The Paris Agent(47)
With that, he leaves Theo and me behind. We watch as Dad approaches the house, but before he can even ring the doorbell, the door swings open to reveal a man about my father’s age. Jean Allaire’s shoulders are slightly stooped, and he wears what’s left of his black hair in a long, sparse comb-over.
But from my vantage point here in the car, I observe a moment of pure, awkward nothingness where they just look at each other, as if neither is sure how to begin. Jean seems wary and Dad is shuffling his weight from foot to foot like a child on his first day of school. After an excruciating moment, the men disappear inside the house.
“God, I wish he’d let us join him,” I say.
“He’ll tell you about it when he’s ready,” Theo replies.
The door opens again and a woman emerges. She’s wearing pearls and a fitted floral dress, and her golden hair is set in curls that frame her face. She approaches the car and Theo winds down his window.
“I’m Marion, Jean’s wife,” she introduces herself. “I assume you two are here with Noah?”
“Yes, Mrs. Allaire,” Theo confirms. “Charlotte here is his daughter, and my name’s Theo. I’m a friend.”
“You really don’t need to wait out here. They’ll go into Jean’s study if they need privacy,” she says firmly, then she grimaces. “I’ve been anxious all morning so I did some baking to keep myself busy. We’ll need some help to eat it all.”
We follow her into the house and to a large formal dining room. The long oval table is set with a beautiful woven runner, and atop of this sits a steaming teapot and all manner of delicious treats. But Dad and Jean are already seated there, and when we enter the room, Dad looks up at us, slightly alarmed.
“I saw them waiting in the car and told them to come in,” Marion announces. “You two can retreat to the study if need be.”
I sit between Theo and Dad, and Marion and Jean sit opposite us. Theo takes a sandwich and nibbles at it. Jean rubs his hands together as if he’s warming them, even though it’s a beautiful summer’s day. Dad takes a scone, spreads it carefully with jam then cream, but then he sets the cutlery down and stares at his plate. The seconds tick by but no one speaks.
Theo and I share a wince. We should have stayed in the car.
“Darling, to start with why don’t you catch Noah up on what you’ve been doing since the war,” Marion prompts. Jean clears his throat.
“I trained as an architect when I came home and after that, I joined my father’s practice. He retired in 1963 and I manage the firm now.” He falls silent. Marion elbows him gently. He clears his throat again then asks, “So…what do you do these days, Noah?”
“I was a flight mechanic at the start of the war. I retrained as a car mechanic after. In the early ’50s I started my own business, then expanded it into a chain. I married after the war, to Geraldine. She passed last year.”
Jean and Marion both murmur polite sympathies. Then the room falls into an excruciating silence that’s broken by what’s possibly the least subtle change of topic in the history of the world as Jean blurts, “We bought this house in 1960. It’s hundreds of years old but was close to being condemned at the time so we bought it for a steal.”
“Jean primarily does heritage architecture these days,” Marion tells us. “He’s prevented dozens of older structures from being destroyed, haven’t you, darling? Some of the most important historic buildings in Britain have been saved because of you.”
“You might say heritage architecture is my passion. In the case of this home, I designed the remodel myself, then managed the tradesmen over the next eighteen months.”
Jean proceeds to spend more than ten minutes describing the remodel project, right down to the way he and Marion agonized over the style of the faucets—should they use a traditional style, perhaps restored from the original period, or should they modernize? We are not exactly waiting with bated breath by the time Jean informs us they restored original fixtures and have felt satisfied with this decision in the ensuing years. Dad nods as if he’s fascinated, but his eyes glaze over, and I know he’s not listening to a word. I’m about to suggest Theo and I return to the car when Marion interrupts.
“This is all so interesting, darling, but perhaps we need to move on now.”
Jean breaks off, then nods. He turns his gaze back to Dad, takes a deep breath.
“I love history, Noah,” he begins, “but I don’t like to think back on my own. I do understand that has been intensely frustrating to Professor Read, but he stressed upon me that you wanted to see me today so I agreed. Having said that, I couldn’t sleep last night wondering what it was that you needed to say.”
“I appreciate you making time for me,” Dad says gruffly. He’s back to staring at the still-untouched scone on his plate. “I did want to speak to you about—” He breaks off, then turns to look out the window into the garden, blinking rapidly. I reach across and squeeze his hand, noting the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Dad,” I say. “Do you want me and Theo to go back to the car?”
Dad reaches down and squeezes my hand, then shakes his head.
“Not just yet, love. I just need a moment…” When he’s composed himself, he draws in a breath and turns his attention back to Jean, who is now looking back at him warily. “I was obviously badly injured. At Salon-La-Tour, it would seem.”