Chapter 8: Eleanor's Terms

I slept Friday night in the room above the shop, in a narrow bed that smelled of cinnamon.

Rémy had put a clean towel on the pillow.

On the dresser sat a plate of boudin with a note that said Eat.

He hadn't asked me why I was shaking.

I didn't cry. I made a list instead, in French, on the back of a receipt.

At eight on Saturday I came down to the kitchen and found a woman in pearls sitting on a flour stool.

She had a straight back and a camel coat, and her hands were folded over the clasp of her purse.

"Good morning," Eleanor said.

Rémy stood at the stove with a spoon in his fist, being as polite as he knew how.

"Ma'am says she's your mother-in-law," he said.

"I am."

"She came in the front door, and I'd locked it."

"I knocked," Eleanor said. "He let me in. He is a good man. He gave me coffee."

She lifted a small cup toward me. It was café au lait, steaming.

"It is quite excellent," she said. "I haven't had it that strong since Paris."

I stood on the bottom stair with my hand on the rail.

"How did you find me?" I said, in English.

"Mireille's mother-in-law plays bridge with my cook's sister."

"I am sixty-one, Aimée. I know where every ferry ticket in this family goes."

"You told me to come."

"Yes. And now I would like to say something. Please sit."

I sat down on an overturned crate.

Eleanor set down her cup.

Keep reading free with an account. Start My Husband Told His Ex in French I'd Never Find Out from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.