Skavenger's Hunt

by Mike Rich

  “Hey, Awnray,” he chided. “Juliet wants to know if you want a bath before we celebrate.”

  “Hmm? Oh.” Henry finally looked over. “Merci, ce serait merveilleux,” he replied with a smile.

  “AH HAAAA! Really?!” Now it was Juliet’s turn to clasp her hands in surprise. “Well, in that case, Henri Babbeet, laissez la soirée de la célébration commencer!”

  “What did she say?” Ernie whispered to him.

  “She said we should let the celebration begin,” Henry whispered back. “Least I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.”

  “You should be very sure, Henri.” She motioned for them to follow her as she walked along the concrete landing of the massive port. “Your French is excellent for a young American; better than a good many Frenchmen, I might add.”

  “You’re from Paris, Juliet?” Mattie cheerfully asked as they weaved their way through the just-arriving throng.

  “Actually, Mateelda, I am from Montmartre.” Juliet seemed to glide through the crowd, sidestepping suitcases and trunks. “It’s where artists live. Music like you would not believe. And dancing?” She kissed her fingertips and sprung them open with a smacking MmmmmmmWAH!

  She turned around as she walked, almost dancing. “What do you say, Ernie? Shall you and I dance tonight? No, I should call you Ernest, shouldn’t I?”

  “Ernest is good.” He blushed. “I like Ernest.”

  Henry thought Ernie would have liked being called “Monsieur Stupide” at that point, long as the words were coming from Juliet.

  “And what do you do, Juliet? In Montmar—OW!” Mattie bumped her hip into a stray trunk, thanks to Ernie paying no attention to anyone other than Miss Bonnet.

  “In Montmartre?” Juliet threw her hands out. “I am one of the artists. Mainly sculpture. Baroque. Expressionism.”

  “Sounds great!” The words had come from Ernest . . . again, of course.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Is the train station right around here somewhere?” he finally got around to asking. “We don’t want to miss it in the morning.”

  “Ah merci, Jack,” Juliet assured him. “The only thing you are going to miss is France, after your return to America. It is a shame you cannot stay longer. There is so, so much to see!”

  One thing in particular, Henry reminded himself.

  A vision.

  And so, once the four of them were cleaned up, Juliet and her friend Marguerite took them to the cobblestoned commons for their promised celebration. It was a bustling spot, closer to the train station than the luggage-littered docks. Accordion music and bistro tables surrounded dozens of couples slowly dancing. The entire area was illuminated by the soft light of French hall lanterns.

  Juliet sat at the head of their table, holding a container of just-purchased wine. She cast a look toward Henry. “Awnray?” she asked. “Where did you learn to speak French the way you do?”

  “My grandmother was French,” he replied courteously and carefully. “She died a few years ago.”

  “Oh.” Juliet’s smile dropped to a frown. “And where in France was she from?” she asked.

  “A town called Fontainebleau,” he answered, hoping it had existed in 1885. “I think that’s what it was called.”

  “Fontainebleau?” she declared with disbelief. “I have family in Fontainebleau! As we speak!”

  Henry could see Jack shift uncomfortably. He was itching to get to the train station and would have absolutely taken an evening Paris-bound train had there been one. Juliet, to her credit, had promised more than once to get them to the station first thing in the morning.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack, I want you to relax, oui?” she reassured him for the fourteenth time. “You are far too nervous about missing your train. And besides, I have another form of French art to show you.”

  She pushed the rustic wine container out into the middle of the table.

  “My country’s finest invention,” Juliet announced with immense pride, “though you can only have a little. For many of you this may be your very first sip, I imagine?”

  “Not me,” Ernie piped up. “I’ve had vino plenty of times.”

  Jack snorted softly.

  Mattie looked out of the corner of her eyes toward Henry, before informing Juliet with a somewhat sheepish voice, “You’re right. I’ve . . . never really had any before.”

  Juliet clucked her tongue. “Oh, Mateelda, you are in for a treat.” She pushed the wine closer to her. “Just one sip, the first sip—that is what wine is all about.”

