Patchwork Paradise(12)

When I had my breathing under control, I tucked the sweater back and closed the drawer tightly. I packed a bag for myself, indulged in spraying the clothes with Sam’s cologne, and took a shower when I noticed my face was blotchy and puffed up.



I could drive to the Mathieu-Waterslagers household with my eyes closed, I’d been there so often over the years. They lived outside of Antwerp, in a village where cows still crossed the streets to their stables, and the farmer still brought milk to people’s houses.

Their house was quaint but beautiful, surrounded by the most immaculate garden I’d ever laid eyes on. White roses climbed a trellis and provided a roof above the path that led toward the front door. I parked my car in front of it, pushed the little yellow gate open, and walked on a cloud of geranium scent.

Closer to the front door, mint grew in a tight bush, kept low to the ground. It sneaked between the steps up to the door. As I brushed it, I thought of summers spent in the south of France, like I always did. My parents never traveled farther than the Belgian coast, but once I became friends with Sam, his parents had taken me on their annual vacation every year. Even during those hot drives down the Autoroute du Soleil, our being together had seemed inevitable.

As kids we’d bounced in our seats for fourteen hours straight, giddy on excitement and whatever sugary treats we’d stuffed our faces with. As we grew older, the excitement had turned inward, to a darker, more forbidden place. A combination of yearning and fear that would lead us to find hot, dry places, the earth cracked from lack of moisture, the typical herbal scent thick in the air as we learned to know each other in whole new ways.

A bee buzzed through a bunch of lavender. Martine opened the door before I could knock.

She didn’t say anything. She looked at me and began to cry as she threw her arms around me. I held her as she tried to speak, but it took her forever to get the words out.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed eventually. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but seeing you is like seeing a little bit of him again.”

I nodded as I tried to stop myself from crying. I vowed I’d come see her whenever I could, no matter where the future took me. These people had been in my life since I was ten years old. They were like a spare set of parents.

“Martine, let the boy inside.”

I looked up to see Simon standing there. His eyes were a little damp, but otherwise he was smiling. He looked thinner. Older. I’d never know if Sam would have aged the same way. Martine let go of me and dried her eyes as Simon shook my hand. He held it fast between both of his for a long moment.

“It’s good to see you,” I said, starting to feel choked up again. Those damn Mathieu eyes.

“Let’s get the awkward stuff out of the way first,” Martine said as she guided me through their gorgeous villa. Simon followed us into the kitchen and gave me a Stella when he grabbed one for himself. I didn’t particularly like that beer, but I said nothing and sipped it. Martine put grapes, cheeses, and crackers on the table. I would have protested, but this was what she always did when we came to visit. It was nice, in a way, to know some things never changed.

“We know Samuel left you the house,” Simon said, “but we wanted to talk to you and see if we couldn’t come to an agreement.”

My spine stiffened. I set the beer bottle down on the table. I glanced at Martine, but she resolutely kept her eyes on whatever she was fiddling with by the cooker.

“What kind of agreement?” I asked carefully.

Simon pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. “We talked to a lawyer, and we stand a good chance to win if we contest the will.”

I stared at him. “Contest Sam’s will?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.

“Obviously we don’t want it to come to that,” Martine quickly said. “We just want to talk to you. See where you stand on the idea of giving up the house.”

Simon sent her a badly concealed look of irritation. “The point is, it wasn’t fair of my mother to cut me out of such a large part of my inheritance and pass it on to Samuel. I could’ve fought it harder back then, but Sam is my son . . .” He winced and took a sip of his beer. “But now it’s being passed on to you while you two weren’t even married yet. Can you see how that’s not really fair?” He sighed and gave me a sympathetic look. “That house is far too big for just you anyway, Oliver.”

My heart was thudding so hard I could see my chest move when I looked down. Sam had drawn up that will long before we had any kind of money to our names. There hadn’t been any mention of his bank accounts in the will. So his money—a substantial amount—had gone to his next of kin, his parents. I hadn’t minded, at the time. With a roof over my head and a steady income of my own, the money had seemed trivial.

“What—what do you suggest?” I croaked. Part of me thought he was right. The house was too big for me, and maybe it shouldn’t be mine. It’d been in their family for generations. But the idea of giving it up . . .

“Maybe we should do this some other time,” Martine said. She stood by the cooker, a dripping spatula forgotten in her hands.

“We want to sell it and give you half of the profit,” Simon said. “But we won’t make you move until you’ve found something you like. You can pay us a little rent.”

Until he mentioned the word “sell,” I had felt completely numb. Now, a low-grade rage burned in my belly. They weren’t even planning on keeping it? I would have to pay to live in my own house?