The Offering (39 page)

I had been as blind as a mole. Why hadn't I applied my psychology lessons to my own life? Maybe I'd been trying to, at least subconsciously. But my stubborn conscious self wouldn't listen.

No wonder I never felt terribly close to my mother. I'd been too busy resenting her for stepping in to fill my father's place. And no
wonder Mom was so happy in The Villages. She was finally able to experience many of the things she had sacrificed for me.

No wonder I fell in love with the tender warrior who came into my life and charmed me. Gideon had protected, shielded, and adored me, all the things my doting father did until the accident took him away. I never saw Gid as a father figure, but no one but my father had ever made me feel as adored, as special, as Gideon did.

And no wonder I resisted my mother's efforts to help me grow up. I wanted to remain a child, to cling to the time before the accident, so I resisted anything that might involve taking responsibility for myself. No pets for me, no babysitting jobs, no high school band, no collegiate sports. No part-time jobs, until I started work at Mama Yanela's.

Even worse, as an adult I continued to resist responsibility: once Gideon died, I didn't even want a house, so I moved in with Jorge and Isa.

Though it pained me to admit it, moving in with family members had even allowed me to surrender my responsibility to my daughter. Mama Isa made sure Marilee was fed, bathed, and loved. When I used grief as an excuse to check out of my life, Marilee did her homework under Jorge's watchful eye.

I had been neglecting every responsibility until I learned about Julien. I pursued him with the stubborn tenacity of a dog chasing a bone because he was my son. He was someone who had been taken from me, and I wanted him back like I wanted air to breathe and food to eat. I would never be able to bring Daddy or Gideon back, but I could have Julien. Him, at least, I could restore to the family.

Your questions have been answered and your future firmly settled. You're going to do the right thing.

Was I? What would be the result of continuing with my plan? As Amelia had warned, I would rip my precious son from the only home he'd ever known. I would break his young heart as surely as my father's death had broken mine. Yes, he was young, but to a two-year-old, two years was a very long time.

Amelia couldn't know what I knew from experience—that even at a tender age, children were not rubber balls that could slam into tragedy and bounce back without any ill effects. They suffered the effects of loss and grief acutely, particularly when they lacked the verbal skills to express their feelings.

If I continued on my present course, I might cause Julien to regard me with the same emotions I felt for the woman who had raised and loved me—restrained affection, distance, and a vague feeling of incompatibility. My son might grow up feeling that he didn't belong in my home.

How could that result be worth the risk?

On Easter Sunday, after church, I sat with my Cuban family around Mama Isa's table and tried to make sense of jokes and stories in which I still understood only about half the words. But the missing details didn't matter because I could close my eyes and relax in the familiar rhythm of their laughter and their voices, knowing I was well-loved and at home.

Though my eyes are blue, my hair blond, and my skin light, I am part of a Cuban family. I see it in the way Mama Isa cares for Marilee, I feel it in the way Jorge lightly touches my shoulders as he stands behind me and tells a story about a customer at the grocery. I hear it in the way Mario says, “Tell her, Mandy,” when he wants me to score a point for his side in a debate with Elaine, and I taste it in the special
pastelitos
Yanela makes just for me because she knows I can't resist those little pastries.

I see it in the way Marilee slips one of her colored eggs into baby Johny's lap so he won't feel left out during the Easter egg hunt.

I hadn't told anyone about my sleepless night and the catharsis that occurred during the call with my mother. I hadn't even told Amelia what I'd realized about Julien, myself, and the remnants of grief that had affected my personality since childhood.

A smile curved my lips as I looked at her. Who was I kidding?
She already knew about my personality flaws, and she loved me anyway. As did my mother. As had Gideon.

Just as Carlos and Yaritza took in Yanela and Gordon so many years ago, Gideon's family had taken me in without hesitation, without caring that I didn't share their history, their culture, or even their language. But they loved me because Gideon loved me. And they loved me still.

