“Non,” Simone said. “If it were that, maybe I would feel a little justified, but at the time, I was not even thinking about that. I was thinking that a few months earlier I had asked her to come to my son’s bris. It was important to me to have her there.
“She is my only family, and he was my first boy, and I was feeling alone and weepy about such a significant event passing with only my husband’s family and our friends to see it. I wanted someone from my life. She did not come. She did not even respond. Later, of course, the same thing happened with my second son. And with both of their bar mitzvahs. I invite. She ignores.”
“She was worried people would tell,” Frédéric said. “People would see her there and immediately know she was Simone’s sister. And word would get back here. Her past would be exposed.”
“Would word have gotten all the way back here, though?” Markie asked.
“This is what I told her,” Frédéric said. “That I could not imagine the identity of the mother’s sister would be a topic of conversation. But Simone speaks truth when she says Angeline was not without her faults. She had a very inflated view of her own importance.
“She assumed if she showed up in New York, all eyes would be on her and all mouths would talk about her. It did not occur to her that these events—the bris for each, the two bar mitzvahs—would remain about the children. She feels every event she attends is about her.”
“So,” Markie said to Simone, “you were upset with her for a few reasons. I can understand that. She wasn’t there for you when you needed her, so when you heard about her marriage, you didn’t jump at the chance to be there for her. It’s sad it happened, but I don’t think you should blame yourself so much.”
“She hid her true identity,” Simone said. “And she was not a good aunt, a good sister, when it came time to be. But he . . .” She looked up at Frédéric, smiling. “Her dear, beloved Edouard. He understood her. Accepted her decision, even if he didn’t agree with it. Stuck by her. While I did not.
“I reached out when I wanted something from her. I did not reach out, ever, to offer her something—my support about her marriage, my understanding about how she had chosen to live her life, my apology for not understanding sooner. She was selfish, but so was I. I was no better a sister than she was.”
Simone hung her head, and Markie was filled with sorrow for the two sisters, having spent all of these years apart when they were both in such pain. Before Markie could express it, Simone touched the final two pictures in her lap and looked at Frédéric for permission. He nodded, and Simone handed one of them to Markie.
It was Frédéric—Edouard—as a young man in his midtwenties. He was about Patty’s age, Markie guessed, and if the photograph weren’t old, if his clothes weren’t from a different era, if his hair weren’t cropped short, she would have thought the picture was of Patty herself.
“Wha—?” Markie held the picture out to Frédéric, her expression a question.
“Show her the other,” he said to Simone.
Simone handed Markie the final picture. It was Frédéric/Edouard at around eight. The spitting image of Lola.
“You had an affair with Carol?”
“She was a young waitress at a place near my office,” he said, glancing from Markie to Simone, who was leaning forward, listening intently. She had clearly not heard this part of the story before.
“We went all the time for lunch, a group of us. One day I stayed after the others to finish a report. It was a tough time for me at the office. I was working all the time, trying to get a promotion, trying to balance so many projects so I could impress my boss. I had taken on too much and could not admit this.
“She asked if I wanted coffee, and I asked for a scotch instead. She brought one for me and one for herself and sat with me while I finished the report. Her shift was over. I don’t know what came over me that day, but I stayed all afternoon, drinking with her. I was two days late with the report, and it was filled with mistakes because I was too busy drinking and flirting to think about my job.
“Or my wife. I offered to drive her home and . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot blame the liquor. I simply was not myself that day. I have no excuse for this. I did not see her again for over a year. I stopped going to that restaurant immediately. And then one day, I saw her near a shop by my office. I was walking out with some things I had bought, and she was on the sidewalk, pushing a stroller with a baby girl inside. My baby girl.
“She let me give her money, but she would not let me see the baby after that day. I begged her, but she was insistent—I was never to go near my child. That was when I lost . . . everything. My mind. My discipline over alcohol. My focus at work. My wife. Angeline could tell something was wrong with me, and she would ask me over and over what it was, what she could do to fix it. When I finally told her, she . . .” He grimaced. “It was terrible. Not a thing I could ever forget.”
“But somehow you managed to keep track of the baby,” Markie said. “Of Patty.”
“Non,” Frédéric said. “I did not. Her mother never changed her mind on it.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“Angeline. She was working at a food pantry some years ago. Five, I guess it was now. And she saw Patty, with little Lola, waiting in line. And she knew.”
“She did? Because I don’t think you look all that much alike now. I can see it in these old photos, but I’ve seen the three of you together . . . how many times in the past few months? And I’ve never noticed a resemblance.”
“Ah yes,” Frédéric said, “but Angeline knew me when I was younger.”
“So she recognized Patty and brought her home?” Markie asked. “Even though the affair ruined your marriage?”
“Le Chambon,” Simone said. Frédéric nodded. “And, also, I believe, out of guilt for her insistence that I go along with her story and never tell anyone my own.”
“So she brought you your daughter instead,” Markie said. “Because she felt guilty about making you hide your past.”
“Oui,” Frédéric said. “At least, this is my belief. To this day, we have never discussed the fact that Patty is my daughter, Lola my granddaughter. I think Angeline thought I did not know. She told me about this young woman and her child who she had met, how the woman seemed in trouble. She had a crazy mother, one always involved with drugs.”
“She recognized the resemblance, but she didn’t think you would?” Markie asked.
Frédéric shrugged. “Angeline always felt she knew more and better than everyone else.”
Markie tried not to smile, but when Simone burst out laughing, she couldn’t help joining, and soon Frédéric was smiling, too.
“More true words were not spoken before, I think,” Simone said.
“Does Patty know?” Markie asked.