I met her gaze and at that moment we both exchanged a look of gratitude, communicated solely through our eyes.
She took another sip of wine and pressed her fingers to her chest, stifling her cough.
In the few seconds we waited for her to speak, I focused on Alex. He was still studying the letter, as though he couldn’t believe what it said.
With her voice returned to her, Marthe lifted her glass again in the gesture of a toast. “Let young love be our lantern in times of peril.”
Monsieur Armel lifted his glass and looked in the direction of Alex and me.
And for a moment, everything seemed perfect. Time stood exquisitely still. Marthe had managed to give us a gift of unexpected possibility. We savored it as though it were something that was connected to the magic of her apartment and the woman who lived as though the unrest outside did not permeate her silk-upholstered walls. I pressed it deep within me. I saw life return to Monsieur Armel’s eyes, and relief wash over Alex. And my own heart was restored, the worry temporarily alleviated. I saw it all as though it were a moving painting, captured within a golden frame.
***
After Alex and his father left later that evening, I found my grandmother sitting alone in the parlor. She was ensconced on the sofa, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, her face without a trace of makeup.
She sat in profile, her body slightly twisted, with her legs curled beneath her and her chin titled upward toward her portrait. It would have made a striking painting, the dual images of Marthe. The first when she was at the zenith of her beauty and youth, hovering over the second, older image, which struck me as somehow more pure.
I stood at the threshold for several seconds watching her, careful not to make a sound so I could continue to observe her from afar. Asheaf of moonlight streamed through the window, and a single candle burned at her side. The setting reminded me of an old master painting. The quiet repose of a fragile, aging woman, wrapped in oyster gray silk with the painting behind her, as bright as a burning star.
After a few seconds, I walked toward her. “Grand-maman,” I said as I sat down beside her. I had never before joined her on the small love seat where she perched herself, instead always preferring the chair positioned across. But now I made it a point to settle in next to her.
Her white hands were clasped in front of her. I reached and lifted one, taking it into my own.
“Thank you so much.” I did not whisper. I said the words plain and straight, to emphasize how much I truly meant them.
She turned and met my eyes. Her fingers grasped my own.
“I never expected you, Solange. I assumed I would live out my life alone in this apartment surrounded by my things. With just a few words each day uttered between me and my maid.”
“I did not expect you, either,” I said. My eyes were betraying me, as I felt the onset of tears. “I suppose we have Papa to thank for our union,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Henri...” She said his name as though he were something that had slipped through her fingers. Something that would never be hers to own.
“Yes, he did bring us together. I will always be grateful. Though he has no love for me, he gave an old woman a gift, even if it wasn’t deserved.”
She shook her head. “I understand his hurt that I gave him up, but I had no way of supporting a child then. Louise did me a great favor, and she loved him and gave him a good home.”
I nodded. I understood, even if my father did not. I remembered the details from when she first shared them with me.
“Now that I’m old, I am more reflective of what I am leaving behind.” She lifted her eyes toward her painting. “I once told Charles that when I died, all that would be known about me was my painting. That I was an illusion otherwise.” Her eyes returned to me. “But now you know my story, and you still didn’t leave me after you heard it to the end.”
“But it’s not the end,Grand-maman,” I interjected. “There are so many more chapters to be written. And, hopefully, they will include me.”
Her fingers squeezed mine again. This time even more tightly than the last. “Yes,” she said softly.
“This is what makes a story beautiful... more poignant...”
Marthe’s gaze suddenly shifted inward, as though she was searching for something that eluded her grasp.
“If I can leave behind more than a painting, if I can ensure that you have love in your life and someone beside you, then I have redeemed myself a bit, no?”
“Of course, you have more than redeemed yourself. You’ve saved Alex’s life.”
She closed her eyes as I lowered her hand to her lap.
And we remained still. Our heads tilting toward each other, a warmth floating between us. And no longer was there a need for words.
43.
