Page 21 of Afraid to Hope

“I did. But without my parents speaking of it, well, it’s as if it didn’t happen to Papa or to his family. It never seemed real.” Natasha crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Clara said. “During apartheid, laws were enacted making it illegal to be intimate with or marry a person of another color. With the approval of his parents, Peter left South Africa with missionaries and received an education. Like his parents, Peter’s citizenship was reinstated in 1994 when Mandela came to power. Apartheid came to an end. Peter returned to South Africa to work, falling in love with Marie when she and Henri and Josette—your grandparents—were vacationing in the Cape. Marie and Peter married in a small ceremony on the beach, long before doing so was popular. Henri and Josette flew us down to witness the ceremony of their only child and support the newlyweds. It was a lovely ceremony. So intimate. So much love. Everyone cried.”

“Bane and I were married on the beach at sunset.”

“Oh, how I wish I—both of us—could have been there.”

Her smile and her voice were soft. “Me too.”

Clara patted Natasha’s hand. “Well, in matters of the heart, you just listen.”

“I looked at those pictures so often, wondering why it was only Mémé and Pépé and you and Oliver present.” Natasha sighed.

“Peter’s parents would not accept Marie, even after the marriage, and that created further strain. Your parents were living in Johannesburg while Peter worked and finished his degree in architecture, so enamored was he with what Henri did. Marie was a guest lecturer at the university. Peter was so excited about your birth and pleaded with his parents to come see you, but they refused. Josette and Henri arrived to help a week before you were born. They stayed longer and helped your parents move to France with you as soon as they secured work. Peter renounced his South African citizenship after receiving French citizenship five years later. You know the rest.”

“Papa renounced his South African citizenship? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. Peter had hoped your birth would foster reconciliation, but his parents showed no inclination to welcome you into the Jordaan family. He renounced his citizenship soon afterward. Josette and Henri discovered that after your parents and brothers were killed, when they reached out to Peter’s family. Peter’s parents told your grandparents their son had been dead to them upon marrying their daughter. They would never accept their interracial marriage.”

Natasha shook her head in disbelief as the pieces fell into place. “I didn’t know. I now understand why Papa’s family was polite but aloof. I thought it was me. But it wasn’t. They’re just close-minded people. We’ve come a long way in our world today.”

“You have. Many have, able to forgive and move forward. But many cannot, remaining entrenched in their experiences, in their pasts. It’s really not for us to judge. Try not to blame Peter’s parents, dear, but understand their perspective. Marie represented apartheid, the racist system that nearly destroyed them.”

“But to put something like that ahead of your child? I don’t get that. When does the healing begin?”

“I may be speaking out of turn, but I believe Josette thought she had your best interests in mind when she decided not to share Peter’s story, believing you would not pursue your South African family since you had never met any of them. Henri disagreed. It was one of the few times I can remember your grandparents being cold with one another. Then Henri died. And Josette.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rose with her question. “So I shouldn’t judge Mémé either?”

“What purpose does it serve? Your grandmother loved you with every fiber of her soul.” Clara smiled sadly and squeezed Natasha’s hand, then yawned. “I need to get some sleep, dear. And you need to be with your husband.”

“Thank you for talking with me. For listening. For always being there for me. I love you, Clara,” Natasha said, rising.

Clara rose as well and stepped in, hugging Natasha, her head coming only to Natasha’s shoulder. “I love you too and missed you so. I’m so glad you’re here, and I look forward to meeting Bane.”

They walked to the front door. Clara lightly touched the Fatima on Natasha’s wrist. Her eyes welled up as she spoke. “Fatima’s hand channels good, healing energy. Allow yourself to be filled with the blessing of joy and peace. Open your soul, dear. Embrace hope and trust your heart. Sleep well.” She hugged Natasha one more time before closing the door.

Movement is a blessing.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, I have coffee. I also have tea,” Natasha said curtly, taking a break from her dates, tea, and pastry in the kitchen. “Sorry,” she mumbled, looking down immediately and busying herself with her skirt while taking him in surreptitiously. “I also went to the bakery. The pastries are in the sack.”

Bane stopped in his tracks and rubbed the back of his neck. “Um. I don’t want to put you out. Whatever you have ready is fine.”

“Tea.”

“Tea is good. Thanks.” He helped himself to several pastries and added a small pile of dates to his plate, then sat down at the table.

Natasha presented her back to him as she ate at the counter, so he took the opportunity to observe her. She was exquisite. Delicately boned without seeming frail. A natural linen skirt flowed to just above her shapely ankles, with a loose red tank tucked into it. Her narrow waist, which he could easily span with both hands, was accentuated with a colorful woven belt. The tank set off her burnished-sepia complexion and lean, toned arms. Her sun-kissed brown hair was piled into a loose knot, highlighting the fine bones in her face. He ached to unpin it and run his hands through the silky-looking curls. Oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head and large loops hung from her ears, almost matching the silver color her eyes changed to when her emotions ran high. Her silhouette was elegant, regal. What would it be like to run his tongue over her jawline and the column of her neck, graze her beautiful skin with his teeth?

As if she heard his silent question, she turned, regarding him with a slate stare that rivaled polished gunmetal. He noted that she wore a shimmery rose-tinted gloss on her full lips. That he would like to kiss that color off her lips also passed through his mind before he uttered, “Simon will be here shortly. Will you be ready?”

Natasha placed her cup on the counter too roughly, spilling the tea. “Of course I’m ready,” she scoffed, wiping up her mess. “Are you?”

“Someone is a grumpy girl this morning.” Bane chuckled. “Have another pastry.”

“Look,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. “I’m tired and I don’t like this… this cover… one bit.”

---