Page 104 of Host for the Holidays
“I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate the wonderful son you’ve raised.” I feel a little emotion rising in my throat and swallow it back down before it can commandeer this moment. “I grew up without a dad for most of my life, so I know some of the sacrifices it takes to do what you’ve done for Rémy. And I know how instrumental my mom has been in the person I’ve become. So I guess I just wanted to say thank you. Or maybe congratulations.”
It’s not my best work. I’d say six out of ten for eloquency, but ten out of ten for sincerity.
Madame Fortin blinks a couple of times, her hands still poised under the plates, ready to pick them up. She clears her throat. “Merci, Madi.”
I give a little smile and turn to take the plates to the table.
FORTY-THREE
RÉMY
I washesitant when Madi offered my mom help in the kitchen. No one loves my mom more than I do, but no one knows her better, either, and she can be . . . difficult. But when they emerge a few minutes later, Madi seems fine. In fact, she seems better than when I found her in the bathroom.
As for my mom . . . it’s hard to tell what she’s feeling or thinking because it’s always hard to tell with her.
Madi continues to seem better, despite the fact thatle Réveillonis one of the longest (and most delicious) meals in history. My mom likes to do it “right,” which means it lasts at least four hours. More than once during those hours, she looks at me, then shifts her eyes in a very not-inconspicuous way toward Monsieur Garnier.
It’s out of character for her, actually. She is a subscriber to the notion that work should not be discussed at the dinner table, and it seems Monsieur Garnier is, too, because he doesn’t bring up my email or the position.
Or maybe he saw my lesson plans and thought they were garbage, and he’s hoping the subject is never brought up so he doesn’t have to let me down. While the second option doesn’t appeal to my pride, itdoesappeal to the part of me that wants an easy way out of the situation a.k.a. not telling my mom I don’t actually want the job at Bellevue. Because I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that I don’t. I want to stay at Lycée Michel Gontier.
I realize it’s a lot to bring an American girl home with meanddestroy my mom’s career hopes for me all on a holiday, though, so I’d like to avoid that. I’m hoping Monsieur Garnier will hold off until after the Christmas break if he wants to discuss things.
When ten o’clock rolls around and things wrap up, I keep my eye on Madi while she and Élise say goodbye. They exchangebises—Madi’s got it down now—and Élise pulls away and says, “Don’t stay away too long, Madi.”
Madi glances at me, but my mom pulls me with her to walk Monsieur and Madame Garnier to the door.
“We hope you have a very enjoyable time at midnight mass,” my mom says as they step outside. “Oh, Monsieur Garnier, I meant to ask . . . did you receive Rémy’s email?”
I clench my jaw and stand aside to allow Élise to step out with her parents. Madi’s disappeared, and I’mreallyhoping Élise didn’t say anything else to scare her off.
“I did receive it,” Monsieur Garnier responds. “You’re a very promising candidate, Rémy, and I will certainly be in touch about the position once I’m back in the office.”
My mom recognizes the hint that he doesn’t want to discuss this on Christmas Eve, and with more thanks, holiday wishes, and a lingering kiss on the cheek from Élise, we send them off into the crisp night.
“How can you expect to be given the position if you don’t show any interest in it, Rémy?” my mom asks as I shut the door.
“I didn’t think he’d want to discuss it here.”Isure didn’t want to.
“Well, it sounds like we should feel encouraged, at least.” She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me. “Élise was looking very beautiful.”
I shoot my mom a look. For someone who can insult people with such impressive passive aggression, she is terrible at subtlety in other areas.
She sighs. “Madi looks beautiful too.”
“She does. But she’s a lot more than just beautiful, Mom. Thank you for letting me bring her.”
She doesn’t say anything, just nods. But a nod from my mom isn’t too shabby.
“I’m going to take her to midnight mass,” I say. “Would you like to come?”
She targets me with a brow. “I attend mass on Christmas Day, Rémy.” She starts walking back toward the dining room. “Besides, I have a mountain of dishes to do.”
To be honest, I’m relieved she doesn’t plan to come. I want some alone time with Madi. I think we need it. We turn out of the entryway, and I look for Madi, but she’s nowhere to be seen, and my heart drops. Is she in the bathroom again? Did she leave?
“Madi,” my mom says, stopping on the threshold of the kitchen. “You are a guest. You should not be doing the dishes.”
My shoulders relax, and the fear disintegrates that Madi decided this was all too much for her and just left.
