Turning Point

by Danielle Steel

  “What’s the point of making grieving parents feel worse?” he asked her harshly. “How do you sleep at night?” He threw it at her but it didn’t slow her down for a minute. The others had left the office a few minutes before he had. Stephanie had gone to have dinner with Gabriel. The trauma they’d all been through had brought the two of them closer, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but gave them both comfort. Wendy was having dinner at Marie-Laure’s, and Tom and Paul had gone out together. Bill wasn’t in the mood to join them, and he had a lot of reading to do, so he was going home alone, and had been followed by this pitbull of a reporter who seemed to him like the worst of her breed. She asked him his name and he told her, and the name of the hospital he was affiliated with in San Francisco, and then she disappeared. He was irritated thinking about her all the way home, and then he put her out of his mind and relaxed when he got to his apartment and called his girls. He couldn’t wait to see them again on Friday. After what he’d seen at the lycée, they were even more precious to him. It made him realize again how ephemeral life could be, a fact he knew only too well from the work he did. He didn’t need harsh reminders, and the images of the wounded and dead children had haunted him all week. Making ordinary plans with his children for the weekend gave him a sense of peace. The concierge at Claridge’s had texted him that they’d gotten three tickets to a new production of Annie, and seeing it with his daughters would be a welcome relief, in contrast to the tragedies he’d seen firsthand that week.

  * * *

  —

  Gabriel took Stephanie to dinner at Le Voltaire that night and it was cheering to be in the elegant, intimate restaurant. They were both feeling drained and shaken by the events of the week, particularly Stephanie. Dealing with the victims of car accidents and random head injuries was very different from mass killings of the kind they had just experienced. It had made her anxious about her children all week. Deranged gunmen were common in the States now too. They were less frequently motivated by political issues than they were in France, and more commonly similar shootings were committed by troubled students on university campuses, or disgruntled people with psychiatric problems that had been left to smolder for too long. It seemed to be a world crisis in many ways, and the members of the COZ and the other groups had been discussing in minute detail the need for early detection systems that needed to be much more acute than what existed now. She and Gabriel were both tired of talking about it, and she was happy to be out with him away from work. He had been massively busy and after the school shooting had the perfect excuse not to go home, although he insisted that he no longer answered to his wife. They never went out socially together and hadn’t in several years. Stephanie’s situation was very different at home, she had a marriage she was still trying to maintain, or had been until now. After almost two weeks in Paris, she was no longer quite so sure, and Gabriel was doing all he could to put doubts in her mind about the validity of her marriage, and the things he said had brought up questions for her, none of which had easy answers.

  They both relaxed as the evening went on. The delicious dinner and excellent service cast them into another world, which made the lycée tragedy seem more remote.

  “We could have a wonderful life together,” he said with a hand on hers after they finished the main course, and she sighed.

  “I wish I’d met you ten years ago,” she said honestly, but then she wouldn’t have Aden and Ryan, and she wouldn’t have changed that. She wondered now how well she and Andy were suited to each other. After seven years of marriage, everything was so difficult. He had been upset that she had refused to come home ever since the shooting. He didn’t understand what she and the others had been through together, how much the teamwork and shared experience meant to them, and that what they were doing in the aftermath was important. There was no way she was going to leave now, unless one of her kids got seriously ill. Anything less than that, he could handle until she got home. And now she had another reason to stay, what she and Gabriel were feeling for each other seemed important to her too. The attraction they both felt so strongly was impossible to ignore. What if he was the right man for her, and he was her future? She needed to find out if their feelings were real, and it was very new. She felt as though she had been swept away and deposited on distant shores.

  They took a walk along the Seine after dinner, holding hands. The night was chilly, but Paris was lit up and so beautiful, and the Eiffel Tower sparkled on the hour. Flags all over the city were flying at half-mast to honor the victims of the shooting, but nothing could dim the beauty of Paris, and they stopped walking when he kissed her. After the tragedy they had seen, they needed each other, and their feelings were an affirmation of life. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be with him, and he came upstairs with her when he took her home. They walked into her tiny bedroom in the moonlight. She had never needed anyone as badly, and to feel safe in his arms, no matter the risk they were taking with their future lives. Neither of them cared about anything else as they fell into her bed, seized and blinded by their passion. She felt as though she had been swallowed by an ocean of their love. Everything had happened so quickly between them, and the shooting had pushed them together with such force that it dispelled all reason and swept away everything else. When they came it was like being born together and she knew she couldn’t live without him after that moment, and didn’t want to.

  “I love you so much it hurts,” she whispered to him as she lay in his arms, and he gently stroked her hair with loving hands and held her close. She could feel his heart beating, and her own.

  “I will never let anything hurt you, Stephanie.” She loved the way he said her name, and she believed what he said.

  He spent the night with her and they made love again when they woke in the morning. And as far as she knew, he never texted his wife or called home, so he was as separate and unaccountable as he said. He was hers now, if she wanted him, and she had given herself to him. Her lovemaking had never been as passionate with Andy.

