In the Bag (22 page)
“So what happened?”
“They would not even speak to me,” she said. “Beasts, all of them. Now, you will call Daisy, yes?”
“Right. Can you give me any suggestions on how I should—”
But the
CALL ENDED
message told me Solange’s work was done.
C
oco and I had dinner reservations at Petrelle, my favorite restaurant in Paris. Just walking in the door and seeing those wide-plank wooden floors and the tables—ten farm tables covered with starched white linens and piles of books—made me happy. If the Rodin Museum couldn’t cheer up Coco, surely Petrelle could.
I ordered for both of us: smoked duck breast salad followed by ravioli stuffed with crayfish. As usual, every bite was perfection: confirmation that cooking was an art equal to any other. Food was as important as love. The body needed it. And the quality of food, like the quality of love, mattered.
“Coco, look,” I said, chewing. “Do you see the cat under that table? That’s what I love about this place. Don’t you feel like you’re eating in your very own French country house?”
Coco grunted an inaudible response. I refused to let her rotten mood ruin my meal.
“Should we pick up some postcards to send Grammy and Grampa?” I asked. “And your friends back home?”
“No,” she said. “Not postcards. But I need
something
to take back to my friends.”
“Okay, let’s think,” I said, happy for any semblance of a dinner conversation. “We could get some chocolate and maybe jars of French sea salt. It’s the best salt in the world. Everyone loves—”
“Mom,” Coco growled, “my friends do not want
salt
.”
“Right,” I said.
An hour later when Coco was eating dessert and I was sipping an espresso, I had an idea. “Let’s take a walk up to Sacré Coeur,” I said. “The view is absolutely lovely at night.”
“Everything’s
lovely
to you, isn’t it?” Coco said, stabbing her spoon savagely into a ramekin of flan.
I took a deep breath and counted to five. Then I reached across the table and put my hand on hers.
“Coco,” I said softly. “I know something’s bothering you. And I know
you
know that I am always here to listen to anything you want to talk about. But I can’t read your mind. If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, that’s your decision. But I won’t put up with this attitude of yours. Not for one minute more.”
She attacked another spoonful of flan, but her mouth began to quiver. I hated to make her cry. On the other hand, I didn’t hate it enough to back down.
“I brought you here to Paris,” I continued, “because I wanted you to experience this city, this
magical
city, as an adult for the first time with someone who will always love you.”
Now her eyes were getting moist. Well? It was true. I did want her to see Paris as an adult with me first. I’d stolen the idea from an article I read in
People
magazine. Gwyneth Paltrow’s father took her to Paris when she was young for the very same reason. Better to fall in love with Paris in the company of a parent than come here in a few years and confuse a love of Paris with love for some bozo with a sexy accent. No need for both of us to make that mistake.
“And you know,” I went on, “the crazy thing about love is that you can tell the other person anything in the world, and they’ll love you. No matter what.”
Now she was really crying. Something was definitely up. But still, she said nothing.
“So,” I said, stroking her hand, “is there something you want to talk about? I promise I won’t get mad.” I paused and smiled. “Or if I do, it won’t last forever.”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “No. There’s nothing you can do. I’m just . . .”
“What?” I asked. “What would make you happy right now? What could we do that would make you feel happy?”
She shook her head and cried. “I don’t know what I want. Just . . . nothing.”
That’s my girl. Like mother, like daughter.
We took a cab back to the apartment. At least she let me put my arm around her shoulder in the backseat of the car.
“Hey, I know something that’ll cheer you up,” I said, pulling Solange’s cell phone from my purse. “Solange lent us this. You can check your e-mail on it and send texts or whatever you want to do.”
I handed the phone to Coco, but she pushed it away and buried her head in her hands.
“I never want to get online again,” she sobbed. “Ever!”
I closed my eyes for the rest of the cab ride.
The phone was ringing when I unlocked the apartment. “Hello?” I said hopefully.
“Hi, it’s me, Andrew.”
I liked that he didn’t assume I’d recognize his voice, even though I did instantly.
“Hey there,” I said, carrying the phone into the bedroom.
“Do you have a minute to listen to a crazy idea?” He sounded nervous.
“I do,” I said.
“Okay, here goes. What would you think about meeting in Barcelona for dinner tomorrow night? With our guardians?”
“Our
what
?” I said.
“Our kids. Webb and Coco.”
Dear Ms. 6B,
Please forgive my clumsiness while boarding. I would be more than happy to pay for the cleaning or replacement of your blouse. Truth is, I would be even happier if you’d let me take you to dinner sometime when we return to our side of the pond. That is, if you do plan to return to the U.S. (For all I know, you could be Parisian. You have That Look. )
D
ad was explaining as he packed.
