She gags midswallow and then pounds her chest, coughing. “Oh, Cadence. No. No, no, no. Your papa and I, we’re just friends.” Her brown skin deepens in color, though, and I don’t know if it’s because of my question or the juice or any feelings she might be harboring for her “friend.” She must sense I’m not convinced, because she reaches across the table and wraps her fingers around mine. “I love your papa, but not romantically. Besides, like I said, I have enough men in my life.” She adds this with a smile. “And trust me when I say this, no man wants a woman attached at the hip to eight-month-old twins who haven’t figured out that nights are meant for sleeping.”
I nod.
“Whatever made you think he and I”—she coughs again—“were together?”
“It’s just something Alma said.”
Gaëlle’s deep brown eyes grow wide. “Oh, gosh, I hope not too many people believe this.”
“I don’t think so. At least, I haven’t heard any rumors.”
She screws the lid back on her bottle, then twists it back off. “Your papa has helped me through a lot of things, emotionally and financially, which has brought us closer, but I promise you that nothing untoward has happened.”
“I trust you, Gaëlle.” And then I reach over, because she’s still toying with the cap of her bottle, and I feel guilty to have made her feel uncomfortable. “And if anything did, I wouldn’t be mad. I guess I would just want to be the first to know.”
I realize that, as I’m speaking these words, I actually mean them. I’d be happy for my father to connect with someone again. Especially since I sense his handicap has a lot to do with him being on his own. Even though he’s never burdened anyone with his condition and is supremely independent, dating someone in a wheelchair cannot be easy.
I pull my hand back to break off a chunk of cookie. As I chew on it, my gaze slides to the shop window where a little girl has her face squashed against the glass, attention riveted to the store mascot: a tarantula named Tracy. The thing freaks Alma out so much that I need to physically drag her intoAu Bon Sortto get her inside the shop.
Last spring, when we’d stopped by for iced coffees on one of the rare days not filled with cold rain and mist, we’d found Romain kneeling beside the shelf laden with Ouija boards. When we asked him what he was doing, he said he was looking for Tracy. Alma shrieked so loudly it caused a wave of panic. First, a shopper sniffing a candle dropped it, and glass sprayed everywhere. Then, Gaëlle, who’d been carrying over a platter of drinks, jumped, which knocked the cups over. They splashed her pregnant belly before teetering off the platter and breaking like the candle holder. And then two little girls, who’d come to shop for costumes, clawed at their mother’s legs, bawling.
When Romain had risen back up, face as red as the apron tied around his waist, mumbling “April Fool’s” and pointing to Tracy, lounging about in her tank, Gaëlle, usually an extremely placid person, had turned so livid I was a little afraid she’d go into premature labor. I caught Romain’s eye over his stepmom’s shaking shoulders and had grinned. Feeling bad for him, I’d gone to grab the duster to help clean up. Had Tracy really been on the loose, I would’ve probably pulled an Alma and skipped out of the store, minus the banshee-screaming part.
I frown as I catch sight of a man standing outside the shop, right behind the little girl ogling Tracy’s tank. At first, I think he might be a homeless drifter loaded on too muchchouchen, but then my breath hitches because I recognize him. “Gaëlle!”
“What?” The cap of her bottle jerks out of her hand, hits the sugar dispenser, and rolls off the table.
“Matthias! He’s outside!”
Her face turns ashen.
I don’t wave hello to Gaëlle’s ex-husband. Instead, I glance toward Romain, who’s wiping down the glass case. I worry how he’ll react if he catches sight of his father.
A cold stream of liquid drips onto my lap, and I jerk away from the table.
Gaëlle’s spilled her drink and is so shell-shocked that I don’t think she notices. I grab a handful of napkins from the dispenser beside the sugar and blot my jeans as she slowly, slowly turns in her chair.
Matthias looks miserable and pasty, his tie loose, his cardigan buttoned all wrong. Gaëlle goes as still as my mother’s statues. I think she might’ve even stopped breathing. A second later, she stands, walks over to the door of the shop and twists the deadbolt. And then she flips the OPEN/CLOSED sign, croaks something to Romain, which makes him look up but not out, so it’s probably not about his estranged dad showing up out of the blue. The boy nods, then unties his apron and, folding it carefully, heads toward the staircase that leads to their private apartment atop the shop.
Like a ghost, Gaëlle floats toward the three remaining customers and tells them she has an emergency and must close up early. Her spooked look makes them gather their things quickly and without protest. Once lined up at the door, Gaëlle unlocks it to let them pass through. None look toward Matthias; they all walk right past him.
As she locks the door again, a shudder goes through her, making her bun shake so hard the pen escapes. Curly strands fall down her rigid back.
I toss the wet napkins on the table, then walk over to her. “Do you want me to go talk to him?”
“No!” The word snaps out of her mouth.
The mother of the little girl ogling Tracy must notice Matthias, because she holds out her hand to beckon her daughter away. The little girl pouts but obediently backs up. Straight into Gaëlle’s ex. Scratch that. StraightthroughGaëlle’s ex.
Oh.
Crap.
Gaëlle slaps her palm against her mouth, stifling another gasp. “C-call Rainier. C-c-c-call him.”
I race into the kitchen where I left my bag. My phone feels lubed up because it takes me three attempts to wrestle it out of the front pocket. Speed-dialing Papa, I run back into the shop. I’m half expecting Matthias to have drifted right through the glass, but he’s still standing outside. His mouth curves into a terrifying smile, terrifying because he’s missing so many teeth and blood is trickling out of his mouth. And what’s wrong with his head? It’s a little concave around his left temple, as though he was hit by a crowbar, and it remolded his skull.
Forget thegroac’h.
