At the Edge of Summer (12 page)

Though I didn't understand, I stepped closer. I put my hands against the tree trunk, on either side of her face, and I leaned in and kissed her.

It was just a little kiss, light as rain. I was afraid of breaking her into a million pieces. But when I pulled back, she smiled, the first I'd seen all day.

“So that's what it's like,” she breathed. “It's sunshine.” She reached with one hand to touch the side of my face, the way she had yesterday afternoon. As though my heart weren't already racing like a steam train. I turned towards her hand and kissed her again, on the palm. “Beautiful.”

I wanted to tell her that she was the beautiful one. That this moment was a poem. That I wanted to kiss her again, right now, and maybe not stop until the morning.

She must've seen that all in my eyes. She covered her mouth with an open hand and ducked under my outstretched arm. Without looking back, she ran down the road towards Mille Mots.

Clare Ross, she was an orchid in a gale. She bent under the rain but always straightened in the sun. I only wished I could keep her from the storms.

I caught up with her at the front door. It was open and Maman stood with her. Not comforting or examining or anything else I might have expected, given that I'd brought Clare back from the streets of Paris. Just watching, almost warily. Next to her, Clare stood still, with back straight.

Maman said to me, “Clare, she has a visitor,” and, like that, the summer was over. I didn't know who it was but I knew she'd be leaving, I'd be staying, and the poplar tree would be one more memory.

“Go ahead, Maman.” I moved into the doorway beside Clare. “We'll be right there.”

Maman exhaled, but she nodded and went down the hall to the salon.

“Luc.” Clare drew in a breath. Even in profile she was lovely—the scoop of her nose, the feather of her lashes. “Do you think?”

It felt traitorous to hope it wasn't true, that her mother hadn't come to take her away, not when that's all Clare had been wishing for. But I didn't want her to leave. So when she asked, all I could do was nod.

She took that as a promise and reached for my hand. Hers was warm and soft. I never wanted to let it go.

“I went to Paris to look for her, and maybe all along she was looking for me.”

We went down the hall to Maman's color-splashed salon. But Clare paused outside the closed door.

Finally she turned to me. “But what if it's not? What if it's…” She hesitated. “What if it's more bad news?”

I squeezed her hand and then let go. “You're not going in alone.”

She nodded and opened the door.

There was a frozen moment, breath held beneath all that gray linen. And then a “Grandfather!” said with swallowed shock.

Across the room, a man leaned against the fireplace, tall and lanky like a heron. He was mustached, with untidy white hair and a face the color of an English penny. In his eyes I saw something of Clare. He stood stiffly, in a pale, rumpled coat, a straw hat in his hands. When Clare stepped in the room, he straightened and dropped the hat.

“Grandfather!” She stopped halfway across the room and stood, uncertainly. “Sir.”

The man brushed at his mustache with a thumb. Marked right onto the skin on the backs of his hands, in faded blue-black, were crosses and dots. Tattoos, like a pirate. I could see why she thought him that. In the center of his right hand was a five-rayed sun. Clare glanced back over her shoulder at me, then lowered into a graceful curtsey.

“Patricia Clare,” he said.

“Clare.” Head bowed, she wobbled. “I'm called Clare.”

I stepped into the room. I wanted to take her arm, to steady her to her feet. Behind me, Maman caught my hand and shook her head.

“Clare.” The man cleared his throat and looked away. His heavy mustache twitched. “Of course.”

“
Ma chère…
” Maman moved into the room, her shawl held tight. “Monsieur Muir has come to take you home.”

“Home?” All I could see of Clare was her back, that narrow bit of gray. I saw as she sucked in a breath and held it.

“To Fairbridge.” Maman forced a smile. “It will be nice for you to return to all of your things, won't it?”

He shifted his feet. His boots were streaked with reddish mud. Maman noticed, too, as her mouth tightened in disapproval.

