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She left her handbag on the chair by the door and moved towards the dresser. It was bare, painted white, the only dresser in the entire house she imagined. She always told him, before he organised any trip, that a dresser was essential in any hotel room – he was so good at giving her little messages, telling her things, without saying one word. The first summer he'd offered her and the boys the use of this house, he'd run out to a flee market and picked this dresser up, brought it back in that ridiculous military pick up he drove about when he wasn't driving one of the retainer cars. She had hated that pick-up. It was so rough and wild looking, parked beside the limos and Bentleys that the family used.
He'd repainted the dresser though, and it had driven from it that old, cheap charm that she had loved when he had first bought it.
She pulled open the drawer on the left. A bottle of Chanel No. 5 – ribbon wrapped.
She quickly shut it again, embarrassed to have found it, as if it wasn't intended for her. Of course it was. A personal little gift.
She sat on the edge of the bed and listened closely. She let her eyes slide closed; the muffled sound of the other people around her unpacking, drawers opening and closing, suitcases being stored away. The crash of waves on the surf and then nothing more. She fell back, gathered up the soft cotton of the sheets under her hands and made a point of concentrating on the feel of them for fear of emotions overwhelming her.
"You're very beautiful."
She startled, her eyes shooting open as she twisted her head. He closed the door behind him. She held her hand out to him, beckoning him towards her. She needed him to hold her right now and she wanted to show him that.
He lay down beside her silently. Knowing exactly what she needed, he folded his arm over abdomen, kicked off his shoes, and pulled her nearer to him. It was a little awkward, not exactly comfortable, but it didn't matter.
"Thank you for the perfume."
He kissed her cheek by way of response.
"You re-decorated," she said at length, after the noise of everyone settling in had finally died. They must have lay like that for thirty minutes – exchanging nothing but a few glances, listening to the noises of the world and their past. He stroked her hair and she examined their hands as they lay clasped on her abdomen.
"It was time," he answered.
She wanted to make love to him then.
She heard them though– footsteps, her granddaughter's baseball boots, on the stairs. He heard it too and moved away from her, giving her time to straighten herself, and the sheets, out. He sat on the seat at the door and managed to make himself look busy, examining his cell phone in a convincingly important way. If she'd been in a jocular mood, she might have commented on how easily he appeared to lie.
The knock on the door came in due time and, breezy as ever, Clarisse pulled open the door.
Amelia came in, looked around; "Yeah, you got the best room," she smiled at Joseph, cuffed him on the shoulder, and sat on the edge of the bed, "Some things never change. Who has the other attic room? You Joe?"
Sometimes, in a devious way, Clarisse was grateful of Amelia's endearing naivety. She question nothing unless prompted. Not the best trait in a monarch though. She hoped, and didn't hope, that she would grow out of it.
"This is my house," he teased her, "And that is my room."
"How come you never come here? You stay at the Palace all the time." She crossed her legs on the bed, her filthy shoes on the sheets.
"Mia, my darling," Clarisse sat down beside her, reached out and stroked her hair, "Would you please take your shoes off of my sheets?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry grandma," the girl said and popped her feet back onto the floor, "Anyway, I came up to ask if we can go exploring. I thought it'd be okay. Shades will come with us obviously Joe, and uncle Pierre. So can we grandma? And if you don't mind, Charlotte could come too. No reason to work hard. You can come too, obviously. Didn't know if it was your thing but..."
She looked at that beautifully expectant face and saw no reason to refuse, particularly because she felt very, very safe here and knew Mia was safe here too.
"Of course," she smiled, "Of course darling. Just be safe and don't climb and if Charlotte desires to go, she may."
"Sure!" Mia enveloped her in a clumsy hug and rushed out of the door.
"Chess?" He looked up as soon as Mia had left, slipping his phone back in his pocket and giving her a devious smile, "No reception out here."
"The horror! You looked very busy," she went towards the door, "Black or white?"
"Why don't you guess?" He reached out for her hand though, stopping her going any further.
"I love you," he said to her, and the genuine tone of everything from his body language to his eyes to the set of his shoulders was unbearably honest. She loved him more than anything in that moment.
"I love you too Joseph," she touched her hand to his cheek, "I love you so very much."
"Black," he laughed softly, "I want black."
"I know dear," she answered dryly as they descended the stairs.
