As I walked away, a certain Frenchman strode alongside me. My heartbeat went a little wonky when he admitted, “Mademoiselle, I’m happy to see you. Last week, I was in New York, and I must confess that I thought of you often. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to spend some time together this week.”
My knees went weak, and I developed a case of bobble head. “That would be nice.”
***
At first, I thought there was a glitch in the audio system. Turns out it was the music. It began with a skip and a miss and proved to be a foreshadowing of Sharon Wauchob’s collection. She was amongst my favorite designers, so I was truly disappointed when only one or two pieces captured my attention.
In the end, we decided the most breathtaking moments proved to be the result of shoe malfunctions. After the designer took her bow and the music came to a stop, Marian made a sputtering sound before saying, “Jaysus, that was awful. The collection, I mean. I thought the one girl was going to take a fall.” Her shoe was unbuckled. “And what feck! Loo roll, stuck to someone’s shoe. On the fecking runway?” She went on to mock every last decision the designer had made. She was brutal.
I keeled over in laughter at her diatribe. Even Hillary, who was usually the model of decorum, burst out laughing.
“Maybe we just don’t know enough about fashion,” I said as we walked out. “On to the next!”
Chez Ehlers, Surprise!
After a long day of dashing to and fro and transforming from consummate employee to longtime friend, I was exhausted. Thankfully, I’d had the sense to hire my favorite caterer, whom I called out to the second I walked through my front door. “Bonjour, Aurélie! How are things going?”
She quickly appeared, wiping her hands on a towel. “Bonjour. Come and see.” She led me into the kitchen. “All is prepared. I opened a few bottles of wine. The white wine is in the refrigerator. The red is covered with a towel, so dust doesn’t get inside the bottles.” She waved her hand in the direction of the makeshift buffet and pointed out the beautifully presented dishes of roasted vegetables drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with fresh herbs. The scent of the rosemary chicken filled the apartment. “There is yogurt and fresh fruit in the refrigerator for dessert.”
“Thank you!” I called as she bustled back into the kitchen.
While she finished up, I changed my clothes. I heard a gabfest in the hall and realized the girls must have arrived while I dallied. I returned to the kitchen and saw that Aurélie had poured everyone a glass of wine. She passed me a glass of red and reminded me, “I will be back tomorrow morning around ten to pick up everything.”
“Merci beaucoup.” By the time I returned to the living room, everyone had kicked off their shoes and was lounging on the couches.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.” Marian pointed to the partially removed wallpaper.
“You like it? I’m thinking of adding it to all the walls. I’m thinking, ‘Très Shabby Chic.’ Anyone hungry?” The four of them raised their hands. “I’ll get Charlotte’s. The rest of you fend for yourself.”
I handed Charlotte small portions of everything. “Just as you requested—nothing too salty, spicy, fatty, or sour. Or with garlic. That’s virtually impossible, you know,” I teased.
Though Aurélie had set an elegant table, we crushed together on the couches, immediately returning to our pattern of lounging and eating.
While eating dessert, I casually brought up Sébastien. “Tiziana, it’s so nice that you were able to meet up with Sébastien!”
She looked up, smiling as she chewed.
“He seems like a nice guy,” I continued. I tried asking a few other basic questions and netted the same results: the bobbing of her head.
It was after she swallowed a few more bites that she relented. “He is quite lovely. I think he’s captured your attention!”
I felt myself flush, which was all that needed to happen to confirm her suspicions. Then I had to tell them all how we met. Tiziana praised us both “Your eyes are remarkable. He has good taste!”
“And fecking hot!” Marian interjected enthusiastically. I grinned at her and winked, letting her know we shared that assessment.
Hillary asked the salient questions. “What does she need to know about him? Strange predilections? Attractive but emotionally unavailable? Gay? You did say you introduced him to several women and he wasn’t interested in any.”
From Tiziana’s frown, I could tell that Hillary’s line of questioning was all wrong. “No, he isn’t gay, doesn’t have any strange behaviors… that I know of. His past is a little tragic, that’s all.”
