Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “You know her?” Amy asked. “Aubrey Jamison?”

  Gabriella shook her head. “No. I delivered a birthday cake for one of her band members. They were about to go on the road, and I delivered it to the bus. Her assistant took delivery and let me see the bus. It was really neat. She told me a company called Apple Pie Order installed all the little holders and racks and things.”

  Amy nodded.

  “And you sold?”

  Again, Amy only nodded. Asking a question that had already been answered was meant to prompt the sharing of information, but if Gabriella wanted to know anything else, she was going to have to come right out and ask.

  But instead, Gabriella waved her hand, palm out, as she took a sip of her tea. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me things you don’t wish to. In time, I will either know about you or it won’t matter, because you’ll be gone.”

  “I’ll be gone. I’m only here until I figure some things out. But meanwhile, I assure you I will not take advantage of Emile.” She glanced at the mess on the counter. “I also plan to tidy up a few things.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that. Emile is a rescuer, and I would worry if he was only that, but he is also a survivor. It’s easy to see you are in need of rescuing right now. No matter. Everyone needs rescuing from time to time. It gives people like Emile a reason for being. And more power to you if you can turn this into a real kitchen. I would cook here if it were workable.”

  It was interesting how Gabriella changed from an awkward subject to a neutral one without taking a breath. It was a relief—a pleasure, even—to discuss a neutral subject. Amy found herself liking Gabriella.

  “Really? You’d cook? What would you do with precooked rice, canned chicken, and shelf stable chocolate milk?”

  Gabriella closed her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t forget the Jell-O. He loves Jell-O. It’s awful isn’t it? Our billet mom wanted to teach him to cook some simple things, but Jell-O was as far as they got. I, on the other hand, learned to bake from her.”

  Billet mom? “Your who?” Was that a French Canadian thing?

  “Well, technically, Emile’s billet mom. But they brought me to live with them a few months after Emile. I referred to Paul and Johanna as my billet parents, too, though they were actually my foster parents.” And with that, Gabriella took a bite of her pastry, as if she hadn’t said something that bordered on bizarre. No, not bordered on—full on bizarre.

  “I understood nothing you said past Jell-O and that you learned to bake.”

  Gabriella frowned a little. “How much do you know about hockey?”

  “There’s a puck and a goal—which your brother defends. Oh, and hockey players keep their extra equipment in the pantry. I just found that out.”

  “Yes. That.” Gabriella rolled her eyes. “So.” She folded her hands and rested her elbows on the counter. “The best youth hockey players go on to play juniors. It’s a huge leap. The very best of the best go on to play in top tier junior leagues. That was Emile. Since these boys are sixteen to twenty years old, they live with host families. The system is called billeting, so the boys are billet sons and the parents are billet moms and dads. Emile went to North Dakota to live with the Lindells the August he was sixteen.” She looked at her plate and said the next words in a rush. “A few months later when our mother died, the Lindells brought Emile home for the funeral and took me back to North Dakota with them to live.” She looked up and met Amy’s eyes again. “So I learned to bake, and Emile made saves and learned to make Jell-O.” She raised her mug, leaned over, and whispered with a smile, “And he makes it still. Mostly orange.”

  This woman was a brilliant communicator. With her body language and that last sentence, she had conveyed perfectly that she was not open to questions or comments about her mother’s death or the whereabouts of their fathers.

  Still a response was in order. “The Lindells sound like wonderful people. Are you still in touch with them?

  Gabriella looked surprised that the question even needed to be asked. “Of course. I talk or text with them almost every day. Emile, the same.”

  “Emile the same, what?”

  He had come in so quietly that he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Maybe these siblings were magical creatures. He reached out briefly and touched Gabriella on the shoulder with the barest brush of his fingertips. The contact seemed insignificant, but the look that passed between them was not. There was love there—and like. They were friends.

  “Emile, the same as always,” Gabriella said. “I have met your personal assistant.”

