That’s what I said,” Wendell agrees.

I close my eyes, wishing I were anywhere but here.

Amandine goes on. “Maybe he wants to connect with you but he doesn’t know how.”

Jean-Claude jumps in. “I’m with Zeeta. Parents are overrated, anyway. Leave the past in the past.”

Amandine shoots him a knife-sharp look. “You’d feel differently if your parents were dead.”

“They are dead.”

“
Oh, mon oeil!
” she snaps. “They’re alive and living less than an hour away.”

Jean-Claude stands up, almost knocking his chair over backward, and goes into the kitchen.

Amandine takes her last bite of baguette spread with paté, then stands up and clears this round of dishes. I hear her and Jean-Claude arguing in whispers in the kitchen.

I’m just about to stand up to leave, when Amandine emerges with a bowl of cherries. “Sit down, Zeeta!” she commands.

Over her shoulder, I see Jean-Claude pulling a tart from the oven, releasing a wave of buttery sweetness. He appears to be fuming. Even through the steam, I see that the expression on his face is rigid and cold.

“He’ll get over it,” Amandine whispers, pushing the bowl in front of me. “Have some.”

I pluck a cherry from the pile and settle back in my chair for a few more rounds.

It’s two a.m. when we finally leave. I’m exhausted but jittery in the aftermath of two espressos—the eleventh and final course. Even though Wendell has a long trek ahead, all the way to the outskirts of town, he walks me home. The side streets are completely deserted except for a few random passersby coming back from clubs.

We’re quiet until Wendell asks under his breath, “What’s going on, Z?”

“What?” I say. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“Z, you don’t even want to hold my hand.” His voice is shaking. “You don’t talk. You hardly even look at me.”

My heart stops. It’s like that moment when a glass slips from your fingers and you know it will be a split second before it hits the floor, not enough time to catch the glass, but enough time for that cringing, blood-rushing feeling of
oh, no
.

“Z, can I ask you something?”

I dig my fingernails into my palms, bracing myself. “Okay.”

“And you’ll be honest?”

The eleven courses of food are suddenly churning in my stomach. I nod.

“Is there something going on with you and Jean-Claude?” Wendell’s voice is vulnerable, something that could so easily be smashed.

“No,” I say automatically. Then, after a pause, I add, “Well, we’ve been hanging out. But it’s not just him.” And then, in one big, middle-of-the-night, espresso-fueled rush, all kinds of things tumble from my mouth. “I’m—I’m confused.
About my
fantôme
father, about you, about me, about everything. I thought this summer would be like last summer. But it’s not. I’m not the same person. Nothing stays the same. Not even my taste in dresses. Not my favorite colors.” I’m rambling and I can’t stop. “And now, with my father’s letters, everything in my life is turned upside down.”

Wendell’s expression softens, tender with concern. “Z, of course you’re the same. You might change a little, but—”

“I’m not the same Zeeta who fell in love with you.” My eyes grow teary. “Everything’s different from how I imagined.”

He takes my hand. “I love you, no matter what Zeeta you are. I’m not worried about the future.”

I wipe my eyes. “H-have you seen something?”

He pauses. “I see what’s in front of me, here, now. You already know how I feel.” A shadow passes over his face. “So it’s up to you whether we stay together or not.”

Until he says it, the possibility of breaking up doesn’t seem real. But once it’s out there, once the words are said, I can see that’s where we’re headed. “I don’t—I don’t know,” I sputter. “I mean, I spent all year wanting to see you. And I love you. I do. But—I don’t know.” I look at him and whisper, “Nothing feels right.”

He tucks some stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He speaks in a low voice that crackles with emotion. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I—I guess so.” I start crying again. “I’m so sorry, Wendell.”

He backs away from me. If we hadn’t just broken up,
he’d be holding me now. Instead, he rubs his eyes and turns to go.

“Wendell?”

“Good night, Zeeta.” His voice is hoarse, full of pain, and he doesn’t look back.

T
he pitter-patter of rain on the roof rouses me. I open my eyes, taking in the pale, watery morning light. For a pinprick of a moment, I consider falling back asleep. And then all the events of the previous night rush back to me, and there’s no way I could go to sleep again, even though I’ve only slept for five hours. Groggy, with eyes puffy and red, I plop onto a kitchen chair and pick at some
mille-feuilles
on the table.

Layla wanders in and pours herself tea. “Hello, love.”

“Hey.”

She opens a jar of lavender honey and takes a deep sniff before spooning some into her tea. She splurged on the honey at the market, spent as much as I’d budgeted for an entire day’s meals. She insisted she’d use it sparingly. “I’ll
smell it and look at it through sunshine a lot, Z,” she claimed. “Eating it’s only a little piece of the pleasure.”

