“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Bonjour, Monsieur,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. She is missing at least three teeth, but her eyes sparkle and she rushes to one side of the store where she pulls down a box marked “35” on it.
She opens the box, gesturing and speaking all at once. “Asseyez-vous, Mademoiselle. Sit, sit.”
But there’s only one shoe inside the box. Which just figures. I am doomed to never find shoes in the village of Vieilles Dames. The old woman has crouched down to open the box at my feet, and she wheezes like anything as she stands upright again.
“Attendez,” she says. “Wait, wait.” And she hobbles to the front of the store. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur? Please to help me, young man?”
Chrétien follows her and reaches down inside the window display to grab the shoe we saw from outside. He walks back to where I am seated. The old lady holds out her hand for the shoe, but Chrétien shakes his head, keeping the shoe from her.
“Non, non, Madame,” he says.
And then he does the sweetest thing. Having seen how hard it was for her, he won’t let the old woman bend over again to put my shoe on. Instead, he gets down on his own knees and removes my flip flops himself. My heart does a funny little leap. He picks up the first shoe, the one from the box, and slips it gently over my toes. Grabbing the back of my heel, which I am so glad I loofahed last week, he pulls the rest of the shoe onto my foot. His hands are soft and warm and basically I am turning into a melted puddle of Gwyn-goo.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
And I know he means the shoe, but that is so not the question I am answering when I say, “Fantabulous. Totally.”
He smiles, one side of his mouth pulling up higher than the other one, and reaches for the other shoe. Okay, I have always thought it was seriously weird to have a thing for feet, but I have to say, I could develop a thing for having Chrétien touch my feet.
“Do you like?” he asks.
“Perfect,” I say. “Just perfect.” I’m so not talking about the shoes.
“How much is the price?” he asks the white haired lady.
“Oh, laissez-moi penser; let me think. How about fifteen euros?” She grins her missing-teeth smile and I hand her a folded up wad that contains twenty euros.
Chrétien and I are on our way out when she comes hobbling after me. “You paid too much,” she says, frowning. “Attendez—wait.”
“It was a tip,” I say, grinning. “For extraordinary service.”
“Ah,” she says. “Un pourboire. Well, I will drink to your good health mes enfants! Au revoir!”
“That was most kind of you,” says Chrétien.
I shrug. “I think in the ‘Battle of the Kind,’ you come out the winner.”
He looks at me funny, employing one of his little head shakes. The sun catches in his eyes, making him squint. His eyes are hawkish, narrowing to the sides. I wriggle my toes in my new red shoes and feel this warmth creeping all the way up my legs and arms and settling in my heart. And then everything inside of me is just bursting, and I grab Chrétien’s hand, and we run all the way to the car, breathing hard and smiling like idiots.
But by the time reach the drive to Château Feu-Froid, Chrétien’s gone all quiet. He’s a million miles away from here. The black car is still sitting by the side of the road, but he doesn’t take the opportunity to poke fun at me about it.
I pull up the lonely drive and see Sir Walter striding back and forth before the castle, his head tilted like he’s worried about something. Or listening for something.
Chapter Four
DUMBEST COMPLIMENT EVER
But by the time I set the parking brake, the worried look is gone. Sir Walter is all smiles. He opens my door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, yes,” he says. He strokes his goatee. “Just my idle imaginings, it would appear.”
Turning to his son, he asks, “Your expedition—was it successful?”
“Indeed,” says Chrétien, quietly. “If you will excuse me….”
He leaves the rest of the sentence just hanging there in the air and strides up the stairs leaving me alone with the Six Hundred Year Old Man.
“I got what I needed,” I say. I can feel my cheeks turning pink as Chrétien marches back up the stairs to the great hall. Why’s he so eager to run away? I thought we were having fun.
“I don’t get him one bit,” I mumble under my breath.
Sir Walter chuckles softly, which makes me realize I said what I was thinking without thinking about what I was saying. Not a new thing for me, sadly.
