Page 89 of Love on the Vine
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My mother and I hadn’t seen each other since my father had passed away, and then it was only to meet with his lawyer to sign papers for the inheritance. So it was strange to see her stepping out of the black BMW that dropped her off from the airport. She was as elegant as ever in a loose white cotton dress, her pale blonde hair pulled back in a chignon, and oversized black sunglasses obscuring most of her face.
“Moeder,” I mumbled as I kissed her cool cheek. The scent of Chanel N°5 enveloped me, evoking memories of other awkward embraces and of the ghostly trail of perfume she always left behind when she abandoned me to the babysitter.
“Jakob,” she said as I bent to pick up her suitcase, and she slid her sunglasses off, surveying the house. “My goodness, this is much larger than I expected. You must have a lot of visitors.”
The subtext wasn’t lost on me: I had plenty of space; why hadn’t I ever invited her?
“Yeah, people do tend to just show up and expect a room.” I thought of the few times that had happened this summer and then, of course, my mind drifted to the one guest I never wanted to leave.
As I showed her around, she sniffed. “I don’t understand why you don’t spend more time here instead of traveling for most of the year.”
“It just never really felt like home.”Until this summer.
“Well, you certainly wouldn’t know that.” She gestured at the herb garden, the artfully placed candles, the antique vases, and painted ceramic bowls and other objects that Olivia had collected over the summer. I hadn’t touched anything since Olivia left, and her presence was everywhere. “It looks like someone loves this place.”
A knowing smile tugged at my mother’s lips. I didn’t respond. And frankly, it surprised me that she was curious. She’d never asked about girlfriends or pressured me to get married. She’d never once mentioned grandchildren, and I always imagined that, given her resistance to motherhood, the idea of having grandkids to take care of held little appeal.
“You have a cat?” She nodded toward the bowl of half-eaten cat food on the terrace.
“He’s more of the village cat, but for some reason he likes it best here.” The cat and I had made a tentative peace since I’d been back. Though I still caught him searching for Olivia, and I was sure he was holding a grudge against me for scaring her away.
I showed my mother to her bedroom—the guest suite that had been overrun with boxes. Olivia had redecorated it with the old photos she’d found. My mother studied each photograph as if she were discovering a Renaissance masterpiece at the Louvre, even pulling her bifocals on to study a glamorous portrait of herself at Les Deux Magots.
“I certainly was pretty here.” She smiled. “Did I tell you that I’ve started modeling for an ad campaign for de Bijenkorf? I may even do a runway show in Paris for fashion week this fall. Can you imagine? At my age?”
“Why not?” I wondered aloud. “You’re still stunning.”
She peered over her glasses at me. “Is that a compliment? I don’t know if you’ve ever given me one before.”
I would have given you thousands if you’d been around to hear them. “Of course I have, but maybe not enough.”
She sighed. “And I haven’t given you enough either. I’m so impressed with all you’ve accomplished, Jakob. You should know that. And I’m so pleased to finally see it all in person. Thank you for inviting me.”
This sudden effusion of emotion baffled me. Was this the same woman who’d raised me? My mother had clearly changed since she’d left my father and moved back to the Netherlands.
“Are you hungry? I thought we could go to a restaurant tonight,” I suggested.
“Oh, why don’t we make something here? I can make a nice salad. With fish maybe? And you can choose an expensive bottle of wine from your cellar.”
“You cook?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment.
“You’re like your grandmother, amazed that I know what a frying pan is. Yes, I have enrolled in cooking classes. I don’t always enjoy it, but it was a challenge I set for myself.” She plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you somefrikandellen. Your grandmother’s recipe.”
The image of my mother frying sausages over a hot stove, draped in pearls and a Hermès scarf, while my ninety-year-old grandmother supervised, was so strange I almost laughed. My grandmother was the consummate homemaker, always feeding me whenever we went back to the Netherlands for the summer.
“I’ll have to visit her soon,” I promised. “I’d like to see you cook for her in person. I have a hard time imagining it.”
“Well, you will see. She likes my cooking. Most of the time.” She smoothed her hair and studied me. “And there is someone else who likes my cooking that I want you to meet.”
“Really? A boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say it was boyfriend.” Before the implications of that hit me, she was up and walking toward the door. “Now, show me your kitchen.”
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By the end of the next day, my mother had revealed herself to be not only a decent cook, but an amateur of new age philosophy who was happily pursuing a polyamorous relationship.
