Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My heart shreds for this little girl and while I bear tremendous sympathy for the family downstairs, my loyalties lie with Sylvie. “I have an idea… Would you like to leave with me right now? Let’s you and me go get some dinner by ourselves and maybe talk about this some more?”
“Ethan won’t like that.”
“Oh, I think he’ll be just fine with it.”
CHAPTER 10
Marcie
My heart breaks for the child sitting across from me, picking at her slice of New York–style pizza. A mere three months ago, Sylvie Mardraggon’s life was nearly perfect. She had an adoring mother, I’m sure many wonderful friends, and I have this image of her spending her free time running through the vineyards of her mother’s winery.
It seems like a good conversation starter.
“I’d love to know more about your life back in France,” I say as I pick up my slice. “I’ve never been there but I’ve always wanted to go.”
A faint smile plays at Sylvie’s lips and her gaze rises to meet me. “We lived in Saint-Émilion.”
I heave a dramatic, dreamy sigh. “Oh, tell me you lived in a grand château.”
Sylvie laughs but nods. “It was very old but looked like it belonged in a Disney movie. The windows were large so it was always filled with light and no matter what room you were in, you could see the hills with their rows of grapevines.”
“Did you come to the United States to visit often or did your grandparents visit you in France?” I ask.
She shakes her head, smile faltering a bit. “Lionel was always too busy and Rosemund wouldn’t travel without him. My uncle Gabe would come to visit when he could, but because he was in charge of running the US side of the business, he was very busy too.”
I study Sylvie as she takes a hesitant bite of her pizza. I do the same, chewing thoughtfully. After wiping my mouth and fingertips with a napkin, I cross my arms on the table. “How come you don’t call Lionel and Rosemund something like Grandpa and Grandma? Or maybe even the French equivalent?”
Sylvie looks perplexed at the question and shrugs. “Because they told me to call them Lionel and Rosemund. So I do.”
“And what do you call your Blackburn grandparents?”
“They suggested GiGi and Pop Pop.”
Very cute. Very southern. “And do you call them that?”
Sylvie shakes her head. “Not yet. But when my mom would talk to me about her parents, she always called them Papi and Mamie. Those are French endearments.” The little girl’s voice quavers as she stares down at her pizza, and when she gives me her regard again, my heart is wrenched hard to see tears glistening in her eyes. “I miss my maman. But no one wants to talk about her. The Blackburns hate the Mardraggons so they don’t want to talk about her, and Lionel and Rosemund don’t mention her at all. Uncle Gabe does, but I haven’t really seen him that much. It’s like one day she existed and the next she was gone, and I am supposed to forget her.”
“Oh, honey.” I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. “I’m so sorry. You should never forget your mom. Would you like to tell me about her? I can tell you loved her very much.”
Sylvie stares at me with those verdant green eyes, still shining with tears, but I also see relief. “I knew my mom was sick because she kept having headaches and she was tired all the time. I would tell her something in the morning and she’d have forgotten about it by the afternoon. She went to see a lot of doctors and it scared me, but she always told me it would be okay and I believed her.”
“She was protecting you,” I murmur.
“She was lying to me,” Sylvie says, but it’s not with bitterness, almost with respect that she knew her mother was trying to preserve as much of her happy childhood as she could. “She finally told me the truth one day. We were having tea out in the courtyard garden, and it was the first time I ever saw my mom cry. She told me she was sick with a disease called cancer and it was in her brain. I didn’t know what cancer was and she explained it as best she could, but I didn’t really understand what it meant.”
“If you’ve never had any experience with it, it’s hard to process.” Especially for a little girl.
Sylvie nods earnestly. “But I learned. I knew it was bad when we left France and traveled to North Carolina to see a special doctor at Duke. That’s when we found out there was nothing that could be done to save her. She sat down with me and told me she was going to die.” Tears well up in my own eyes but I don’t say anything. Sylvie is being vulnerable with me, so I give her hand a squeeze. “That was the second time I saw my mom cry, but then she never cried again after that.”