“It’s only an hour flight,” he said. “And it is one of your favorite cities.”
He was right. I liked Barcelona a lot. It was the first European city I ever visited. Dad took me there when I was seven. It’s where he told me about my mom.
“And as long as we’re so close,” Dad went on, “it just makes sense. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before we left home.” He turned to look at me. “So get up and start packing, okay? Oh, and wear that nice blue jacket.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to go somewhere nice for dinner.”
“Okay. Will we have time to do Gaudí stuff?” I asked.
“Sure. Our flight leaves at one fifty. We’ll be in Barcelona by three.”
“Cool.”
Maybe this was what I needed to shake off the Coco dust. I was still stinging from that whole thing.
“We’re meeting a friend of mine for dinner,” Dad added. “She has a daughter about your age. I think she’ll be joining us, too.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah,” said Dad. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “In fact, that’d be . . . really cool.”
This was
exactly
what I needed. Something—or better yet, someone—to take my mind off Coco.
B
arcelona?
” I asked.
Was the universe trying to torture me with all these reminders of Webb?
“It’s only an hour-and-a-half flight,” Mom said.
“But we’re in
Paris,
” I objected. “Why do you want to keep leaving?”
And then it hit me: Mom was going through a weird emotional backdraft. I knew the whole story about her falling in love during culinary school with the master chef, my dad. Being back here with me must be churning up all kinds of crappy memories for her.
“It’s not that I want to keep leaving,” Mom said, carefully folding her new silk blouses in her suitcase. “But I thought we could come back when Solange is around. Wouldn’t it be fun to spend time with her?”
“I guess,” I said. “But this place is way too small for three people.”
“It’d be fun,” Mom said. “Like a slumber party.”
Yeah, right.
“Maybe we’ll come back next year,” Mom said. “Or for Christmas. Oh, and take something nice to wear tonight. We’re meeting a friend of mine for dinner.”
“Fine.”
“He might bring his son along,” she added, on her way to the bathroom. “He’s about your age.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes,” she answered from the bathroom. “It’ll be fun.”
Whatever.
“I’m going across the street to pick up some pastries for breakfast,” I said, walking out the door. “I’ll be back in five.”
I
’d conveniently forgotten to tell Daisy where I’d booked our hotel rooms.
“I’m sorry to keep calling,” I said when I called to give her the hotel address.
“No, no. It’s not a problem. Are you at the airport?”
“Not yet. Webb and I are waiting for a cab.”
“I’m still packing,” she said. “Coco’s across the street picking up some breakfast for us.”
“Did you tell her—” I began, turning away from Webb for privacy.
“I just said you had a son about her age,” she said. “What about you?”
“Same here.” I couldn’t go into much detail because Webb was standing six feet away.
“This is like the grown-up version of
The Parent Trap,
” she said, laughing.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Didn’t you ever see
The Parent Trap
with Hayley Mills?” she asked. “Or the remake with Lindsay Lohan? It’s the story of twin girls scheming to reunite their estranged parents.”
“You’re not suggesting that your daughter and my—”
“No, no. It’s just the idea that you think your son needs to meet a girl like my daughter, and I think my daughter would benefit from meeting your son.”
“You and Solange have a lot in common.”
She laughed. “We’ll meet you at nine o’clock at the restaurant you told me about, okay?”
“More than okay,” I said. “See you soon.”
“Bye,” she said in a soft voice.
She hung up. I stayed on the line, not believing my good luck.
C
oco was sitting on the futon, pulling apart a croissant. She refused to put it on a plate as I’d asked her to do repeatedly. Pastry crumbs were falling everywhere. She was still sulking, but I refused to let it get under my skin.
“You can leave your bag here,” I said. “We’ll put everything we need in my suitcase.”
“Whatever,” she said, sulkily stuffing the last third of the croissant in her mouth.
I counted to ten before responding. “Honey, why don’t you pack your peasant blouse? You look so cute in that.”
“Actually, I don’t want to look
cute,
” she said. “Plus it’s all wrinkled.” She pulled it out of her bag and made a face. “I
hate
wrinkles.”
“It’s supposed to be wrinkled,” I said firmly. “We can iron it when we get to the hotel in Barcelona.”
She tossed the blouse in my direction. I caught it and stuffed it in my suitcase next to the black pants I’d picked out for her at Galeries Lafayette.
“Do you have your toothbrush?” I asked. “Hair stuff? Makeup?”
She flounced into the bathroom.
Why did everything have to be such a struggle? I was so tired of this. Living with a teenage girl was like being sent to the gulag for seven years.
