“Do you ever get tired of us?” Gwyneth asked, since they had opened a forbidden subject, and Sybil laughed.
“Never, except when Angus plays the bagpipes.” They both laughed. Sybil turned back to her computer then. “I’m trying to find this guy’s phone number. Maybe I should just call Paris information.” She did, as Gwyneth listened to her, marveling at modern communications when they gave it to her, as simple as that. A moment later, when Sybil turned to say something to her, Gwyneth had vanished, to check on Magnus and make sure he wasn’t up to mischief. And she didn’t want to intrude on the call.
Magnus had been rambunctious lately. Charlie was getting more homework and couldn’t play as often, or for as long. It made Sybil wonder if she was damaging her children, allowing them to grow up with people who no longer existed in the present, and facilitating their living together as friends. But the Butterfields had enriched their lives in so many ways. She didn’t know what they would tell their children about it. What had Bettina told Lili? Did Lili know? Or did Bettina simply live with her family and never tell her daughter of the unusual phenomena in the house? And would Lili have believed her or thought her senile and dismissed it as an old woman’s fantasies or some form of dementia, living in the past? Sybil was sure that Bettina had come back in order to find them all again, after Louis died. And now Sybil didn’t want to leave the house either, nor did Blake or their children. She couldn’t imagine living without the Butterfields anymore. They were an important part of each other’s lives.
Sybil wanted to call Samuel Saint Martin in Paris, but she realized it was one in the morning there, and she’d have to wait until morning for him, and midnight for her.
She went back to her research papers but couldn’t focus as she thought about Samuel Saint Martin, curious if he was even the right one. Thinking about him made her wonder if she should be writing the Butterfields’ family history instead of her book on design. She was curious what kind of history Samuel was interested in. Maybe he should write the family history, using Bettina’s original book as a base. Maybe that was why she felt compelled to find him, so she could give him all the material and he could write it. She knew there had to be a reason why she felt so strongly that she had to reach out to him. The idea had come from somewhere. She sensed that someone or something was pushing her to find him.
Neither she nor Gwyneth said anything about it that night at dinner. They talked about their plans for Christmas, which was only a month away. Everyone would be home except Bettina, who had written that she would be spending the holiday in Dordogne with her husband and in-laws. Gwyneth commented to Sybil how much they were going to miss her.
“You never should have let her marry a Frenchman,” Augusta said from the other end of the table. “I told you that. She’ll bring Lili up as a French child. She’ll never even know us.” Augusta looked disapproving as she said it.
“You liked him, Mother,” Gwyneth reminded her.
“I did,” she admitted. “But, still, she should have married an American. A suitable one,” she said pointedly, referring to Lili’s father and Bettina’s regrettable transgression with the restaurant owner’s son. They had never heard from any of the Salvatores again. The match had been reciprocally undesirable, and Lili was the only fortunate result. And now Louis had adopted her, so the Salvatores could be entirely forgotten. “Will the little countess be joining us for Christmas this year?” Augusta asked Sybil, and she laughed. She meant Quinne.
“I’m not sure.” Andy was very serious about her, but they were so young, and she had her family in Scotland to go home to, although they seemed to be a bit disorganized about making plans, and so was she.
She went upstairs with Blake after dinner, and once he was asleep, she went to her office to call Samuel at midnight, which would be morning for him.
Sybil had gotten his number from information and hoped it was the right one. The phone rang several times before he answered. He had a young voice in spite of his age, and answered in French, which Sybil had expected, and she asked him immediately if he spoke English. Her college French was too rusty to even attempt.
“Yes, I do,” he said, sounding puzzled about who she was, and for an instant, she wondered where to start and then jumped in before he could hang up.
“I know this is a bit unusual, but I’m a friend of the Butterfield family, your grandmother Bettina’s family, actually. My husband and I bought their home in San Francisco three years ago, and I have a book written by your grandmother about the family and the house, and quite a lot of photographs of all of them. And I wondered if you would be interested in seeing them, or would even like to visit the house,” she said cautiously. It seemed like a safe opening, although a little forward. She had no idea how he’d react.
“I really know nothing about them. My mother came to France when she was a year old. She never had any interest in my grandmother’s family. She was closer to my grandfather’s family in France. And my American grandmother moved back to the States when I was four years old. I only saw her a few times in my life. I don’t think my mother and her mother were very close. But thank you. You can send me a copy of the book if you wish. I’d like to read it. Were they interesting people, or just rich Americans?” he asked, and the question annoyed Sybil. They deserved far more respect than that. But at least she had found the right Samuel Saint Martin. That was something.