-0-
He was willing to wager that his mother had insisted Mia didn't climb but, Charlotte aside, they all sat at the top of a steep rocky wall – they had been able to walk up it slowly, because he had walked it so many times he was able to warn them, but the descent was a little steeper and trickier. He had been impressed by Mia's climbing skills and had laughed when she told him she rock-climbed for fun. From the top of the cliff the sea was vast and endless – to the right of them there was the house, glowing against the setting sun and to their left there was just miles of beach, though only until the little alcove of rocks, which shielded them from the world, counted as the private beach which belonged to the house. On the other side of the alcove was the rest of the world.
"We should get back," he said to the group after a while, waving to Charlotte at the bottom to let her know they'd be coming back down, "Aren't you hungry? Joe will get annoyed if we're not back for dinner."
"Yeah," Shades grumbled, "I hate heights."
He laughed and turned to him, "Really?"
"Yeah," he shuddered, "Don't tell the boss."
"Ha! Which one?" Mia joined in, already standing and stretching.
"Both, please," Shades answered and turned to him, "I'd offer to lead the way but..."
"Of course."
He watched Mia as they descended, her best friend at her back, and was suddenly very pleased that he'd made the effort to come. He had watched her as she'd sat atop the rock and realised she was far cleverer, far more astute, than he'd given her credit for.
"Uncle Pierre," she jogged back towards him as they came onto even ground, their shoes meeting the sand again, "Isn't the sunset amazing?"
"Yes," he smiled, "You're like me; you like the simple things?"
"Yeah," she nodded, sharing a rather glorious smile with him, "As long as there is internet nearby."
He laughed, "You'll love it here then because I know that Joe will have had internet installed, right?"
"Right," she bent down and picked up a bit of driftwood, examined it as she ran her fingers across it.
"I know she gives you a hard time," he blurted out, aware that it seemed a little contrived offering her advice when he barely knew her, "But it's for your own good."
She laughed a little, "You sound like Joe."
"Do I?" He feigned offence, "I must be getting old."
"Yeah, you must be," she laughed, "I know that you're right. We're similar people really, that's the problem. Don't get me wrong – I am nowhere near as self-contained or posh but we're both quite stubborn and we're both really determined too. Really stubborn, so we don't always see eye-to- eye but I know, I know she loves me and I know she does it for my own good."
"You think she's self-contained?" He asked, genuinely curious.
She appeared to have an impression of his mother that he understood but didn't really agree with. He could see Mia was thinking hard about why she thought that. He looked ahead to make sure Charlotte, Shades and Lily were still near but not within earshot. The lights in the house shone ahead, the doors were open, and he could just make out the outline of Joe in front of the stove.
"She's always so 'together'. She never loses it," she explained, "I've never saw her flip out or cry or shout. Even when she gives me a row she's calm. She delivers every criticism in this really calm, cool way. It's menacing."
She wrapped her arm through his, their strides uneven as they trundled over the sand.
"I suppose," he answered, "I don't know that it's really about her being self-contained, to use your rather American phrase. I think it's about suppression. She works really hard to act calm."
"Well," Mia laughed a little as he pulled her up over a sand-dune, "I need to learn that. She's so good at being calm."
He looked at her as she pulled herself up, her hair flying about on the breeze from the sea, her face flushed. She was only a young girl, just eighteen. What was her life going to be like? Intense, he thought to himself, her life will be intense. Silence lay over them then, and he could see she was thinking about their conversation.
"Have you ever tried Joe's paella before?" He asked, in order to drag her from her thoughts.
He wanted this to be a break for her too and he didn't want her to feel like he was making her question things.
"I've never tried paella before," she answered, "My favourite meal is a Big Mac."
"That's terrible," he shook his head, "That's not even food."
She laughed, "I'm an all American junk-eating, Coke guzzling princess."
"Yeah," he agreed, kicking his shoes on the stairs and leaving them at the bottom. He watched her watch him and then she followed suit. All of them lined their shoes up at the foot of the wooden stairs of the terrace, even Shades took off his boots.
"You're late," Joe opened the door for them and the smell of the rich fare was strong, the heat a little stronger. His mother sat at the table, buttering fresh bread of all things. Her face was flushed from the heat.
"Mia, can you peel these?" Joe held out a bowl of wide eyed, recently dead prawns.