  “Good. Amy will stay here for a bit. It will be very helpful with the season starting.”

  “And I gave her your marzipan mille-feuilles.”

  “Just as well.” He leaned on counter. “First game in five days. I have to start eating better.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box, and placed it on the counter. “Your new phone, Amy. I went to the Apple store after stretch. Packi advised me that if I was to have a personal assistant, I should provide you with a phone. After all, I must be able to reach you.”

  “Oh, no.” No, Emile. And not in front of your sister who, despite what she says, probably thinks I’m a gold digger. She pushed the box away from her. “You should take it back. I will take care of it tomorrow.” And who was this Packi anyway? Another man who thought he could be in charge of her?

  “Non. Everything is already set up for you. Here’s your new number.” He gave her a slip of paper.

  “I was going to take care of it.” In her own way, in her own control, and with a phone nowhere nearly as expensive as this one. “And I am the one who is supposed to be running errands.”

  “It was on my way. And how can I contact you if you have no phone? What difference does it make who procured it? You need a phone. You have a phone. It is right that I should pay.”

  Maybe he had at point, maybe not. Either way, he was paying—and either way, she was beaten—again.

  He knew she knew it, too because he smiled triumphantly, as if he was so pleased with himself. “Who’s hungry? I am. I will take a shower, and we will all go to dinner. Think, ladies, where you would like to go?”

  And he disappeared down the hall.

  “Does he always just announce what’s going to happen?” Amy asked.

  “Hmm.” Gabriella closed her eyes and considered the question. “Yes. But you said it yourself. A personal assistant does what’s asked of her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s not pretty.” Miles said the words before slipping into Emile’s usual booth at the Big Skate.

  “I ordered you a rare cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, and a Blue Moon IPA.” Like most Americans, Miles always got right to the point, while Emile believed in taking care of the niceties and the housekeeping first. The news was going to be the same ten minutes from now.

  Miles smoothed his tie and grimaced. “That’s what you always order.”

  “Not today. I am having the salad with grilled salmon, but I thought someone should have my meal of choice.”

  “Whatever.” Miles didn’t seem to ever care what he ate. “Do you want to hear about Snow or not?”

  “Ah, here is the lovely Megan with our food.” The waitress wore short shorts, white tennis shoes, and—like every other member of the wait staff—a purple and silver Sound jersey. “You wound me, ma petite canard. You are wearing Mikhail’s sweater today. Why not mine?”

  “I can’t wear yours every day.” She set the food before them. “I think Carlo is wearing yours today.”

  Emile didn’t really care who wore his sweater, but they all expected him to pretend like he did.

  “I will recover.” He glanced at his water. “I have changed my mind. Will you bring me a glass of Clear Valley Vineyards Chardonnay?” He had never really learned to tell the difference in wines, but he was contractually obligated to drink Clear Valley Vineyards wine in public when it was available.

  “Sure thing.” Emile
turned to watch her little bottom bounce as she walked away, but lost interest after about two steps. Odd. That didn’t usually happen.

  “Did you call her a little duck?” Miles shook catsup onto his burger.

  “I like ducks, at least as well as any other water fowl.”

  “How about this little water fowl you have staying with you? Do you like her?”

  “Of course. She is doing a good job for me. Yesterday, I went home, and she had put all of my kitchen cabinets and drawers in order—and though I did not ask it of her, she cooked a meal with salad and chicken not from a can.” He’d had to insist that she sit and eat with him. For the first time ever, there had been something more than beer, water, and Gatorade in his refrigerator. “She bought cheese, chocolate milk, and fruit.”

  “You do realize that’s how normal people live, don’t you—even those who don’t hire personal assistants?”

  “Merci,” Emile said when Megan brought his wine. He took a sip to fortify himself. “All right, tell me of Cameron Snow.”

  Miles leaned forward, looking like a wolf who was about to capture a goose. He lived for these moments.

