Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 30

Sofi

The spacious, light-filled room is a vision of springtime. Floral wallpaper lines the walls with matching curtains around the windows. On the whitewashed floor, there’s a pink shag rug, and dangling from the ceiling, a chandelier sculpted like a flower. A gardenia.

Still wide-eyed with surprise, I take in the charming furniture—a vintage wicker rocker . . . freestanding bookshelf full of children’s books and stuffed animals . . . a hand-painted dresser . . . and canopied crib. My tears subsiding, I amble over to the crib and look inside. The scalloped white bedding is joined by a pink cashmere blanket and a dainty pillow embroidered with the letter “M.” As I run my fingertips across the soft blanket, a sharp but familiar voice startles me.

“What are you doing here?”

My heart jumping, I spin around. It’s Madame DuBois at the doorway, her stern expression a blend of shock and reprehension. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s holding a glass candle.

“The door was open,” I stammer, my heart not quieting as the words burning my lips fly out. “Roman has a baby?”

Madame DuBois enters the room and sets the candle down on the dresser, her face softening. Tears form in her eyes.

“Had. She would have been my granddaughter.”

A few minutes later, I’m seated with Madame DuBois at a small table for two at a nearby café. Café Brioche. Across from me, she pours me some chamomile tea, her hand unsteady.

“Are you okay?” I ask, still in semi-shock from her revelation but thirsting for more information.

She nods, setting the teapot on the table. “Drink slowly, my chérie. I have much to tell you.”

Over the next hour, I learn that Madame DuBois, like Roman’s mother, was born and raised in Paris, and like her, was a couturier for the House of Dior. They, in fact, knew each other well. When her beloved husband died suddenly, she needed to leave the memories of him behind and left for America with their sixteen-year-old daughter, ultimately landing in New York City. After working at several odd jobs, the grieving thirty-five-year-old widow ended up finding one with Roman, a young, up-and-coming haute couture designer, who immediately hired her because of her experience at Dior and friendship with his mother. Estelle.

“He was smitten with me,” she says after taking a sip of her piping hot beverage. “But he was even more smitten with my beautiful daughter. Ava.”

Ava. I say the name in my head, as my companion continues, her voice melancholy.

“Ava was a head-turner . . . even as a baby. No one could resist her. Personne! But it was more than just her physical beauty. She had a certain je ne sais quoi that could never be put into words. A joie de vivre that flowed through her veins and illuminated her persona. Gave her a lightness of being. An indefinable allure.” She pauses, tears again flooding her moss-green eyes. “Roman called her his petit oiseau—his little bird. So fitting because that’s the meaning of her name.”

Ava like in aviary, I think to myself. A winged creature like a butterfly.

“My beautiful Ava gave flight to Roman. Brought him to new heights. His career began to soar. She was his muse and lover. They gave each other light.”

The gold bracelet Roman wears on his wrist flashes in my mind. You are the light inside me.

“Sometimes, he called her his firebird.”

“Is she the woman in the photographs in his quarters?”

Madame DuBois nods, smiling faintly. “Yes. That is her. In one of them, she was three months pregnant, though you’d never know.”

I can’t help noticing her use of the past tense. The sadness in her voice. The tears brimming in her eyes. Steeling myself, I work up the courage to ask her the obvious: “What happened to Ava and the baby?”

Roman’s chief of staff takes several sips of her hot tea, then inhales a deep, fortifying breath. “Six months into her pregnancy, my daughter and Roman went on a road trip. On Memorial Day.”

Today’s Memorial Day, I think to myself, not interrupting her.

“To the countryside in Roman’s new car—a vintage Jaguar—to spend the night at a charming inn in Connecticut. Roman was going to propose to her. A mile from their destination, the brakes failed and . . . ”

Her voice trails off, the tears falling freely. I cup my hands on hers and encourage her to continue.

“They went through a red light. A truck slammed into them and then Roman slammed into a tree. Ava, who wasn’t wearing her seat belt because it was broken, went through the windshield, the glass shattering . . . the shards flying into Roman’s face.”

In anticipation of what I expect to hear next, I clasp a hand to my mouth.

“It was death on impact for my Ava. And the baby.”

I have no words. Anguish flows through my veins. I now understand why Roman was so anxious throughout our trip to Connecticut for Harper’s wedding. It’s nothing short of a miracle that we didn’t get into an accident. And that he made it home alive. I swallow past the lump of sadness in my throat as Madame DuBois goes on.

“Roman suffered grave injuries, the worst being the loss of vision in his right eye. Darkness replaced lightness. Roman became a recluse, blaming himself for the accident. He’s been in therapy for years, but is still plagued by screaming nightmares. I’ve stayed by his side, never leaving him.”

In sadness there is beauty. Roman’s haunting words from our first encounter circle my head as grief fills every molecule of my being. I hold back tears. My poor, darling Roman! How much he’s suffered! It’s as if a monster of regret lives in his soul.

Words linger in my constricted throat. My companion places one thin, veined hand on mine while the other swipes at her tears. “You, my chérie, remind me so much of her. You have brought light back into Roman’s life.”

I quirk the smallest of smiles while she pours herself more tea. “Today is the tenth anniversary of my daughter and grandchild’s deaths. They were going to name her Maya.”

Suddenly, I understand why Roman has been acting out of sorts. So out of control. He’s consumed with so much guilt and sorrow. Overwhelmed by the monster he thinks he is. Guilt and remorse of my own gnaw at me. Claw at my heart. I feel terrible I fled from him when I should have been there for him. Held him in my arms like he’s done for me. I bow my head in shame. And bite down on my lower lip.

“Sofi, my dear. Look up at me.”

Tearfully, I do as she asks.

“He needs you. Please be there for him tonight.” She reaches inside her purse. “Here is the key to the door. You are the key to his heart.”