“But can't I stay here?” Clare ignored her grandfather and went to Maman. “I won't be much trouble. I haven't been, have I?”

Maman's face softened and she reached to Clare's cheek. “No, no trouble at all,
chère.
But your place is with your family.”

She took a step back. “Family? I don't have any family.” Her face twisted. “My father is dead.”

It was the first time she'd said the word aloud, and it hung in the air. She still stood straight, but quivering like a poplar.

“My father is dead and my mother, she's never coming back, is she?”

Her back to her grandfather, she didn't see when he bent to pick up his hat, didn't see the quick wash of anguish on his face. As Maman took Clare's shoulders, murmuring soothings and endearments, I alone watched the lanky old man blink and worry the edges of his straw hat.

“I needed my mother there with me at the funeral. I needed her to come for me afterwards.” Clare's voice broke. “I needed someone to want me and stay with me and not disappear.”

“Patricia Clare,” her grandfather said. “I won't disappear again.”

Clare turned to him, flushing, as though she'd forgotten he was right there listening to every frustrated word. “Grandfather, I didn't mean—”

“You did and I can't fault you.” He sighed. “I should have been there and I'm sorry I wasn't. But I'm here now.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I know.”

“And I won't disappear again.” He met her eyes. “You have my word.”

She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Everyone leaves me in the end.” Eyes glistening, she hurried from the room.

He blinked, once, twice, and then held his eyes shut for a moment too long.

“Really, monsieur,” Maman said. “We could keep Clare for you. She's no trouble at all and I know your studies take you away from home.”

A wild hope leapt in my chest.

“She'd have many opportunities here and you can visit as often as you'd like.”

“Madame.” He spoke French, gliding his vowels in an odd way. “I made the mistake of staying in one place once before, all in the name of ‘opportunity.' Both Maud and I regretted it.” He sighed and passed a hand over his face. “But leaving Patricia Clare behind, that's another regret entirely. She'll come with me.” He twisted the straw brim of his hat. “I want the chance to know her.”

Maman didn't argue any further. “I'll call for Yvette to begin packing her things.”

“Tonight, if you will. I've left my bags at the station.”

“Tonight? But surely the lass needs time to get used to the idea.”

“We have years, don't we?” He clapped his battered hat on his head. “I'll call back for her after I've arranged our tickets.”

“Sir.” I stepped forward. “She doesn't show much, you know. All this summer, she's kept her grief hidden.”

He stopped and regarded me with eyes as gray as Clare's.

“You should know, too, she's stubborn as anything, and can't resist a challenge. She'll wear herself down to the marrow to succeed.” I didn't know what I was saying, but knew it needed to be said. “She'll spend all day drawing, even if she has nothing more than a stick and a flat patch of dirt. She detests bananas, but loves oranges and apricots, especially when they're underripe. You know when they're tart like that? She can eat a bowlful without making a face.” I spoke all in a rush, before Maman could interrupt me, before Monsieur Muir could dismiss me and take Clare away forever. “But, she doesn't want anyone to know when she's frightened. Ever. One of her biggest fears is being seen, even for an instant, as vulnerable.”

“I see.” He folded his hands, reminding me of those tattoos.

I was terrified of him, with his marked skin and new-penny face. But Clare, she was worth being bold for. “Sir, she may seem strong and impervious and wholly self-reliant, but she's not. Inside, she breaks, and she never tells a soul.” I took a deep breath. “Please don't let her fall to pieces.”

He held out his hand, like a gentleman. “Young man, you have my word.”

Perthshire

4 September 1911

Dear Luc,

I don't know if you'll welcome a letter from me, but you did once and, besides, I have no one else to talk to. I don't know how to talk to my grandfather. I haven't had a proper conversation with him since we left Mille Mots. He spent the journey up to Scotland talking to me as though I were nine, which I suppose is the last time he saw me. He kept asking if I still read
Father Goose
and collected china dolls. Conversation faded after that and he seems unsure of what to ask me next.

