Lies Told In Silence (32 page)

Helene remembered those long walks, the tilt of her aunt’s head and her encouraging words; sometimes just her warm brown eyes and intense glance were enough for Helene to tell Chantal how she was feeling or admit her fears for the future. Her aunt never judged, and neither did Marie.

“At Christmas, when I was back in Paris, I visited Marie, and her brother was there. He was still recovering from his wounds. Do you remember that he used to write to me?” Edward nodded and rubbed his thumb along the top of her hand. “I never realized he was fond of me.” Helene felt her cheeks flush. “Later that year, he proposed. Without you, I didn’t really care who I married, and Francois needed me. I said yes.” She would not betray Francois further by telling Edward about Claire.

“Why are we here, Helene?”

“This was our special place. I wanted us—”

“I don’t mean here at the hut; I mean why did you ask me to Beaufort?”

What could she tell him? Could she admit the depth of her love? Could she tell him that he made her feel complete? Could she confess that he was the father of her firstborn? What was she prepared to sacrifice for his love?

“When I learned of the memorial, I knew I had to come. I had to know whether you had died.” She whispered the last word as if
fearful that saying it might make it so. “But when Maman gave me your letters, nothing could keep me from coming. There was a chance, however small, that you might be here. And then you found me. The happiness I felt was unimaginable. I had no choice but to ask you here. No choice at all.”

Helene touched his cheek then kissed him, a soft kiss that gradually built as her tongue reached for his. He pushed her onto her back and, bit by bit, removed her clothing. Once she was naked, he plucked petals from the wildflowers they had collected and dropped them, one by one, on her body. With the sun beating down, he traced his fingers over her breasts, her stomach, her legs, circling closer and closer. She waited. He dipped a finger into her moist centre and touched her, stroking up and down as soft as
a feather as her climax built.

“Wait,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

Edward stripped off his clothes, and she pulled him into her, wrapping her legs around him as they rocked together in the gathering pulse of release.

Much lat
er, he roused her from sleep. “Do you think it’s time to go?” he said.

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

* * *

“Are you sure?” she asked, wrapping fruit and cheese the next morning.

“My doctor would have said this is part of the healing process.”

“Your doctor? Are you sick?” Panic flashed through her.

“I used to have nightmares. War stress. That’s what the doctor called it. He helped me. We should go to the hill. Definitely, we should go.” Edward took another gulp of coffee, stood up and reached for her hand. “I’m fine.”

As they climbed to the hilltop where Helene and Jean had watched soldiers prepare for battle, Edward told her about his return to Canada and the deep depression that caught him like a vice and squeezed him for months. She did not press him with questions, merely offered reassuring little phrases that encouraged him to continue and watched his face as the sun ebbed and flowed amidst forest shade and open hills. They kept a slow, measured pace, as if moving faster would disturb his story and its healing
purge. As they reached the summit, he stopped.

“I’d forgotten how I could talk to you. I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone. Even the doctor.” He lifted her chin and kissed her, a gentle, almost chaste kiss. “Thank you.”

For a fleeting moment, Helene wondered what Francois would have told her if she had found a way to encourage him.

Edward stepped close to the edge and looked out. They could see the memorial, stark and white against the ridge. Below, the valley looked peaceful, as if nothing could disturb its life-giving purpose. Hawks circled, wings wide to catch the winds.

“It’s beautiful now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He said simply as he put his arm around her waist.

Chapter 46

July 1936

Night stood in deep silence outside their window, a breeze stirring through wispy pines made soft shushing noises.

“I want us to be together,” he said.

The words that had once thrilled her now made her infinitely sad.
What have I set in motion
? she thought.
Maman was right. I never should have come. Never given us a second taste of what might have been
. After all these years apart, she still loved him. That much was clear. He completed her. But now she loved her children, and that love surpassed everything else. And she loved Francois, not in the same way as Edward, but her husband had been her steadfast companion and lover for eighteen years. She could not take that away from him.

“I don’t . . . it’s not possible. Not anymore. It’s all I’ve thought about, but I can’t see anything except pain for those we love. I don’t think I can do that to my family. How could we live with ourselves?”

“Over time they would—”

“They depend on you, Edward. They need you. Your wife, your children, your
family. I know you can’t abandon them. I can’t ask you to do that.”

