No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  Back home in France, his late mother’s family dinners, such as they were, had always involved servants, tuxedos, endless courses, fountains of champagne and, inevitably, snide comments, disdain and ugliness. Since her death last year, he hadn’t seen any of his extended family, and he was happy to prolong that drought indefinitely.

  He and families did not get along.

  Hard, then, to explain his unwilling but ongoing fascination with functional families, like Daniel’s.

  It wasn’t that he thought Daniel’s family was perfect.

  It was just that it was demonstrably better than Baptiste’s had ever been.

  “As I was saying,” Nigel said serenely, putting the chopsticks down again, “I know we’ve got some challenges ahead, but I look forward to a long and happy association with Baptiste and the Mercier family. And to a long and happy retirement with my son Daniel at the helm of the winery. To our new winery. To Château Harper Rose.”

  They all clinked their glasses.

  “To Château Harper Rose.”

  “To new friends and business partners.”

  “Santé. To your health,” Baptiste said. “Did I clink both your glasses? Don’t want anyone to have seven years of bad sex.”

  “Yikes.” Daniel made a face and clinked Baptiste’s glass again. “Just in case.”

  Nigel, who’d taken a sip, paused to tip his head, consider his glass and clink Baptiste’s glass again. “Just in case.”

  They all laughed. Nigel clapped his hands together and rose. “Well, it’s time for us old folks to go home. Don’t you two stay out too late now, hear? You both just came in from France this morning. You’re probably jet-lagged. And you’re turning around and going back home in a few days, Baptiste.”

  “Tomorrow after the meeting, actually,” Baptiste said.

  “You’re going to be dead on your feet, man,” Nigel said.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Baptiste said. “I’m used to the flight.”

  “I should think so,” Daniel muttered. “Since you own a private jet. Don’t try to act like you’re struggling through security and riding in coach like the rest of us.”

  “It’s the lack of gratitude that gets me,” Baptiste said sadly. “This morning, Daniel rode on the jet with me. He was like a kid on Christmas morning. Now? He throws me under the van.”

  “Bus,” Daniel said.

  “Whatever,” Baptiste said.

  They all laughed. Baptiste and Daniel stood.

  Baptiste reached for Nigel’s hand. “Pleasure, sir. It’s a shame Daniel is such a jackass, but I look forward to working with you.”

  Still laughing, Nigel pulled Baptiste in for a hug, then turned to Daniel.

  “I’m proud of you, son,” Nigel said gruffly.

  Daniel pressed his lips together and nodded, a flash of something emotional in his eyes.

  Baptiste looked away while the Harper men hugged, trying not to feel longing for a father figure or regret that he’d only had ten years with his biological father before a boating accident got him. Ten years of being ignored and shunted off on nannies had been more than long enough. It wasn’t as if his father would have completely transformed his personality and become a real parent in the eleventh year, if he’d lived that long. Far more likely he’d have poisoned Baptiste’s thoughts and memories more than he already had.

  Baptiste cleared his throat, trying not to feel its sudden tightness. Focused instead on where he was, who he was with and who he hoped to be with very soon.

  His heart thumped with anticipation.

  “Good night, fellas,” Nigel said with a final wave, and was off.

  Baptiste snuck a quick glance at his watch and snatched up his cape and mask. It had only been seven minutes or so. Hopefully, Nefertiti would be easy to find, although he had no real idea how big the ballroom was, so that was a concern.

  “I’ll see you in the morning at the office?” He checked his watch again. “We’ll tell the employees about the merger and—why are you looking at me like that?”

  Daniel sank back into his chair and stared up at Baptiste as though he’d tried to hold his chopsticks between his toes while he ate his sushi.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Baptiste frowned. “What if I am?”

  “I’m about to propose to Zoya. My nerves are shot. I need a drink. You can temporarily suspend your search for more ass for five minutes and have a drink with me.”

  Buzzing with impatience, Baptiste signaled for the server, dropped back into his chair and tried not to hate his good friend quite so much.