I meet Sir Walter’s eyes, and they are full of compassion. For me? For Chrétien?
“He is searching to understand himself as well, I think,” says Sir Walter.
Interesting, but hardly helpful.
The wind kicks up a pile of leaves and pine needles in the drive, pushing them against the stone façade of the château.
“You know,” I say, “back home, all I have to do is snap my fingers and any guy I’m interested in comes running.”
Sir Walter chuckles.
“It’s true,” I say. Possibly with a defensive edge to my tone. Because it is totally true.
“I doubt not the truth of your claim.”
“But Chrétien doesn’t seem to notice me at all.” My eyes narrow. “Does he not like girls?”
“He has no inclinings toward his own gender, if that is what you ask.”
I nod. “So is it just me he doesn’t find attractive? ‘Cause I’m … you know … not Caucasian?”
“Au contraire, Mademoiselle,” says Sir Walter. “He has spoken of your beauty within my hearing.”
“He has?” My heart races a bit faster. The wind tosses more leaves at the castle.
“He described you as exotique, I believe.”
“Really? Exotic?”
Exotic’s good.
“My son was born in an age given to the spontaneous praise of beauty. Beauty was seen as an accurate reflection of character. The more beautiful the exterior, the more perfect the soul.”
“Oh,” I say. “So, he thinks my soul is beautiful?”
Dumbest compliment ever.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Gwyn,” says Sir Walter, sighing. “Will you walk with me?” He extends his arm, crooked at the elbow. Back home, my mom watches enough costume dramas that I know what to do. My arm slips into his. As we walk forward together, part of me chokes up a bit; I’ve never had a dad. I bet Sir Walter was a good dad.
“Perhaps Mademoiselle Samantha has told you some of my son’s story?”
“I know he was married. I know he slept in the wall of your family castle for a few hundred years. I’ve been meaning to ask Sam about that, actually.”
“He lost his wife. There was a child as well. Madeleine. She was the apple of his eye.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s so sad.”
“She was his step-child, the daughter of another, but he loved her as his own. She died of the same illness that took his wife.”
“That’s awful,” I say. And then I remember to add, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He gives my arm a little squeeze. “Time has healed my wounds. In fact, I begin to think I was wrong to suggest to Chrétien that he hide himself away through the centuries. Perhaps, had I not, he would be through the worst of his pain.”
“Oh,” I say. This certainly explains a few things. Chrétien’s not looking for love. He’s looking for pain relief. I look up at Sir Walter in time to see him swipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
“The wind, you know,” he says. “It blows so fiercely.”
I nod. He doesn’t wish to be caught crying.
I get that.
“I’m sure you did what you thought was best at the time,” is all I say.
“Yes, yes. A father is so powerless in such a situation. I would take his sorrow for my own if I could. But of what worth is my sympathy?”
“Hey!” I say, turning so
I can look him squarely in the eye. “As a daughter with absolutely zero in the dad department, I’m here to tell you that your sympathy is worth the world. Do you know what I’d give to have a dad that cared a rat’s ass about my existence?” I glare at him. “Pardon my French,” I add, apologetic.
“Your … French?”
“It means, pardon my swearing. I should have said ‘a rat’s backside’ to be polite. At least, in the world according to Ma.”
Sir Walter chuckles. “Your mother has more than made up, I think, for the absence of a father in your life.”
I raise one eyebrow at him. “Are you sure we’re thinking of the same person?”
A smile is all I get for that. Half a second later, Sir Walter tilts his head to one side. “My son calls,” he says.
He must have the world’s quietest vibe on his phone. That or the wind drowned it out. Or his weird thing with hearing voices that Sam mentioned before.
“You will please excuse me,” he says, with a little bow.
I watch him disappear around the corner of the château, trying to decide if I’m ready to face (1) Ma and (2) my French paper. Honestly, I’d rather wander the abandoned grounds. I need to think through what Sir Walter said about Chrétien. I mean, Sam’s dropped hints about his heart being … unavailable or something. But “unavailable” and “grieving my dead wife and child” are two really different things.