  “And sometimes the second,” Marguerite added with a wink, her wavy golden hair descending from her black beret to just below her shoulders.

  “Wine is about history,” Juliet told them all. “People. Stories. Maybe your own country will one day discover wine as our country has. Perhaps sometime soon.”

  A tingle ran up Henry’s neck at the mere sound of the word:

  Soooooooooooon . . .

  There were maybe a hundred people in the square at that moment, and he used every second to study as many of them as possible.

  Mattie looked hesitant as she reached for the container, despite Marguerite clapping her hands in encouragement. “One of your presidents loved our wine, Mateelda,” she urged her. “Thomas Jefferson! He would want you to at least try it!”

  Mattie took the tiniest of sips, and for a second showed no reaction—right up until she did.

  “It’s . . .” She coughed once, then twice. “It’s, um, very . . . it’s very good,” she was finally able to say after quickly clearing her throat.

  Everyone at the table broke into laughter, even Jack, while Juliet’s expression bordered on pure elation.

  “Welcome, Mateelda, to a new world of adventure! Where every vintner has their own story to tell,” Juliet fairly shouted as she nudged the wine toward Henry.

  “Henri? Your turn,” she insisted. “Then Jack and my little Ernest.”

  Henry reached for the container, spying to see if the term of affection could make Ernie even more infatuated with their hostess. Apparently it could.

  Henry took a small sip from the jug, which really was his first sip ever. As the red hallmark of French history rolled down his throat, he noticed that it was . . .

  Wow. Not too bad.

  He could also tell that both Frenchwomen were waiting to see if there might be another coughing fit. “Ouuuuuuuiiiiii?” Juliet asked with a hopeful look.

  “It’s good,” Henry offered after a few cough-free seconds. “Really. I mean, I think it’s great.”

  “Ah, Henri, très, très bon! Vous aimez?” She asked if he really meant it.

  “Oui, I sure did,” he answered, sliding the wine over to Jack before leaning back with a somewhat victorious grin on his face. Until his great-great-grandfather took a huge sip.

  Annnnnnd . . . of course . . .

  Another one.

  “Très BONNNNN!” Marguerite shouted at Jack’s accomplishment. The big kid scooted the wine directly over to Ernie amid Juliet’s sustained cheering.

  Monsieur Stupide, though, already looked as if he might break into a sweat because of the pressure. Not wanting to buckle in front of the woman he’d just discovered was the woman of his dreams, Ernie confidently raised the crimson-colored jug and downed what turned out to be a bit more than probably would have been practical.

  “Uhmmph,” Ernie immediately coughed. Half his mouthful of wine ended up on various locations around the table, followed by Juliet and Marguerite jumping to their feet, almost bursting as they laughed and cheered. Even the surrounding patrons and dancers turned to look as Ernie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, covering his hangdog grin.

  The two women sat back down and Juliet motioned for someone at the table to send the wine her way. Ernie practically fell over himself to make sure no one else got the honor. He placed it in front of her, and she poured herself a sizeable serving.

  And it was in that moment that Henry first noticed a small but decided change i
n Juliet’s demeanor. The joyful smile and laugh from only a second ago faded away, replaced with a much, much different look: a calculating countenance that he easily spotted in her eyes.

  “Well . . . well.” Juliet dipped her chin, perhaps to underscore what she was about to say. “Now that the four of you have had your share of our wine, I need to ask a few questions as to this most, most mysterious visit you’ve all made; a mysterious visit indeed. Oui?”

  Juliet raised her glass to her lips, her tone of voice suddenly devious.

  “So,” she continued, “Which one of you is going to tell us exactly why you are here in France?” Her eyes grew even darker as she added, “Because if you don’t, we know of people who can force you to tell us.”

  The words took the air right out of the festive moment. Mattie looked completely caught off guard, while Jack eyed the two young Frenchwomen evenly. Even Ernie looked worried about Juliet’s unexpected change of tone.

  And Henry—for very good reason, given his encounter from the night before—didn’t know what to think.