He pulled away from her. “Right. I’m so dependable; that’s why
I’m here in France with a woman I fell in love with twenty years ago. Deceiving my wife. Risking everything.”

Helene reached for him, caressing his back with one hand to soothe him.

“You can’t leave me again.” He shrugged her hand away.

“Darling, I wish
 . . .” She could not continue.

“I’m not
good enough for you, am I?”

He’s angry now. Perhaps that’s best. Anger will protect him
. She wanted to hold him, to lose herself in him, to stay in this tiny bubble of a world they knew. But her duty was with her children and Francois, who had rescued her so long ago. She wanted to weep an ocean of tears for the man she should have married.

“You are more than enough. You are everything.” Her voice w
as so low he could barely hear.

“You said you love me.”

“I do. But we can’t—”

“Stop,” he shouted and gripped her shoulders. “Stop.”

He rolled away from her and grabbed his pants from the wicker chair, stuffing one leg then the other into them, wrenching the belt tight.

“Where are you going? Don’t leave, Edward. Please come back to bed.”

Edward paid no attention; instead, barefoot, he rushed through the door and thundered down the stairs. When she finally found him, he was leaning against a tree near the old chicken coop, pounding the bark with his fists. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him away.

* * *

On Monday, Edward watched as Helene prepared to board the train to Paris. For a moment, he looked away, unable to hold her gaze, and stared into the distance. Then he turned back, and she could see his face once more.

“We will have memories of this time together.”

Helene brushed the tears from her face, struggling for composure. She thought of their last night and wondered if it could sustain her or whether it might destroy her. Edward did not reply.

“Sometimes the heart asks more than life can give,” she said.

She touched his face fleetingly with her fingertips, recording his tall, slim figure, his hair dark and wavy, his high forehead high marked with a burn from childhood, his shoulders wide and erect even now. The train shook with a low rumble.

“I’ll never forget you, Edward. You were my first and most precious love.”

There was nothing left to say. They had had five days together, and now, somehow, they would have to go on with their lives. Helene braved a small smile from the top of the stairs, no longer able to speak, and Edward watched in silence, his body rigid as the train began to roll away.

* * *

Memory was her retreat. As the train spun its way to Paris, she closed her eyes, replaying each moment, each caress, every kiss, every touch. She remembered the way he looked at her with joy and ultimately with profound sadness; she heard his deep chuckle and saw the flash of amusement crossing his face. She recalled his words, his questions, his hurt, his passion. How could she let him go? The wheels cranked on and on. Passengers came and went, and still she remembered.

Every part of her felt bruised, as if she had fallen into a deep hole, tumbling over and over again until reaching the bottom. Not far from Paris, she stumbled into the tiny bathroom to splash water on her face then forced herself to repair her makeup and create some semblance of normalcy.
Or else Francois will know
.

How could she face him? And what would she disclose? Could he stand the truth?
He loves me
, she thought. Would his love turn to dust if he knew? Could she lie to him? If she chose that path, it would mean a lifetime of denial, no turning back. What would Grandmere do? Helene’s thoughts flew to her grandmother’s room, where she and Edward had made love.
Stop
, she ordered herself.
Do. Not. Think. Of. Him
.

There was no doubt. Grandmere would have lifted her chin and
gone on with her life. She would have honoured her family and those who loved her and depended on her. Telling Francois about Edward merely placed her sadness on his shoulders, and the weight would be too much. Instead, she would have to seal the memory of Edward and their time together in some deep hidden part of her soul and learn to love Francois more than she already did.

Learn to love Francois
again,
she thought.
Just like Grandmere and Grandpere.

Chapter 47

August 1936

He was waiting for her at Gare du Nord amidst the bustle of baggage, the shouts of vendors, the chaos of crowded platforms and bellowing steam.
He looks happy, as if he has much to tell me.
Helene looked beyond him and did not see her children, her tall willowy Claire, who was so much like Edward she knew it would hurt to see her, her blond Juliette, bubbling with stories, her gangly Daniel, whose feet were much too large for his body and whose hands were clumsy with unaccustomed size. Only Francois. She had hoped their children would deflect his questions.

