Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
I made a face, even though I did remember that story.
“Yeah,” he responded to the expression I made. “And I named our kids what I named them because I knew it would make him happy. I didn’t even think about why I was doing it. Like I didn’t think about why I left you.”
“Remy, just because your father is who he is, you’re a French-American man. You have dual citizenship. You made certain the kids did too.”
His face twisted because he thought he’d done that for his father too.
This had to be stopped.
So I got closer, lifting my hand to his neck, curling it around and squeezing.
“Remy, France is wonderful. You love it there. Your dad is who he is, but you love your Uncle Luc, your Aunt Francesca. You adored your grandparents and they adored you. You picked Paris for our honeymoon, for goodness’ sake, because you think it’s the most beautiful city in the world, and you know I do too. You might not be proud of your father, but you’re proud of being French. So stop it. It wasn’t like that. You’re you. You’re American. But you’re also French, and you gave that to our kids, and I for one think that’s a beautiful thing.”
“I hate it that he pushes them to speak French. I want them to speak French, but I know how it feels when someone pushes you to do something.”
He did know that.
Oh, how he did.
I didn’t focus on that.
“See?” I whispered. “You’re proud of who you are and that has everything to do with your heritage and you gave it to them. And I love that. For me. For our kids. And for you. And that’s why you gave it to them, honey. You didn’t do that for your dad. You gave them you.”
He spent a moment with that before he groused, “Shit, now it’s not you, it’s me who’s worrying that every reaction I have, every meaningful thing I’ve done had something to do with them.”
I wrapped my arm around his neck, set the other one to doing the same, and fitted myself to him, saying, “That’s what I’m here for, to help you see sense.”
He slid his hands over my hips to rest them just above my behind, with fingers encroaching, murmuring, “Yeah?”
I wanted to think how much I loved having his hands right where they were, having that back, having this kind of closeness with Remy again in my life.
What I didn’t want was to say what I had to say next.
But we were in this moment, it was truth and logic, and I needed to call it to his mind.
“And to remind you that they’re your parents. There’s no escaping that. They made you what you are, either because of them or in spite of them. And although it’s difficult for me to find any good in either of them, I know, even if it’s slight, it was there because they made you.”
Remy had one reply to that.
He dipped his head, and he kissed me, deep and wet and lovely.
When he broke it, his lips whispering against mine, “Let’s unpack.”
“Okay, honey.”
I touched my mouth to his, pressed close and then moved out of my husband’s arms in order to unpack.
Because once that was done, we could get on to the next thing.
And once that was done, to the next.
And eventually, I’d have him away from here.
And we’d be safe.
We’d be home.
CHAPTER 18
Three and a Half
Wyn
After Remy and I unpacked, washed up and changed into clothes that didn’t smell like an airplane, we headed downstairs.
And hearing our descent, with military precision, our children filed out of the front parlor, and with Sabre handing Remy a very full glass of what looked like scotch on the rocks, they fell into formation around us before we headed toward the mural room.
Considering how they did this, I decided it best not to ask them to stand down.
Remy didn’t say a word.
Guillaume had heard our approach too, came out of the room we were walking to, and watched quizzically as the Gastineau family approached as if on attack.
Another giggle fizzed up that I had to swallow down, this one hysterical, as I braced to face the woman who had harmed my husband.
I was his wife.
I was a mother, and thus knew the nurturing he should have had, but didn’t.
And her abuse nearly cost me my marriage.
So I was obviously on edge.
But it wouldn’t do for me to tackle a dying woman and punch her in the face, so I had to get it together.
We all stopped outside the room where Guillaume was out in the hallway barring even a view through the door.
“It makes me very happy you’re all keen to see Colette,” he murmured kindly. “But I’m not certain she’s up for a visit from everyone. She, too, cannot wait to see you. But she’d prefer to do it in the morning when she always feels much better. So, if you will, only Remy and Wyn for now, mes petits-enfants.”