"Ewww! No," she laughed, "That's gross!"
He smiled and laughed, throwing the prawns onto the counter top, "Ok, help Lily set out the cutlery," he continued as he motioned to the massive table.
Pierre settled down at the table while Mia and Lily set it and laughed because Mia will still managing to confuse her left and right. Darkness had fallen now but the lights from the house illuminated the surf and the waves had gathered pace, wrapping themselves around the jetty that led out to sea and at which the boat was moored.
He turned to Shades, who had somehow been tasked with peeling the prawns, "Do you like it here Scott?"
"Yes sir," he answered, wrestling with a rather stubborn tail.
Pierre sighed; no matter the fact that he was no longer titled or landed, people still did not call him his name; "I've told you Shades, I'm not 'sir' - simply Pierre. I really-"
"I know Shades," Mia interrupted, leaning over the security guard's shoulder to set a fork beside him, "You wouldn't believe how many times I've asked him not to address me as princess and yet he still does."
Pierre gave his niece a consoling smile because that was going to be the case for the rest of her life - she just hadn't realised it yet.
"Please," he continued, "Call me Pierre."
At that moment his mother, her faced flushed from the heat of the kitchen, placed an overflowing basket of bread in the centre. Joe fed everyone like they were Spanish and made with hollow legs and the overflowing bread was a perfect example of that habit.
"Well Scott," she laughed a little and Pierre turned to watch Joseph as he watched her, "I just can't bring myself to ask you to call me Clarisse, unlike the younger members of my family. So Your Majesty is absolutely fine with me."
Shades laughed along with everyone else as she rearranged the basket to suit her. It amazed Pierre that his mother could joke about her snobbery and isolation and still appear to be rather funny. He had always found her to be dryly humorous in a way that was always disparaging to herself. It was a sort of half-humour, picking fun at the truth.
"Pierre," Joe took the bowl of prawns from Shades, the last to go into the pan, "We need wine."
"Really?"
He would have been lying to say he wasn't partly amused by Joe's request. Joe smiled at him in his immutable way and he could picture himself, a gangling and awkward ten year old, tasked with the job of choosing the best wine for their dinner table that night.
"To be fair," his mother turned to him from where she was cutting tomatoes for the salad, "You are the expert."
Joe nodded in agreement. Pierre was concentrating on them, unlike the rest of the people around the table. Lily and Mia were busy arguing over which side the wine glass should go on - he was going to tell them it was the right but he didn't - and Shades and Charlotte were in conference over an email that had just pinged through to Charlotte's palm-computer. He rather wished she'd put that thing down actually. Joe had managed to switch off and for that very reason, it appeared that Charlotte and Shades had gone into over-drive in terms of professionalism. He knew it was more of a working holiday for them but he at least expected them to slow down a little.
He had never witnessed his mother anywhere near a stove other than when she was here, at this house. She didn't cook, not exactly, but she had never been above helping Joe prepare their meals. It seemed she took great pleasure in the simplicity of the task.
"You're not doing it right," Joe corrected her quietly as she began mixing the salad rather gingerly, "You have to be willing, pardon my expression, to get your hands dirty."
She had a laugh that Pierre only every heard her use with Joseph and she used it now. It came from the depths of her throat at his statement, thick with innuendo. It was a genuine, full laugh that didn't really suit her but fitted her perfectly at the same time. Joe glowed with pleasure at having drawn it from her. They knew how to be with each other in the middle of a crowded room and Pierre admired it. He knew they were together and he honestly didn't mind. He just wished they'd say to him so he could offer his blessing. Blessing to what though? An illicit relationship doomed to the shadows? The very thought made him unhappy.
"Well," she muttered, passing the bowl to him, her hands slick with olive oil that she wiped on the dish towel that she lifted from Joe's shoulder, "That is your job, my darling."
She had slipped up and for a moment he could see she was startled. Joe turned and smiled at her reassuringly - a smile that said no one heard.
And they hadn't, apart from Pierre himself.
"Pierre," Joe looked at him, reaching over to put the salad beside the bread, "That wine won't fetch itself."
He had been so absorbed watching these two people that he had forgotten the pressing task he'd been set.
"Right, of course," he went to the sink and opened the cupboard under it, "Where's the torch?"
"Oh, it's been fitted with a light," Joe answered, "Top of the stairs."