Helene breathed in deeply, straightened her shoulders and slowly exhaled. As she carried her suitcase along the platform, the distance between them shortened, and she could see that what she thought was happiness was only a mask, for his eyes were dark with worry, and the small lines on either side of his mouth were etched with fatigue. He kissed her on both cheeks, took her suitcase and held her arm as they left the station.

Practical details occupied the next few minutes, and they spoke little, making their way through the crowds, dodging a woman selling roses who clamoured at Francois: “Monsieur, buy your sweetheart a rose. Monsieur. Very fresh flowers. Monsieur, she will love you for it.” In the heat, taxis were scarce, and they waited in a line seven deep until their turn came, and Francois gave curt directions for home. Helene stalled him further by asking about the children, and he recounted reassuring stories about the week’s happenings. After exhausting that topic, she was silent.

“How was it?” he said.

“The ceremony?” He nodded. “It was incredibly moving. Francois, you should have seen the crowds. Thousands of people. The King of England, our president, their speeches were wonderful.” Helene described each detail and his impatience grew.

“And then?”

She dipped her head as if lost in thought. “I stayed in Beaufort and remembered. I remembered it all. I climbed the hills and explored places from the past. I had coffee and croissants in the café near the fountain. I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

His voice became sharp. “Was he there?”

“No.”

She said it clearly and simply, and it was done. Her denial complete, irrevocable. Helene felt like Judas must have felt denying Christ, though she knew that thought was blasphemous.

“It must have been difficult.” Helene saw the fear in his eyes fade and his body relax. He reached for her hand and held it to his lips. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Helene smiled for her husband’s sake, even though every part of her longed for Edward, every inch of skin ached for his touch. She felt shattered. Body, mind and soul ripped into shreds, dangling on a precipice of numbness and pain. She had lost him twice, and yet somehow, she had to find a way to g
o on, to live the life she had.

I have my precious children, my family and friends. Francois loves me. And I have loved him too and will again. But I’m not back
, she thought.
Not yet. Only time will stitch me back together.

Epilogue

June 1960

“I’m here, Papa,” Claire called out, walking into her father’s apartment with her usual confident stride, dark hair swinging loosely, a tight black skirt and fitted blouse accenting her slender figure. She looked at her father with affection.

“Beautiful as always, my dear. Your husband is a lucky man.” He rose to greet her, a warm embrace followed by a kiss on each cheek.

“Thank you, Papa. But don’t fathers always think their daug
hters are beautiful? You would say the same if Juliette were here.” She grinned at her father. At sixty-seven, he still looked young despite the fatigue and lingering sadness of his wife’s death four months earlier. “You seem better than you have been. Not so sad.” Claire looked around at the familiar space decorated in blue and white with sweeping silk drapes and bright pink pillows. “Maman really had an eye for colour, didn’t she, Papa?”

In the kitchen, they chatted about the family while he made two cups of espresso, and then they returned to the living room. Claire settled into the chair that she thought of as her mother’s and breathed in deeply, catching a hint of her perfume. She blinked furiously to chase away tears.

When her mother had died, the grief was so great she could barely cope, and for weeks she cried at the slightest memory. Now that her tears were under control, she still walked around most days with a dull ache. Her husband Michel suggested medication, but Claire had refused. Pain was necessary to honour her mother.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help with Maman’s clothes. Juliette told me you cleared the closet last Saturday.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart. I knew you wouldn’t be able to cope with your mother’s things. Juliette set aside a few items for you. I’ll get them before you leave.”

“Was it difficult?”

Her father nodded then downed his espresso in one gulp. “But what do they say? Life goes on. Your mother would not want me to mourn too long.” A tiny smile formed. He reached for a black lacquered box with a brass clasp and held it on his lap. “I wanted to show you this box Maman left,” he said.

Claire nodded, wondering why her father would have called her over without including Juliette and Daniel.

“It’s a box she filled years ago. With letters. And a picture.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I had never seen it before, but she left it for me. And gave me a decision to make. I want to tell you about it.”
A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Are you sure, Papa? Something seems to be upsetting you.”

Her father extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, smiling apologetically before continuing in a deeper, rougher voice. “It’s a long story,
chérie
. I hope you will be patient with me.”

“Of course.” She wondered for a moment if her father was truly all right. He seemed vaguely confused, nothing like his usual decisive self. Of course, losing your wife after more than forty years of marriage was a heart-wrenching time. Claire broke down in tears at even the slightest provocation, but Papa had been doing better. Juliette had said so. Claire folded her hands and waited.