She had our complete attention at that revelation. We stared at her, waiting for her to share his story. She topped our glasses off then stared at the ceiling—a clear sign she was organizing her thoughts. “He has a daughter named Chantal, who must be about twenty now. I met her a few times when she was just a little girl. His wife, Gisella, died in a car crash. I think Chantal was two years old, so about eighteen years ago. By the time I met him, he was ready to date, so I introduced him to some friends. He never went out on more than a few dates with anyone. I always felt sad for him and the little girl.” She wore a sad expression.
My heart seized. I feared it would cease beating. Oh my god. I spilled my guts to him on Saturday night. No wonder he was so patient. While I wrapped my brain around this, I heard Tiziana release a melancholy sigh.
Marian got us back on track. “Enough of that. Let’s celebrate being together and Charlotte’s enormous baby.”
Fuck! What if he thinks Tiziana knows? What if he talks to her about the similarity of our tragedies?
The group returned to the world of frivolity and ease. I felt myself teeter between the past and present. A warm hand pulled me decisively to the present. I looked to see Hillary’s resting on mine. She had said something.
“Sorry, what?”
“Are you all right?” Her look of concern made me flinch. After all this time, was tonight the night to pour my secrets out? I looked at my watch and saw that it was late already. Looking back at her, I answered, “Just tired.” I’d tell them another time.
“Bella, that is not true.” Tiziana reached over and collected a tear rolling down my cheek.
I hadn’t felt it. So lost in thought, I hadn’t realized I was crying. “Oh!” I dabbed at my eyes, quickly excusing myself. In the bathroom, tears fell fast and hard. I cried for Sébastien, I cried for me and Mikkel, I cried for the little girl whose mother had died.
Sudden banging on the door made me jump. “Kathleen, get out here,” Marian pressured me.
“Just a minute.” My voice sounded wobbly. Shit! I felt panicked. How can I escape this?
When I returned to the living room, they quit talking. All eyes were on me. I took my seat, and Hillary promptly returned her grip on my hand. “Talk to us,” she implored.
“I feel sad for Sébastien. It’s hard losing someone you love.” I bit my lip, hoping they would leave it at that.
“And…?” Marian pushed me for more, not knowing what I had kept to myself.
I slumped as I spoke. “It’s a long story and it’s late. Maybe we should just talk about Stella McCartney or something. What did you think of—?”
Their heads swiveled one to the other, seeking guidance, looking concerned. Tiziana spoke gently. “Bella, you don’t have to tell us, but you must know that if something has happened, you can confide in us.”
I nodded, the lump in my throat preventing me from talking. I took a few stabs at it. “It was a long time ago…” and “I didn’t tell you, and now…” and “after all these years…” after all these years, my secret, born from the desire to protect myself, is going to be revealed, and I feel bad for so many reasons.
***
Where to begin was elusive. My thoughts scattered as I tried to determine what to tell them, how to explain Mikkel to them. Trying to condense one person, one epic summer, one uncontainable love, a tragic death into a few senten
ces was incredibly difficult.
“I’m trying to figure out where to start,” I told them eventually. My eyes scoured the room, lighting upon a prism cast by a crystal lamp. The beginning, I guess. “It was the summer before my last year in graduate school, and I knew I didn’t want to move back to Seattle, so I took a summer job there so that I could spend time with my mom, see old friends.” As I spoke, memories of my friend Kimberly’s party flitted through my mind. “I met a guy from Denmark, Mikkel, at a friend’s party and then ran into him a few days later.”
***
What was I thinking? I threw myself down on the grass and felt every muscle in my body ache from exhaustion. I had spent the last two hours windsurfing on Lake Union, and while there had only been a light breeze, it had been strenuous enough that I had either worked hard or fallen off my board and then had to haul myself out of the water. I was going to feel every muscle in my body tomorrow.