Suddenly, I feel embarrassed about how hard I’ve been trying to get his attention. Of course, maybe he didn’t notice. Yeah. Sure. I groan and turn the corner of the building. How am I supposed to act around Chrétien now?
Possibly, I could stay outside all day and avoid him. There’s less wind on this side of the castle. I kick at a pile of decaying leaves and twigs. A few spiders scurry away, terrified. That’s me, stirring up trouble again. I should relinquish my title as Queen of Relationships. In favor of something like Queen of Messing Up Relationships.
Sighing, I sit on a stone bench and look at my surroundings.
It’s actually sort of beautiful: the wildness, the decay. This side yard must have been a garden hundreds of years ago. It’s not tidy, like Sylvia’s garden. It’s not bare gravel, like my back yard with the cat kennels. It’s ivy crawling over hidden lumpy things. And cedars swaying in the wind. Although, they could be firs or pines. I can’t remember how to tell them apart. During fifth grade Outdoor School, I kept busy rating boy kisses on a scale of my own devising, crushing the souls of my prepubescent admirers.
“Ugh!” I cover my face with both hands. The history of How Gwyn Treats Boys does not, perhaps, reflect my better nature. I really need to turn over a new leaf. Right now, besides Chrétien, there are at least two other guys in my life. Well, Jake hasn’t texted me for two days, so maybe he got the message regarding my low level of interest, but José is definitely still in pursuit. I may, possibly, have engaged in a little harmless flirting with José. And now he won’t stop texting. My strategy so far has consisted of ignoring the every-other-hourly texts. Ignoring is a step up from leading him on, right? Somehow, I don’t think Sam would agree.
I sit up straighter. That will be my new motto: What would Sam do?
From inside the pocket of my new jeans, my phone vibes. Probably José. Perfect. Just the chance I was looking for to flip over that new leaf. I grab out my cell. But it’s my mom, asking what happened to me and thoughtfully pointing out that my French paper is not going to write itself.
Coming, I type.
But I don’t move.
Instead, my mind wanders back to Chrétien. Sir Walter worries he made things worse for his son by stuffing him in ripple limbo for over three hundred years. Is he right? Maybe Chrétien still has all his grieving in front of him. I’m a little vague on the whole “how time passes” thing with regard to rippling.
The chill from the stone bench has now numbed my backside. I stand and stretch.
It doesn’t really matter, though, whether or not Chrétien has had enough time to recover. There’s this whole ocean of different between us now that I know his story. An ocean made up of things like marriage and sex and parenting and death. Plus, he’s Catholic and I’m not. He’s serious and I’m … Gwyn.
I can’t think of a single thing we have in common.
Except for our devastatingly good looks. Obviously.
Nice. I’m totally alone and I’m trying to make jokes. I need a twelve step program for the terminally flippant.
I hear feet treading on the gravel just around the corner. Ma feet. Ma always walks like she’s trying to sneak up on you.
A good daughter would go apologize for making her mother hunt her down like a lost cat. I am hardly a model daughter, and we’ve already established my shortcomings in other areas, but you’ve got to start somewhere, right?
I rise, an apology on my lips.
But it’s not Ma.
It’s not anyone I recognize.
Chapter Five
MISS CONGENIALITY
I slip out of the stranger’s line of sight, hiding behind a large shrub. It’s a man, talking softly on his cell. I can hear everything because he’s walked right over to the bench. My bench. If it weren’t for the wind, he’d probably hear me breathing. I try to breathe more quietly, just in case.
“You’ve heard nothing from my father, then? Or any of them?” asks the stranger.
I don’t like his voice, and I have a bad feeling about his identity.
“Of course I’m solid,” he says, irritated. “How else would I place a call?”
The wind scatters leaves as the stranger listens to the response. I can’t hear the other caller.
