“I’m so sorry, Sasha.” She sounded genuine on the phone. “Would you like me to go with you?”
“Thank you, Natasha. I think I just need to spend some time with my mother, you know?” I did not feel that it was the real reason why I wanted to go alone, but that was all I could think of at that moment. “Why don’t I call you from France and will let you know how it goes? Will that be all right?”
“Sure. Whatever you need, Sasha,” she said and sighed. “I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He would’ve liked you, Natasha,” I said and suddenly realized that it could have been a real possibility even though Natasha was not of a noble rank. My father would have recognized the hardworking essence of her personality if he’d had a chance to meet her.
“I’ll let you go. Sorry. You’ll probably be insanely busy with all the funeral stuff and the inheritance.”
Oh, there it was. Natasha was sorry, but never missed an opportunity to get useful information.
“Yes. I suppose I will.”
***
My parents lived in a château in the picturesque eastern part of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes with my mother’s sister Lucy. The place was called Chateau de Rossignol. It was purchased by their father, Etienne Baudelaire, a successful French entrepreneur, for their mother, Anna Baudelaire-Nazarova, a daughter of Russian immigrants who had been quite wealthy before the Russian revolution but had lost everything during it. It was said that the place had reminded my grandmother of the estate her family had owned back in Russia, which she couldn’t really remember because she was too little when they left but saw it in the family photos. She did remember, or thought she did, nightingales singing beautifully in the morning outside her nursery. Her maiden name was, Nazarova, originated from the old Hebrew Nazar which meant “devoted to God.” Anna became quite religious and superstitious over the years, but she could never refuse her daughters anything. She loved them dearly and saw “a piece of the Motherland” in their eyes. Etienne was a serious businessman, but he loved his women more than anything.
My mother and Lucy had been inseparable when they were young until Lucy got swept off her feet by a young dashing motorist, George, who happened to stop by the chateau one summer day for a cold drink. Apparently, the feeling was mutual because only a few weeks later they announced their engagement to everyone’s surprise. What was supposed to be a magnificent love story ended up abruptly with George’s sudden death in an unfortunate car accident just before they were going to get married. He loved speed and fast cars. Lucy never found another man who could win her heart and had been keeping his photo in a sliver locket on her person ever since.