After resting, I tackled my board. I was almost finished rinsing it when I heard, “Hello. We met the other night. I’m Mikkel. Do you need some help with that?” he offered in a friendly, slightly accented voice, his blue eyes squinting as he smiled in the late afternoon sun.
Wow! He was impossible to forget: tall, well built, gorgeous, and he had a sexy voice. We had met a few nights ago at a party, where the music was loud; many party-goers were drunk or dancing or both. A handful of us had fled to the outdoors to talk, only to be interrupted when the cops arrived and shut the party down. All I’d been able to do was smile and say, “Bye, it was nice to meet you.”
Grinning, I said, “I remember you!” I looked around, and, while it was a busy marine industrial area, there wasn’t much here to draw a sightseer’s attention. I frankly observed, “If you don’t mind my saying so, it seems a bit odd for us to run into each other, unless of course you were windsurfing as well.”
He looked me straight in the eye and without hesitation told me, “Kimberly wouldn’t give me your number, so she called your house. Your mother told her where you were.” He pointed across the street, where Kimberly was sitting in her car, watching us with a huge smile painted across her face.
“So, do you want some help?” he asked again.
I was smitten. Immediately. I liked his candor, his confidence. Everything about him left me feeling tingly all over. I gave Kimberly a thumbs up and said, “That’d be great. Thanks.” My assessment that he was strong was confirmed a few minutes later, when he hefted the board easily. He looked at me questioningly. I pointed to my ancient Subaru station wagon with a roof rack, and he walked toward it. From behind, I appreciated his long, tanned legs that poked out the bottom of dark green board shorts. His faded blue T-shirt, barely holding together, emphasized his broad shoulders. What little I could see, I liked very much.
When he returned, I had finished rinsing down the sail, boom, and mast. I breathed in the smell of suntan lotion as he squatted down next to me. His sun-streaked blond hair needed trimming, and the one dimple deeply rooted in his right cheek begged for a kiss. As we gathered everything up, I thanked him for the help. “You saved me a ton of time.”
“Then how about a beer?”
“How about the Northlake Tavern? It’s just down the road. You could follow me.”
“Or I could ride with you, and then you could bring me back to my car.”
I openly sized him up, taking in everything from the ends of his hair to the tips of his long toes. “Six foot three, about two hundred pounds, big feet, strong hands. I’ll take you out with the boom, if you try anything funny.”
Chuckling, he stated, “Eighty-six kilos.”
“I’ll warn you, the pizza is terrible, but the beer is good. If you’re hungry, we should go somewhere else.”
“I wonder what you mean by ‘good beer.’ I haven’t had any yet.”
“Well then, the pizza is terrible, the beer might be, too, but the bar is nearby, and I have to go to the bathroom.”
Squinting into the sun again, he smiled and pronounced the plan, “Perfect…”
And the rest of the summer had been perfect.
***
I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I remembered his gorgeous face. He was so cocky, so funny, and, in the end, so perfect for me. “He was a summer intern at Microsoft, from Denmark. He worked hard, played hard. We traveled quite a bit together. It was incredible to see life through his eyes.
“I knew with absolute certainty that what we felt was real. We had a plan. When the summer ended, he would return to Denmark to finish his degree. I would return to England to finish mine. Then, after graduating, we would get jobs and live happily ever after. But…” I could feel the lump forming again, so I gulped down my glass of wine, waiting until I was more numb. “After three magical months, he boarded a plane and flew home. After several days, when he hadn’t called, I worked up the courage to call him.” I remembered dialing his number with unsteady fingers.
“I was so excited. I explained who I was to whoever answered the phone. Then…” My face crumpled in pain, and I found myself in Hillary’s arms, crying like it had all happened yesterday.
“Bella…” Tiziana’s consoling voice wobbled.
It was too hard, but now that we had gotten this far, what was a little more pain? A little more disclosure? “His funeral had been that day. He died in a car crash. He’d been out with some friends, drinking.” With the words spoken, I felt utterly exposed and raw. “I don’t remember much about the days that followed, just flashes here and there. My mother repeating over and over, ‘You’ll be okay.’” My voice took on a very matter-of-fact tone. “He died instantly. I took comfort in the fact that he hadn’t lingered in pain, hadn’t been afraid.”
