I’m in the study when you find me, sorting through old books, most of them yellowing paperbacks I can’t imagine reading again. Dust motes drift and turn on invisible currents in the air. I’ve been here all afternoon: my father’s old correspondence alone has taken me hours to sift through and stuff into bin bags.
‘Mum?’
I clutch my chest. ‘God, you made me jump. I was miles away.’
You scratch at a mosquito bite, your face preoccupied. ‘Can we go for a walk or something?’
I look up at the window and see it’s already evening. I realize I’ve been squinting to read the spines of the books.
‘Is everything okay? You must have been bored today, on your own.’ I follow you into the kitchen where the ancient fridge is humming loudly. ‘Em?’
‘No, I just …’ You tail off, your fingernails pressing hard into the bite. I pull them gently away and resist the urge to take your chin and tip it up to the overhead light, to ask again if you’re all right, if you’ve remembered something.
The atmosphere between us or around us, I’m not sure which, lightens as soon as we leave the garden behind. The fields that border the house once belonged to La Rêverie but my father sold the last one just before he died. It’s been Laurent’s for more than twenty years now, and the Carignan grapes he planted in the late seventies hang heavy with good health. Just as in my memory, the low sun has turned the rows into broad, curving ribbons of brown and green.
‘You brought your sketchbook, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I was just thinking that you could do some drawing out here, or in the garden. There’s a nice view towards the house from over there.’ I point, embarrassed by the effort in my voice. You don’t look up. For the last couple of years, I haven’t known which version of you I’m going to get from one minute to the next, whether I’ll need to wheedle or cajole you.
‘Maybe,’ you say.
‘I was thinking, if you’re interested, we could look into some proper art lessons when we get back.’
You take this in, then flash me a brilliant smile; the sun coming out again. ‘Really? That would be cool. Laura goes to this class on Tuesday nights. Could I go to that one?’
‘If it’s not too expensive.’
‘Can I ring her later? I can ask how much it is then.’
I nod and you push your arm through mine.
‘So, why did you want to come out, chérie?’ I venture, after a while. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever volunteered for a walk. What have you done with my daughter?’
The joke doesn’t quite land and you ignore it, pulling away, turning inward again.
‘Emma?’
‘I dunno. I just felt weird this afternoon. Like when I was lying by the pool with my music on, I kept thinking someone was talking to me but then I’d turn it off and …’ You scuff your toes into the earth as I lead us around the perimeter of the field.
I touch your arm lightly. ‘It’s probably because we were talking about ghosts yesterday. You’re like I was when I was a girl. I was always getting funny feelings about things. Camille used to roll her eyes, say I was so dramatic.’
In the far corner of the field, a pale blur transforms itself into Laurent as we get closer. His beard is flecked with salt and pepper and there’s a small paunch straining at his shirt, giving him a bearish air.
‘You look good, Sylvie,’ he mutters in my ear, as we embrace. ‘I was hoping you’d come over. I didn’t want to intrude.’ His eyes haven’t changed, and I’d forgotten that uneasy blend of affection and guilt they always inspired in me.
I smile. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t before. I –’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I put my arm round you. You’re frowning slightly, evidently feeling left out of the conversation.
‘And this is my Emma,’ I say in English.
He takes your hand between his large ones and pats it. ‘You are a Durand, certainly,’ he says, accent heavy. ‘The same …’ He gestures at his mouth.
‘Smile?’ I say.
In fact, you don’t look like my side of the family. With your freckles and tendency to flush, you look like your dad. It was Élodie and I who were alike, with our heart-shaped faces, though my features were rendered much more exquisitely in her, with their almost eerie symmetry. The only thing that wasn’t symmetrical was the dimple in her left cheek, just like mine. A flaw that people thought was pretty.
‘She must be the same age her sister was when –’
‘Thank you so much for getting Luc to sort out the pool for us,’ I cut across him in French. ‘Emma’s hardly been out of it.’
Laurent shrugs. ‘Luc must have thought to do it himself. He’s a good boy, most of the time. He helps me more than some would.’
‘How’s Annette?’ I ask.
He puts his head on one side, his expression rueful. ‘Ah, you know. Annette is Annette.’
I glance at you but you’re looking away, excluded again by the rapid French. I wasn’t looking forward to you meeting Annette. You never knew what she would say next, what she might dredge up for her own entertainment. Her English was better than Laurent’s.
‘Who’s Annette?’ you ask, when we’re out of earshot.
‘Luc’s mum.’
‘Didn’t you get on?’
I laugh and tug gently on a lock of your hair. ‘How did you work that one out?’ I glance behind us but Laurent is no longer in view.
‘The way you said her name.’
I sigh. ‘Laurent was my childhood sweetheart and she never forgave me for it. She tried to kiss your father once, you know.’
It’s cheap of me to tell you this, knowing you’ll be seduced by the sort of adult details you’re never usually party to.
‘No way,’ you say, as thrilled and scandalized as I thought you’d be. Adolescents are almost always conservative, all that nonchalance affected, a thin veneer. ‘I reckon Laurent’s still got a thing for you. I was watching him.’
I hide my smile at your precociously sage tone by turning to look at the sinking sun. It’s beginning to burnish the vines to a deep copper. In the apricot sky over us, tiny bats ricochet back and forth, black sparks too swift to follow.
I’d bought a dozen cans of Panaché at the supermarket – your idea, the tiny amount of beer they contained making them cool – and you run ahead to fetch us one each from the fridge so we can drink them in the garden. Staying outside soothes the temptation to just pack up and go.
Every sense feels heightened since our return to La Rêverie, a little like they do in pregnancy. Wherever I turn, I’m accosted by beauty and sensation. I’d forgotten how the late sun turns the grey stone of the house golden, and the way the pale gravel of the path shifts underfoot. The place feels like an old lover I shouldn’t trust, trying to win me over again. You sense something of this attempt at seduction, too, I think, your eyes alert to the possibility that I might let us stay.
‘I went into her room this afternoon,’ you say, when we’ve finished our drinks.