“Would have liked to accompany you,” she said, although as far as he knew, she’d never been on a bike in her life. “But you know, safety and all that.” She petted her belly significantly, and Max couldn’t help but look down at it.
Maxim wasn’t imagining things. Her pregnancy was beginning to show. It was now something that he couldn’t deny, not even to himself.
“Max!” The excited voice came from over Éloïse’s shoulder, and he looked beyond her to see his mother bustling toward him. Huimin Hong-Lavigne sailed in, holding out her arms. His mom was a good foot shorter than he was, yet she was able to stand on tiptoe and press a kiss on each of his cheeks. This came as a surprise, because she usually wasn’t this effusive—at least, not with him. He got the definite sense that something was up.
His mother beamed at him through eyes as dark as his own. She had been born in Singapore to a wealthy merchant family that had moved to France when she was a teen. At nineteen, she had married Max’s father in a union that was more of a corporate merger than a marriage.
As she matured, Huimin proved to be as knowledgeable about business as she was about raising a family, and ruled both domains with a kid-gloved fist.
For the past couple of weeks, Max’s dad, Olivier Lavigne, had been in New Zealand on a business trip, and from there, he would be heading to Australia for a few more weeks of meetings. Growing up, he was close with his dad, but their relationship suffered when Max left France to travel the world five years earlier. It had been six months since Max’s return to France, and though when he first returned his plan was to drop in and then return to his travels, his brother’s untimely death forced him to remain in France for the foreseeable future. Max’s hope now is to mend the relationship he has with his parents. They needed each other now more than anything.
“Viens, cher,” she said, leading him by the hand as if he was still five years old. “We have news, Éloïse and I.” She led a reluctant Max to the nearest parlor, and motioned for him to sit.
Out of her pocket, she pulled several strips of shiny white paper, upon which Max could clearly see printed images in black and white. “We have another sonogram! Look! There he is. There’s your baby!”
He took the strips of paper and looked at them. Once the images became clear to him, he was unable to drag his eyes away. The tiny creature, curled upon itself, was a baby; there was no doubt about that. It was developing distinct features, little hands and feet, a button nose.
Involuntarily, his eyes shifted to Éloïse’s belly, where this little thing now nestled. She rubbed her small bump contentedly, smiling at him in expectation.
“The doctor says that all is well,” his mom announced. “At the moment, it looks to be a boy, but we will have to wait for the next appointment for a confirmation. It is early yet.”
“I know it’s a boy,” Éloïse said smugly. “You’re going to have a son!”
“And we have decided to name him Julien, after your brother!” His mother glowed with the excitement of her joyful revelation.
Max cringed. There was much wrong with this. First, that these two women had made such a momentous decision without even consulting him. Second, that they had chosen the name of his older brother, who was dead mere months. Barely enough time for Maxim to grieve or to come to terms with the fact the brother he’d looked up to for so long was no longer there.
He bristled. “Whose idea was it?” he demanded.
She looked perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“Julien and Annalise are barely cold in their graves. Do you have any idea how much pain that would cause?”
“It would keep his memory alive!” she snapped back. She looked horrified, as if she couldn’t believe he would say something like this. “It’s almost as if you want to bury his name and his legacy—”
“You think I’d forget? You don’t think I miss Julien every day?” He was appalled that his own mother would believe that of him, but hardly surprised. He went on, “And I’d also imagine that I would be the one to choose the baby’s name—”
“Maybe you could, if you’d start acting like a father,” Éloïse interrupted.
He shot her a silencing look, but it bounced off her like Teflon.
Éloïse continued, “Maybe if you stood up to your responsibilities as a man, you’d have naming rights—”
“Elle a raison,” his mother piped up. “She’s absolutely right. It’s time, Maxim. We need to plan a wedding.” She gestured towards Éloïse’s abdomen. “She’s already showing! Why are you allowing this family to be embarrassed like this?”
“It’s the 21st century, mama. Nobody cares whether you’re pregnant when you marry—”
“Maybe not,” she cut in, “but it is important to me that you marry! And it’s time to set a date! Without further delay!”
Max hopped up.
He’d had enough. Éloïse was nodding in vigorous agreement with his mother’s assertions, and he was assailed by the urgent need to get out of here. “I’m going to take a shower,” he announced. “I’m already late for my shift at the bar.”
Éloïse rolled her eyes, and his mother scoffed. “The bar,” Huimin repeated bitterly. “The bar, the bar, the bar. I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with that place. It’s a dive and you know it. You’re wasting your time slinging beers and servingbaguettes au jambonwhen you should be taking your rightful place next to your father.”
“Papa doesn’t mind. Besides, the bar is one of the few tangible things I own myself,” he reminded her.
Another snort. “I will never understand why you bought that dump. Your brother should have divested from it while you were away. Julien was always my smarter son. Too bad he had a soft heart when it came to your frivolities.”