“I thought she was dead,” I whisper as low as I possibly can, so no one else can hear.
ChapterEighteen
JEMMA
Luca blinks at me, completely baffled.“Why on earth would you think that?”
I swallow hard.“Elias said his mother was with his grandma, and then he pointed up.”I mimic the kid, using my pointer finger.“Heaven.”I gulp.“With your mom.”
Luca lets out a lively chuckle, everyone turning their gaze to us.
He leans in and whispers in my ear, his breath smelling of rich wine.“His grandmother, Mia’s mother, lives upstairs.Both very much alive, I assure you.”
“I see that.Now.”
The boys stop fidgeting next to me and dash over to their mother, excitedly shouting, “Maman.”
Relief and joy flood me.
“Jemma, voici ma belle-mère et ma femme, Mia,” Henri says, introducing me to his very much alive wife and mother-in-law.“They don’t speak much English,” he adds.
His wife is beautiful in thatI woke up looking like thiskind of way with her full shoulder-length blonde hair artfully disheveled, yet perfectly styled, natural-looking makeup, except a dash of red across her thin lips, wearing casual jeans, white sneakers, and a blazer thrown over a white, boxy tee.Simple, but utterly stunning.The grandmother is just an older version of Mia, but slightly more elegant and donning a little more makeup, with the evidence caked into her laugh lines.
“C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer,” I stumble over my words, but I’m pretty sure I said it was nice to meet them.
Our meal plays out for another two hours and mostly in French.Luca is kind enough to pause every so often to translate snippets for me.I don’t bother to pay attention or keep up with the conversation; their rapid-fire French is a little too much for me.But the red wine and the bœuf bourguignon are more than enough to keep me entertained.The dishes seem to multiply, a continuous parade of new-to-me cuisine.Just when I think there can’t be anymore coming, a cheese plate is set in front of me.
I might burst if I eat another bite, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I take a little nibble.
Seriously, how do they all stay so fit when they eat like this?
“I hope you saved room for dessert.”Henri comes up from behind me, setting some sort of puff pastry in front of me.
Okay, it’s official—I’m going to burst.There’s no more room for this food.I smile and graciously accept the elegant pastry with zero intention of consuming it.
As I absentmindedly poke at the puff with my fork, Elias—who managed to win the spot beside me—asks a question, taking me completely off guard.“Do you love Christmas, Jemma?”
“Eh ...um”—my gaze drops back to my plate”—I used to really love Christmas.”Under the table, I wring my hands together nervously.
“Used to?”he presses, his voice soft and sweet.
Ugh!Why did I say that?
I want to reel the words back in.I’ve had too much wine.
Elias blinks, waiting for my response.
I swallow down the lump lodged in my throat.“Um—well, Christmas was my mother’s favorite holiday.Since she passed away, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it anymore.”
“Je suis désolé,” Elias whispers.I’m sorry.
“What was her favorite part of Christmas?”Mylan chimes in, clearly too naive to read the room or notice the massive frown clinging to my face.
“Christmas cookies.”The words catch in my throat as tears threaten my eyes.
I quickly divert my gaze to my nearly empty wine glass, desperate to keep my tears from spilling over.If I make eye contact with anyone around the table, I won’t be able to hold it together.
“Cookies?”both boys question, their voices coming together in a curious harmony.
