25
Gigi
We’d unpacked and hung up our clothes. Then took quick showers to wash the travel grime off. By the time we were finished and back upstairs, his mom had a table full of food ready for us.
“Ahh, you look refreshed,” she said, gesturing to us with her hands to sit.
Beau was holding my hand. He pulled me closer and spoke in my ear, “Do you mind if my mom speaks exclusively in French?”
“Of course not. That would be nice,” I said to him, telling the truth. I loved hearing and speaking the language of my birthright. It reminded me of home. Of my mother.
Beau cleared his throat as he guided me to the table, then pulled out a chair for me. Speaking in French, he said, “Geneviève enjoys when we speak French, Mother.”
She sat down and gave me the sweetest look. “You are a dream, Geneviève.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Moreau. I’m afraid my French is not as crisp and refined as yours, but nothing would make me happier. If you can bear with my poor verbiage, that is,” I told her in my best French.
“No, no, my dear, your French is beautiful. Don’t you think so, Beau?” she asked her son.
He grinned as he answered her back while looking down at me, “I do, Mother. Extremely beautiful.” His eyes wandered my face and then down to my chest before landing back on my eyes.
That was when I decided to change the subject. “The food looks wonderful. We bought a few snacks on the plane, but nothing great.”
“Eat, please, eat,” she said enthusiastically. “And Geneviève, please call me, Monique. We are family now, after all.”
I smiled at her, while at the same time quietly kicking Beau under the table.
He didn’t do anything except smile at his plate.
Beau
“What areyour plans for the rest of the day?” Mom asked as Geneviève and I ate.
I wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin. “I was going to take Gigi around and show her some of the sights.”
“When was the last time you were in Montréal?” Mom asked Gigi.
“Years ago—I was maybe thirteen when I visited Angelique and Marcel last? Something like that,” she said, then took another bite of her croissant.
“I wonder if we were in town at the same time?” I said, trying to calculate how old I would have been when she was thirteen—then not liking that number very much.
“Uh, yeah you were,” she mumbled a bit, which I thought was cute as hell.
I stared at her, waiting for her to look up. “How do you know?”
Her eyes on me, she seemed almost embarrassed. “My dad and I went to your game.”
My heart constricted so tightly, my chest actually hurt at the thought of a young Gigi and her dad watching me play. “You and your dad watched?”
“And Marcel and Angelique.”
“They’re my godparents,” I informed her. It wasn’t something I told many people. Nepotism and all.
Her eyes shot to me and she grinned. “I know. They’re mine, too.”
I set my croissant on my plate. “They’re your godparents? How did I not know that?”
She shrugged and took another bite while this floated around my brain.