“Nonsense,” she replied. She picked up a plate, loaded it with a steaming square of gooey pasta, and set it in front of me.
“Never say no to Jeanne,” muttered Ambrose, taking a sizable bite of garlic bread. “Especially over one of her Italian grandmother’s recipes. Not that she’ll get offended. She’ll just take it as a challenge. Watch this.” He gestured to his empty plate. “Jeanne, that lasagna was delicious. I’m so full I couldn’t imagine having another bite.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and bringing the pan over to the table, plopped a giant-size piece in front of him. “With all the fighting you boys will be doing, you need all the calories you can get.”
Ambrose lifted an eyebrow and smiled at me in triumph before glancing across the table to Geneviève.
Oh no, I thought. It looked like Ambrose hadn’t gotten over his crush on the recently widowed revenant. Which must be breaking Charlotte’s heart. She looked down at her food and pretended she didn’t see Ambrose’s longing gaze.
“How’s Charles?” I asked to distract her.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she said, her face brightening at the thought of her twin. “I mean, I haven’t seen him since he ran off to Germany, but he’s been emailing or calling almost every day.”
“They just got GPS tracking for each other on their cell phones,” added Geneviève with a grin.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Thanks for letting everyone know about our sad twin-based codependence,” she moaned, but smiled. “It’s amazing how much he’s changed in so little time,” she continued to me. “He’s always talking about his feelings about ‘our destiny’ and how we’re here on earth to give back to humanity. He and his German kindred left this morning for some kind of spiritual mountain retreat.”
She clicked on her cell phone and peered at a digital map showing France and Germany side by side. Over Paris was a blinking red light, and over Germany a green line headed west out of Berlin and stopped with a flashing question mark an inch to the west. “He must not have a signal there because he’s not even showing up.”
“Yeah, I would say that’s pretty codependent,” I said with a wry grin.
Charlotte elbowed me playfully, “Oh, stop. No one but a twin could understand. Whatever,” she said, and stashed the phone in the pocket of her cardigan.
“A little refreshment for your grandmother and the men,” Jeanne said as she bustled out of the kitchen with the tea tray.
Everyone fell into a reflective silence and focused on Jeanne’s delicious meal until she returned minutes later. “Status report?” I asked.
“Your grandmother seemed to be holding up well. She didn’t look overjoyed, but she was listening to what Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard were saying,” Jeanne said, retying her apron.
“Which was . . . ,” I prodded.
“They were proposing some kind of plan where you and your sister would be accompanied everywhere you go,” she responded matter-of-factly, and then turned to check something in the oven.
Georgia and I shot each other worried looks.
“I know we’re waiting for Jean-Baptiste to give us instructions,” Arthur said, prying his attention away from my sister. “But we might as well get suited up until he’s done talking to Madame Mercier. I have no doubt he’ll send us on a scouting trip when we inform him that Henri’s team lost track of Violette.”
Standing and taking his plate to the counter, Ambrose leaned down to give Jeanne’s shoulders a squeeze. “No dessert?” she asked.
Ambrose patted his stomach with both hands. “Naw, I couldn’t, Jeanne. I’m watching my figure.” She guffawed as he walked toward the door. “I could use a bit of a workout if we’re just hanging out for a while. Swords, anyone?” he called.
“That’s an invitation I can’t resist,” responded Charlotte, and thanking Jeanne for the meal, she followed Ambrose out the door.
“I’m on for a fight!” exclaimed Geneviève, and Arthur stood to join her.
“I’ll watch,” muttered a paler-than-usual Georgia. I smiled. It was just like her to hide out as long as possible rather than face Mamie’s wrath.
“Leave your dishes, dears, and go work off some of that steam,” said Jeanne, waving them away from the table and out the door.
“I’ll be right down,” I called. I was still picking at my lasagna, attempting to move pieces of it around my plate so that Jeanne would think I had eaten.
“I see what you’re doing, mon petit chou,” she said as she stood at the sink with her back toward me.
I laid my fork on the table. “Busted,” I replied.
She turned, and her lips curved into a compassionate smile. “You know what? I have something for you. Something that might be a comfort in the hard days ahead.”