  “Why is this a drama?” he grumbled. “You love Zoya. She loves you. You’re willing to shackle yourself to each other for life, and you bought an expensive ring. Voilà. The end.”

  “Glenfiddich. Neat. You know what? Make them doubles,” Daniel told the server, who headed off again. “Thanks for that touching encouragement, Baptiste. I feel reborn.”

  Baptiste forced himself to slow down and take a closer look at his friend, who looked a little green around the edges. “What’s up?”

  Daniel blew out a breath and leaned back, running a hand over the top of his head. “I proposed to her once before. Back when we graduated from college. She said no. Obviously.” He folded his arms. Unfolded them. “I might have a small case of PTSD.”

  Baptiste blinked and studied this information from every direction, trying to see it from an angle that made sense. No luck.

  What was going on?

  In the several years he’d known Daniel, ever since they worked at their respective wineries in Napa, learning the business, he’d never known him to show anxiety about much of anything. Daniel demonstrated supreme confidence in winemaking, biking, chasing women and any other endeavor that Baptiste had ever seen him try.

  Now this?

  “You don’t get nervous,” Baptiste said, nodding his thanks as the server arrived with their drinks. “You never get nervous. You get angry, but never nervous. You could defuse bombs or perform brain surgery for a living.”

  Daniel shrugged. “Yeah, well, I never had a second chance with the love of my life before.”

  “Look at you.” This was not the time to laugh at his friend, but honestly—what did Daniel expect? “The last thing I knew, you were joining me on my quest to sample all the women in Napa, and now this. What am I to think?”

  “You’re to think that I’ll hopefully be the happiest man in the world by this time tomorrow,” Daniel said. “Why’re you looking so shocked? You’re acting like I want to propose to a goat.”

  “Goats are a great deal less trouble than women,” Baptiste said.

  Daniel snorted. “The women you deal with? Agreed.”

  A sudden wave of moodiness hit Baptiste, causing him to glare at Daniel.

  “What was all that about on the phone the other day, by the way?” Daniel asked. “When I walked in on you yelling at someone. My French isn’t great, but it sounded like you were telling them to move out of your apartment.”

  “In the entire world, no one is as nosy as Americans,” Baptiste said, tossing back half the Scotch. “You should work on that. As a culture.”

  Daniel snickered, a smug and hateful sound that set Baptiste’s teeth on edge, especially coming as it did from someone whose entire life was a study in perfection. “Yet you call me angry.”

  “Do you ever get tired of your perfection?” Baptiste wondered. “Perfect looks and charm. Perfect job, life and family. And now a perfect fiancée—”

  “Don’t jinx me.”

  “And presumably perfect children soon? Do you ever think that the rest of the world might not have it so easily?”

  “So easy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “If I were in a snarky mood, I’d mention that your billions could buy a lot of perfection—”

  Baptiste gulped more Scotch, savoring the burn even though it tasted sour on his tongue.

  “—but I’m not. So I won’t. What
I will say is that despite appearances, I’ve spent a lot of my life running away. From Journey’s End. Zoya. My father. My memories. But that got old and I decided to make a change when I moved back here. Now I’m working on my relationships and my job. I’m much happier. Nothing’s perfect, though.” Daniel paused thoughtfully. “Well, except for my perfect looks and charm. Like you said.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “The point is, don’t hate the player. Hate the game.”

  Wonderful, Baptiste thought.

  There was another American idiom he’d have to learn.

  “If you’re unhappy with your life, change it,” Daniel added serenely, sipping his Scotch.

  “I’m perfectly happy,” Baptiste snapped.

  “Right. That’s why I walked in on you shouting at that woman on the phone the other day.”

  Baptiste scowled down at his empty glass. Realized his right leg was jiggling and stopped it. Smoothed the corner of the white tablecloth. Wished he had more Scotch.