I miss all of our easy conversations beneath the chestnut tree. I miss the walks through the woods, the songs you would teach me, the dogs weaving between us. Back here at Fairbridge, I miss all of that more. I'm remembering the muteness of regular life. The days that could go by without me talking to a soul. The emptiness. The way everyone seems to forget me in the silence of the house. It's almost as if the past few months never happened.

I hope that you write back, if for no other reason than to remind me that there was a summer in Picardy, where I made the best friend I've ever had.

Clare

Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, Paris

Mardi, le 19 septembre 1911

Dear Clare,

I've never received a letter from across the Channel, apart from the time I was twelve and Maman sent a letter from Perthshire lecturing me on that term's marks. That letter was accepted red-faced; know that yours was received with a smile.

I've probably told you how, from the age of eight, I was at a Swiss boarding school. I'd come home summers, but, along with most of the boys, would spend my other holidays at the school. Every July I'd arrive in Railleuse, a year older and (I'm sure) a year wiser, yet Maman and Papa acted as though no time had passed. Maman would have last summer's clothes aired in my wardrobe, last summer's favorite dishes prepared, last summer's conversations ready to revive. But, of course, I wasn't the same boy each July. I'd had a year to grow, to learn, to like and to hate, to have my heart broken and then caught up again by the next passion. Though I may not understand the silence and emptiness you wrote about, I do understand the rest. I understand that mute frustration. I understand the feeling that, for a time, the rest of the world stayed still while you alone kept moving towards the future.

Luc

Perthshire

11 October 1911

Dear Luc,

There is a room at Fairbridge that has always been my favorite. Since I was small, I'd go hide in there whenever I was angry. It's full of curiosities from around the world—shells, fossils, baskets, bowls, feathers, and bones. On all of the walls hang masks—carved, painted, and generally terrifying. I'd sit in the middle of the room with my knees drawn up and wonder what faces those masks used to hide, what tales of exotic lands they told.

I told you that I used to pretend my grandfather was a pirate. I needed an explanation for him to be gone all of the time. But he wasn't always a pirate in my mind, you know. I used to imagine he was a sea captain, kept far from us by the whims of Neptune. Sometimes I'd imagine that he was a missionary, bringing holy words and warm blankets to the world's downtrodden pagans. An opera singer like Caruso, an explorer like Scott, a showman like Houdini—anything where celebrity and dedication kept him, regrettably, from his family back in Perthshire.

As a child, I only saw him occasionally. He'd appear at Fairbridge, without warning, and spend an uncomfortable handful of weeks pacing the gardens and generally avoiding any and all conversation. Mother kept up all pretenses of politeness and studied affection, but when he finally left, she complained bitterly. I realize now that she was envious. She had to stay back at home with me, but Grandfather, he had the world to explore. He was the adventurer she couldn't be.

It's funny, though, how sometimes our guesses can be closer to the truth. Grandfather may not be a sea captain, but he's traveled nearly as far. India, Africa, the South Seas. “Chasing languages,” he says. To each place he went, he sent something back to me. All those hints of the world—each mask hanging on the wall, each shell and woven basket, each dream I had about the lands they showed—were from my grandfather. It was his way of staying close to me, even when he was so far away. So much of the world in one room and, Luc, he promises he'll take me there.

Clare

Lagos, Portugal

1 November 1911

Dear Luc,

As you can see from the heading, we're in Portugal now. Portugal! And to think, less than a year ago, I'd never been out of Scotland. Now I've been to both France and Portugal. I feel so continental.

Grandfather is happy as a lion, jumping here and there across the city after “smatterings of Berber.” That's what he's doing, you know, researching a book that he swears will change linguistic scholarship. I don't know much about “linguistic scholarship,” but it involves him following lost little bits of a Berber dialect, remnants of the Moorish conquest, through the Portuguese. He's given me a dreadfully dull tome tracing the paths of the Moors. I don't understand how he can find this at all interesting. Or, indeed, worth anyone's time. He tried to excite me about our travels, by saying “Us explorers, we have to stay together!” I don't know why he thinks of me as an explorer. I'm not, at least not yet.