As she’s stirring her tea, she must notice my misery, because she says with concern, “What’s wrong, Z? Are you still upset about J.C.’s letters?”

There’s no easy way to break the news. I stare at the steam over her cup, avoiding her eyes. “I broke up with him.”

Once she absorbs what I’ve said, she hugs me. “I’m so sorry, love.” She seems sad, but not exactly surprised. Then, hesitantly, she asks in a low voice, “Is there someone else?”

I stare at the rain streaming down the pane, tiny silver pathways. “I don’t know. I guess there could be.” I’m reluctant to admit he’s a nomadic street musician whose father figure is an eccentric clown. It would just be too in-your-face obvious that I’m following Layla’s well-trodden relationship path. “I’m just like you, aren’t I, Layla?”

“What do you mean?”

“Once I get close to one guy, I move on to another.”

“You’re nothing like me in that way, love.”

“How can I not be? It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Her face falls.

I’ve hurt her. I stop myself from going farther down that road. I take a spoonful of straight lavender honey, taste its sudden sweetness filling my mouth. I swallow and ask, “So, Layla, why haven’t you found the love of your life yet?”

“I have.” She sips her tea.

“Really?”

Raising her teacup in a kind of toast, she says, “You, Z.”

I make a face. “That’s weird, Layla.”

She bites into a
mille-feuilles
, and as a cascade of crumbs tumbles down her robe, she asks, “So who is he, anyway?”

This time I answer. “Jean-Claude. The accordionist for Illusion.” I stand up, still looking away. If I see her face, all full of sympathy, I might start crying again.

She says in a soft, Rumi-drenched voice, “
This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together to make us grow.
”

From the vantage point of Madame Chevalier’s window, the Place de la Mairie is a square, shiny lake speckled with sleek black umbrellas and people darting here and there, shielding their faces from the rain. I’m drinking peach tea with Madame Chevalier as we wait for Vincent to join us.

“There he is,” I say, pointing to Vincent with his entourage of pigeons, Maude on his shoulder. Apparently, the rain doesn’t faze him a bit. He waves and heads our way at a slow waddle.

Madame Chevalier peers at him through the binoculars, then, looking pleased, opens a little drawer in the table and takes out a silver compact and lipstick. With one slightly trembling hand she holds the mirror, and with the other she spreads on the lipstick carefully. Cotton-candy pink. Oddly girlish. She rubs her lips, then spritzes on a bit of jasmine perfume.

I smile at her. “You really like Vincent, don’t you?”

“Of course.” She twirls the binoculars cord around her fingers. “Maude is so fortunate to have him dote on her.”

I like sitting up here with Madame Chevalier, an unseen spectator of life. “And how is your boyfriend?” she asks, patting her cheeks with rouge.

I press my lips together. “We broke up.”

“
Mon Dieu!
How terrible!” She puts her hand over her heart, as if to calm it, and then whispers, “Why?”

I pause. I’m not sure how to put it into words. I’m not even sure I know the answer. “We’re just too different” is the cliché I settle on.

She waves my reason away with a bony hand. “Oh, Vincent always said that about us. That I was a famous world-traveling artist, out of his league.”

I raise an eyebrow. “But you’re perfect for each other. The pigeons, the quest for the waters …” I trail off, studying her, trying to tell if she’s blushing or if she just put on too much rouge.

“Well,
ma petite,
” she says, closing her compact mirror and tucking it into the drawer. “Why don’t you smooth things over with him?”

“I can’t. We’re broken up.”

She looks doubtful. “At least you’ll stay friends with him, won’t you? He’s essential to you finding the waters, you know.”

I breathe out. “We’ll see.” I don’t say more. I don’t want to see her disappointment.

When Vincent arrives, Madame Chevalier fusses over him
and Maude, insisting they dry off with pink hand towels from the bathroom. Once she’s satisfied they’re warm, she tells Vincent about my breakup with Wendell. A grave expression falls over both their faces at this news. Apparently, they had high hopes that Wendell’s divination powers would be the lucky break they needed. For a while, they stroke Maude sullenly.

They do brighten a little when I hand back the
Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence
book and tell them about my trip to Entremont with Sirona and Layla. “I could just ask Sirona directly about the waters,” I say. “That would be quicker and easier than this secret agent stuff.”

“Oh, she won’t tell,” Vincent says. “You get smart after living for centuries.” He taps a finger on his forehead.

Madame Chevalier nods in solemn agreement. “Or millennia,” she adds.

“Oh, right,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I forgot about the accumulated wisdom of millennia.” Today I seem to have less patience for indulging these two. I exhale slowly and ask, “So what’s my course of action?”