The Gift of the Twin Houses Page 10

  “How about I come over tonight with a ham and we decorate the tree? I have some decorations from my family that might be happier here than at my place.”

  My heart leaped so high I was afraid it would hit the ceiling and shatter into little pieces. But it just stayed high, hovering over both of us, warmly held in the safety of my house.

  “Sounds wonderful,” I uttered.

  “See you around six then.”

  He winked at me. He looked so charming and debonair when he winked.

  “You look beautiful today. I like your hair done like that,” he said as he closed the front door behind him.

  I ran upstairs to look in the mirror of my dresser. I had left my hair loose, having simply pinned the sides just above my ears, and it did look nice. It made me appear a bit younger. I didn’t have any makeup on, yet somehow it didn’t matter. I looked just fine.

  Quite content with myself, I went to the empty bedroom where all the things that hadn’t been unpacked were tucked away. In point of fact, these boxes hadn’t been opened in many years. Some time ago I’d decided to have a bit more order in my life, so every year I put away anything that I hadn’t touched or seen or used during that year. I’d packed several boxes that way, and they remained so. Peculiar behavior, but nonetheless, that’s exactly what I’d done to declutter my life.

  I’d inherited knickknacks and some decorative pieces from my family; items that had meaning to them but were of less importance to me. Or so I thought back then; now I looked forward to reacquainting myself with my very own memories. The new Sarah would certainly see them in quite a different light.

  There weren’t many boxes, maybe eight or nine. My family wasn’t the kind that gathered things. They’d been a practical bunch, and I’d always been thankful for that, and the practical streak in the family had taken deep roots in the old Sarah.

  I found two boxes labeled Christmas, took them downstairs, and placed them near the Christmas tree. As I started back up the stairs to look through the other boxes, I decided to wait. First, I wanted to bake something special for Conrad.

  I went back to my mother’s cookbook, and that’s when my nana came knocking—the memory my house wanted me to listen to today.

  In her light French accent, she suggested we bake a Tarte de Mademoiselle Tatin. The tart was her specialty, and she always baked it during the Christmas holidays, actually every day in December. When I arrived home from school, she would’ve baked a fresh tart, and we’d eat a slice accompanied by a glass of milk while we made our Christmas decorations for that year or gifts for friends and family.

  Her recipe had been in her family for years, having changed from the original Tarte de Mademoiselle Tatin, which is an upside-down apple pie, to a stylized delicate apple tart. She made it with a thin, crisp layer of mille-feuille pastry, real cream, sugar, and thinly sliced apples. The slight crust and the delicate combination of the right amount of cream, sugar, and the slender apple slices gave the tart its subtle and unique flavor.

  Today, ensconced in my new home and in the company of my nana, I baked a tart and reminisced. It turned out to be a magical day. Nana remembered how much she loved baking side by side with her own mother and grandmother and how difficult it had been for her to leave Marseille when she married my grandfather.

  She’d married for love, a young Spanish attorney vacationing in her hometown. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, her family’s requirements for a suitable husband were quite high, but as luck would have it, my grandfather also came from a wealthy family with outstanding credentials. As a result, there had been no opposition to their union. After the wedding they settled in Madrid at his family’s residence.

  Living the life of luxury on a large Spanish estate proved to be difficult for Nana, who was used to having much independence. Being the middle child among seven brothers and sisters, her parents, grandparents, and siblings left her to her own devices most of the time.

  Spain, particularly Madrid, was different. They watched over her constantly, her entire day was planned to perfection by her mother-in-law, and her every move assisted by a myriad of servants and chaperones.

  “Nana, how did you escape to America?” I asked, as I had many times before, but I feared that even today she wouldn’t tell me. We’d never talked about her family or my grandfather’s relatives. “They are dead to me,” she would say. “You are my family.” Today seemed no different, or so I thought.

  After a moment, she sighed and said, “My parents disinherited and discarded me. They were ashamed of my audacity to leave my husband and take his child away. They couldn’t forgive the disgrace I’d brought upon the family. My heart shattered into little pieces. I loved the home of my youth. The memories of those times supported me through the first years of living in Madrid. When they yanked that away from me, I knew it was up to me to create my own memories. I picked up the pieces and never looked back.”

  “What about my grandfather? Did he ever forgive you?”

  I didn’t expect her to answer. She never had before, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. After all, I’d changed; maybe she’d notice and be more open.

  “Ah, ma cherie, I loved your grandfather when we married, and I am certain he loved me. But time apart from one another and the pressures of society got in the way. In the end, ideology broke the link between us. C’est dommage.”

  “I guessed that’s what had happened, but you never told me the story.”

  “Your mother Antonia was born ten months into the marriage, and the entire Spanish household focused on this child. My in-laws doted over their new granddaughter, but other than the child, they had little in common with me. My husband and his father traveled on business most of the time, leaving me with a mother-in-law who didn’t understand my ways or agree with how I wished to raise my child.”

  I could imagine how the alienation of this young French bride increased year after year.

  “During the Second Spanish Republic,” she said, “your grandfather and his family became tightly associated with the leadership of the emerging socialist political party, the Falange, so one day I ran away. I left Fascist Europe with my daughter Antonia and came to America.”

