Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 4: Drawn Together

March 29, 1939

     Less than a week had passed since the confrontation. He and Lila had pretended as if the argument were non-existent— like an odd reverie that had come and drifted— and treated each other as usual. The way it all passed without consequence was astonishing to him, so much so that he had nearly forgotten that it even happened. It was a small stumble but now the world turned and his slow-moving life resumed.

     He was abruptly scheduled to the Cesaire Farm, a humble patch of land that held his father's name and resided on the far outskirts of town, near the road that led to Paris. When he had arrived, Madame Cesaire was gathering laundry from a clothesline and her husband was near the shed, tending to pigs and chickens and readying them for the incoming night. They spotted him from across the lawn, and when ushered inside, greeted him with an already prepared table— with pitchers of water, a bread loaf, chicken, and greens assorted on different plates. It was plentiful and he wondered if it was because he agreed to let them catch up on payment a month prior.

     "This is too much kindness, I won't be long."

     The Monsieur shook his head fervently and patted his back, as if it was his warm invitation for Adrien to assimilate into the family dinner. He stood uncertain and contemplated the idea carefully, though the genuine, welcoming gazes of the couple had hindered any sort of response from developing.

     "Really, I—"

     A door opened and out came Alya Cesaire, with ineffable excitement.

     "Monsieur! Stay for dinner, will you? We love company!"

     She looked behind her and fiercely motioned her hands, with the same level of urgency used to urge a man from a burning building. A confusing exchange ensued, full of squeaking and adamant whispers, and he assumed the girl had grown impatient as she grabbed the other's arm and pulled as part of a sudden exposé. Her skirt fluttered as she stumbled out of the threshold. Much to his surprise, Marinette looked up at him shyly and straightened her posture.

     "Good evening, Monsieur..."

     There was a bizarre look of wonder on his face and he absently responded with:

     "We keep meeting."

     "It must be coincidence." She said, though her disapproving glare towards her friend had indicated otherwise.

     "Take a seat you two. There is no harm in dinner."

     It was strange at the moment, but he allowed himself to intrude for once, although fearing a Bourgeois-esque family dinner. But, it did not come— not even once to burden the table. They spoke of actual business very briefly as it was overthrown by the wonderful stories of life outside of his petty ménage. There was no talk of Madame Dupont and her financially-corrupted husband, and no unnerving silences and the barrier of formality that had crippled any possibility of intimacy was abandoned. He absorbed in it all and his father, and Paris, and the whole entire estate seemed so far away.

     "I heard Nino began courting you the other day." Marinette cheekily smiled as Alya nudged her and she let out a melodic laugh.

     Madame Cesaire put down her spoon. "That Lahiffe boy? You said you were just friends."

     "Well, I was wrong." She said matter-of-factly.