“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”

“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”

“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”

“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”

“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.

The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.

“Alastair! You’re home.”

I rushed to him as he dropped his bags and leaped into his arms, crushing his lips with a big, overly dramatic kiss. Overly dramatic, yes, but I really was happy to see Alastair. I’d missed him terribly.

“Mmm. Now that’s what I call a welcome home. Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes, Alastair. It’s Rafe. He dropped by to give me a Christmas present—”

Alastair offered his hand to Rafe. “Hello, Rafe. It’s been almost 30 years since we met at your wedding. Elizabeth told us about Sara’s passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you, Alastair. And congratulations to you and Joey on your upcoming nuptials. When Elizabeth told me you and Joey were…do people still call it dating when it’s two mature adults? To be honest, I always thought you two belonged together—”

“Well, it took us 30 years and two marriages to other people to figure that out. You’re invited to the wedding, of course, as soon as Joey can tell me where and when this blessed event is going to take place.”

“Alastair, we talked about that. It’s going to be in Los Angeles after the new year in Philippa and Paul’s backyard. She practically insisted. She’s such a great friend. Who I never would have known had you not come back into my life—”

“Funny how some things remain in the past while others return…with a vengeance. Joey, remember when you and Elizabeth used to go on and on about Nietzsche’s theory of eternal return?” asked Rafe.

“We were comparing notes on our disparate disciplines, science and literature. She said Nietzsche’s Eternal Return reminded her of Poincaré’s Recurrence Theorem where dynamical systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state close to or exactly the same as their initial state…”

Touching the string of black pearls now decorating my neck, Alastair looked into my eyes and asked, searchingly, “Are there things in the past any of us might wish would return?”

I kept silent but conveyed my feelings about the scene playing out among us with my eyes in reply. Alastair seemed to understand. He backed away toward the door.

“You know, I haven’t had anything to eat in hours. They dish up a great breakfast at The Little Owl. Their bacon is to die for. I’ll order it to go. Rafe, you’ve eaten there, right? No? They used its exterior and the building for Friends. Their apartment? And the restaurant downstairs? It’s a five-minute walk from here. Grove and Bedford. Jo, can I get you anything?”

I shook my head and caught up to him at the door, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Alastair. I’m leaving in a few. My daughter’s double-parked in front of the building. See you at the wedding. I’m retiring as soon as the sale of my firm is finalized so a trip to the West Coast sounds irresistible. Especially to see two good friends tie the knot.”

The door closed shut behind Alastair and I turned to see Rafe on his phone, telling Harlow to find another parking space.

“I’m doing my best, Pookie. I’ll call you when I’m coming out.” He disconnected.

“Pookie?”

“Her gran…my mom…gave her a plush puppy dog when she was like three and, for a reason only known to her, she named it Pookie. We just started calling her that. She hates it. Of course, that’s why I keep calling her that.”

“Sit down, Rafe.”

“Sounds ominous, Joey.”

“Seeing you this past week. It’s been so…so wonderful.” I held his face in my hands. “You’ll never know how hard it’s been on me. It’s taken every fiber of my being to resist taking your hand and going off with you, Rafe. I would have followed you to the moon if you had asked…thirty years ago.” I shook my head and tried to smile. Tears began to fall. His eyes softened and he leaned in to kiss me.

We kissed tenderly. His passion grew and he gently pushed me back onto the couch. I pushed back and, as if a switch had been flicked, I disengaged our lips, sitting up quickly.

“No, Rafe, I’m committed to Alastair now. He loves me. I love him. We’re getting married soon.” Rafe traced the tears on my cheek with a finger. “What we had…if we had anything at all…belongs in the past. I don’t believe you can relive the past. No matter how much we want to.” Rafe shifted to the far end of the couch and his face was a portrait in anguish.

“I thought time was on my side, Joey. I thought I’d wait you out. Eventually, we’d get back together even though we were hundreds of miles apart. You never gave me that sign.”

“I did, Rafe. I never had one date or even thought about anyone else for three years after you moved to Washington. You never made a move. Then, when I had my surgery, I told you I’d be in San Francisco for a month, recuperating. Maybe I was too subtle by half but when you told me you were too busy…”

“I was swamped by company business. I couldn’t get away—”

“No, it was your mother, Rafe. She told me she threatened to basically disown you. At the wedding, after the reception—”

“She…she told you?”

