Page 100 of Host for the Holidays
I hesitate before responding, trying to decide whether I should tell him about the change in Madi’s and my relationship. But there’s nothing really official to tell—we’re just seeing where things go. Besides, I know Madi well enough now to feel confident she wouldn’t 2-star the Airbnb even if thingsdidturn sour between us. Telling André would just be causing him unnecessary stress.
Rémy:I’m glad you like it. I hope it takes some of your stress away and helps get you more bookings. How’s your mom?
We text back and forth a bit as he gives me updates on his mom’s treatments. Things are starting to look up—and I’m really hoping they continue to do so. André deserves the merriest Christmas he can get.
After picking up the foie gras, we stop in at IKEA for some string lights and a miniature Christmas tree, which Madi is totally on board with, despite the fact that it’s only two feet tall.
It takes all of five minutes to set it up, but it’s surprising how much joy it brings to the main room of André’s apartment. The string lights on the windows really bring it all together.
“We should have grabbed some dinner while we were out,” I say as we gather up the garbage from our decorating endeavors.
“Oh,” she says, “I actually already ordered some food to be delivered. Should be here any—”
The doorbell rings, and I give her a look like she might have some supernatural powers I was hitherto unaware of. I press the button to ring the delivery guy in, and a couple minutes later, I open the door to the smell of Finger Lickin’ Chicken on the welcome mat.
I pick it up and glance at Madi, who smiles and stands there, encapsulating everything I ever wanted in a woman.
Our fingers are greasy, and we’re halfway through the food when my phone rings with a video call. My heart stutters at the name on the screen. It’s my dad.
I don’t remember the last time he video called me, which is crazy now that I think about it, but we’ve mostly texted. I hurry to wipe my hands clean, then swipe open the call.
It’s weird having Madi meet my dad. Weird in a good way. I don’t know what to expect from him meeting a girl I care about, but he’s surprisingly cool as he talks to her. He doesn’t say anything embarrassing or overeager, but I can tell he likes her. That makes one of my parents, at least.
“Well,” he says after a few minutes, “I won’t keep you two any longer. I figured you’d be busy tomorrow, though—I know how your mom feels about doing a properRéveillon, so I wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Scott,” Madi says. “Merry Christmas to you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Madison. Take care of Rémy, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, but he’s really the one taking care of me.”
My dad smiles. “That’s my boy.”
FORTY-TWO
MADI
We’re technically stillin Paris, but this is suburban Paris, and it’s completely different from the city. Hedges line either side of the street, punctuated at regular intervals to make space for driveways. It’s not that different from an American suburb for the most part, but there’s still something foreign about it. Maybe it’s the narrower driveways and garages, or maybe it’s the look of the windows. It’s just different enough to make a few nerves pop their heads out of hiding like ground squirrels.
This is Rémy’s domain, so I let him set the pace. I don’t really know what he’s told his mom about us. He keeps my hand in his and squeezes it as we walk up to the door. He coached me a bit on the way here about what to expect.
The Garnier family is already there, and Rémy has to let go of my hand and set down the baguettes andfoie grasin order to greet them, including Élise. I wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that she was going to be here, but it’s actually nice to see a familiar face amongst all the unfamiliar ones.
Rémy introduces me in French, putting his arm around my waist. Having him act so confident, so . . .possessive, for lack of a better word, calms my nerves a bit. It makes me feel a bit more like I belong, which is a good thing because I stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone else looks so effortlessly chic, while I’m regretting my decision to dress in bright and festive red and green. I look like I’m crying out for attention. If anyone needs me, I’ll just be over here confirming stereotypes about Americans.
Rémy’s mom is a petite woman with short, brown hair and dark-framed glasses. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I’ve unknowingly stepped in front of a panel of judges at a Miss America pageant. Or a Miss France pageant. Either way, I don’t want to see the score cards. Her stern expression coupled with her extra tidy appearance gives me the urge to fiddle with my clothes and hair.
“Maman,” Rémy says softly. He lets go of me and steps over to her, pulling her into his arms. She only comes up to his shoulder, and he leans his head over to press a kiss into her hair.
That sight shifts something in me. I don’t know Madame Fortin, but I’m ready to like her for the sole fact that she raised Rémy. So when the two of them separate, I step toward her.
“Bonsoir, madame,” I say, hoping more than ever that Madame Wilson wasn’t just trying to boost the bottomless pit of adolescent self-esteem when she told me I had a good accent.
Even if it’s a bit tight, Madame Fortin’s smile lightens her expression a bit. “Hello, Madison. We are glad you could come.” Her accent is much stronger than Rémy’s, but it makes her sound elegant. I don’t know that I believe her about being glad I could come, but I’m going to pretend I do because otherwise, I’ll spend the rest of the night extra self-conscious, and those levels are already dangerously high.
She ushers us over to the living room, where there’s a spread of drinks and little snacks.
“Amuse-bouches,” Rémy whispers in my ear as we sit down. “That’s what we call appetizers.”