  “As I said, it’s not pretty.”

  “So, is he really in California?”

  Miles nodded. “San Francisco. And he’s married.”

  “Baise-moi!” The words flew from Emile’s mouth, louder than he intended. He had not seen that coming. “How? When? Il a été marié tout ce temps?”

  Miles frowned. “Speak English, Emile.”

  “He has been married all this time?”

  “No. He got married this morning.”

  “And you already know?”

  “Twitter.” He reached for his phone. “I made a few calls yesterday and found out he was in San Francisco. Then I followed him and some of his clients, just to see what would happen. I thought I’d have to make more calls, but there it was, like a gift.”

  Some gift. “You mean to say that this salaud put this on social media?” Did he think Amy would never have Internet access again? Didn’t he know she would see it? Even though he knew she had not finished setting up her new phone yet, a part of Emile wanted to go rush back home, but he needed more information. A goalie might rely on instinct, but he never entered the net unprepared.

  “No.” Miles scrolled his phone screen. “San Francisco Today did, and they tagged everyone involved. Here.” He handed Emile his phone.

  The tweet read, “Super couple attend wedding,” and there was picture of an attractive couple in party clothes.

  “I don’t understand,” Emile said. “This isn’t Snow.”

  “No. That’s Reynolds Fallon and his girlfriend, Jules Perry. He plays for the 49ers and is Snow’s client. She’s that actress who was in the movie about the Vietnam war.”

  “I know who he is. I just didn’t recognize him without his football uniform. I do not know her. So the wedding they attended was Snow’s?”

  “Yes. Snow married Fallon’s sister.”

  “And you get all that from this?”

  “Oh, I forgot. You don’t know anything about Twitter. One of my assistants handles your account. You have to click through to the story. Here.” Miles reached for phone. “I’ll read it to you.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “‘Super couple 49ers wide receiver Reynolds Fallon and Oscar winner Jules Perry attended the wedding of Fallon’s socialite sister, Marley, to Fallon’s long-time agent, Cameron Snow. The wedding was held at the Fallon family’s Bay Area waterfront mansion. Reynolds and Marley Fallon are the children of Silicon Valley billionaires Joyce and Andrew Fallon. Sources say the newlyweds are expecting a baby in June.’ Here’s a picture of the happy couple.” Miles handed his phone back to Emile.

  The woman—Marley—was pretty enough, though the dress she wore looked more like a nightgown than a wedding dress and she had nothing on her head. That was no way to get married, even to an asshole like Snow. If her parents were billionaires, it seemed like they could have gotten someone moving on that and gotten her a better outfit. The cake they stood beside was certainly big enough—at least five feet tall with bridges, towers, and all manner of other architectural gewgaws. How many people were they going to feed, anyway? Oh, well. Not his business. Emile had only seen Snow that one time when he’d given Emile his business card. Emile hadn’t remembered what he looked like from then, but he recognized him from the picture he and Amy had showed around at Cracker Barrel. He was pretty nondescript with beady eyes, and he was running a hard race to fat. Maybe he was planning to eat the whole cake himself. Maybe that’s why they’d paid more attention to the cake than the dress.

  “I guess we know now why he abandoned Amy and ran off to California.”

  Miles wrinkled his forehead and squinted his eyes like he always did when he was about to broach something with Emile that he was dreading. The look put Emile in mind of someone who had seen a baseball headed for his face but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Emile, are you absolutely certain he ran out on this girl? That she didn’t make the whole thing up?”

  “I’m certain. I told you. I was there with her at the office at the Star View. I went to the bank with her. He stole her money and left her.”

  Miles nodded. “All right. I had to ask. It’s my job to protect you.”

  “I understand, but I have nothing to fear from Amy—though she did take all my canned chicken and Nesquik to a soup kitchen.”

  “At least it sounds like she’s got good sense about food, if not men.”

  “Do you think there’s any way to get her money back?”