The memory of my mother rocking me as she said, “I don’t know if this helps, but Mikkel told them he loved you. He was excited for them to meet you. It was real. It was real, Kathy. It might not seem like it now, but one day, remembering him will be beautiful.” It had comforted me, and, over the years, I had lost myself in those words and dreamt of the possibilities—wondering what life with him would have been like.
When I came to all but the end of my story, I could barely breathe from the tension that had built up in my chest. I took several deep breaths, trying to relax. “When I returned to school, I was shattered, but you were all so happy, and I wanted, I needed, to be happy. So I borrowed your happiness. I went about creating a life that was livable. I didn’t know how to tell you what had happened, as time passed. I couldn’t speak the words or explain how part of me had faded away with his death—some kind of innocence.”
A lengthy silence followed.
“I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but how did we not notice?” asked Marian, her eyes swollen and red, tears dampening her cheeks.
“For better or worse, we were happy, seeing what Kathleen wanted us to see,” Charlotte answered in a ragged voice, bearing the same signs of sadness.
“I don’t know… I feel like I’ve been such a crap friend.” Marian broke down.
Seeing such a fierce, strong woman shake with sorrow became everyone’s undoing. I held her tightly while we cried together. Eventually, I was able to reassure her. “You mustn’t think that. I needed you to be who you were. I had to believe that life had purpose, that happiness existed. I needed, desperately, for all of you to think I was the same old me.”
“But you weren’t, bella!” Tiziana exclaimed through a thick breath. “Thinking back, before Mikkel, you were the easiest going of all of us. Afterwards, you became so determined. You had this big life plan… which included men too impossible to meet.”
Hillary reflected quietly, “We teased you about searching for your prince. How did you bear it? It seems punishing.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I think your teasing me about men was easier than dealing with Mikkel’s death.”
An occasional sniffle and heavy sigh punctuated the silence. I looked at my watch. An hour of grueling revelatio
ns; an hour of reliving memories. Honestly, I longed to see Mikkel’s blue eyes dance before me and be enveloped in his arms. I still missed him. I knew I always would.
Charlotte, in a soft voice, asked, “Is there more?”
There was more, but nothing I could bear sharing. “I’m sorry it took so long to tell you. I couldn’t figure out how to tell you, when to tell you. I’m really sorry.”
“Oh for feck’s sake, you don’t have to apologize. Just don’t do it again. Christ!” Marian’s green eyes blazed at me through her tears.
I felt a twinge of guilt at keeping the rest of my story to myself, but I was willing to live with it. Images tugged me backwards, and I was lost there until Hillary’s words penetrated. “Have you ever been to Denmark? To visit his grave?”
I gave a tremulous smile. “Can we do this another time? I know there’s more you want to ask, but can we agree to discuss this later, whatever that means, and just enjoy our time together? This week was supposed to be fun. See some gorgeous clothes, eat amazing food. Please?”
I received varying answers, but the overall consensus seemed to be that doing what I needed took precedent. Relief flooded me. So many secrets. Some revealed, some kept, all of them excruciating.
***
When all but Tiziana had piled into the car, I told her, “Long story short, I told Sébastien the other night, when I was drunk. I didn’t know about his wife. I feel terrible.”
“Bella, not to be cruel, but since your Mikkel died, hasn’t someone told you about someone they loved dying?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“My heart broke for them. I listened to them.”
She gave me a look that said it all: he had done the same for me.
I needed to talk to him.
7:30 AM, Tuesday, September 29
Assets
AFTER A FEW hours of restless sleep, I woke up with a pounding headache. Feeling bleak and fuzzy, I lay in bed realizing that I couldn’t hide behind closed doors, stacks of paperwork, and a computer screen. Time to reinvent the Kathleen everyone expected to see.
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 6