The stranger grunts. He kicks at the detritus underfoot. “It’s just as likely Father decided I wasn’t important enough to merit an update. There’s smoke billowing out the chimney, though, so he can’t be far. And an expensive Alfa Romeo out front. Flashy. Just the sort of thing Hans likes.”
I gulp. Hans? That is a name I could go the rest of my life without hearing again. But with this man talking about Hans, it’s a safe bet I’m spying on Fritz.
Now he sounds upset with the person on the other end of the call.
“You worry about that press conference, and I’ll worry about keeping myself out of trouble with Father.”
The call ends; the stranger stands and vanishes. I choke on a sort of silent yelp. People vanishing into thin air is one of those things I will never get used to. I steady myself and get ready to sprint to the front of the castle.
There’s a split-second where I worry about whether or not I will be seen by this invisible person. But if it comes down to hiding here or running to warn my friends and family, I am running.
In the past week, I’ve gotten badly out of shape. My lungs burn and my calves feel rubbery and then, just as I round the corner of the building, I hit a wall. At least that is what it feels like. It takes me a second to realize I’ve been grabbed by someone who wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Really?” I shout, I writhe, and I think I swear. Because I now have concrete evidence that what you can’t see can hurt you. Of course, now, I can see him just fine.
“Let go of me,” I shout. Then I add, “You shouldn’t be here!” Which sounds completely lame.
“On the contrary, my dear Miss … what is it? Li, I believe? I belong here at my father’s castle, but I think Father won’t be pleased to know you are outside.”
He grabs my hair, pulling my head around to face his. I can smell his stale coffee breath. He smiles, the kind of smile that is a threat and not a peace treaty.
I squirm again. He’s not all that large, or all that strong. If I can get myself to a better position, I can take him on.
“Hold still!” he shouts.
“Not … a … chance, Fritz,” I say, still struggling.
“You’ve heard of me,” he says, pleased in a way that looks particularly idiotic. I can see his profile: yellowy-gray hair that was probably very blond once. Narrowed eyes, ice-blue, p
ermanent frown lines. An older, less dashing version of Hans. I shudder as the winds roars through the tree branches overhead. My stomach clenches, but I push back at my fear. Hard.
“I am, indeed, Fritz Gottlieb von Helmann,” he says. “I’m glad you’ve heard of me. And I’ve heard of you, too. Now that we’ve gone through the pleasantries, why not tell me what Gwyneth Li is doing out here instead of in there?”
“She’s about to Miss Congeniality you is what she’s doing!” The wind howls, blowing my voice back in my face.
“About to what?” asks my captor.
I shift one elbow forward, aim for his solar plexus and shout, “Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality—ever heard of it?”
In a spectacular display of cowardice, he disappears before I can connect. The wind gusts again, shivering the high branches against one another. I aim for the castle once more, shouting for help as I run. This time, Fritz ripples solid only long enough to ram into me so that I stumble, still fifteen feet short of the front door, and then he’s gone. I can feel gravel digging through my new jeans and into my knees. I don’t feel anything on my palms for a few seconds, which I know is a bad sign. And then I do feel it: hot, stinging pain where the gravel bit into the fleshy part of my palms.
“Coward!” I shout.
A few feet in front of me, Fritz ripples solid again, a gun in his hand. He points it at me.
“You’re going to be in so much trouble if you shoot me,” I say. “You have no idea how much trouble.” My knees and hands are screaming at me right now as I hunker on the ground.
For some reason, my warning seems to carry weight with him. He frowns as if to consider what I’ve said.
“Inside, then,” he says. “Get up. In you go.”
“With pleasure,” I say. Which is an exaggeration of stellar proportion. What I’m feeling at the moment is the opposite of pleasure. My palms feel like I used Ma’s microplaner on them, and my knees aren’t much better. I am attempting to rise with dignity when the front door swings violently open. It’s Sir Walter, with Chrétien at his side.
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