“Yes, so I know the truth, Rafe. If you’d truly loved me—”

“Joey—”

“As much as I loved you. I loved you so much! So much I was willing to sacrifice everything we ever had together so you could live the kind of life your family wanted for you. A great career, a wife, children. To give Sylvia the grandchildren she so desperately hoped you’d give her…”

“Joey—”

“You can never imagine the betrayal I felt. I wasn’t planning to attend your wedding. I wanted to decline the invitation. Just check the box that would make you vanish from my life. You know who practically forced me to come? Alastair. Because he knew I would benefit from a real closure. He was right. And what Sylvia told me after the reception clinched it. In the 27 years since that July night in Washington, I’ve tried to keep thoughts of you out of my mind. I’ve been very successful. Then we bumped into each other at the airport…”

“I thought the universe was finally bringing us back together. Like it was fate. Kismet—”

“You didn’t need the universe to do that, Rafe. If it was truly in your heart.” Rafe stood up from the couch and began to put on his overcoat. “Please take the pearls back, Rafe. Give them to someone you might meet on that cruise you’re planning to take.” I handed the pearls back to him, along with the Tiffany & Co. case.

“I’d like to come to your wedding, Joey, if you’ll have me. I want to see you happy. I do love you. I’m just a coward. I’m sorry.” I embraced him one last time. There were tears in his eyes.

“You meant a lot to me, Rafe. I want you to know that. Go. Go before Alastair comes back and hears me tell you that I never loved anyone as much as I loved you.”

From the window that looked out onto Perry Street below, I saw Rafe emerge from the building. He stepped up to the curb, looked in both directions, and took his phone out. He called Harlow. It was a brief conversation. After replacing his phone in his breast pocket, he turned around and looked up, trying to find the window to our apartment. I backed away from the window and waited until Harlow arrived to pick up her father. I watched their car head toward West Street to start its 2-hour trip to Kingston in upstate New York.

Minutes later, Alastair returned, carrying his breakfast in a bag.

“So that was his daughter? She favors Sara a great deal. How did your…uh…discussion go?”

“I cleared things up with Rafe. Whether it was satisfactory for him, I don’t know. But I was brutally honest with him.”

He threw his overcoat onto the couch, which provoked a frown from me, and started to unpack the breakfast he’d ordered from The Little Owl, placing the reusable containers on our kitchen table.

“I’m starving, Jo. I’ve got two cups of coffee. Want one?”

“I’m fine, Alastair. I’m going to change and go for a walk.”

“It’s a little more than brisk out there, babe. Let’s stay in. I’m a little sleepy still. I can never get any good shuteye on a plane—”

“No, I need some alone time. Oh, dammit, if we had a dog, I could just say I’m walking it.”

“I understand. It must have been a real trial having to deal with Rafe these past few days. And his family’s no picnic in the park—”

Having changed into a sweatsuit, I grappled with my anorak coat as I swiped a piece of bacon from one of Alastair’s containers. I stopped to enjoy its crispy goodness as Alastair reached out to finish zipping up my coat.

“When I get back from clearing my head, I’ll make us a little lunch. Then we need to do some shopping—”

“Shopping? Why?”

“I got a beautiful pashmina for your mom but I haven’t had the time to get anything for Sylvère.”

“How much time have you been spending with Rafe?”

“Oh, shut up, Alastair. Help me out. Is he a drinker? Should we get him a fifth of bourbon or a bottle of Courvoisier?”

“He wouldn’t be a Frenchman if he didn’t enjoy a stiff drink now and again. I’ll text maman and see what brand he prefers. Good thinking, Jo.”

The drive from the West Village of Manhattan to Greenwich, Connecticut normally takes almost exactly one hour via I-95. However, it’s a genuine slog when you undertake that trip on Christmas Eve afternoon. Alastair’s maman, Ottilie, was serving a traditional French Christmas Eve dinner at 8PM, so there was no concern on our part of being late. We set sail for the bourgeois backdrop of Greenwich at 3:30PM after securing Sylvère’s alcoholic gift and arrived at maman’s doorstep at 5:20PM.

