Jean-Paul felt a small spark ignite in the stone chambers of his heart. For the first time since leaving her he felt uplifted. He would nurture the gardens and tend the vineyard, plant more trees and shrubs and expand the land. He would channel his love into Les Lucioles so that when she finally came home she would see what a paradise he had built for her. She would know that he had never stopped loving her.
It was in the cottage that Ava began to feel sick, a continuous nausea that she put down to misery. She didn’t want to eat and only Coca-Cola calmed her stomach. She drank it by the can, lying on the bed beneath the eaves, writing her scrapbook in her pretty looped handwriting. The days wore on. If it wasn’t for the approaching autumn she noticed in the cooler wind and shorter days and in the gradual fading of color in her garden, all the days would have merged into one long, miserable day. She wanted to write to Jean-Paul, or telephone him just to hear his voice, but she knew it was useless. Only time would dull the pain of their parting and she had to give herself that. So she wrote the scrapbook with the intention of one day giving it to him so that he would know how much she had missed him. That she had never given up.
“You’re looking rather pale, Shrub,” said Phillip one evening during dinner. “You’re not eating. Are you unwell?”
“I don’t think so. I just feel tired and deflated. Must be the weather.”
“Nonsense. I think you’re pregnant.”
Ava was astonished. “Pregnant? Do you think?”
“Absolutely. You’re feeling sick. You’re tired all the time. You’re not eating. There’s nothing physically wrong with you. Why don’t you get one of those kits they’re always advertising and check.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“Why? It wasn’t so long ago that you yearned for another child.” He took her hand. “Perhaps your wish has been granted. Why not, eh? We make such charming children.” Ava paled at the thought of another baby. Then a small spark of optimism ignited in her heart. If she was pregnant, it could be Jean-Paul’s baby. She put her hand across her lips to hide her smile. Jean-Paul’s baby. She barely dared cast the wish.
The following day she drove to the chemist and bought a kit. With trembling fingers she dipped the stick into her urine, then waited. She closed her eyes and wished: If there is a God please give me the blessing of Jean-Paul’s child so that I may keep a part of him to love. I haven’t hurt anyone. I’ve sacrificed my love for my husband and children. A baby shall be my reward, were I to deserve it. She opened her eyes to see the clear blue stripe of a positive result. She was indeed pregnant.
She rushed to the telephone to tell Jean-Paul that the child he had longed for was growing in her belly. A part of him and a part of her, created with love. She opened the address book to find the number of Les Lucioles, but she didn’t dial. She stood staring at the page, her enthusiasm shriveling in the harsh glare of reality. What would it achieve? It would only make their situation even more impossible. He’d have every right to claim their child. He had nothing to lose. She, on the other hand, had everything to lose. If she confessed to Phillip, she would risk her own children and create unhappiness for everyone around her. She would hurt the very people she had sacrificed everything to protect. She closed the book. It would have to be her secret. No one must ever know. Phillip would think it was his and the children would accept their new brother or sister without question. She would take the truth to her grave.
The following spring, when daffodils raised their pretty heads and blossom floated on the breeze like confetti, Ava gave birth to a little girl. She insisted on calling her Peach after Jean-Paul’s nickname for her. Verity questioned her daughter’s state of mind in choosing such a ridiculous name, but Phillip indulged her. He gazed upon his new daughter with pride. According to him, Peach looked just like her mother. Ava was relieved at the baby’s blond hair and fair skin, but she saw Jean-Paul in the beauty of her smile. To Ava, every smile was a gift.
XXXIV
The melancholy light of summer’s end fills my soul with wistfulness
London, 2006
David had never felt lonelier. He had lost everything. Miranda refused to answer his calls. He had written to her, hoping she’d take the time to read his lengthy apology and confessions of stupidity and arrogance. Most of all he missed his children. He tried to keep focused at work, yet Gus’s and Storm’s inquiring little faces surfaced to flood his heart with shame. He hadn’t spoken to Blythe since they had parted at Waterloo Station. He had watched her walk through the crowds of commuters holding Rafael by the hand and had suffered a pang of self-loathing. The people who lost the most were the children. Rafael would never again enjoy a weekend in the hollow tree, and Gus and Storm would never again run around the old ruined castle with their father. Just when he was beginning to enjoy them.