  Wait, wait, wait . . . these two? They know? They knew all along?

  Of course. Juliet was on board the whole trip. With Doubt. With Grace. She’s either with them or she’s got one of Twain’s envelopes herself.

  The wine! That’s why she gave us the—

  “Ha! Ha! HAAA, OHHHH,” Juliet suddenly exploded into laughter, apparently unable to keep her vibrant eyes dark any longer. “You thought I was serious, did you not? I am not just an artist, you know. I am a performer too. An actress. It is a joke. Funny? Oui?”

  A joke! A JOKE! No! No oui! No oui!

  Mattie let out a deep breath of relief and Juliet winked at her.

  “Not to worry, little Mateelda, all is well,” she said with her previously sunny voice. “I do, however, suspect there is a secret the four of you must be hiding from me. From Marguerite. I do. Coming all this way from home . . . so very, very young.”

  She took another sip of wine before continuing. “But secrets, Mateelda? Secrets can also be a beautiful and wonderful thing.” She delicately wiped the edges of her mouth with her finger. “I don’t wish you to worry, though. Monsieur Tasse entrusted me with your safety.”

  It was quiet for a long moment, aside from a pair of lingering accordions, and it was Jack who finally spoke up.

  “We’ll be fine, Juliet,” he said to her. “We’ve been fine so far.”

  “Merci, Jack, I do hope so,” she replied with a faint smile, until all of her concern seemed to drop away with a happy rush of joie de vivre.

  “Ernest!” she announced, springing to her feet. “You and I are now going to dance! And should you refuse? I will be most disappointed.”

  “Okay,” Ernie nodded faster than a racehorse past his mealtime. Marguerite stood and extended her hand to Jack, who looked more than happy to accept as well.

  The music and the cobblestoned dance area of the square quickly swallowed up the four of them, leaving only Henry and Mattie at a suddenly lonely table.

  Henry turned his head and smiled at her . . . awkwardly, or so he guessed. She returned it—a nice smile, he thought, without nearly as much clumsiness as his own effort.

  Okay, so this is great. And by great, I mean really awful.

  Dang it . . . look. Everyone’s out there! We’re here! The two of us. Me not even saying a word to her.

  He sighed. They sat there for a long minute or two, just the two of them. The unmistakable, irresistible music of Le Havre was apparently not enough to lure either one to their feet.

  Certainly not Henry.

  Mattie finally dropped her eyes and quietly said, “We don’t have to go out there. I mean, that’s . . . that’s another thing I’ve never really done before. Dance.”

  “Neither have I,” Henry finally said something, also finally getting around to recalling Abigail Kentworth’s invitation to the ice skating gala tomorrow.

  Well, what would have been tomorrow.

  Christmas morning at Central Park.

  The accordion music continued under the moonlight. No real sign of Juliet, Marguerite, and their two swooning dance companions, who had both said oui to the invitation without anything even approaching a second thought.

  Right at that moment, though, Henry was having second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts—the kind he always had when it came to this kind of stuff.

  Abigail. Now Mattie. Real smooth, pal.

  Not so deep down, Henry knew that was the real reason he’d said no to Abigail’s invitation on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t that his mom was being too protective, or because he was getting a cold, or because of the downright nasty winter storm in New York.

  It was the dancing part of it. What would have been his first-ever serious dance.

  Chief was right. That one’s on me.

  Henry looked up as Juliet and Marguerite appeared—out there on the cobblestones, patiently teaching their young dance partners the proper steps. Ernie was far too busy swimming in Juliet’s sky-blue eyes to be concerned with what his left or right foot needed to be doing. Jack, who was swaying only inches from Marguerite’s brown eyes and black beret, looked pretty darn content himself.

  Henry kept on watching from the safety of the table.

  C’mon, could you just stop being so nervous for once? You’ve got accordion music, which . . . well . . . you’ve never really spent any time listening to, but sounds pretty amazing right now. You’ve got the moon, you’ve got Mattie sitting right there, obviously wanting you to dance with her. Okay? C’mon, get serious. Remember what Dad said, all right? Never let an extraordinary moment wait.