Ottilie, a sprightly 78-year-old, greeted us at the door, only a shawl across her shoulders against the winter cold. Before a word could be uttered by either, she wrapped her arms around her son, kissing both cheeks. The second they disentangled arms, she went straight for my cheeks, also to “faire la bise,” as the French say.

I had, of course, spent many hours, spread out over almost 30 years, in her company. She was always delightful, a woman of much grace and humor, stylish in her day, and almost certainly the very model of Gallic beauty. Having lived in the States for over 50 years, there was little trace of her Parisian accent. She had begun to lose it even before then. She went from the genteel streets of the 5th arrondissement to the halls of University College London, where she met her future husband, fellow undergrad Robert Knowles. After marrying, Robert and Ottilie moved to New York City where Robert went to work as a journalist in 1966. A year later, their only child, Alastair, came into the world.

She ushered us into the house and, waiting for us in the living room, was her partner of 25 years, Sylvère, another French expatriate who had been living in the U.S. for over five decades. A tall man, even in his late 70s, he was almost eye-to-eye with Alastair, despite the slight stoop in his posture. A hardy handshake accompanied by vigorous shoulder cuffing and then Sylvère’s eyes turned to me.

“Ah, my petite fleur, Joanne! Beautiful as ever. Joyeux Noël!”
.
“Merry Christmas, Sylvère. Always the charmer. And that’s more French words than I’ve heard you say in the 20 years I’ve known you—”

“Alastair, these American women are brutally honest. It’s not good for a man’s ego.”

“I’m sure maman has read you the riot act once or twice, Sylvère.”

“Well, she’s lived here for so long she’s almost completely American by now…”

“Old man, stop bantering and be a good host. Ask them to be seated. I’ve set out the tea service and some butter cookies called sablés. Alastair, did you know there’s a new French bakery in town? That’s where I found these.”

“Oh, dear, Ottilie, I thought you baked these yourself. The icing is so cute. Little Christmas trees and…uh…”

“Santa Clauses?”

“Papa Noëls,” corrected Sylvère.

“Put those presents under the tree, Joanne and Alastair. Next to the ones labeled for you two.”

“Ottilie, you shouldn’t have. Alastair and I are far from children anymore.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t. I had my eye on a pink tricycle at FAO Schwarz that just screamed out your name Joanne but, alas, they were sold out.”

“Honestly, I could use the exercise. I’m getting a little tummy. Too many great restaurants in LA.”

“Nonsense. You look absolutely scrumptious, Joanne. In fact, I could make a fine meal of you—”

“Sylvère! I’m sorry, Joanne. You can take a Frenchman out of France but…you know what I mean. When you’ve finished your tea, could you come into the kitchen and give me a hand, sweetie?”

“Of course. I’d be glad to. Yum. These cookies are delicious.”

“Do you cook, Joanne?” Ottilie opened the oven and plunged a thermometer into the turkey roasting in the pan. She read the temperature, nodded, and pushed the pan back in, closing the oven door.

“A little. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.”

“But you and Emily had little Eliot, didn’t you?”

“Emily did most of the cooking. I did some baking back in the day. Eliot loved pies of any sort. Apple pie, sweet potato pie, lemon pie, blueberry pie. I baked them all for him.”

“I read in the newspaper where Eliot is dating Elizabeth’s daughter, Jocelyn, the doctor.”

“There’s more to that than I can say, Ottilie. What kind of glazing are you using on the turkey?”

“Oh, that’s Alastair’s favorite. Honey with Dijon mustard. Sweet and spicy. Just like Alastair.” She laughed and I laughed along with her, although I wasn’t sure what she meant by that remark.

“Help me prepare the Apéro, dear. That’s a French pre-dinner tradition, especially in holiday meals. Little bite-size goodies served with champagne. We have that in the salon. Afterwards, everyone migrates to the dinner table.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“See those blinis on that tray? The things that look like miniature pancakes. Yes, that tray. There’s some smoked salmon in the fridge. Put a sliver of salmon on each one and a dollop of sour cream. That’s in the fridge next to the…that’s it, sweetie. Chop up some dill and place a sprig on each one. Got it?”

“I’ve never had one of these.”

