“Why did we pick dinner? What if she doesn’t like it?” I ask.
Madame can cook as well as Julia Child. What was I thinking?
My phone dings and we both freeze.
I pick it up. She’s here. The guard shack just notified us.
“Maybe we should put the Notes outside? What if she doesn’t like them? She always wears black, every hair will show.” My questions tumble out, not giving Meg a chance to answer.
“It will be fine,” Meg says, not sounding at all certain.
I trail her as she heads out to the driveway to greet her mother.
Madame is dropped off by a town car. The back door is opened by the driver, and all I hear is the single tap of her walking stick hit the drive. Elegant black ballet flats follow.
I swallow to alleviate the lump in my throat and move forward.
She stands regally, graying blonde hair in a braid that shines against the black wool suit.
As she steps away, she gives a nod to Meg. Then she stops. Eyes me.
I struggle to stand still under her regard. The urge to fidget is almost overwhelming.
I curtsy, as if I were fifteen and back in her ballet class. “Madame.”
Her chin goes up. “Christianna.”
I rise from my curtsy as she scrutinizes me.
“Your color is better. You have gained back the weight you lost. Good. You no longer look like a twelve year old waif. Now come give me a hug.”
I rush to her, and she enfolds me. Her scent hasn’t changed. Yves Saint Laurent Opium, faint and unmistakable. I inhale the familiarity, the notes of clove and lily of the valley bringing a warm rush of memories.
“I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Forgive me?” I whisper.
“Family doesn’t ask for forgiveness, my child. Now show me this house and the Notes. Meg has sent me photos. They looked to be in the same shape as you were. Hopefully you have put some weight on them too.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Non.” Her accent rises with her emotion. “We are at home. I am Mama.”
With an imperious tilt of her head, we make our way into the house where the dogs are falling over themselves to greet us.
A smile of joy lights her face as she bends to offer her hand, which Treble takes as a sign and goes right to her.
“Dinner should be ready,” Meg says. “There is a washroom just there,” she points, “and we can give you a tour after.”
As soon as she disappears into the restroom, we let out matching breaths and exchange a look so familiar I almost laugh. I think we have exchanged this same look every time she has left the room for the last fourteen years.
Dinner is full of conversation. We are catching her up on all the goings-on at the Opera House.
“What was the fallout from that little man’s article?” Madame asks.
“Ah, well, it was very awkward at first until Erik dealt with it.”
“Yes, yes. Meg sent me the video. Excellent work. I suppose since you no longer sing or dance, it is an acceptable use of your talent.”
“Yes, Mama. Did Meg tell you about the return of the Dark Angel?”
