The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty Three

It's early morning. I'm sipping coffee on the veranda. A fragrant breeze blows in off the Mediterranean, rustling the trees surrounding our rented villa. Emily, my sole responsibility, is sleeping. It's been over a year, and I still can't believe my luck. I was working in the laundry of a Binghamton hotel when Grandma Zoe called. Her sister Margie passed away and they were looking to fill her position. Believe me, it's the cushiest job in the world. Everyday, I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.

After crossing the ocean on a luxury liner (both of us afraid of flying), Emily and I journeyed through parts of southern England and northern France in search of her past. Unfortunately, the family farm in Somerset county, the homes in Glastonbury, London and Calais, and the café in Barfleur are long gone. She didn't waste any time crying over it, however. It was what she expected. Traveling south from Paris, after a lovely stay in that lovely city, we left what remained of her history behind. Yesterday, we arrived in Nice, and rented this villa for a month. Where we go from here is anybody's guess.

"Bonjour, Susan." A small child in a white nightdress and pink robe climbs into the seat next to me. Her little round face, with sleepy half-closed eyes, wears a faint smile. I grab a hairbrush and attack the tangles in her curly auburn hair.

"Sightseeing today?" I ask.

"Oui."

"I will lay out the safari outfit with the sturdy boots."

"And the pith-helmet?"

"Of course."

"Will I not look silly?"

"You'll look adorable, trust me."

She lifts a ceramic teapot and pours some steaming hot tea into a matching cup. It's a combination of herbs she mixes herself. Don't ask me what they are. I can never remember.

"Maybe we'll go to the beach," I say. "I'll bring that cute little bikini I bought for you in Paris."

"Why did you buy it?" she says with a pout. "I told you before, I will never wear such a thing."

"Why not?"

"Modesty prevents me."

"When you see what the other little girls are wearing, or not wearing, you might change your mind."

"Never."

"You said the same thing about pants, you know. Now you wear them all the time."

"Pants do not leave the body exposed."

"Depends on the pants, I suppose. Some pants…"

"We must find an herbalist today."

Apparently, she doesn't want to talk about pants. This herbalist business is not new to me. Searching for an herbalist is the first thing we do in every city, if only to talk shop. Nobody knows more about herbs than Emily. You should see the jaws drop when she goes on and on about teas, tonics and tinctures. I laugh just thinking about it.

"We'll ask around," I say. "There must be a market..."

Snipping sounds interrupt my train of thought. A pair of shears appears first, then the head of a man pops up over the hedge. His weathered face is showing intense concentration. Smoke from his cigarette curls around his head like a halo. "Maybe he knows," says Emily. She hops out of her chair and skips toward him. "Monsieur, Monsieur!" I gulp down the last bit of coffee and follow. If anything happens to her, the folks at Brockmeyer Inc. will have my head.

After a successful trip to an open-air market, Emily and I are enjoying a meal on the veranda. A pitcher of iced tea, and two glasses, sit on the table. Condensation drips down the sides, leaving small puddles. A large colorful umbrella is shading us from the sun. Rustling sounds catch my attention. Little eyes are peeking at us through the hedge. My grasp of the French language is limited, but I'll do my best to translate. Forgive me if I get some words wrong. "Come in and join us," I call out. Then I hear, "Mama, Mama," fading off into the distance.

A sandpiper alights on the veranda. He stares at us. We stare at him. Time seems to stand still. Movement in the hedges scares him away. An attractive woman, short and slightly plump, with long dark hair and dark eyes, peers at us over the hedge. I call out, "Hello."

"Hello," she says. "I hope Antoine was not bothering you."

"Not at all. We invited him over."

"Now I see what this is all about, you little rascal. There's a pretty little girl over here." Obviously, she's talking to Antoine.

"Will you join us for lunch?" I say. "We have plenty."

The woman, and a little boy who looks very much like her, squeeze through the hedge, and join us at the table. "I am Rosalie," she says, "and this is my son Antoine."

"I'm Susan, and this is Emily."

"We need more plates," says Emily, hopping off the chair and hurrying into the house.

"You must have just arrived," says Rosalie. "I don't remember…"

"Yesterday.".

"American?"

"New York."

"Antoine, do not go into the house uninvited."

He is tip-toeing toward the door. "I thought she might need help," he says.