Amelia and Mario had welcomed little Johny in the same way. Their acceptance and love for him was evident in the way they cared for him, protected him, and even in the way they looked at him. In his short life he had gone through trauma, too, and if he later developed emotional problems, they would help him cope, just as my mother sacrificed to help me. Because that is what love does.

Two years ago, Damien and Simone Amblour welcomed a newborn baby into their lives. Since then, Julien had known love, acceptance, and stability. The Amblours had loved him, cared for him, and fought for him.

And I had every reason to believe they would continue to do so.

Eight days later I tightened my seat belt on an Air France jet as we glided onto the runway at La Rochelle, a few miles from Domaine de Amblour. My nerves tensed as I folded my hands and considered my mission. I had only packed an overnight case for the long flight; if all went well, I'd spend only an hour or two in La Rochelle.

Mr. Pippen had offered to send one of his associates as a traveling companion, but I no longer needed anyone to help me find my way.

The plane touched down, then turned and taxied toward the airport building. As the flight attendant welcomed us in French, I bent to pick up my purse, which held my travel documents and other important papers. Along with my passport, I carried two sealed envelopes I'd accepted from Mr. Pippen just before I boarded.

The plane settled at the Jetway and the flight attendant opened the door. I gathered my belongings and waited, heart thumping like a punching bag, as we exited row by row.

I walked into the gate area amid a chattering of French, then headed in the direction of
la livraison des bagages.
The Amblours would meet me at baggage claim, Simone had promised. From there, we'd find a quiet room where we could talk.

Coming down the escalator, I spotted my French acquaintances almost immediately. Simone would have stood out in any crowd, and Damien appeared as stately and patrician as he had the last time we were together. But today a dark-haired toddler clung to his hand. I wanted to stop the world and spend an hour or two studying the child, but for now I needed to retain custody of my eyes.

“
Allô!
” I twiddled my fingers to catch the Amblours' attention. “Simone! Damien!
Bonjour!
”

Smiling carefully, they came forward and welcomed me with embraces, but I couldn't help noticing a deep worry line between Simone's sculpted brows. The last several weeks had been hard on all of us, but after today the situation would be resolved. In time, broken hearts would mend.

I purposely saved the best till last. After greeting Simone and Damien, I stooped to regard Julien at eye level. My heart opened as I studied him, drinking in his dark eyes, his perfectly formed mouth, the curly hair that had come directly from Gideon. There was nothing of Damien about him—the boy looked more like a Spaniard than the man of the house. But the current master of Domaine de Amblour clung tightly to the child's hand, his chin resolute and his blue eyes determined.

“May I”—I smiled—“have a kiss?” I held out both hands, but the boy was struck by a sudden attack of shyness and ducked behind his father's leg. I didn't blame him for feeling embarrassed, but his rejection made my heart twist.

“Julien!” His mother scolded him in French, but I shook my head.

“That's all right. He doesn't know me yet.”

I stood and finally noticed the dark-suited man standing behind Damien. “Allow me,” Simone said, “to introduce our attorney, Girard Bouchard.”

Though my memories of the lawyer weren't exactly delightful, I forced a smile and shook the hand he offered. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Bouchard.” With the pleasantries out of the way, I gripped my overnight case and looked around. “Do you have a place where we can meet in private?”

The attorney gestured toward the escalator. “All is in readiness. If you'll come this way.”

Julien rode on Simone's hip as we followed Bouchard up the escalator to the main floor, then crossed the wide expanse in front of the check-in counters. Finally the attorney opened a nondescript panel in the wall and pointed to another door halfway down the hallway. “Second room on the left, please. The area is ours for the afternoon.”

The confidence that had buoyed me when I boarded the plane shriveled like a spent balloon as I walked forward and took a seat at a conference table in the small room. Simone, Damien, and Girard Bouchard sat across from me, three lined up against one. Despite their polite greetings, I knew the Amblours had to be wound as tightly as clock springs.