  Miles shook his head. “Not if he’s not willing surrender it. And I see why he took it. The Fallon family would be a hard one to marry into. He was probably trying to even the score a little—plus cut all ties with Amy. I doubt if the Fallons would be thrilled to find out he had a live-in girlfriend up until a few days before the wedding.”

  “Amy seemed sadder about the loss of her personal things than the money. She didn’t understand why he took her things that meant nothing to anyone but her.”

  “Probably to cut ties. And remember, he needed the people at Star View Towers to think she was moving out, too.”

  “Do you think he might give her little things back?”

  Miles shrugged. “Maybe. If he didn’t dispose of them. He has no idea that Amy has allied with someone who knows him. He might turn her things over in exchange for a promise to keep quiet.”

  “We shouldn’t keep quiet!” Emile could already taste the revenge he could bring about for Amy. “We should call newspapers and ESPN and tell on him. Everyone should know. Yes. Tell your assistant that I want to—what do you say?—tweet that.”

  Miles was already shaking his head, denying his fun.

  “No, Emile.”

  “Why? Why should we save Snow?”

  “We aren’t trying to save Snow. We are trying to save you and your product endorsements—Clear Valley Vineyards, Au Chocolat, the Urban Under. They don’t like messy. Involve yourself in a scandal, and they can terminate your contracts.”

  “I don’t care. I have enough money—enough to pay you for your lost commissions from those endorsements.”

  “I’m not thinking about my commissions.”

  “How can you not?”

  “I do. But I don’t have to worry about my commissions, because I always put my clients’ interests before my own. You know that. That’s why I work for you.”

  Emile could not argue with that. “Oui. You do.”

  “But getting back to the question at hand,” Miles said. “Do you want to ruin things with Open Hearts and Arms? Even if you aren’t being paid for it, you were pretty pleased to be asked to be their spokesperson. The campaign launches the first of the year. All the TV spots and print with your face all over it has been done.”

  That gave Emile pause. This international child abuse and neglect prevention agency was important to him—and they’d made clea
r there could be no whisper of scandal associated with their spokesperson. But, still—Amy. Wasn’t she more important? Open Hearts and Arms could find another public figure—a better one.

  “Besides,” Miles went on, “do you think Amy would want her name associated with all this? If I understood you correctly, she refused to tell even her family. Do you think she’d want them to find out this way? Wouldn’t this be the ultimate humiliation?”

  “I think she’s already had the ultimate humiliation.”

  “Well, then the ultimate public humiliation—which is a thousand times worse than private humiliation.”

  All that was true.

  “If you like, I’ll fly out there and talk to him, try to get her personal things. He’ll think it’s a business meeting. I’ll blindside him.”

  A jolt of possibility went through Emile. He would have his pound of flesh, after all.

  “Non. I will go myself. Next week. We play the not-so-mighty Ducks and the Kings in California.”

  Miles looked amused. “California is a big state. Do you know how far it is from Anaheim to San Francisco?”

  “Non. I am no good with American geography. But I don’t care. I will make him come to me.” Emile rose. “Thank you, Miles. I am in a hurry, but please finish your meal. Please tip Megan thirty percent and bill me. I must go tell Amy this news—before she finds it herself.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Except to buy some fresh food for dinner, Amy had not left Emile’s condo for two days. But the kitchen was in order.

  It was a hard fight, but she had won, and she’d made a list on a random sheet of paper of the things she still needed to do—order the food items he’d said he wanted, buy extensive groceries, make a packing plan, and talk to him about putting his closet and the drawers in his bedroom in order. But she didn’t like random sheets of paper. She liked a bullet journal, though she was not willing to put his life in her journal, because he was temporary.

  So that’s how she came to be at Foolscap and Vellum—to buy a small journal exclusively for Emile’s needs. Instead of taking the Land Rover, she’d walked the three blocks in the fall sunshine. It had been good to get out.