“La voilà. Good of you to join us finally, Aimée,” said her old catechism teacher, Père Michel, beckoning them closer.
Chloé Jeanne Renée—named for her great-grandmother, her grandfather Jean-Claude and her godfather-to-be, René—yawned. Aimée’s cousin Sebastian and his wife, Regula, beamed. Regula, six months along herself, was showing her bump.
The incense tickled Aimée’s nose, and the splash of holy water brought back memories. Memories of coming here with her parents, and later, after her American mother had abandoned them, Morbier taking her small hand in his and bringing her to catechism classes. As she stood under the soaring seventeenth-century domed roof, it all passed before her like old photos in a slideshow. She grabbed at tradition in whatever family memories she could find.
Just as the priest was about to begin, Martine tugged on Aimée’s sleeve and pointed to a man in a black jacket striding down the aisle. His magnetic grey-blue eyes caught Aimée’s. Still a hunk. A chord vibrated in her stomach.
Melac, her baby’s father.
Six long months without a word, and he could still make her heart pound. He’d never even seen his daughter. Nor had he replied to the christening invitation, or called once. She noted his leanness, a deeper line added to the crinkle on his brow.
She felt conflicted: both furious with him and glad that he had come. Maybe this was an olive branch that might lead to some involvement in her baby’s life? But why hadn’t he called, even once? Aimée pulled Chloé close, nuzzled her rose-pink cheek. “Ma puce, he’s your father, so let’s be nice.”
Père Michel gave the blessing in his white cassock. She felt Melac’s presence at her side as he bowed his head during the prayers. That same remembered lime scent clung to him. The ice block inside her thawed a little at the look of joy spreading over his face. He ran his finger under Chloé’s chin. She cooed and broke into a smile.
“Before us, Chloé Jeanne Renée’s father and mother …” intoned the priest. The rest of the litany was lost to her. For a moment, for this sliver of time, they were a family. Together. Aimée choked back a sob.
“Now, witnessed by her godparents, Martine and René …”
René nodded, his big green eyes serious. He took Chloé in his arms, a bundle of white organdy in her flowing christening dress. Then he handed her to a smiling Martine. Morbier blew his nose with a handkerchief.
Chloé emitted a startled cry at the cold holy water pouring over her head. “Brave girl, it’s almost over,” Aimée whispered.
And then it was. There were smiles all round and wiping of the eyes by these people who she’d grown to realize were her family.
“Being a maman suits you, Aimée, couture and all.” Melac pecked both her cheeks. “May I, René?” he said, opening his arms. “Enchanté to meet you, Chloé, my little trouper.”
René, ever the diplomat—or most of the time, anyway—shot Aimée a look. About time he showed up, she thought, but bit the words back and nodded instead.
Melac’s wrists were tanned, and she did a double take when she noticed he was wearing a rose-gold serpent ring on his fourth finger. That hadn’t been there before. Her insides knotted.
Back with his ex-wife?
What happened to his offer to “do the right thing”? He’d dropped off the radar almost the moment he’d made it. Not that she’d have married him, although her pride still smarted. She’d crossed him off the list, realizing there was no room for her and Chloé in Melac’s life. His attentions were spread too thin elsewhere, with his injured daughter, still comatose after a school bus crash, and his high-maintenance, suicidal ex-wife. Aimée and Chloé weren’t going to play second fiddle to anyone’s other family.
She’d moved on. Hadn’t she? Aimée’s fists clenched.
“C’est incroyable,” said new godmother Martine, whispering in her ear. “He’s brought a woman.”
Not the ex-wife, whose picture Aimée had seen. This woman was a smiling redhead, with freckles dusted over her nose. A big-boned athletic type, she wore a hand-knitted wool sweater, a woven rust-colored skirt and short boots. Not an outfit for a christening, the Parisienne in Aimée noted. Provincial, all right. The woman’s gaze was fixed on Chloé.
“Meet Donatine, my wife,” Melac said, his voice low. “She’s helped me through a rough time. She nursed Sandrine until life support failed.”
“Je suis désolée,” said Aimée, realizing why he’d gone off the radar. His daughter had died. She felt terrible. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved Sandrine.”
This Donatine woman, she now saw, was wearing a matching rose-gold serpent ring.
“Chloé’s un ange.” The redhead gazed at the proud father holding Chloé, drinking the sight in.
The hair bristled on the back of Aimée’s neck.
“Regarde ?a, Chloé loves her papa,” said Donatine.
Melac smiled from ear to ear, rewarded by Chloé’s cooing.
“Vous me permettez?” said Donatine. Before Aimée could prevent it, she had Chloé cuddled in her arms.
Aimée’s internal alarms screeched on high alert. Danger. She wanted this woman away, far away.
“Donatine’s a natural,” grinned Melac. “She loves children,” he added.
“Oh, I’m glad, Melac,” she said, relief filling her. “You’ll have a new family, move on with your life.” She reached for his hand.
He pulled back. “I want to register as Chloé’s father, go to the mairie and recognize her officially.” He shifted on his boots. “Forgive me, Aimée. I meant to do this before.”
“Six months too late, Melac,” she said. No way was he getting on Chloé’s birth certificate.
Aimée watched Donatine coo and bounce Chloé. It made her skin itch to watch Chloé babble and drool and smile.
“Donatine can’t have children,” Melac said. He paused. “We’re interested in figuring out an arrangement. Sharing care. Custody.”