  “I guess we could try it for a minute.” Henry said the words before he knew it. “If you wanted to, that is. It’s okay if you don’t.”

  Mattie was standing before he even finished asking. “We should,” she declared decisively. “I mean, oui . . . that’s what I should say. Seems like we should while we’re here.”

  Henry stood up and offered his hand. Mattie took it, not seeming to mind that it was a bit sweaty, and the two of them walked onto the dance area, unsure of where to even begin.

  Almost all of the dancers were taller than they were. Mattie settled on a spot and turned to Henry as she smiled nervously. It felt as if they were surrounded by a moving curtain of people. Accordion music rose and fell all around them.

  “HENRI!” Juliet called out, having finally noticed them. “You are a gentleman! Asking our Mateelda to dance!” His cheeks flushed red as the couples nearest them turned to look.

  Juliet and Ernie moved closer.

  “All right, now listen to me,” Juliet directed him. “Put your left hand around her back.” Henry promptly did so. “Oui, parfait, Henri! Now, Mateelda, hold your hand up to meet his, like so. And then . . . allow the music of my country to move you.”

  Now it was Mattie who was blushing.

  “Parfait?” she asked Henry.

  “It means ‘perfect,’” he answered.

  The moon had just risen over the top of an old warehouse, and while the light glowing from the collection of lanterns was more than enough, this was more romantic. The red in Mattie’s hair, especially on the curls resting on her shoulders, shined brighter than it had all week.

  “Maybe dancing’s not so hard after all,” Henry said to her.

  “Maybe not, I guess,” she agreed with a light laugh as they slowly moved a short distance from the others. “I like the name Awnray. How Juliet says it.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how my mom used to say it too when she was in a good mood. She was the one who made sure I learned to speak French.”

  “You haven’t told me about her yet,” Mattie said with nudging curiosity. “Mom . . . I haven’t heard too many people use that word.” She softly laughed again.

  The music ended, but she squeezed his hand to tell him they should stay for the next song as well.

  Henry knew he had to be careful when talking to Mattie about his past, which was h
er future, as he’d just found out by saying the word “mom.” He wished he could talk about how he was feeling, but he also had to make sure he didn’t say anything that would make his new friends think he was crazy.

  “Yeah, my mom . . . it’s kinda like a nickname,” he said, which drew another smile out of her. “She used to live back in New York, before, and after my father . . .”

  “Oh . . . right. I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry,” she said with a sad look.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” Henry assured her, wanting very much to get that smile back. “She was really, really beautiful, especially when she was with him,” he recalled, as much for himself as for Mattie.

  “What happened to her?” she asked.

  Now he really wasn’t sure what to say.

  Be smart here. Don’t say “mom,” make sure you say “mother,” y’know that much. This question’s the minefield. Take a minute, take a minute.

  “She . . . left me,” he said without taking the minute. “I think she didn’t want to be around me anymore.”

  Seriously? Can you be any worse at lying? Yeah, you had to say something, otherwise she’ll wanna know why you’re here by yourself. But that was the best you could come up with? She’s not gonna buy that!

  The skeptical look in her eyes convinced him as much, their slow dance continuing despite the bump in the conversation.

  “I don’t believe you, Henry Babbitt,” Mattie firmly replied. “I don’t believe anyone, especially your own mother, would ever want to be away from you.”

  They were the most kindhearted words she could have ever said. He fumbled for something intelligent to say in response. Heck, at that point, he would have taken something even in the neighborhood of intelligent, but Mattie didn’t appear to be done yet.

  “I hope one day,” she said to Henry, her soft smile returning, “when you’re ready to tell the real story, not the one I just heard . . . I’ll be the one you trust with it. Promise?”

  “Promise,” Henry answered with a smile of his own.

  “Good.”

  The music coming from the accordion continued to play, maybe even slowing down a little, and Henry found himself as close to Mattie as ever, in more ways than one.