Aimée’s jaw dropped. Custody? Just like that?
“And where have you been in Chloé’s life so far, Melac?” she said, blood rising to her face.
Melac held out his hand. “Be juste, Aimée.”
“You think you can just waltz in like you have some right?” she said. “I’ve raised her without a father, without even a phone call, for six months.” She wanted to grab her baby out of Donatine’s arms.
Near the nave of the church, René was asking for everyone’s attention. “As the proud godparents, Martine and I invite you to join us for a champagne toast at Aimée’s,” said René. “We’ve prepared a little celebration.”
Melac winked at Donatine. Besotted, that was the only way she could describe that look of his. He caught Aimée’s furious glare, and his intent grey-blue eyes narrowed, dispelling that gaze she’d once gotten lost in. “Désolé. This isn’t the place to bring things up. Let’s catch up at your place. Donatine’s brought Chloé a present.”
He’d crossed the line. The gall!
“Melac, I invited you as a courtesy. But you never replied.”
A pall of silence fell over the church vestibule.
“You’ve got some nerve,” she said, her voice rising. “Chloé’s six months old, and you’ve just seen her for the first time.”
“Shh … don’t make a scene here, Aimée.”
A scene? She wanted to pick up the nearest crucifix and hit him. Chloé gave a little cry.
“There’s nothing to discuss, Melac.” Anger rippled up her neck. “Until she graduates from university.”
Melac’s mouth pursed. “So you want to blow this up, make it an issue?”
“No, it’s a nonissue, Melac,” she said. “You’re not legally recognized as her father. Get over it.”
“My lawyer says otherwise, Aimée.”
Panic flooded her. Was it possible? Could he get rights to her baby? A cold shiver ran down her legs.
“You’re talking to a lawyer?” Shouting, she was shouting now. She felt a tug on her arm. She couldn’t let go. “How dare you?”
Several older women in the pews turned toward the vestibule and stared. Donatine rocked a now crying Chloé in her arms.
Aimée reached out for her daughter, but Donatine turned away. “Shh, you’ve scared her.”
Bitch. Interloper. “What right—?”
Melac stepped between her and Donatine. “Like to make scenes, don’t you, Aimée?”
“Non, Melac, you’re confusing me with your hysterical ex-wife.”
Père Michel’s cassock swished as he moved between them. In one swift move, he took Chloé and put her in René’s arms.
“D’accord, mes enfants, take this outside and go with God,” said the Père, shaking his head.
Morbier grabbed Melac’s shoulder and ushered him through the church’s leather-padded door. Martine hooked an arm in Aimée’s, shoving her forward and leaning in to say into her ear, “Let it go for now.”
“Like hell I will.”
“He’s doing this to keep his new woman happy, Aimée, and it’s her tactic to keep him. You need a good lawyer. I know some people.”
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH on the twilit, cobbled ?le Saint-Louis street, Aimée’s hands trembled as she watched Donatine give René a wrapped gift. Without another word to Aimée, Melac put his arm around Donatine and they disappeared around the corner.
Aimée’d looked forward to this event, and now it was ruined. Melac had turned into a menace.
“No wonder you didn’t end up with that salaud,” said her cousin Sebastian, snapping his leather jacket closed. He hugged her, then stepped back so Regula could. “We’ve got work, can’t stay.” Sebastian pulled on his helmet while Regula hopped onto the back of his motorcycle, her helmet already on. A wave and they’d taken off into the descending shadows. After kissing Chloé, Lefèvre and Dussollier bowed out, too.
Martine held her cell phone, a pained look on her face. “Got to go, an emergency with Gilles’s daughter. Teenagers. Désolée.” She hugged Aimée before getting into her lime green Mini Cooper. “We’ll talk later.”
The christening party, now just Aimée, René, Morbier and Jeanne, reached the quai d’Anjou. Chloé’s cries had turned to hiccups. Aimée settled the baby on her shoulder and patted her back. A moment later she was rewarded with a loud burp.
“Always exciting with you, Leduc,” said Morbier. “Not often I’m kicked out of church.”
“The nerve of him, appearing sans RSVP and talking custody. What was I supposed to do—smile and give my daughter to a man who’s nothing more than a stranger?” Aimée’s voice had risen in anger, and Chloé whimpered. Aimée stopped and kissed her whimpers away.
As she followed the others toward her townhouse, she was startled by a young man, olive-complected with curly black hair, who stepped out of the shadows by a tall green door and stopped her before she could cross the street. He wore a hoodie and jeans.
“Mademoiselle?” he said.
Her arms started doing double duty: cradling Chloé and now gripping her bag tight, too. Young Roma were notorious for purse snatching, usually working in teams. Right away, guilt washed over her for profiling him.
“Mademoiselle Leduc?” he said.
A chill rippled over her. He knew her name.
René, Jeanne and Morbier were waiting in her doorway. “Let’s go, Aimée,” Morbier called, beckoning her.
“Do you remember me, Mademoiselle? You and your father visited my mother when I was small,” the Romany boy said. “I’m Nicholás, remember? I go by Nicu now.”
A vague memory came to her now—an afternoon at the market, years ago, with a woman and a boy who could have become this young man. French Gypsies, les manouches.
“I think so,” she said. “A long time ago.” Aimée noted the shadows under his eyes, the intensity radiating from him. “I’m sorry, but now isn’t a good time,” she said, about to edge past him. How did he know where she lived?