Danielle Steel - Legacy (2010)

Chapter 20

Marc called her on her BlackBerry when she was on the way to the airport. He said that he just wanted to say goodbye to her again. He was trying to sound cheerful about it, but she could tell that he was sad, and so was she. It really was rotten luck in a way, she thought to herself, she had met a man she really liked, and he lived three thousand miles away. It happened that way sometimes, but it would have been nice if they lived in the same city. Instead she had had a great time with him, and she was taking home a souvenir of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe that was good enough. She thanked him again for everything, and dinner the night before, and he thanked her for the time she had spent with him. He was no longer trying to convince her to stay. He had understood.

She said goodbye to him, and checked her bags in when she got to the airport. She was flying to New York, to see her mother first, and give her the notes on everything she’d learned in France. Brigitte wanted to hand them over to her, so Marguerite could get on with her genealogy, and Brigitte would keep a copy for herself. It was nice to have, in memory of an extraordinary time and their remarkable Indian relative.

She went through security. The flight was on time, and once they were in the air, she laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Marc had said he would e-mail her from time to time, and she had promised to do the same. And now, she had to concentrate on finding a job. She had had a great time in Paris, but she had to get on with her life. She was looking forward to seeing her mother and telling her about the trip.

Brigitte watched two movies, had a meal, and slept for two hours on the flight. She woke up just as the captain announced that they were landing in New York. It had gone very fast. And once she was in the airport, picking up her bags, she felt as though she had been shot out of a cannon. All the gentility of Paris had vanished. People jostled her, all the porters were somewhere else as she struggled with her bag. There was an endless line of people waiting for a taxi, it was raining, people were shouting at each other, and she wanted to run back into the terminal and catch the first plane back to Paris. Welcome to New York.

She finally managed to get a cab, gave him her mother’s address, and called to tell her she was on her way. They were going out to dinner together, and when Brigitte got to the apartment, she ceremoniously handed over the folder full of meticulous notes about their ancestors, before she did anything else. Her mother hugged her gratefully, and thought Brigitte looked very well. She seemed relaxed and happier and more at ease in her own skin than she had in a long time. Her mother looked at her through narrowed eyes and told her she appeared more “confident.” Brigitte was amused at her choice of words, and then realized she was right. That was how she felt. All her anxiety about what would happen to her next seemed to have vanished. She was still childless, unmarried, and unemployed, but she felt good about herself. The time in Paris had done her good, and so had Marc.

They chatted for about an hour in the apartment, about Wachiwi, the court diaries, the marquis, his brother, the château, and the Bibliothèque Nationale. And her mother was impressed. Brigitte had learned so much in such a short time. It was the most efficient, thorough job of research Marguerite had ever seen, and she was astounded that Brigitte had navigated the National Archives by herself.

“Well, I have to admit, I had some help,” Brigitte confessed. “I met a writer at the library, and he gave me a hand. He’s a historian, and a professor, and he knew the place like the back of his hand, and he showed me around. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.”

“That’s interesting.” Her mother was curious, but didn’t want to press her, but Brigitte volunteered the rest. Or most of it anyway. Not the kiss on the last night. Some things were better left unsaid.

“He came to Brittany with me, and told me all about the Chouans, the aristocrats who resisted the revolutionaries and fought to keep their châteaux. It’s very interesting stuff.” Apparently. And so was the fact that Brigitte had gone to Brittany with him. Marguerite wondered if anything else had happened there, but didn’t ask. Her daughter was looking very well, and had a new light in her eyes. Her mother wondered if it was love, or even passion. Whatever it was, it was very becoming. Brigitte was looking terrific, and she was full of excitement as they talked about everything she’d found. She told her mother it was all in the folder she had given her.

“I can’t wait to read it.”

“Marc thinks I should write a book about it,” she volunteered as they left for dinner. They were going to a neighborhood restaurant on Madison Avenue that her mother liked.

“Marc?” Her mother looked quizzical as the doorman hailed a cab for them. This was getting more interesting by the minute.

“He’s the writer I mentioned. He thought I could fictionalize it, or do it as a historical. The story is so good, I don’t think fiction would add anything to it.” Her mother wanted to hear more about the man she kept mentioning, and finally at the end of dinner, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. His name had come up several times.

“Did anything happen with this Frenchman you met?” She wondered if Brigitte had fallen in love, but she didn’t look it. She looked peaceful and happy. She didn’t have the anguished look of someone who had left a man she loved in Paris. But her mother sensed that she was different.

“No, I didn’t let it. There’s no point starting something, and then leaving. It would have been a mess. Long-distance relationships never work. I just had a good time with him. That’s all it was. But I’ll admit, it’s too bad he doesn’t live in Boston. You don’t meet guys like him too often. He tried to talk me into coming to Paris for a year to write the book. I’m not going to do that. I doubt I’ll ever do it. I have a book to finish. And I have to find a job in Boston, that’s where I live.” Her mother nodded and thought that everything Brigitte was saying was so pat and sensible that she wondered if it was real. She was beginning to wonder if Brigitte had fallen in love with this man and didn’t even know it. But she didn’t say that to her daughter. She just nodded, and listened, and watched her, and pretended to believe her, since Brigitte appeared to have convinced herself of everything she was saying.

“Do you think he’ll come to visit you in Boston?”

“He said he might. Although I’ll probably never see him again. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense, sweetheart. Or not always,” her mother said gently. “Feelings aren’t sensible. Sometimes you fall in love with people who don’t make sense. And the ones who do make sense turn out to be the wrong ones.” Like Ted, where their six-year affair went nowhere. “Is he in love with you?” Marguerite asked, curious about him.

“He doesn’t know me well enough to be,” Brigitte insisted, and she had told herself the same thing. “He likes me. Maybe even a lot.” Marguerite sensed that there was more to it than that, on both sides, but she didn’t push. And for the rest of the evening they talked about Wachiwi, who was an inexhaustible subject. And Brigitte’s mother agreed with Marc, although she didn’t know him. She thought Brigitte should write a book about her in some form. She obviously had a deep attachment to the subject. Far more than she did for her book about suffrage, which seemed to have died on the vine, or in the research years before. Her mother thought she should shelve it for the time being and do this one, and she said as much to her daughter when they went back to the apartment. Brigitte still didn’t look convinced, any more than she was when she and Marc talked about it. She was scared.