Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

COME RAIN OR COME SHINE





Remy’s phone rang.

We both immediately woke, if not fresh, certainly alert, even though that night we’d tested what our fifty-something bodies could do in my big tub, and I was pleased to say we’d bested that challenge splendidly.

But when we were done, we’d fallen into bed, exhausted.

Remy had moved back into our old place because he hadn’t delayed in drafting plans for what we were going to do to our new place. Work began two weeks ago, which was only a week after I’d told him I wanted to move in.

Normally, neither of us kept our phones by the bed.

Lately, Remy was keeping his phone by the bed.

“Dad,” he answered, and I could tell he was trying to keep the sleep out of his tone, but he didn’t quite succeed.

My heart sank and I looked at the time.

It was five in the morning.

I suspected Guillaume hadn’t failed to calculate the time change.

Instead, I suspected he’d waited as long as he could to give us as much sleep as he could before he called.

“We’re coming,” Remy said, paused, then more firmly stated, “On s’en vient, Papa.”

I threw back the covers and got out of bed.

I was washing my hands after using the bathroom when Remy was off the phone and coming toward me.

“I’ll go wake Yves,” he said.

“I’ll call Manon.”

He nodded. “When I’m done with Yves, I’ll call Sah.”

I nodded.

And while I talked with my daughter, I pulled out my husband’s and my luggage.





I sat in the waiting room with my children.

I supposed it wasn’t a surprise she refused to see them, considering she hadn’t refused to see me, and she looked like hell.

She wanted me in first, without Remy, and I wasn’t certain why, even now, because she’d looked at me, reached out a hand, I took it, she squeezed weakly and said, “Thank you for coming,” like I was in a receiving line.

She’d then let me go, turned to Melly, who was in the room with us, along with Guillaume, and she said, “Help me with my lipstick, cher.”

When Melly moved to do as asked, her attention went to Guillaume.

“I want my son.”

And I was dismissed.

Remy was now in there with Guillaume. Melly had gone to get coffees.

I was worried sick, literally nauseous, wondering what was happening in that room.

Manon sat close to my side, her head to my shoulder. We were holding hands.

Yves was sprawled in a chair, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, eyes on Sah, who was pacing.

Remy walked in.

When he did, we all perked up.

Then, without a word, seeing the look on his face, we all moved and took him in our arms.





“She was riddled with it when we were here.”

Remy was whispering in the dark.

“Yes,” I whispered in return.

“Will of steel to hide the pain she was in.”

“Yes.”

We were face to face, body to body, snug in each other’s arms.

“She died with perfect lipstick.”

I didn’t exactly know why, but that made me smile.

“Yes.”

“He’s struggling. He’s still pissed at her with what she did to me. Feeling guilt about what he did to her, about not knowing what had happened to me. Probably feeling relief that it’s finally over, not only her pain, also the madness of their lives, then feeling guilt about that too. But he loved her.”

That was for certain.

“Yes. He very much loved her.”

Remy said no more.

I gave it some time, then I squeezed him and asked, “What are you feeling?”

“I’m glad her pain is gone.”

I waited, but that was all he said.

I closed my eyes tight, agonized that was all he felt at his mother’s death.

I opened them and asked, “What did she say when you were in there?”

“She told me I was handsome.”

I waited again, but that apparently was it.

“That’s it?” I prompted.

“And she asked Dad and me to hold her hands. We held her hands. She looked at me. She looked at Dad. She closed her eyes. And after a while, the nurse said she was gone.”

Oh God.

“I felt it, though,” he said softly. “When it happened. Before the nurse told us, I knew. You can feel it, baby. When life ends.”

I pushed closer.

Remy stroked my back.

“Sleep, Wynnie.”

“Okay, my love.”

I agreed, but I didn’t sleep.

Neither did he.

Though eventually I did.

But he did not.





It happened after the funeral.

Incidentally, at said funeral, Manon and I both wore big hats.

And red lipstick.

We were back at the house, the mass of people (Colette would have been gratified) who’d come after the internment were slowly fading away. Remy was playing the piano and had been for some time. A stroke of genius, because he could nod to people, they could murmur their condolences, but for the most part, he was left alone to lose his thoughts in the notes.

Melly found me and asked for a moment of privacy.

I gave it to her.

When I did, she gave me a wide, flat, black velvet box. No adornment. No wrapping.