He was a little disappointed with that information; it was more fun to go hunting in the dark.
"What has?"
Mia and Lily had finally decided the glass went on the left and no one, not even his mother it seemed, had the heart to correct them.
"The cellar. I'm going to get some wine."
"Can I come?" His niece stood up and smiled hopefully.
He was beginning to think his chat on the beach with her had broken some invisible barrier. He was willing to bet she'd started to view him as a human that just happened to be in a rather alien role in life.
"Of course," he led the way.
He felt along the wall for a light at the top of the stairs and was disappointed when his hand encountered the switch because it just represented the ceaseless march of change across his life.
They descended the wooden stairs, their shoes making footprints in the dust.
"This was my job when we came here," he explained, desperate to make himself, and his mother, sound like a human. He ran his fingers over the bottles. Some were thick with dust, so much so you could not read the label. Other, newer bottles, were more discernible.
"Really?"
Mia was wandering about the perimeter of the room, touching tools and old canvas sheets and dragging her fingers along the rough brick walls.
"Yes," he bent down and methodically began reading and checking each bottle. Surprisingly for Joe there was no recognisable order to the set-up. It was just a pick and mix of possibilities.
"I was always wanting a job. A task of some sort to make me feel like I was helping," he continued, "The first time we all came here, mama and my brother and Joseph and my papa-"
Mia turned at this and while trying, she didn't do a good job of disguising the surprise on her face. She hadn't thought of his father as part of this, he imagined. Rupert was a fringe character now for everyone but him and his mother and Joe and those subjects that weren't fickle enough to forget him. His loving, flawed, funny, philandering father. Just to think of him was to smell cigars and the hot ink from newspapers. His parents had loved each other, in an arranged sort of way that fitted their marriage. He had always felt so very sorry for them to have missed out on something not arranged and passionate and meaningful. But he had loved them as parents – regardless of their flaws.
"Well, I was bored and Joe sent me down here for a bottle of wine. It was October, and it wasn't as warm as it is now, so he was cooking some hearty beef," he finally found the bottle he was looking for and withdrew it from the rack with a feeling of satisfaction, "I picked a white because I knew my mama loved a white. They didn't correct me-"
"Even I know you don't have white with beef," Mia laughed.
"I know but that was beside the point. They were pleased with me and praised me. It made a task worth doing. I spent every time in between coming here reading and learning about wine because it was my responsibility," he knew his reminiscing sounded crazy but she couldn't, as someone who hadn't grown up being waited on hand and foot and treated like porcelain, know what it felt like to suddenly understand normality, "I have become something of an amateur expert. Joe always encouraged us to be normal - it helped our parents be a little normal too when we were here."
He was painting an odd picture of domestic bliss that Freud would have just loved to study. Raised by 3 adults who all served different purposes. One man in love with his mother and the other married to her who just happened, by a happy coincidence, to be his father. He knew she must think it was crazy. Or maybe she didn't because she couldn't possibly understand the fractious nature of those relationships that had been broken and forged and mended and nourished in the rooms above their heads.
"I didn't realise how close you were to Joe, you know," she said instead, not really focusing on the oddness of it all.
Mia had never witnessed the oddness of it all; she had only been a spectator after his father's passing. He realised it made it easier to tell her.
"He was my mother's body guard as long as I can remember," he answered, twisting the other bottles and resting them again, one after the other.
He had never once suspected that his mother and Joe were having an affair but he knew they wanted it. He watched them actively want it without doing it. Even at thirteen years old he had understood lust and attraction. That was why he admired them both so much. They had resisted temptation and closeness for years.
"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'm just starting to understand that you all have a history with this house."
"Does that upset you?"
"Oh, no," she shook her head, "It's nice to be where he was. I mean my father. And it's good to see grandma less on edge. I feel sorry for her though. I catch her staring into nowhere sometimes and I know she's thinking about him. I thought I could solve it sort of but I guess it's not fixable."
"No it's not," Pierre sat on the bottom step and motioned her over. He wrapped an arm around her narrow shoulders. She had his brother's ears; he'd never noticed that before, "But you've made it so much better."
