Nope. Francine hopped out of bed. She had to externalize her negative emotions in a productive way, get those dead-end thoughts out of her head and out into the open, where they could be identified and rejected.
She peeked into the master bedroom and found it empty. It was a good thing kids still possessed the special power of waking up early as long as they didn’t have to go to school or church, because Charlie didn’t need to see her like this. But she needed to talk to someone. Anyone.
Down in the kitchen, she grabbed the phone and dialed Laura Jean. It rang on the other end several times before going to an answering machine. Laura Jean and Mark were probably out getting supplies for the barbeque. Oh God, the barbeque. How was she supposed to go out tonight and look happy?
Francine hung up and tried the long international number Ellie had taped above the phone. A choppy back and forth with the impatient front desk clerk of a Parisian hotel revealed that Ellie and Pete were also out.
Who else could she call?
All of her connections in California either knew Ben or were more acquaintances than actual friends. Her parents, who had had her and Ellie in their forties, lived in a Florida retirement community. Both were hard of hearing and not so great on the phone.
Through the front screen door, she watched what looked like a fluffy white cloud trot contentedly down the street. It was the husky, Ajax. Francine never forgot a dog. But what was his owner’s name?
The elderly man came into view a moment later, moving at a more leisurely pace than his four-legged counterpart.
Roland something. Gerber. Roland Gerber.
He’d seemed pretty nice at the party, and eighty-plus years were apt to leave a person with a healthy reserve of know-how and a wanting social calendar. Maybe Roland Gerber wouldn’t mind playing therapist for the day.
There was one way to find out.
Chapter 7
I am so touchy on some subjects that I can’t talk about them.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
The elderly man answered her knock with a delay reasonable for his age. “Ah. Francine, yes? Nice to see you again.”
“Hi, Mr. Gerber.” Instead of following with, “I’m experiencing persistent, acute emotional trauma brought on by a divorce you know nothing about, and you don’t know me at all, but you’re old and sweet and stereotypes have taught me you probably have lots of advice to dispense in folksy tidbits, so I’d like some of that, please and thank you,” Francine simply said, “I thought I’d come over and meet your dog.”
Dogs were the best social shortcut on the planet.
“You may indeed meet Ajax, but only on the condition you join me for some mid-day tea and cookies.”
Bingo.
“Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“Excellent. With the day’s fine breeze, I think the back porch would do nicely. I will meet you there with all the comforts I can manage. Ajax is around back.”
Francine started around the charming little cottage, more excited than ever to talk with Roland Gerber. The guy spoke like he was from another century, which he technically almost was.
She spotted Ajax sleeping soundly in the crosshatched shade of a hammock. The husky roused at her approach and bounded happily over. His clean white fur was absurdly soft, melting through Francine’s fingers as she repeatedly reassured Ajax that he was, in fact, a very good boy. The two of them entered the porch, its old-person musk landing somewhere between mothballs and caramel. Francine sat on one of two identical loveseats patterned with gold and brown stripes. She thought the sofas looked a lot like the Samoa cookies the Girl Scouts sold, though it was possible Mr. Gerber’s mention of cookies had influenced her thinking.
Luckily, he made good on his promise a moment later, dipping his head around a low hanging planter as he carried a tray of tea and cookies in through the double doors of the house.
“Your thumbs are definitely greener than mine,” Francine said. And while that was true, she also figured it might not hurt to butter the guy up a little. “I only have one houseplant alive back in San Francisco, and it survives exclusively on accidental splashes of dishwater.”
Mr. Gerber sat on the loveseat opposite Francine and set the tray down on the coffee table between them. “I admire a survivor. It is a quality easily appreciated when one reaches my age.” He unbuttoned his navy blue sport coat, which was perfectly fitted and probably older than Francine.
Her breakfast-deprived stomach audibly grumbled.
Mr. Gerber smiled and gestured to the plate of cookies. “Please don’t be shy.”
“Never have to offer me a cookie twice.” She bit into one of the tan cookies and tasted black licorice. Ugh. Why did people this evil exist? She threw down the cookie, then quickly picked it back up again.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I just…I’m sorry, but this thing is disgusting,” she admitted, wincing at her own rudeness.
Mr. Gerber, however, looked delighted.
“Aniskrabeli,” he said with a chuckle, before biting into a cookie of his own. “A legacy of my Swiss heritage. They are made with anise, which tastes of licorice, a flavor not so popular in this country. I pray you’ll forgive my test, but I often serve them to guests because it tells me something important.” He poured fragrant black tea into cups accented with the gold outline of a mountain range. “The tea is strong and licorice-free, I promise.”
She accepted the cup and saucer he offered her. “I wish all my tests were given in cookie form. What does it tell you?”
“It almost always produces a telling reaction. Usually politeness, which should be admired. But occasionally it reveals honesty, which should be revered. In that spirit, tell me your troubles.”
Francine drank down half her tea to wash away the taste of the cookie. “My troubles? Just like that?”
“Allow me to return the respect of your honesty. It is clear to me you are a troubled woman. While an interest in Ajax needs no further justification, I suspect something more in your visit. Perhaps the idea that wisdom comes with age, which if true, would make me nearly prophetic.”
It is clear to me you are a troubled woman. Damn. She’d come for insight, but hadn’t expected to get it so readily.
Sharp and straightforward. Exactly what she needed.
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Francine opened her mouth to tell Roland Gerber all, but abruptly stopped at the edge of the conversational diving board.
She and Laura Jean had spoken the same language right off the bat. But Mr. Gerber’s manners and poetic vernacular left her with an odd desire to please, like she was in the presence of a friendly but imposing authority figure.
“Sorry. I kinda feel like I’m in the principal’s office.”
“Ah!” Mr. Gerber lamented playfully. “I have failed in my duties as a tea and cookie host.”
“Mr. Gerber—”
“Please. Roland.”
“Roland.” Francine smiled. “I’m all for being direct, but I don’t know if I should spill all my heartache on our first meeting.”
“Ah, of course. A matter of the heart. They are among the most devastating.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to start with something easier, like the weather?”