  “If you must know,” he finally said, “Daphne—”

  “Daphne? I hate her already.”

  “—is having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that our relationship, such as it was, is over and I will not be renewing the lease on her apartment at the end of the year. The only good thing is that my lawyer now demands that these women sign confidentiality agreements so there will be no more blabbing to the tabloids.”

  Low whistle from Daniel. “Confidentiality agreements? Who’re you? Brad Pitt?”

  Baptiste flapped a hand. “It’s only prudent for a man in my position.”

  “So this Daphne’s down in Manhattan?”

  “Correct. We had words. She feels that I should continue to subsidize the lifestyle she became accustomed to when we were together. I disagree and feel that her six-month lease is more than generous. Her modeling career is taking off. I believe she’ll soon be gracing the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and fashion weeks all around the world. She has plenty of her own money, if not the private jet. And another man will be along soon to buy her more trinkets if she doesn’t want to buy them for herself. The end.”

  Daniel shook his head. Whistled. “How does that work, man? It’s like a cash transaction with you.”

  Baptiste shrugged irritably. “There’s no puzzle. I give the women an American Express card.”

  Daniel leaned in. “The Black Card? The one with no limit?”

  Baptiste stared at him, aghast. “You think I’m a complete fool, don’t you?”

  “It’s a simple question,” Daniel said, his eyes glowing with amusement.

  “You can never trust women with anything. Least of all money.”

  “That kind of ignorance just goes to show you’ve been trusting the wrong women. But don’t try to dodge the question. What about the credit card you give these women?”

  “There’s a monthly limit to the card. The relationships last while they last. And then?” Baptiste snapped his fingers. “C’est fini. How do you do it?”

  Daniel made a face. “Not like that.”

  Baptiste started to get annoyed. “I personally witnessed you spending thousands of dollars on Zoya this weekend. So you are no better.”

  “I spent thousands of dollars on the woman I love and plan to marry. You spend thousands of dollars on women you sleep with who mean nothing to you. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s probably the perfect situation. You’re looking for the hookup without drama, and they’re looking for the sugar daddy. Win-win for everybody. I commend you.”

  Daniel raised his glass in a final toast and downed the last of his Scotch.

  Baptiste tried an offhand laugh, but it sounded coarse and choked. Probably because his mind had unwillingly shifted to his fortune-spending and Chanel-wearing mother with her endless stream of husbands, lovers and their pending replacements, all of whom had flitted between Paris, Gstaad and St. Tropez, depending on the mood and time of year.

  “Transactions about sex and money make the world spin,” Baptiste said. “Why not combine them and make things simple?”

  “Simple, eh? So what do you expect out of these women? Other than the obvious.”

  “Nothing. That’s the beauty of it.” Baptiste thought that over for a beat or two. “Well, I suppose we’ll expect each other to be available for the odd event here or there. Other than that? Just fun. Convenience.”

  “And what if one of these women doesn’t feel like being bothered with your ass one night? Maybe she wants a girls’ night out. Or what if she just wants to cuddle and watch a movie on the sofa when you show up? What then?”

  Baptiste barked out a startled laugh at this unlikely image. “I don’t spend this kind of money to deal with rejection. Or scheduling issues. Or drama. And the women understand that.”

  “So you’re dating wind-up dolls, basically.”

  Baptiste winced at that image, appropriate though it might be.

  “Sounds thrilling.” Daniel considered his empty glass. “Kind of superficial, though.”

  More unwelcome thoughts shifted into Baptiste’s mind. Like the woman before Daphne, a three-month affair whose name and face he couldn’t now recall. Or the way Daphne had burned through her welcome at the six-week mark, which was part of the reason she’d been so upset when he ended things earlier than she’d probably expected.

  Or his increasing boredom and generalized dissatisfaction with life.

  Having used all his energy on the fake laugh of a few seconds ago, he had none left to manufacture a smile now. The result was a tug on one side of his lips that felt crooked.