But I don't have to pay him much mind. I keep to myself and he lets me. He gives me pocket money and, as long as I don't stray too far from our lodging, I can explore. I eat fish stew and olives. I ride in donkey carts. I wander in and out of churches laid with painted tiles.

This freedom, it's nervous. I've never had so much space to roam. The first few days, I could only see the shadows between the buildings, the stares, the footsteps behind me. So like Paris. But then I learned to navigate the streets. I caught up a few words in Portuguese. And I began to see the spots of sunshine.

Everything is so different here, at least from Scotland. I'm writing this on a stretch of beach, a beach that doesn't have rocks or icy water or pale-legged men in striped swimming costumes. The sand is all warm and golden and the water is blue-green. The colors remind me of those landscapes you keep hanging in your room, from that one week your father pretended to be an Impressionist. Has your father ever painted here?

Grandfather says that the sun is putting a little color on my cheeks. I say it's sunburn. He bought me a straw hat, the kind that Portuguese women plait in the shade of the boats. Of course I won't wear it. Can you imagine a French woman wearing such a thing?

Clare

Mille Mots

Vendredi, le 22 décembre 1911

Dear Clare,

I am at Mille Mots for Christmas and I wish that you were here. It feels like quite the party. Maman has two new kittens and they are in the punch bowl almost as much as Papa is. Both have new things to wear—Maman a glossy dress the color of mistletoe and Papa a peasant shirt embroidered all around with holly berries. The household is so used to their bohemian wear that no one raised an eyebrow when Papa added to his costume a little round cap like they wear in Bethmale. He bought one for each of the staff, women included. They are completely ridiculous, but, at Christmas, everyone will forgive him.

They even relented to invite Uncle Théophile, the only time of year he will spend the money on a train ticket out to Railleuse. He's always goggle-eyed at the wine and meat being served, but that doesn't stop him from eating himself into indigestion. Alain and I hiked out into the woods today for the perfect Yule log and greenery for the
réveillon
table. Marthe is busy making nougat and candied citron and the sweet orange-water cake she only makes this time of year. She has the fattest goose hanging in the pantry, a behemoth with a black feather in his tail. She stuffs him with chestnuts and sausage, and we are driven mad as he roasts all day for our Christmas Eve feast. Marthe's midnight supper, it makes up for all those months of eating lentils in the café.

You'd adore the
réveillon
feast (I know your weakness for Marthe's nougat) and also the family
crèche.
With Papa's help, I built the manger with stones and sticks and bits of straw from the Bois de Fee, and the little figures inside, the
santons,
Maman sculpted those with clay from the riverbank. She used the faces of those in the household, so Joseph has Papa's beard and there is an angel, a drummer, and a water-carrier, all bearing an uncanny resemblance to me. She's put her own face on one of the Wise Men. You've seen Papa's work in the hallways and in
Mère l'Oyle,
but I think you would be quite impressed to see what Maman used to do.

How are you celebrating Christmas in Lagos?

Luc

Lagos, Portugal

18 January 1912

Dear Luc,

You've made me ravenous! We always had goose with chestnut stuffing for Christmas, and black bun for Hogmanay. Here it seems to be salt cod and boiled potatoes. I've never eaten so much fish in my life as I have since coming to Portugal. But they have at least a dozen kinds of custard, so I will forgive them the fish.

We are staying in a skinny house painted bright green, one that I worry might lean over in the sea wind. Grandfather borrows the landlord's bicycle and wobbles around the town with a phonograph strapped to the handlebars. He makes recordings on wax cylinders of the bakers, the fishmongers, the little girls with their baskets of clams. Anyone who will talk to him is duly recorded, both on the cylinder and in one of his ubiquitous black notebooks. His notes are mystifying. Though he says they're marking down not the words but the way they're said, I can't make heads or tails of it. Visible Speech indeed.

