It’s so unfair. Valentine’s name is French, and mine is only English. Mom likes for people to pronounce Valentine in the French fashion, so the last syllable rhymes with lean rather than line. Say it to yourself: Valentine. Oh, it’s another lovely sounding word. I should tell you right away though that Mom isn’t of French heritage or anything like that, just a Francophile, she says. We go to French school, where pronouncing Valentine’s name right is not a problem, and where some of our classmates are named things like Isabelle, Thérèse, and Celeste. But outside of school, people get it wrong, even though Mom has this stern way of saying “And this is my daughter Valentine” with an emphasis on the last syllable. Actually, though, she only started going by Valentine recently. It used to be that everybody but Mom called her Val, which I think still suits her much better, but don’t tell her that. Mom always insisted on the full name because that way you can tell it’s French. Her eyes used to just snap whenever a new person addressed Valentine as Val instead.
Mom’s eyes can really snap because, just like Elizabeth Taylor, she also has these dramatic, satiny black eyebrows. I wish I had them too, but so far, there is nothing too dramatic to report about me. Mom always says I have chestnut hair but I know I don’t. I know it’s just plain mousy. And it’s straight. I know some girls like straight hair these days, but I think curly is much prettier. Val can put her hair up in this big twist with the curls slipping out up front, and it’s so pretty. She knows it too! She’ll practice sweeping up her hair in front of the mirror when she thinks I’m not looking.
I was born three years after Val in San Francisco, and my father is Val’s stepfather; he adopted her so now we all have the same last name. Well anyway, Mom and Dad got married when Val was so young, he might just as well be her real father. Dad works in real estate and is big on the opera. He’s the type of father who’s always trying to educate you at the dinner table. Sometimes I get the feeling Mom is kind of bored with him, but maybe that’s just what marriage is like. But he’s very nice to us and pays for the fancy school we go to. Mom is an architect who designs wineries in Napa Valley. We live in one of those Victorian houses with all the crazy colors in Pacific Heights. Peacock-blue door, rose trim on the windows. That’s where I was born. A home birth, Mom always says, like it was this really great thing.
Valentine was born in a hospital somewhere in Paris and Mom was all alone. But that’s another story.
When we were little, Mom used to tell us stories of her life in Paris as a young woman, and then she would break off in the middle and sigh.
The mystery of who Val’s father might have been was the only thing in our lives that was the least bit romantic. When Mom and Dad weren’t there, we talked about him all the time. The story of the circumstances surrounding Valentine’s birth was like a favorite story we’d listen to again and again at bedtime, changing certain details to suit our mood. Sometimes her father was a penniless artist in a garret. Other times we wanted him to be wildly rich and own a chateau stocked with the most fabulous wine cellar. Not that we drink wine—yet.
Oh, I forgot to mention that Valentine and I are both really into singing. Mom and Dad saw to it that we took lessons, though we like to sing just about anything really, silly songs and new songs too. We sing in the San Francisco Girls Chorus. On rainy days when we were little Mom would always play an old record of the sound track to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg—Les Parapluies de Cherbourg—and make us sing along. That’s our favorite movie because the songs are in French and it has all of these crazy bright colors; you could just eat it up, that movie’s so yummy-looking. One day Valentine stopped singing and asked:
“Is that what it’s like?”
“What?” said Mom.
“Being in love.”
And Mom sighed and said, “No, not really.”
The day Aunt Theo’s invitation arrived it was a Saturday morning and we were eating breakfast. During the week, we always eat breakfast in the kitchen, and Dad’s so busy that by the time Val and I get up he’s already at work. But on Saturdays and Sundays we all sit at the dining room table with the French paperweights on it. Dad makes our favorite breakfast, which is Nutella crepes and fresh-squeezed tangerine juice. Mom and Dad drink coffee, of course, which I would love to drink too (with plenty of sugar!), but we’re only ever allowed to drink it when we’re in Europe. Because I guess in Europe anything can happen.
Mom held up the mystery letter and said, “Girls, who do you think this is from?”
“Who?” I asked, looking at the letter. Val wasn’t paying the least bit attention. She was too busy spreading her crepe with gobs and gobs of Nutella. I put just a neat layer of Nutella and fold the crepe and sprinkle it with powdered sugar. Val puts powdered sugar, plus she squeezes a tangerine over it so the juices are all running.
But as soon as I glanced at the envelope, I guessed who it was from. Aunt Theo’s handwriting is inky and dramatic, like Mom’s eyebrows. She always has the most gorgeous stationery, heavy, with hand-cut scalloped edges. I think it’s always the same brand of stationery, French stationery, but she uses different colors. It’s never girly or happy colors with Aunt Theo, never those wonderful candy-box colors like they have in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. It’s always rich, sorrowful colors, deep purples, coffee browns, dusty reds. They’re a woman’s colors.
“I have a question,” I said. “Why, if Aunt Theo’s such a big traveler, doesn’t she ever come and visit us?”
“Oh, but she hates Northern California,” said Mom, laughing. “It’s one of her positions in life. Hating Northern California.”
“But we’re here,” I protested.