  They left for work together on the rented bikes in the crisp cold air of a Paris morning. They were both smiling as they pedaled through the traffic, and stopped to kiss, and have coffee and croissants at a bakery close to the office. As she looked at him, in spite of all they’d seen and been through, and the dangers ahead, she had never been as happy in her life. She felt as though she belonged to Gabriel now. And San Francisco was on another planet a million miles away.

  * * *

  —

  When Gabriel and Stephanie arrived at the office together, the others guessed that they had spent the night in each other’s arms. Their intimacy was obvious. No one commented, and shortly after they arrived, Bruno Perliot, the police captain, came to see Marie-Laure. He looked serious. There was some official business he wanted to discuss with her, and he wanted to be sure she had survived the trauma without too much damage. Even for professionals, it had been a hard event to participate in, and Marie-Laure was in the front lines with him and his men. Valérie offered counseling for those that wanted it, but Marie-Laure hadn’t had time.

  Bruno was quiet as they discussed the aftermath of the incident in Marie-Laure’s office, and the aggressive stance of the press. The event was being examined and analyzed under a microscope by journalists, always hungry for some slipup or sign of sloppiness or incompetence on the part of the professionals involved, especially the police. He was used to it, and so was she. The French were always quick to criticize everyone. The press had been interviewing bereaved parents, particularly Jacqueline Moutier, whom Bruno had detested for years. They had clashed publicly on numerous occasions.

  “I see one of your Americans talked to her,” Bruno said and Marie-Laure was surprised. She wasn’t aware of it, and didn’t look pleased.

  “I asked them not to speak to the press,” Marie-Laure said apologetically. She liked Bruno Perliot and thought he had done an excellent job, despite t
he number of deaths. He had been humane and compassionate, efficient, and as cautious as he could be in the circumstances, by not letting his men go into the school without adequate backup and preparation. She had no complaints about anything he’d done, and he was extremely respectful of her. She was surprised he had come to the office to see her, and thought him very kind.

  “He spoke very eloquently on our behalf,” Bruno said, looking pleased as he handed her the article from the morning paper. “It sounds like Moutier got under his skin, as much as she does mine. If I can ever get her fired, it will be the greatest pleasure of my career,” he said wryly and she laughed, and read the article he gave her. Surprisingly, Moutier had quoted Bill liberally, in full support of the Paris authorities in charge of the school tragedy. As she read down the piece, she raised her eyebrows and glanced at Bruno.

  “I had no idea that’s who he is. I never made the connection with the name. He’s very discreet and only interested in his work, and ours,” she said in praise of Bill. She was impressed by what he’d said to Moutier too.

  “I’m surprised he’s not staying at the Ritz or the George V,” Bruno said, smiling at her. Moutier had done her research well, and come up with some very interesting information about Bill. He was of “the” Browning Oil family, one of the two principal heirs of his generation, with a younger brother in New York. It said that Bill Browning was a physician specializing in trauma, with considerable experience, lived in San Francisco, worked at San Francisco General Hospital, and stood to inherit one of the largest fortunes in America, estimated at many billions of dollars, and she’d taken a wild guess at how much. It mentioned their major holdings, and the list was long. The article then said that he was divorced and had two children, and had been married to the daughter of a British lord. The article closed with one of his more passionate quotes in admiration of the Paris emergency teams. “At least she gave us a decent shake for once,” the police captain said. “It won’t last long. She’ll be stirring up some other crap about all of us by dinnertime tonight. She can’t stand favorable stories. I think she was just excited about who he is, and to have discovered it, since, as you say, he’s discreet. He’s going to have every woman in Paris chasing him after they read that article. Maybe she did it to annoy him,” Bruno said, and stood up. He had to go back to work, and his real purpose in coming there that morning had been to check on Marie-Laure, and make sure she was all right.

  She thanked him for coming, and after he left, she walked over to the desk Bill was using. “Thank you for all the nice things you said about us to the press,” she said gently, as he looked up in surprise.

  “Did that awful woman print them? She followed me to the Metro last night, and I lost my temper. I can’t stand her, she’s a muckraker, digging for dirt, at everyone’s expense. I told her what I thought about it, and how great I thought you all were in the crisis, including the police. She didn’t want to hear it, so I’m amazed she printed it.”

  “So am I,” Marie-Laure admitted. “I can translate the piece for you if you want,” she offered.

  “My French is good enough to read it, even if I can’t hold a decent conversation to save my life.” He smiled at her. He followed her to her office so she could give it to him and went back to his desk to read it. They were going to be in meetings that afternoon about the aftermath of the lycée shootings, but the morning had been easy and unscheduled for the Americans for the first time. A moment later, when Marie-Laure glanced at him, she could see he was furious and very upset. He came back to her office and was nearly shaking with rage.