"The summer after he died was the worst," he started, wanting to share the grief with her that he'd never expressed before, the grief of watching a part of his mother go with his brother, "I took six weeks sabbatical to stay with my mama. She, the whole thing, was a nightmare. The palace was in turmoil and the only person holding it together was Joe. He was with her night and day. He made her eat and sleep and work. I was a coward and I retreated from her, unlike him. He slept on the couch in her suite every night. But be disappeared sometimes too because he was struggling. He re-did this entire house in the moments where he was free from her. You see, he was really close to your father. Before this it was very retro! Ha. All wood panels and eighties looking. Each spare moment he had he spent here - I think for him, it was catharsis; painting, carving, drilling. Then they came to America for you. He was with Phillipe when he died you know."
"No," Mia said quietly, "I didn't."
"He was. I think mama is only realising it now, that it had a big effect on all of us," he muttered, realising his rumblings were incoherent almost, "She is so much happier because of you Mia. She hasn't been this happy in years."
"I'm tempted to quote her; "Tush!""
He laughed at her lamentable attempt at his mother's accent, "You need to work on that."
"Yes. You do."
They turned to see the subject of their discussion at the top of the stairs, hands on her linen clad hips. Mia reddened considerably but smiled as she realised the older woman was smiling too.
"I was sent by the head-chef, who's paella is growing cold, to find out what had happened to our wine," she came down the stairs carefully, obviously reluctant to touch the dusty banister, "He's being quite the taskmaster."
She had reached them now, and as they stood, she quickly enveloped them both, one after the other, in an awkward embrace. They were rather off balance on the steps but they had little choice but to hug her back.
She made a little "hah!" In the back of her throat and Pierre knew it will enough to be the noise she used to dispel emotion so it didn't overwhelm her. He felt embarrassed for her then because she had heard them talking and was obviously touched. He broke the silence as they all turned to climb the stairs.
"That Head of Security is overworking you mama," he laughed, sharing a secretive wink and smirk with his niece.
She made big, frightened eyes that begged him not to wind his mother up but, unlike Amelia, he wasn't afraid of her.
"Isn't he just?"
He saw Mia relax a little when she realised her grandmother was in a playful mood.
"I've never actually saw you take orders from someone before grandma," Mia said as they entered the kitchen.
"No," she smiled, and Pierre was delighted to see it, "I don't suppose you have. For Joseph though, I make the odd exception."
He looked at Joe then, at the other end of the table and holding up the wine, tried his best to look sorry. The other man smiled and shook his head, a ghost of a laugh on his lips. His mother moved away from him, taking the vacant seat beside Joe. Pierre proceeded to uncork and pour the wine, filling the four adults' glasses but had to move Charlotte and Shades away when they protested that they didn't want any.
"Charlotte," his mother said, "Please, it's only wine with dinner."
"Your Majesty, I'd rather not," the girl said meekly and Pierre shared a consoling smile with her.
"Mia, Lily, would you like some?"
He could have sworn his niece's head nearly twisted off, she snapped it around so quickly.
"Don't look so shocked dear," his mother said calmly, "Like many European countries, our age limit is much lower than in America and we encourage our young people to enjoy a sensible wine with dinner rather than a ridiculous bender on the night of their twenty first birthday."
"Your Majesty, people tend to go on benders before their 21st these days," Lily laughed.
"I didn't think you knew what a bender was," Joseph teased.
"Well you are eighteen," his mother took the glasses from him and slid them towards the two girls, ignoring Joe, "One glass of one of the finest wines your country has to offer should be educational enough. It's a shame to waste them."
"Ma'am," Joseph finally muttered, reaching for the massive serving spoon that rested on the paella, "While you're ruminating, the dinner's getting cold."
"Heavens Joseph," she laughed, "You're such a grouch when you're hungry. And I have been on a bender or two myself. They just tend to involve champagne."
"I know," he piled food onto her plate, not stopping until a small mountain rested on the crockery. Pierre watched his mother's face curl up in a smile of amusement.
"Joseph, are you trying to kill me?"
Everyone enjoyed the look of disgruntlement that crossed the Head of Security's face at their laughter. Hollow legs, Pierre thought to himself.
Pierre took a moment to look around him - forced himself to take a mental image of the smile on his mother's face that was lighting up her eyes. He wanted to steal this moment from time and keep it because it felt like being a child again. There was protection here that he didn't have any more and while there was a vacancy that couldn't be filled, Mia had somewhat softened the edges of that hurt for all 3 of them.
Thank you for reading.