  “Why not speak of it before?”

  “We didn’t speak of it, ma petite, because you had sensed it. You had ‘guessed,’ as you use to call it, what had taken place, so I decided to leave it at that. That spiritual antenna of yours is quite impressive, you know. Too bad we never spoke of it after you put it away. Anyway, the link between your grandfather and me just faded away.”

  Stunned by her willingness to speak about my grandfather, I held my breath when she paused, unwilling to startle her. I remained silent for what seemed to be an eternity. She didn’t mind, lost in her own memories, so we focused on the tart and enjoyed each other’s silent company as we prepared the mille-feuille pastry.

  For most of my life, I hadn’t known my grandfather’s name. We simply never spoke of him. It wasn’t till after my mother passed away and I found her birth certificate among her papers that I learned his name was Alfonso.

  I didn’t dare mention his name to Nana for fear she would recoil and leave me. But as I thought of him, she whispered, “Alfonso loved my tart,” and like a young girl, she giggled.

  “Did you bake for him often?”

  “As you know we met during Christmas, and I baked it for him while he visited friends in Marseille. C’etait merveilleux. Once we married and moved to Madrid, I tried to bake it for him, but they would not allow me to enter the kitchen. Not becoming to my social station in life, they told me, vraiment absurde.”

  She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and said, “I am sure you are going to tell me how hypocritical it was for them to belong to a national socialist movement and yet stand on ceremony about my baking a tart for my husband in the kitchen.”

  I smiled, and she went on. “Now you’re mature enough to understand why I could not live the lie they wished me to embrace in their hypo
critical existence. Coming to America gave me back my honor and a new start in life with the freedom I craved.”

  “Why won’t you tell me how you came all the way from Spain?” I dared to ask.

  “There are things in life, mon chou, that must be set aside and forgotten. Not necessarily to run away from them, but because remembering them, and giving them life again through the telling of their stories, serves no purpose. If I thought something purposeful could come of my telling you the story, I would.”

  I wasn’t pleased with her answer and still wished to know how she’d managed, but I didn’t want to push too hard for fear she would leave.

  “I know you want to know the details, but I think it is best if you don’t remember me in that light. Don’t try to discover them with those abilities of yours either. It’s no good. You won’t find them. That part of my life is gone. The memories of me that will last you forever are those of the woman I became in America. The nana you lived with is who I am. Plus rien est important.”

  “But you wouldn’t have come to America had you not been the happy and independent little girl you were in Marseille, the beautiful young lady who fell in love with Alfonso, and the woman who refused to live in Madrid. All of that is what makes you.”

  “Yes, you’re right, but those simple elements are all that is to be known. The rest is not important or significant. Arriving in America is what enabled me to become who I was destined to be, who I wanted to be. The details of the road I traveled to get there are not important.”

  We put the tart in the oven, and as I washed the utensils, she said, “Your arrival to this house has had the same effect for you.”

  “I’m scared, Nana.”

  “I know you are, ma petite. Do not be afraid of what this new life of yours will offer. Fear paralyzes. Look at what happened when your parents panicked and built a fortress around you.”

  “They didn’t know what else to do. I can’t blame them.”

  “Oh, ma cherie, this is not about blame. I joined in, remember? How could I blame anyone? Non, non, I became part of the means to protect you. Unfortunately, in the end, our efforts forced you to become someone you were not destined to be. We learned a difficult lesson about giving into fear.”

  “Hard not to, Nana.”

  “I know. Imagine how I felt when I left Europe.”

  She allowed me to reflect in silence. I saw her determination, and how she’d managed to create a new life without any reservations, without boasting about it, and with great courage.

  “Ma petite, this is not about me, but about you. You have not opened your heart to a man since you were left at the altar many years ago and—”

  “I brought that on myself. Fear of intimacy, didn’t he say? But you know it wasn’t that. I didn’t want him to find out about my—”

  “Oh, non, non. It no longer matters what the reasons were. The fact is that fear shut you down. Now it is time you open up. Trust your instincts, mon chou. Do not shut down again.”

  “Spiritual antenna up?”

  “Let it fly in the wind.”

  I had my hands in the warm water, and I felt the gentle caress of my nana’s hands intermingling with mine. “You’re saying all of this because of Conrad.”

  “I am.”

  “What if he finds out I’m an old maid? A virgin at fifty-six. How shameful. He’ll be horrified. He’ll reject me. I couldn’t bear the pain.”

  “Ah, the pain of rejection. Fear again.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m too old for this.”

  “You do not believe that. I know you have feelings for this man, unlike any other man before. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “No fear about your uniqueness with him, am I right?”

  “Yes. No fear of that anymore.”

  “And that is due to what, may I ask?”

  “He understands all about it. Why are you asking me these things? You know all about it already.”

  “But you don’t seem to. This man is different.”

  I sighed, unable to argue with her.

  “If he has no difficulty with the one thing you were the most fearful of, why not trust him with the rest? Give it all a chance.”

  “But Nana, I’m a middle-aged virgin. It’s pathetic.”