“They’re savory little bites of pure joy. Speaking of joy, Joanne. I’m so happy that Alastair finally proposed to you. I’ve always hoped he could find a true life partner. Someone who could return his love and devotion—”

“What about Lulu? They were happy for a time, weren’t they?”

“That woman? Don’t even mention her name to me. It’s a blessing they never had children.”

“If you’re hoping I’ll give you grandchildren—”

She took hold of my wrist to stop my chopping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t have an insatiable desire for grandbabies. I want my son to be happy. To be loved and cherished as I did his father. And I know you will do that…for my boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy.”

“He’ll always be my baby boy.” Noticing my silence, she turned me around to face her. “Why are you crying, dear girl?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother. To have a child that came out of my womb. But the universe played a dirty trick on me and had me born with boy parts instead of my proper bits…”

Ottilie hugged me. “I know. I know, cherie. But that doesn’t make you less of a woman. In fact, you are the only woman my son has ever really, truly loved. He’s been in love with you for 28 years. You are woman enough for him. Now, I hope and pray he’s man enough for you.”

I wiped my eyes, smearing my mascara, I’m sure. “He is, Ottilie. He is. He’s shown me what real love can be.”

“Now that we’ve cleared that matter up, go and fix your make-up. It’s Christmas Eve. No time for tears. Only for smiles and laughter. And good French cooking!”

Sylvère put on a cd of music by French classical composers as we ate our Christmas feast. I looked at the track list on the back of the jewel box and saw familiar names: Satie, Debussy, Couperin, Ravel, Fauré, Berlioz, etc. It felt as if we were in a French movie from the last century. Perhaps a bourgeois family dinner between the wars in a house on the outskirts of Paris, Neuilly-sur-Seine or Maisons-Laffitte.

Ottilie is a great cook. It was the most sumptuous holiday meal I had ever eaten. We started with foie gras, placed gently not spread over toasts of baguette. Then we enjoyed bowls of sweet and creamy butternut squash soup, topped with grated cheese.

The main course, of course, was Alastair’s favorite, honey-glazed roast turkey. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Ottilie had filled the turkey with a traditional French chestnut stuffing. The turkey was surrounded on its platter by side items such as roasted potatoes, chestnuts, and cooked apples.

Dessert was heavenly. Crème brûlée in pristine ramekins that looked like glamor photos in a French cookbook. Alastair and I managed to pierce the caramelized topping without collapsing the entire surface. Sylvère was impressed. When I complimented Ottilie on the crème brûlée, I asked her if it were a family recipe.

“Oh, my dear, no. It’s from an episode of that Nigella Lawson series that was on cable TV years ago on the Food Network.”

As we waddled away from the dinner table to sink our bloated forms into the cushy depths of the living room couch, I made an executive decision. Going over to the Christmas tree, I pulled Sylvère’s gift out from under it.

“Instead of opening your gift tomorrow morning, I think it could be put to better use right now.” I unwrapped the bottle of Courvoisier cognac and presented it to Sylvère. He smiled broadly.

“I knew it was a good idea for Alastair to ask you to marry him. You’re a woman of refined taste, Joanne. Ottilie, break out the tulip glasses.”

“I’ll help you, Ottilie.”

“We’ll need some ice too,” Alastair added as Ottilie and I walked into the kitchen.

“Alastair, my boy. Cognac should always be served at room temperature and warmed in the hand. What did they teach in the fleshpots of Hollywood?”

“Obviously, not the proper way to drink cognac.”

“So, this wasn’t your bedroom as a child, Alastair?”

Alastair turned in bed to spoon me, whispering in my ear, “No. My folks bought this house after I went off to college. This is a guest bedroom.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“The walls are paper-thin. It’s Greenwich but most of the houses in this section of town were built post-war. A lot of young couples starting out in life after the war ended. Quickly built, economically built, you know?”

“You don’t think Ottilie and Sylvère suspect we fuck?”

“I know. I feel silly but, still, that’s my mother in the other room. It’s weird.”

“Didn’t you and Lulu ever stay here overnight?”

“No. Maman hated Lulu. She wouldn’t let her set foot in the house.”

“Why was that?”

“It’s a long story and one I’d rather not talk about. Maybe I’ll tell you someday…”

“We can be really quiet, Alastair.”

“You’re a wild one, Jo.”