A Wedding in Provence by Ellen Sussman Page A

weary.
    “How you do that. Move on. Chaney dies and you think I should be over it already.”
    “I never said that.”
    “You said it the day you left L.A. Get over it, Nell. Move on. Move on. It’s your fucking mantra.”
    “It’s not my mantra. I don’t have a fucking mantra.” Olivia felt anger rising from somewhere deep inside her. Don’t let her do this to you, she thought.
    “You have some superpower that the rest of us mere mortals are lacking,” Nell spat from the center of the pool. “You fail as an actress, you become head of the damn theater company. You lose the lease on your theater, you get offered space in fancier digs at the same cheap rate. You divorce my dad, you find a hotter guy. You’re the queen of moving on and I can’tget out of bed most days. I can’t stop thinking about what I did wrong and what I might have said to change things. I see Chaney lying in our bed every time I close my eyes. Did you know that he was naked? Why? Why didn’t I throw away my old sleeping pills? Why didn’t he tell me how much he wanted that goddamn role? Why didn’t he tell me he was bipolar? Six months later and I can’t fucking move on.”
    Olivia slid into the pool. Her long beach tunic wrapped around her. She tried walking toward Nell but the cloth tangled between her legs. She dropped underwater and pulled the dress over her head. It floated like a ghost beside her.
    In her bathing suit Olivia felt lighter and freer. She walked toward Nell.
    “Don’t touch me,” Nell said.
    “I can’t stand your pain,” Olivia said.
    “Don’t,” Nell said. “Don’t tell me what I should do and how I should be.”
    Olivia felt clearer than she had all weekend. “When I tell you to move on, it’s because I can’t stand how much you hurt and I want it to go away. I’m your mother. I adore you.” She stopped walking and faced her daughter. “I’m wrong. I can’t make it go away.”
    She saw tears sliding down Nell’s face.
    “I can listen to you,” Olivia said. “That’s what I can do.”
    She reached out and took Nell into her arms.
    “My girl,” Olivia said, her head pressed against Nell’s. “My sad, wonderful girl.”
    The dreadlocked young man at the kayak center looked stoned and bored. He tossed life vests into the boats as if they were anuisance, something only tourists would wear. Olivia grabbed hers, now wet and cold from the dirty water on the bottom of the boat, and slipped her arms through it. Suddenly the dude was interested. He stepped forward and strapped the vest across her chest, breathing cannabis breath on her face.
    He mumbled something in rapid-fire French. Olivia stepped away. “I don’t speak French,” she said, though she usually managed well enough. But this guy was rattling on way too quickly. Besides, she was angry at all the young men who could cause her daughter pain.
    “And the paddles?” she asked in English. “Where are they?”
    He had moved on to help Nell with her vest and Olivia felt the urge to punch him. But Nell stepped away and adjusted her own straps. Good for her, Olivia thought.
    Brody emerged from a cabin with an armful of paddles. He began distributing them to everyone.
    “Jake, you’re with Nell,” he said and immediately Olivia thought: No, not Jake. But Nell happily climbed into the kayak. At least she’s smiling, Olivia told herself.
    “Sébastien, my mother will do all the work, so you have nothing to worry about,” Brody said.
    “Alors,”
Sébastien said. “Fanny, you are in the rear.”
    “I am not,” Fanny said.
    Olivia saw Fanny’s frailty for the first time. She looked old in her bathing suit, her skin sagging, her body trembling. She imagined what Fanny might be thinking: Sam’s my partner. I need Sam.
    “Bon,”
Sébastien said. “I’ll have to manage in the back.”
    He climbed in, his athletic body at ease in the kayak.
    “And you, my love,” Brody said, turning toward Olivia, “may sit here.”
    He gestured to