Papa cleared his throat. “When I married your mother, she was almost due to give birth.” Claire’s head snapped back at this revelation. She opened her mouth to speak, but her father held up his hand. “Hold your questions for a few minutes, sweetheart. To tell the story properly, I have to go back in time, so please be patient with me.

“I had had a crush on your mother ever since she was fifteen. During the war, we wrote letters back and forth, and I kept hoping she would sense my fondness for her.” He smiled a vague, wistful smile, more to himself than to Claire. “I came through the fighting relatively unscathed until June 1918, when I was severely wounded. The doctors thought they might have to amputate my leg, but your grandmother prevailed on them to save it. I suspect she badgered them so much they knew the only way to get rid of her was to do what she wanted. I came home with scars on my body and I was u
nable to walk. And I was angry.

“Angry at the war. Angry with our government. Angry at myself and everyone else. Your Aunt Marie helped me recover. Every day she made me get up and try to walk. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Several weeks later, she conceived the idea of taking me to visit your mother, who I thought was recovering from a severe illness. On the trip to Honfleur, Marie told me that your Maman had fallen in love with a soldier who never came back from the war, and she was pregnant. She wanted to make sure I didn’t show my surprise when I saw her.”

A sharp crease appeared between Claire’s eyebrows. “Pregnant with me, Papa?” The thought was shocking. What he was saying could not possibly be true.

“Be patient with me a little while longer. Being by the sea was helpful. I swam every morning, and my anger eased a little. After ten days, I returned to Paris, but I could not get your mother’s situation out of my mind. She had no husband, no way to support herself and her parents wanted her to give the baby up for adoption. Finally, I made a decision. In early October, I returned to Honfleur to ask your Maman to marry me. In November, you were born.”

“You’re not my father?” Claire could not believe what she was hearing.

“I
am
your father, just not your biological father. And I will always love you as a father loves a daughter. Nothing will change between us, but I felt you had the right to know. It’s your choice whether you tell Juliette and Daniel, and your choice what to do with this news. Maman’s box is full of letters between her and this soldier. There’s a picture of him and a letter she left for you.”

“How could you, Papa? Why did you tell me? What am I supposed to do now?” Claire’s cheeks flushed deep red. Her voice cracked. “I don’t want some old box full of love letters. You’re my father, not some ghost in a picture.”

“I’ll always be your father.” Papa reached out a hand, but Claire drew back into the corner of her chair.

“Why didn’t Maman say something
? Was she too cowardly to tell me herself?” Claire spoke with anger. “I loved her, Papa. I loved her so much.”

Gulping sobs erased the quiet of the living room. Papa got up and stood behind her, his fingers massaging the back of her neck and shoulders, just like he had when she was a teenager crying over a lost boyfriend or some other tragedy.

“Shush. Shush. Shush. You know how much she loved you. All of us. But I don’t think she could bear to tell you because of how it might affect me. She was never a coward. Never.” Papa held her hands. “I’ll always remember the night you were born. Such a tiny scrap of humanity and the bond I felt for you was instantaneous. You represented the future, a future with hope. Because of you, I had to set aside the memories of brutality and all the pain the war left me with. Having you to look after allowed me to come to terms with what had happened.

“In a letter she left for me, Maman said it was my decision whether to tell you. We had always said to one another that the greatest gift we could give to you, Daniel and Juliette was the gift of independence, to be what you wanted and not what we dreamed for you. There was no doubt in my mind she would want you to know and that this knowledge would be part of your indepen
dence.” A dazed expression washed over his face. “You look a lot like him. I never knew until I opened the box and saw his photo. It must have been difficult for her to see his face in you every day.”

Claire squeezed her father’s hand and sat very still.

“She knows how strong you are, Claire. Maman never would have given me the box otherwise.”

“But what about you, Papa? How does this make you feel?”

Her father sighed deeply and returned to his chair. “There was always a part of her I couldn’t reach, a part she left behind when he didn’t return for her.”

“She loved you, Papa.”

“I know. She said that in her letter as well. She said she had loved me greatly. And we were so happy, especially these last twenty years after the three of you were grown. We had a few rough patches, but we loved each other very much.”