  “C’est la vie,” he said. “No one ever accused me of being a prince.”

  Daniel made a dismissive sound as he reached for his wallet and tossed some money on the table. “Your life. But I think you’re selling yourself short. And you don’t want to be the seventy-year-old guy showing up at some Halloween party with a Phantom of the Opera costume so he can try to hook up with some hot woman he saw across the room. Not a good look.”

  Baptiste was so busy wishing he could smash Daniel’s perfect nose that he didn’t notice that Daniel had paid the bill. He picked up the money and tried to hand it back.

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  “I took care of it,” Daniel said, standing.

  “Allow me.”

  “Not this time.”

  Baptiste thrust the money at him. “I insist.”

  “Save your breath.”

  “I always pay,” Baptiste said, flabbergasted. What was with people tonight? Why was everyone surprising him with their behavior? Back home in France, his friends never even made a pretense of reaching for the bill. “I have the fattest bank account. I pay. Always.”

  Daniel flashed that winning smile. “Fuck you.”

  “But—”

  “You put me up at your fancy-ass château in Bordeaux. You helped me negotiate good prices for Zoya’s ring and cello. You flew me back here on your private jet. You’re saving my family’s winery from financial ruin, and you bought dinner for me and my dad. We can either use that money to buy the drinks, or I’ll take it back and shove it down your throat. Your choice.”

  A pregnant moment or two passed, during which it could have gone either way, but then a thought occurred to Baptiste:

  He might be glaring at the best man—and truest friend—he’d ever known.

  So he made a show of putting the money back down and shrugging.

  “If you want to pay, you can pay. Why didn’t you say so?”

  They laughed, the tension broken.

  Baptiste also stood. They hugged.

  “Good luck with Zoya tonight. You won’t need it, but I wish it anyway. She’s a wonderful woman. You’ll have a long and happy life with her.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Daniel said fervently. “Did you text Sean?”

  Their other friend from Napa, Sean Baldwin, was also visiting quaint Journey’s End, Daniel’s hometown. The
three of them had enjoyed many grand adventures together over the years, and Baptiste looked forward to catching up with him.

  “Not yet, but I will,” Baptiste said. “See you in the morning? At the winery?”

  “In the morning. How’s your room upstairs, by the way? This is the nicest hotel we’ve got in Journey’s End, but it’s not the Ritz.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Good. Later.”

  Daniel left.

  Baptiste gathered up his Phantom costume and hurried to the Halloween party, eager to find his Nefertiti again.

  3

  This was getting ridiculous.

  Samira Palmer grabbed her drink, ducked behind one of the pillars closest to the ballroom’s dessert bar and checked her phone for texts.

  Nothing. Oh, wait, there was something from her ex-fiancé Terrance again:

  Can we talk soon?

  There was only one response to such a text, and she’d gotten good at giving it:

  Delete.

  You don’t need him, girl, she reminded herself.

  Taking a deep breath to clear Terrance’s unwanted image from her brain, she checked the time.

  Nine twenty-nine. And here she was, a grown thirty-three-year-old standing alone in a crowded and noisy ballroom like a jilted prom date. While wearing a freaking Nefertiti costume with a heavy-ass jeweled crown on her head and torture device sandals on her feet.

  And paying two hundred dollars for the privilege. Not including tax.

  Was she a loser, or what?

  She finished the last of her second chardonnay and set the empty glass on a nearby tray as she moodily watched the crowd (if she saw one more hooker Dorothy costume with ruby red stilettos, she was seriously going to hit someone) and scrolled through her options. Another drink might be nice, but she had a big meeting at work in the morning, and she didn’t want to show up with a hangover. On the other hand—

  Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. The display flashed her best friend Melody Harrison’s picture.

  Well, thank God. About damn time.

  “What’s going on?” Samira snapped as the picture resolved to show Melody in her scrubs as she hurried down some hospital corridor. “You’d better be coming to the party as a surgeon, because I know you’re not about to cancel on me.”