I meant to ask, has your papa had another book? I passed a bookseller in the market the other day and there was one propped up that looked so like your papa's style that I was sure it must be his. No illustrator named and I'm not quite sure what it was about, as it was all in Portuguese, but there was a nymph on the front all covered over with seaweed and rainbows and two bear cubs. Do you recognize it? The trees behind looked almost like the lindens at Mille Mots and there was something of your mother in the nymph's face.

Clare

Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, Paris

Jeudi, le 8 février 1912

Dear Clare,

Papa has had no commissions for Portuguese books, no. Perhaps it was someone else from the School of Art? He had students who went on to illustrate.

To be perfectly honest, he hasn't been painting much at all lately. Not even drawing. I was at Mille Mots last weekend and Maman was out of sorts. Really, it's not my fault that the roof is leaking (again) and Papa hasn't taken a new commission in months. He's been tutoring a pair of sisters who have their eyes fixed on L'École des Beaux-Arts, now that women are admitted. Maman is scandalized that a proper artist like Claude Crépet has stooped to tutoring.

And you, Clare, are you drawing? You've talked about the beach with the nets stretched over boats, the market with the fishmongers, and the green house, but nothing of the sketches I am sure you must be making of all this. None for me? I've never been to Portugal, but I've never before wanted to see it more than I do from your eyes.

Luc

Seville, Spain

14 March 1912

Dear Luc,

They say that the streets of Seville smell like oranges. They do. I almost feel like I'm back in the Fairy Woods with you, eating oranges until we had stomachaches. Remember how all you'd have to do is hold one under my nose to make me smile?

They have a museum here, a museum of fine arts. Grandfather brought me, thinking I'd like it. The paintings, they're so unlike what your father does. Dark, raw, Spanish. Haunting paintings, centuries old. With all of the sunshine and music out on the street, I didn't expect the museum to be filled with so much murky sorrow. They made me sad like I hadn't been in years. When we left, I had to run off for a moment to be alone. I found a narrow street that reminded me of the caves at Brindeau and I pressed my face against the stone of the wall until the waves of sadness passed. When I returned, Grandfather didn't scold me. But he gave me a box of paints, real paints, and a palette to mix them. “I know you can see more color than they could,” he said. He's a funny man, isn't he?

So here's a painting, just a small one, and not on proper paper either. Of what else? An orange.

Clare

Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, Paris

Samedi, le 13 avril 1912

Dear Clare,

Don't be cross, but I sent on your little painting of the orange to Papa. It was too dear a painting and he promised to only look quickly and send it right back to me. He does ask about you, you know. Well, he sent it back, and also a letter for you, which I include here. Not a letter; a treatise. All about your technique with paint and your mixing of colors and “mademoiselle, your form.” He seems quite put out with you for forging ahead into a new medium without instruction. “All shades of yellow and reds. So fiery a palette!” On a more cheerful note, he does say that your practice with fruit shows. I told him about the apricots and the thrown pencil. “Like your first lesson, Luc,” he said. “No?” So, you see? Everyone begins with fruit in Monsieur Crépet's classroom.

I do think your grandfather is right in fixing his sights on Spain next, after leaving Portugal. He's tracing the path of the Moors in reverse, isn't he? Following that dialect back to its source? You mock, but I think it all sounds fascinating. This delving into the depths of a language, plumbing its origins, is new to me. I didn't know there were historians who did more than look at facts and dates and dusty old manuscripts. Words and sounds? I see what draws your grandfather.

As for me, not much draws me these days. We are on to Charlemagne, and I wish him as little as I wished Alexander. I'd much rather be studying about kings and emperors who didn't do too much, at least nothing beyond a page or two in the history books. Clovis the Lazy? John the Posthumous? Perhaps next term.