given my crew the choice of either flying back home and waiting for my call or taking a paid vacation on the Cote d’Azur. Two confirmed bachelors. Guess which they chose?
I’ve been here three times before. I think it’s one of the most picturesque airports I’ve ever seen, ringed by verdant hills on three sides and the sea on the fourth. We’re guided to the hangar by a yellow-vested member of the ground crew who in turn is greeted by the pilots, first off. A customs agent comes on board, checks our passports and wishes us a pleasant stay.
I wish it were so.
Then the pilots supervise the unloading of the bags. John-John, Frey and I deplane to a beautiful, soft- breezed spring day, the cloudless sky the color of the Mediterranean. John-John is all big eyes and breathless excitement. I let Frey take him ahead to the terminal while I give instructions for the bags to be taken inside, tip the baggage handler, make sure the pilots have my parents’ telephone number and slip envelopes with some spending money to my crew.
One of the first things I learned upon deciding to accept responsibility for an airplane was that having a crew ready and eager to fly for you is essential. Paying them well is a budget stretcher, but it’s worth it at times like this.
I leave them on the tarmac to see to the jet and follow John-John and Frey into the terminal. My father is picking us up at ten. We have thirty minutes to wait. I make a quick stop at a kiosk just inside the door to exchange dollars for euros then look around for John-John and Frey.
John-John and Frey are seated in the small restaurant area. Everything gleams in the sunlight. It pours through big plate-glass windows that muffle engine noise but reflect with quiet brilliance from the stainless-steel podiums and stair rails and walls. John-John has a cup of hot chocolate in front of him, Frey an espresso.
He pulls out a chair for me to sit. “Want anything?”
I shake my head. “Not now. Thanks. Dad will be here to pick us up at ten.”
I say it like it’s the reason for not wanting coffee, but now that there are no more decisions to be made— travel plans, the packing, the calls back and forth to let my dad know when we’d arrive—my stomach clenches like a fist. I’ve managed to push away thoughts of what I’m going to hear from Dad about Mom’s condition by focusing on getting here. We’re here. Dad will be arriving any moment. I can’t keep those thoughts from intruding any longer.
John-John slurps up the rest of his chocolate. He is sober-faced when he leans toward me. “I’m glad you let us come with you,” he says. “Daddy and I will help.”
He has picked up the timbre of my thoughts. I feel tears sting. “You and your daddy have already helped,” I say. “Just by being with me.” I put my arms around his shoulders. “And I know you’re going to love my parents’ home. It’s perfect for a young boy. Lots of room to run. Lots of trees to climb.”
I release a breath. “And wait until you meet my dad and mom. And Trish. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”
I hear my name paged and my heart jumps. Time to go. The three of us walk through the stone-tiled passenger terminal to a concierge desk. I’m told my dad is outside at the waiting area. My luggage is in a cart beside the door.
I hold John-John’s hand in my right, Frey’s in my left and we step into the sunshine.
CHAPTER 8
MY FATHER IS WAITING RIGHT OUTSIDE THE TERMINAL door in his classic 1971 Citroen. The white, zeppelin-shaped car was included with everything else when my parents
Read “long-lost” as “imaginary.” Avery, again. But it gave my parents and niece a refuge, kept them safe from any fallout that might be directed their way because of my vampire existence. That it turned out so well is a constant source of relief to me.
But now, seeing him standing by the car, face gaunt with worry, I feel none of that relief. We’ve had to travel so far to get here. If they were still in San Diego . . .
Dad approaches. He’s trying to smile. I think for the benefit of the little boy at my side.
John-John is looking at the car. “That’s a funny-looking car,” he says with the perspicuity of youth.
Dad kneels to eye level and holds out a hand. “It is. That’s true. It’s called a Citroen. Funny name, too, right? It means ‘lemon.’”
John-John takes his hand. “It does look like a lemon! I’m John-John. Are you Anna’s daddy?”
“I am. My name is James and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Dad straightens and turns to greet Frey. They exchange handshakes. Dad knows who Frey is—they met at faculty functions when Mom was principal at his school—and though we’ve made no announcement, he seems to understand that his presence here means something important.
Then we’re loading luggage and ourselves into the car. Frey secures John–John into his car seat and climbs into the backseat beside him. I take the front with my dad. He steers the car out of the parking lot and we pull into palm tree–lined roads that lead away from the coastline and toward the highway that will take us to Lorgues.
We are all quiet for a time. I’m trying to find a way to phrase the question that I’m afraid to have answered. Finally, after we’ve traveled about ten minutes, my dad clears his throat.
“Your mother will be so happy to see you.”
I turn in the seat. “How is she?”
“She’s doing pretty well right now.” A smile. “And that will get better when she sees you.”
“Is she at home?”
“Yes. She wouldn’t spend a moment longer in the hospital than she needed to.”
“Pancreatic cancer,” I whisper. “She’s never been a smoker. She’s not diabetic. How does this happen?”
He glances at me. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Before we left yesterday. I didn’t have time to do much research. But I did read that in most cases if the tumor can be removed . . .”
“It can’t.” Dad’s voice is gentle. “It was found too late. There were no symptoms and by the time we realized something was wrong . . . Well, the cancer had metastasized.”
“I just saw her in December.” I hear the plaintive wail in my voice and snap my mouth shut.
“I know.” Dad’s voice is calm, quiet. “We found out not long after.”
My shoulders hunch. I close my eyes. “How long?”
He’s quiet and when I straighten to look at him, I see the muscle at the base of his jaw quiver. I touch his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay as long as we need to.”
He places his right hand over mine and squeezes it.
“How is Trish?” I ask then.
“She’s such a wonderful girl,” he replies, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. “She wanted to leave school and stay home to care for your mother. But of course, that would never do! Anita insists she maintain a normal schedule. So she goes to class and keeps up with her homework, but she’s curtailed all extracurricular activities. She spends her free time with her grandmother. She won’t hear of anything else. She’s strong-willed. A fighter. Like you.”
I nod approvingly. “Good.” It’s not surprising. Trish needed to be strong to survive her upbringing.
We lapse into silence again. Our drive through Provence meanders along beautiful country roads—now hugging the edges of steep hillsides, now dipping into picturesque valleys. Everything is spring green and alive. When I glance into the backseat, Frey meets my eyes and smiles. His smile warms my heart and I feel a little of my tension melt away.
I shift my gaze to John-John and discreetly probe his thoughts. This landscape, lush, green, rolling, is so different from his home in Monument Valley where the desert is stark and flat and stretches as far as the eye can see, broken only by monoliths of red rock. I wonder what he thinks of this? I pick up only youthful curiosity and wonder.
