Papillon

Chapter 23: Deep Breaths

Bella

My first French lesson was in Central Park. By the time I'd arrived at the table we'd agreed on, Adelaide was already there, looking beautiful. She was older and looked fragile but honestly, if I looked as beautiful as she did when I was her age, I'd die very happily. She had light brown hair with a little blond tied up into a chignon and startling green eyes–only one other pair of eyes threw me off balance the way hers did. Smooth, porcelain skin on top of a sweet, romantic face. When she saw me walking up to her with my backpack, she grinned wide.

"Bella," she cooed. "I'm so happy to see you."

"I'm so glad to see you too," I smiled, sitting down across from her. "Thank you again for doing this."

"I used to teach English in France for years," she waved her hand. "Now, I can teach something I know even better."

It made sense–her English was phenomenal for someone who had lived in France for most of her life, as she told me in our initial meeting, and her words had a slight accent to them.

Adelaide didn't waste any time–she plucked pieces of paper from her purse and set them in front of me. We started with L'alphabet, all 23 consonants and 16 vowel sounds and basic pronunciation. Annoyingly, I was already overwhelmed trying to say them right, but her patience was so comforting, it made me relax.

I hated when I couldn't pick things up immediately–I needed immediate results. I knew it was because my spoiled ass had everything handed to me on a diamond studded platter my entire life, but this was something I wanted to learn. Something I wanted to do. There was no ulterior motive, other than to maybe understand what Francis was saying to me half the time but it was even more than that.

Learning a language was going to be harder than I thought but I was a Ryder, we didn't fucking give up.

When Adelaide decided that we'd done enough for the day, a little over an hour, I exhaled a sigh of relief. She laughed and rubbed my arm.

"You're doing good, Bella," she smiled.

"It doesn't feel like it." I tossed my hair over my shoulder. "I'm so impatient."

"No, you are just passionate. You'll pick it up."

Twice a week, we met in Central Park and then at cafés when it got colder. I continued to struggle with pronunciation but was picking up writing pretty fast. In fact, Adelaide said she'd never met someone who could conjugate with as much ease as I apparently did. That made me weirdly happy. When we were done with learning, we'd take slow walks around the park, her arm secured on my forearm so I could help her walk. Sometimes, I'd bring a blanket and some extra cinnamon rolls Robyn baked and dropped off for us to enjoy.

She became a friend. A really good, kind, gentle friend. I liked talking to her. She was so warm and kind, inviting and motherly–it was hard not to.

Adelaide told me about her life in France. She was hesitant at first but shared more truths over the weeks. Every conversation, I learned more.

First, I learned that she was born in and grew up in a town called Avignon. She had two sisters, one of whom still lived in France but she'd lost touch with them. When she got married, she moved to Versailles. She was devastated when she talked about her husband, and I knew immediately that they were no longer together. There was immense pain when she spoke of him–not just from loss but real, genuine hurt–almost tangible. It hurt my chest seeing her talk about him like that.

Then, she told me how she used to live in an enormous house with more money that anyone could ever want for in the world. Servants lined the house, she had gardens she tended to for hours every day after she came home from working as a teacher.