Fortunately, Julien seemed unaware of the underlying tension in the air. He sat on Simone's lap, his thumb in his mouth and a tattered cloth monkey beneath his arm.

I expected Mr. Bouchard to open the meeting, but Damien spoke first. “I thought,” he said, the line of his mouth tightening as if he found the act of speaking to me distasteful, “you would bring your attorney.”

I managed a half smile. “Mr. Pippen offered to send one of his associates, but I saw no need to involve anyone else when this really affects only the three of us—well, four, counting Julien.”

Avoiding the lawyer's steely gaze, I pulled the two sealed envelopes from my bag.

“What is this?” Mr. Bouchard's expression darkened with displeasure. “Your lawyer did not mention any additional documents.”

“This is a letter,” I said, handing Damien one of the envelopes. “Inside you will find notarized copies in French and English. But before you open it, I want to tell you something.”

Damien set the envelope on the table and covered it with his hand, but his eyes never left my face.

“I've been thinking”—a lump rose in my throat, threatening to choke off my words—“about what love is, and what family means. And like King Solomon, I have realized that the mother who loves best may well be the one who is most willing to let go. So that's what I want to do. Though Julien is my biological son, I want to officially relinquish my right to raise him.”

I caught and held Simone's gaze. “When I first got pregnant, in May, I sent you an e-card wishing you a happy Mother's Day for years to come. I will always wish you well on that holiday, Simone—as you and Damien raise our son.”

I clenched my hand beneath the table, wondering if the people across from me had any idea what it had cost me to utter those words. Throughout the flight I had considered changing my mind, tossing the notarized documents, and taking my baby home with me. The option tantalized, filling my head with images of Julien and Marilee sitting side by side at Mama Isa's dinner table, bringing me a birthday breakfast tray, and joining me on my knees for bedtime prayers. As I flew over the Atlantic I had prayed and pondered and imagined Gideon peering over heaven's balcony to observe me—what would he want me to do? The best thing for the child, of course. And along with their parents' love, children need stability.

I had assumed that because God sent me a son, I had the right to raise that son. I hadn't seen any other logical possibility, but love had opened my eyes.

I had come to do the right thing.

I gestured to the envelope beneath Damien's hand. “Inside you'll
find a fully notarized document stating that I will never contest your right to raise Julien Louis Amblour as your son. For his sake, I want you to continue as an intact family. I want Julien to remain in the only home he's ever known, with the only parents he's ever had. In short, I don't believe DNA is the only thing that binds people together, and I deeply regret the pain this situation has caused you. I give you my word . . . I will never disturb you again.”

Simone's eyes filled with tears, but I was more concerned about Damien's reaction. For days I had struggled with his apparent fixation on having a biological heir. Relinquishing my parental rights would be pointless if he could not love my son.

Silence surrounded us, broken only by the quiet rustle of the boy's jacket as he squirmed on Simone's lap. She turned to her husband, silent entreaty in her eyes, and I expected Damien to look to his attorney for advice. . . .

Instead, Damien Amblour stood and pressed his splayed fingertips to the top of the table. In a trembling voice, he thanked me for coming to France. “To be honest,” he said, managing a wavering smile, “I was angry when I first heard you were claiming the boy. But not until I learned that you had every right to do so—that he was, in fact, your child—did I realize how much I had come to love him.” Damien's smile dissolved into a bewildered expression of hurt. “I could not lose the boy, Amanda, without losing my heart as well. So from the bottom of my soul, I thank you. You have been more than generous with us once again.”

If they knew how hard I struggled with my decision, they'd realize I wasn't being generous. I didn't relent for their sakes, but for Julien's.

Simone looked at me, her eyes bright with repressed tears. She wrapped her arms around her son, then reached out and embraced her husband. As the three of them huddled on the other side of the table, I found myself studying Julien's beautiful face and the dark eyes that seemed to regard me with sharp curiosity and a suggestion of humor. Gideon's eyes.

“Bonjour,”
I whispered, not wanting to frighten him away.
“Comment allez-vous?”