Fortunately, I had no assignments the following day or the day after. I was certain I would have been a disappointment, and Mrs. Brittany had left no doubt about what result that would have. I did all I could to forget about my mother’s message, but it wouldn’t let go. I didn’t go to the church service. I had the limousine take me there, and then I sat in it and watched the people go in and then come out. I had the driver follow far behind the funeral procession to the cemetery and park a good distance away. Then I walked to the very edge of the section and watched the burial from a distance, behind a tree, my gaze locked on Mama and Emmie, who both looked so small and lost to me. I thought that attending even from this distance might diminish the anger I felt toward Papa, but his dying made me even more furious. He was still hurting the people he was supposed to love, hurting them by dying.
I couldn’t wait to get away, expecting that now I could put it all to bed and forget again, and I probably would have if it hadn’t been for M. Little did I know that she had been spying on me and knew where I was and what I was doing, but it was Mr. Bob who stuck his neck out. I always knew he had a greater fondness for me than he had for any other Brittany girl. I was his special personal discovery.
I should have expected that Mrs. Brittany would know about my father’s passing. She said nothing. It was, I assumed, another secret test. Since I had no assignments during the funeral or right after, I was fine with being tested. I did well with the first assignment I had afterward, too.
But then Mr. Bob was given a letter M had managed to leave for me at the hotel.
“I thought about just destroying it,” he said. “But I have more faith in you now. Whatever it says, you’ll handle it, I’m sure. However, let’s leave this just between us, okay?”
I knew he meant never to mention it to Mrs. Brittany.
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” I told him.
I didn’t open it in front of him. I waited until he had left, and then I poured myself a glass of white wine and sat at the bar, staring down at the envelope. I couldn’t help but smile at the way M had written my name. She was still doing what she did with the R, giving it a little curving tail. I opened it slowly, took a breath, and then read it.
Dear Roxy,
You and I haven’t seen or spoken to each other for years. You knew Papa knew who and what you are now. There’s no point in pretending anything. I don’t care how angry you were at him and Mama. Papa died, and Mama left you a message with your service and at your hotel, and I know you are there. She tried to reach out to you, thinking you might have an ounce of decency left. I think it’s horrible that you wouldn’t even respond.
All I can say is that even with your rich possessions, you’re someone I pity.
Your sister, Emmie
Inside the envelope was the charm bracelet I had once given her. It had a wonderful variety of charms that included the Eiffel Tower, a fan, a pair of dancing shoes, and a dream catcher. My mother’s brother, my uncle Alain, had given it to me when my parents and I were in France visiting. This was before M was born. I had given it to her just a few weeks before my father ordered me out of the house.
My first reaction was sadness. Tears came to my eyes, but that was quickly followed by the familiar rage that had enabled me to put my family on a shelf. I resented M for pulling it off that shelf. I didn’t want to resent her, but it was the safest reaction I could have. I hated myself for having it, but I needed it.
I left the letter and the charm bracelet on the bar for days and tried not to look at them again. But that didn’t work. Finally, I put them both at the bottom of a drawer. I dived into my work, took on every assignment Mrs. Brittany sent in my direction, and came close to drinking too much with a French cabinet minister one night but managed to get through it. I knew I was off my stride, and those damn nights tossing and turning in my sleep as I agonized over M’s letter and the charm bracelet were tearing me down.
Finally, hoping for some closure, I took the charm bracelet out of the drawer and called for the limousine. I had the driver park across from M’s school just as the school day ended and the students emerged. When the first ones appeared, I got out and stood by the limousine. She appeared and saw me there. I thought she might rush off in the opposite direction, but she came to me. I had worked on hardening my heart, but as she approached and I saw how pretty she was and how much she looked like Mama, I felt myself softening. I did my best to fight it back, but it was like holding back a cascade of memories too heavy to be stopped. She got into the vehicle, and I had the driver take us through the park. I was hoping to turn her out of my life forever.
“You walk and hold yourself just like I do. It’s the damn rod Papa had installed in us when we were born, that perfect military posture. Ironically, for me it’s been an asset. So what are you, in tenth grade?” I asked, trying to sound as indifferent and bitter as I could.
“Yes.”
“And I’m sure a good student,” I said, making that sound bad or stupid.
“Not lately, although I’m doing better than I was.”
I was interested in how she had found out where I was. She told me she had overheard the conversation Papa had with Mama after he saw me with his business associate. I told her I was at the funeral but too far away for her to notice.
“It would have pleased Mama to know,” she said.
She had the same grit I had at her age, I thought, but I wouldn’t tolerate her making me feel bad. “Would it? I doubt she would have shown it. He’s gone, but his influence over her is probably as strong as it ever was.”
“That’s not true,” she fired back at me, her eyes as big and as furious as mine could get.
“Please. There’s so much you don’t know. I suppose I shouldn’t hold her as responsible as I do. She was a European woman from a family where the women were always subservient to their men, and when you were married to a soldier like Papa, you were trained and obedient.”
“Papa wasn’t a soldier, and he was your father, too.”
“Excusez-moi? He didn’t enlist or go to officers’ school, but he was in the army from the day he was born. I remember our grandfather. You don’t. Emotions like love and compassion are signs of weakness to the Wilcox men. I never had any doubt that if your father was in your grandfather’s regiment, he wouldn’t hesitate to send him to the front lines, and if your father was killed in battle, he’d write a letter to his wife and himself with the same official signature and stamp. That’s how our father grew up, and that’s how he wanted us to grow up, or at least me.”
I hated how bitter I sounded, but I thought it was the right medicine to give her. She was speechless for the moment, so I had the driver take us to her home.
“Are you coming in to see Mama?” she asked.
“No.”