Page 30 of Host for the Holidays
“Hey, Mom.” I answer in French because . . . well, my mom and Ineverspeak English to each other. She can speak it pretty well, but she’s always insisted on speaking French, even when she and my dad were still married.
In that way, I had very distinct relationships with my parents. My dad always spoke English at home—when hewashome, that is—and Mom always spoke French. They even spoke this way to each other. Dad would say something to Mom in English, she would respond in French. It was normal for me growing up, since it’s all I knew, but I’ve since learned that it’s a really extreme example of a bilingual household. And probably a good example of why they got divorced.
“Hello, my dear,” she says. “How are you?”
I glance over at Madi. She’s got the black-and-white striped curtains in one hand, and she’s holding them up to a bunch of throw pillows, squinting her eyes, then shaking her head. She’s completely charming.
I turn to the drying racks. “I’m good. I miss you, though.” It’s true for the most part. I love my mom. She can be difficult sometimes—okay, a lot of the time—but her strict demeanor is a thing for a reason. She’s been through a lot, and she’s had no one to rely on most of the time. I’m lucky enough to see her soft side from time to time.
“I miss you, too,” she says in her matter-of-fact tone. “I’m calling about Christmas. Will you be coming forle Réveillon?”
I smile a little as I glance over the selection of racks, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder. “I’ll be there.” I would never dream of missing Christmas Eve dinner. It’s just Mom and me, but she still insists on asking me every year. If I said no, I doubt she’d show emotion, but I know her well enough to know she’d be crushed. It’s a huge production every time, leaving us with leftovers long past the point they’re edible.
“Rémy! I’ve found the perfect ones!” Madi comes up behind me, arms full of curtains and throw pillows. She freezes when she notices I’m on the phone, lifting her shoulders and clenching her teeth. “Sorry,” she mouths.
“Who is that?” my mom asks. Sounds like a reasonable question, but the tone she says it in is almost accusatory.
Shoulders still up and her back hunched over like the Grinch, Madi tiptoes toward the cart, dumping her load into it.
I smile at her antics even though she can’t see me. “It’s Madi. She’s the guest staying at André’s.”
“An American.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound completely nonchalant about it.
There’s a little silence. “Where are you? It’s very loud.”
“We’re at IKEA. I told André I’d help with decorating the apartment since he had to fly out before he could do everything.”
“You should be focusing on what you can do to get the position at Bellevue.”
My mom is really gunning for me to apply for a position at one of the more elite public schools in Paris. It would definitely be a step up, since right now I work for a private school that’s only been open for a couple of years.
“I can do both. I just have a couple more days of work, then I can focus more on the application.”
“Good, because I plan on inviting the Garniers forle Réveillon, and it will be a great opportunity for you to show Monsieur Garnier why you’re a good candidate.”
I don’t personally think Christmas Eve dinner is the best networking opportunity, but I’m not dumb enough to think that’s the only reason she’s inviting the Garnier family. My mom has been trying to make something happen between me and Élise Garnier for a few years now. She thinks she’s been subtle, but she hasn’t.
I haven’t commented on it much until now because Élise is in Paris infrequently enough that there’s never really a need. My mom also doesn’t know that Élise and I kissed the last time we saw each other. Or that I don’t plan to repeat the experience.
“Can I bring anything?” I ask.
“Between the Garniers and myself, we will have almost everything taken care of, but if you’ll bring some of thatfoie grasyou brought last time and then two baguettes, that should be plenty.”
“Of course.” I grab the drying rack I think will work best in the apartment, lifting it into the cart. With my phone between my shoulder and ear, though, it’s an attempt bound to fail. Madi steps in to help, but the drying rack is like an accordion, and it starts to expand, which she was clearly not expecting.
I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing at the thoroughly confused expression on her face. “Hey, can I call you back later, Mom?”
“No need,” she says. “I just wanted to check about dinner.”
“Love you,” I hurry to say before she can hang up.
“You too.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket and look at Madi.
“I’m so sorry,” Madi says, taking a break from the drying rack struggle. “I had no idea you were on the phone.”