"It's okay," I say. "Go on in."

A huge grin spreads across his face. He hurries inside.

"Are you the child's mother?" asks Rosalie.

"Nanny."

"And her parents?"

"No parents."

"Oh?"

"Died when she was a baby."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah."

"This isn't cheap, who is..."

"An inheritance."

"How nice."

Antoine and Emily return with plates and glasses. Brimming with excitement, he scoots his chair up next to hers. Rosalie dishes out the chicken, bread and salad. Emily pours the tea. Rosalie takes a sip. "Peppermint?"

"And a few other ingredients," says Emily.

"And you made it?"

"Yes."

"Lovely flavor."

"Thank you."

"She made the salad," I say, " and I grilled the chicken. We bought the bread fresh from the bakery."

"Nothing like fresh baked bread."

"I agree. There's nothing like it."

The beach is crowded and hot. Emily and I are lounging in the shade of a large umbrella. The bikini remains in the bag. She is wearing a plain one-piece with khaki shorts. A large inflated ball comes out of nowhere and strikes her on the head. "Emily, Emily," cries Antoine. "Play with me, play with me." She jumps to her feet, grabs the ball and chases after him. Rosalie takes up the vacated spot. "Hello again," she says.

"Don't tell me," I say. "Antoine insisted."

"He can't stop talking about her."

This happens in every town. Little boys gravitate to her. It's not a conscious effort on her part, believe me. She gives them little encouragement.

"My husband would like you and Emily to come sailing with us tomorrow," says Rosalie. "Will you?"

"I'll have to ask Emily."

"Ask me what?" says Emily. She and Antoine fall in under the umbrella, panting.

"Will you come sailing with us tomorrow?" asks Rosalie.

"Just me?"

"No, no, both of you, of course."

"Of course, we would be happy to join you."

"It will be early, before it gets too hot."

"No problem at all."

Baths are done. Nightgowns and robes are donned. Emily and I are relaxing on the veranda, staring at the full moon. "Verdict?" I ask.

"We will stay for the length of the lease," says Emily.

"A month in Nice. It's like a dream."

"We could stay longer, if you like."

"Antoine would be happy if we did."

"Antoine?"

"He's madly in love with you."

"A mild infatuation, I assure you."

"Just like every Tom, Dick and Harry."

"Who are those fellows?"

"It's just an expression."

"Meaning?"

"You leave behind a trail of tears."

"Oh, how you exaggerate. I leave behind a few childhood memories, nothing more."

"You're right, of course."

"And Antoine will most likely grow up and marry a woman like his mother."

"Like his mother?"

"You know, full-chested."

I laugh. Rosalie is well-endowed, to be sure.

Emily yawns. "Perhaps we should retire," she says. "We will need to be up with the sun."

"Speaking of the sun," I say, "I hope there's some shade on the boat. Even if we leave early, we won't return until it's high in the sky."

"We will bring our floppy hats."

"And sunglasses."

"Towels and long sleeve shirts."

"And the bikini."

"No, no, no. No bikini."

"Antoine would like it, I'm sure."

"Why? Why would he like it?"

"Because you're so tiny and cute."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Why do you not wear a bikini?"

"To spare the general public."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm much too fat."

"No, no, no, you are not fat."

"Oh, but I am."

"My friend, you do not seem to realize how svelte you have become."

"Me? Svelte? It is to laugh."

"But you are."

"If that's true, and I'm not saying it is, it's all thanks to you."

"No, no, no. I only made a few suggestions. You put them into practice."

"But you gave me the knowledge and motivation."

"But you put in the work."

"Emily, why won't you take the credit? You deserve it."

"Credit is not important to me."

"It is to me. If it wasn't for you, I'd still be that fat slob working in that horrid laundry room."

"Are you crying?"

"M-maybe."

Climbing into my lap, she lays her tiny head on my chest. This takes me by surprise. It's the first time she's shown any real affection. I don't mean she's cold, far from it. She's really quite warm and friendly to everyone. The thing is… How can I put this? Suddenly, I feel like more than just a nanny.

"I loved Margie like a sister," she says, "and no one can truly replace her. But you are not a replacement. You are unique, and fun, and all I could ask for in a companion - or nanny, as you like to say. In other words, you are just right the way you are."

With a grateful heart, I hold her in my arms and let the tears flow.