  “Pas du tout, mon amour. This new Sarah, as you call her, is the Sarah that should be,” she added while clasping my hands under the warm water. “Allow her to evolve. No need to look back and regret what the old Sarah was or did. The past is just that—past, gone. No need for shame in your virginity. Think of it as an asset if you wish and—”

  “An asset? You’re joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Impossible.”

  “It will be up to you, but please don’t shut yourself up. Why not take a risk?”

  “But—”

  “Hush. No more ‘but’ or anything other than courage. Alorsje men vais. Bon soir, ma cherie. Look ahead to your new life and newfound freedom, just as I did.”

  I felt her kiss my cheek and release my hands, and I knew she would be forever present.

  Chapter 14

  The Christmas Tree

  “The house smells delicious. What did you bake?” were the first words Conrad uttered when he entered the house.

  “Tarte de Mademoiselle Tatin. My nana used to bake it throughout December in celebration of the Christmas holidays.”

  “She was French?”

  “From Marseille, the southern part of France.”

  “Boy, what a treat, a French dessert. Here’s the ham, but I’d like to skip dinner and just jump to dessert.”

  “C’mon. I’m sure you’ll change your mind once we get the ham going. I also made some potatoes au gratin and some buttered veggies that I hope you’ll like. By waiting for the tart, you’ll like it even better when we get to it. Want to join me in the kitchen while I get the ham ready?”

  He smiled, and as usual, we eased into each other’s company as we sipped a glass of wine and I prepared the ham.

  After we finished in the kitchen, we made our way to the living room and the Christmas tree.

  “If you show me your Christmas decorations, I’ll show you mine,” he said with a wink.

  Mm.. loved how he did that, a simple gesture, yet so evocative. As for me, I blushed—another habit I seemed to have picked up when he was around. Do all young women feel like I do now?

  The silliness of some of my friends in high school always puzzled me. My youth had been absorbed by my mother’s intellectual focus, and I just skipped the “ridiculous” period, as she used to call it. Now I dove right into it.

  We each opened our boxes, and one by one we took out the ornaments.

  “Did you make all these ornaments?” he asked.

  “My nana did, with my mother at first and then with me. Every Christmas we made a different ornament for the tree, or to decorate our home, or to give away as a present.

  “We did much the same with Grandma Angela. These were made by her, first with her kids and then with us grandkids.”

  “My nana also ran away from home.”

  “Did she, now?”

  He could see that I wanted to talk about my nana, so he obliged me by asking about her, and I told him her story. Easy to do since I’d just relived it alongside her. I didn’t stop to try to remember events, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t skip any detail. I enjoyed talking about my nana’s newfound freedom in America. One thing I did keep to myself—her advice to the new Sarah. Not because I wanted to hide it from him, but because I needed to become more acquainted with it before I shared it.

  By the end of Nana’s story, the ham was ready, and we shifted into another effortless conversation during dinner. As we prepared for dessert, he spoke about his late wife, Dianne.

  “I met her when I was stationed in Quantico, Virginia, and just as your nana moved to Spain to be with her husband’s family, Dianne moved back here with me after we left the East Coast. She never got u
sed to the Northwest style of living though. She just couldn’t take to it.”

  “Was Angela alive?”

  “Sure. Grandma knew how hard it was for Dianne and tried to help her adjust, but Dianne just couldn’t do it. She gave it a good try, but the wilderness and the isolation from the big city proved too much for her to bear. Her heart longed for the life of her youth, surrounded by the many things city life offered. After a particularly cold winter, and given her state of mind, her lungs just gave up, so Doc suggested a change of air to help her recover faster. She went back East to stay with her parents and never returned. Grandma said her body would’ve given up, causing her to die young if she’d stayed here. Her lungs took her where her heart belonged, where she could be whole again.”

  “That’s so sad. How did you cope? How did Tom cope? How old was he?” I was so taken by his story that I sat on the edge of my chair and must’ve looked overwhelmed, because he got up and kissed my cheek. I, of course, turned crimson as waves of electricity shot through my body.

  “Thanks” was all he said and sat down again.

  “Thanks for what?” I blurted out. “My God, Conrad, you’re so together. I never would’ve guessed you’d lived with such grief, and Tom being so young.” “Don’t fret. Remember that Tom and I had Angela and Richard at our side. He was six when his mother left. She’d already distanced herself while she lived here, so neither of us felt her true absence. We had Grandpa and Grandma, and they made it easy for us. To be honest with you, knowing Dianne was healthier with her folks and her old life was better than watching her shrivel up before of our very eyes.”

  “Why didn’t you remarry?” The question just popped out. No sooner had I asked than I wanted to hide under the table and withdraw it.

  But he didn’t look bothered or offended. “She was my wife, absent, but my wife nonetheless. She didn’t remarry either. We just respected our union and our need to be on opposite sides of the country. By the time she passed away, I’d gotten used to being on my own and just didn’t think of marrying again.” When he finished answering my impolite, nosy question, I realized I’d painted myself into a corner, and panic set in. Now he would certainly ask me why I was a spinster. Maybe not in so many words, but the question would intimate the same concept. I need to get away and change the conversation before he asks.