Page 39 of The Paris Agent
I insist Theo take the front seat beside Dad. He protests at first but soon acquiesces—he’s much taller than me, and Dad’s car is small enough that the back seat is cramped. The trip to Remy’s will take us a few hours and as we set off, Dad locks both hands on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road as if the very act of driving requires every ounce of his concentration. We’ve only made it a few blocks when Theo twists around to speak at me.
“Where do you work? What grade level?”
And at that, we’re chatting away—at first, the conversation a little forced as we try to fill the space around Dad’s stony silence, but soon we’re engaging in an easy back-and-forth. Theo works at a boys’ independent school and teaches both modern and ancient history. “For fun,” he manages the school’s chess competition and astronomy club.
“It’s not what I imagined for my life,” he admits. “I thought I’d be an academic. Probably a military historian like Harry. But my mother always says ‘man makes plans, God laughs,’ and...” He shrugs. “Here we are.”
He tells me about the dedicated characters of family history group and some of the remarkable discoveries they’ve made about their ancestors since he started it eighteen months ago. I’d thought of him as awkward, but it turns out Theo is easy company once he warms up.
After Theo and I have been swapping teaching stories for an hour or so, Dad finally clears his throat and asks, “Your...er...your wife doesn’t mind you giving up your Saturday to drive with us, Theo?”
When Theo explains there’s no wife to speak of, my father’s eyes meet mine in the rear-vision mirror and he gives a wink. I glare at him because this car is way too small for such an awkward matchmaking attempt, but inwardly, I’m relieved to see a spark of my dad’s usual, cheeky self.
Remy’s extensive cottage is on a leafy street in Collingham. Once Dad’s parked the car on the cobblestone drive, he closes his eyes and draws in a shuddering breath.
“You don’t have to do this, Noah,” Theo assures him. “If you’ve changed your mind, I can just go to the door and tell him so.”
Dad opens his eyes. He still looks anxious, but he puts his hand on the car door handle.
“I set out to thank him, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to do so,” he says unsteadily. “But I also have a lot of questions and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about hearing the answers.”
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.