  “What right does she have to print that? Who my family is has nothing to do with my professional life, nor what I’m allegedly going to inherit, that’s nobody’s business. I’ve been working for thirteen years as a doctor, and that has never come out. I was careful that it didn’t. It’s totally irrelevant, and all it can do is complicate my life. No one is going to take me seriously if they think I have that kind of money behind me, and I’ll have every gold digger on the planet on my ass,” he stormed at Marie-Laure although it wasn’t her fault, and he looked like he was near tears. She could see how much it meant to him not to have anyone know who he was or how much he had, but it was too late now, thanks to Jacqueline Moutier. The secret was out. Marie-Laure tried to calm him down, but he was all wound up and left the office a few minutes later to take a walk and cool off.

  The article circulated around the office after that, and everyone was startled to realize how wealthy he was. Gabriel commented reasonably that it was nice for him, but it really had nothing to do with the work they were doing together, or their dealings with Bill. He was still the same man, no better or worse than before they knew his family was Browning Oil. And for his part, Gabriel didn’t care. The others didn’t either, but it was something to talk about. Paul Martin said he thought he was lucky, and Gabriel said not necessarily, that it probably would draw the wrong people to him if word got out. He said that it changed how people felt about you, with that kind of fortune. Jealous people were out to trip you up and take something from you, or be nasty about you, and the greedy ones were out for what they could get. It was easier if people didn’t know. In that sense, Bill was right.

  Bill was still upset when he came back from his walk. No one paid attention to him, they had all read the article and were trying not to show it. If the piece got syndicated to the States, which it might because he was who he was, he dreaded everyone at SF General knowing about his tie to Browning Oil and their fortune. There was nothing good it could add to his life. Silence had been golden for all these years, but there was nothing he could do about the exposure now.

  Wendy came across the room to talk to him as he sat at his desk, looking like a storm cloud. She decided to approach anyway and spoke in a low voice. “I know you’re not happy about the piece, Bill, but they didn’t say anything bad about you. It makes you seem serious and hardworking, and news dies eventually.”

  “Not that kind of news, they’ll pull it up anytime anyone wants to write an article about me. It makes it sound like my only accomplishment is having a family with money. And that’s no thanks to me.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “Those things are an accident of birth. It doesn’t say your family made their money by being nuclear arms dealers, or selling immigrant women into sexual slavery. Your family is part of the establishment, and you’re a conscientious doctor who lives below the radar. After the initial shock has worn off, it’s not much of a story one way or the other.”

  “I don’t want women pounding on my door because of it, or maniacs threatening to kidnap my children.” He was grateful they didn’t live in San Francisco if that was going to become an issue, and Athena’s father had had security for her for years, since he had a vast fortune too. It was the only common point they’d shared, rich parents, so he hadn’t needed to worry about her motives, they had had enough other problems without that. It wasn’t something he wanted to worry about. It was just easier if no one knew what his family had and he would have one day. He had already inherited quite a bit at thirty and thirty-five, and stood to get another windfall in a few months at forty, but that was no one’s business but his own. The way he lived and dressed, nothing showed. No one would have guessed how rich he was. He was modest and humble.

  “I can understand your concerns,” Wendy said kindly, sympathetic to him. “I grew up in New Hampshire, and my father was kind of a small-time operator in a small town. He and my uncle made some shady deals. Nothing too large scale, but enough to get them into trouble, and my father went to jail for tax evasion for three years. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in our town since Paul Revere rode through it and Thomas Jefferson once spent a night there. It was all over the local newspapers, and I thought I’d die every time someone mentioned it, which they did quite a lot for a while. It gets old, people forget. My father died two years ago, and I was worr
ied about their dragging up old history in his obituary. He did a lot of good things for our town in his final years, and they gave him a hero’s farewell, with not a word in his obit that he had ever gone to prison. And no, people won’t forget what you come from, it’s part of who you are, but if they know you, they won’t care. Trust me, it’s true.” He was touched by what she said, and thanked her, and he was calmer when they left for their meetings that afternoon, but it was still major news, and the people he was working with liked him even better because he never was pompous, showed off, or acted as though he was enormously wealthy. They respected him even more than before.

  Only Paul, the young firebrand in the group, dared to tease him about it, as they headed across town in the van to visit some of the injured victims of the lycée shooting. “Now that the secret is out, Bill, I was hoping you’d buy a Ferrari, so I could ride around in it with you and pick up women.” His brazen irreverence made Bill laugh since he knew it was well intended and Paul was joking. But the others held their breath for a minute, waiting to see how Bill would take it. Marie-Laure had shared how upset he was, and they had seen it for the past few hours since he’d read the piece.

  “I’ll buy you one before I leave,” Bill quipped back. “I’m planning to buy a Deux Chevaux for myself.” It was the classic small model antiquated Citroën, the smallest they made, the kind poor students drove.

  Paul rolled his eyes with a look of disgust. “Some people just don’t know how to spend their money. You’ll never get a decent woman with that pile of junk.”