Claire slumped back, her mind reeling with shock. “I have no idea what to say or do.”

“You don’t have to do anything. You can leave this box with me and we’ll never speak about it again. Or you can take it with you. Your mother would have wanted you to have that choice.”

“But in a way, she’s made that choice for me, hasn’t she? Maman would have known that I could not resist these letters.”

Claire felt her mother’s presence from beyond the grave, as though Maman were standing beside Papa, her gaze reflective and gently encouraging. More than Juliette or Daniel, Claire had been the one who understood her mother’s moods and motivations, and today she knew without the slightest doubt that Maman wanted her to read the letters and then decipher her true intent.

* * *

Walking home with the lacquer box beneath her arm, Claire tried to absorb the blow of her father’s disclosures. Confusion clouded her eyes. This could not be happening to her so soon after her mother’s death. Although Papa said he would always be her father, suddenly a stranger had intruded on their special bond and she wondered whether their relationship would be affected.

Claire longed to talk to Michel.
Where would she be without his calm comfort, the man who knew when she needed to talk and when she needed just to know he was there? His little smile or glance when she reached for a tissue. His warm, undemanding embrace when she attempted to fall sleep. She was lucky with the men in her life.
And now there’s another one
, she thought,
a man I never, ever expected
.

“I’m home,” she called out
after entering their apartment.

Quiet greeted her. On the kitchen table was a note in her husband’s scrawl: “Gone out for some tennis. Back around five.”
Good
, she thought,
I can look at these in peace
.

Claire placed the box on the dining room table and pulled a chair close. Through the open doors of their small balcony, she could hear the blare of a police siren and the hum of traffic. She took a deep breath.
Maman would not have saved these for me if she thought they would hurt me
. Claire slid the clasp to the right and lifted the lid.

On the very top was a photo of a young man in uniform. She drew it carefully from the box and held her hand over her mouth as she gazed at someone who looked so much like her there could never be the slightest doubt.

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, imagining how this photo must have affected him.

Claire traced the line of
the man’s cheek and chin with her fingernail.
He looks so young
. Despite her earlier anger, the picture captivated her.

Beneath the photo, wrapped in tissue, were letters, carefully folded and stacked one behind the other, arranged, as she soon discovered, by date. Many pages had little tears in the corners or at the creases, and she guessed that her mother must have read them over and over again. At the end of the pile was a bulky envelope tied with a ribbon and the words
Open Last
in her mother’s handwriting. Claire’s hands hovered. If she read them, life would never be the same.

She left her chair and crossed to the window overlooking rue Louis Boilly. June was her favourite month. Long, bright summer evenings, trees bursting with vivid shades of green. With their sons now older, she and Michel could stroll in the park after dinner on their own. Fête de la Musique and the flower show were in June, events she looked forward to all year. From a young age, she and
Juliette had attended the flower show with Maman each year, spending the day wandering the Bois de Boulogne where lush displays beckoned from every corner and lunching amidst fragrant roses of exquisite colour and shape in the Bagatelle Gardens. This was the first year they had missed it.

Claire turned away from the window, picked out the first letter and unfolded a single sheet of thin paper, slightly brown from age. Narrow, slanted writing with closely packed words filled the page. “It’s in English,” she said out loud in amazement.

It began with the date, April 23, 1917, and then the words “Dear Helene, I wish I were with you rather than writing to you.” Claire read without stopping, letter after letter, often struggling to decipher a particular word, until she heard a key turn in the lock.

Michel dropped a kiss on top of her head as he glanced at the table. “What’s all this?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said with a vague wave in the boys’ direction.

Later became bedtime since their sons stayed up until well past ten despite their father’s scolding, and now she and Michel were in bed, propped against a pillowed headboard. Claire held the box as she told him about her father’s disclosures and the letters from a Canadian soldier.

“
Mon Dieu
. That’s amazing. All these years and they never told you.”

“He’s my real father.” Saying the words made her feel bewi
ldered all over again.

“He’s your biological father. Papa is your real father,” Michel said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“He loved her deeply. The letters made me blush.” Phrases like
desire for you
,
when we touched
,
long to hold you
,
remember your caress
,
the taste of you
, played in her mind. “He was planning to marry her.” Claire shook her head.