Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “Oh—diligent.” Barbara shrugged. “Just doing my job, boss.” She bared long incisors in a friendly grin and disappeared.

  Leaving Kate to return to her reveries. Odd, how much her equilibrium seemed off kilter today. It was getting past the point where she needed to think things through and urgently to the point where she must make a decision.

  Francesca (“My grandmother” simply refused to roll easily off her tongue) had gone on to recount the chronicle of events that had led up to the here and now.

  Born in France, on a chunk of woody land situated near Cévennes National Park between the Bay of Biscay and the Gulf of Lion, she had spent the first twenty years of her life circulating from the familial castled estate to an exclusive school in Switzerland to the beginnings of a Parisian social whirl. She had met young Charles Carrington, Harvard graduate visiting France on vacation, at a café melting pot, and married him, with reluctant parental approval, some nine months later. From the Château Broussard, Charles had transplanted his young bride to their new, splendid apartment in a fine old Boston neighborhood.

  One child had blessed their union, an exquisite blonde fairy princess named Léonie who existed merely to bring delight and pleasure to all who strayed within her realm. In the early years, at least. By age fourteen, she was beginning to rebel, for some unknown reason—what makes good kids go bad?—against whatever constraints seemed to be hemming her in. By fifteen, deliberately hooking up with the wrong crowd in school and out, she had acquired a number of tattoos and piercings, dyed her silky hair black, and thumbed her nose at the Carrington family expectations.

  By sixteen, she was gone.

  “Excuse me, Kate.” It was Barbara once again, entering the office partway to apologetically interrupt. “Mr. Hartwig is here for your 11:00 appointment.”

  Shaking her head slightly, like a sleeper roughly roused from some dream world, Kate slid the aged photograph back under her legal pad, away from sight, and rose with her usual grace. “Of course, Barbara, thank you. Send him in, won’t you?”

  Kate spent the next hour huddled with her visitor over rolled-up architectural plans spread out over the smooth glass surface of a conference table, in the outer area, privy to sunshine and splashy Bay water reflections.

  “I do like the way these are looking, Roger,” Kate approved, moving around from one area to another for a different perspective.

  “Well, I did my best to incorporate that gorgeous rocky hillside into the design.” Hartwig dropped his tall, rumpled figure into one of the nicely padded white leather chairs and reached for his porcelain cup of coffee. “You’ll notice the view sweeps around two sides from the back.”

  “I did notice that, and it will be fabulous. One tiny glitch, however…this hallway just dead-ends.

  Could we get an exit door there?”

  “Don’t see why not. Let me have another look. You’ve already bought this property, right?”

  “In my name, simply waiting for renovation,” said Kate proudly, stepping back. “Another Cachet addition to the beautiful city of San Mateo. And you, my friend, will bring it to life for me.”

  With a slow smile, Hartwig raised his cup in salute. “We’ve enjoyed a happy partnership so far, Kate. Long may it continue. I look forward to many successful projects in the future.”

  Declining his invitation to lunch, Kate betook herself instead to a little French bistro a few blocks away. The weather was fine, the streets were bustling with pedestrians and raw energy, and she wanted to walk off some of the butterflies that had reappeared to light in her middle. Those would remain, she suspected, fluttering periodically for release, until her grandmother’s letter and its attendant mysteries were resolved.

  Which she pondered again, at her solitary corner table, over a glass of fresh lemonade and a lovely light brioche filled with Mediterranean vegetables.

  According to Madame Francesca’s letter, she and her husband had hired one detective agency after another in search of their wayward daughter. Officials at Léonie’s school were contacted, as was her particular group of friends, neighbors, casual acquaintances, anyone with whom she had been connected in any way. Though the trail out of Boston had grown cold, yet, desperate, they had persevered. Years had passed, and still the parents did not, could not, give up.

  Occasional sightings reported Léonie in the unlikeliest of places: Niagara Falls, and Chincoteague, and some small town on the road approaching Las Vegas. But nothing had ever panned out. Léonie had disappeared like a wisp of smoke, as if she had never been.

  Eventually Charles had succumbed to a series of mild strokes that culminated in one last fatal heart attack, leaving Francesca to carry on the hunt alone. A hunt which had become, apparently, no more than a wild-goose chase. Yet what dispirited, grieving mother could ever stop hoping?

  By then, after her daughter had been missing for more than forty years, an insidious form of cancer sneaked into Francesca’s life. With aggressive treatment came remission, for a time.

  Which became the catalyst for complete transition. Fate had decreed that, because of her frail health, Francesca’s path would now cross that of her granddaughter’s.

  Upon her doctor’s advice, she had traveled to San Francisco, in company with one of her childhood friends, on a much-deserved holiday away from the lonely Back Bay mansion and the stress of illness. Revisiting some of the scenic areas of her honeymoon, so many years ago, she had luxuriated in the change of scenery and the change of weather.

  The concierge at her hotel, overhearing her comment about seeking the services of a massage therapist, had recommended she try calling upon the nearby posh Cachet spa.

  “May I provide a refill of your lemonade, Mademoiselle Waring?” The solicitous server, ice-cold pitcher in hand, had paused at her table. “No? Then may I persuade you to take dessert today? The crème brûlée is quite excellent.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mathilde. But not now, thanks.” Kate offered a small smile of regret. “I should be getting back to the office.”

  “Oh, what a shame. That business you run is a harsh taskmaster, non? Pray linger in your return to take advantage of our glorious sunshine.”

  The fact that she was speaking to a native as she might speak to a tourist garnered another smile, slightly warmer. “Good idea. A stroll, then, on your advice, instead of a brisk walk.”

  As luck would have it, according to her grandmother’s letter, Francesca had been sitting in the cool, greenery-shaded reception area when a lovely young blonde woman arrived. Clearly a figure of authority and importance, she spoke quietly to several employees and attendants, checked on a few details of arrangements or paperwork, moved a chair farther in one direction and gathered up a few discarded magazines.

  An inquiry had gleaned her name and position. Kate Waring. As supposed, the owner of this luxury.

  She was also, in Francesca’s words, the spitting image of her own daughter, Léonie.

  All the old fears and worries had come flooding back. Nor, with her insides knotted up by excitement, could her half-day at the spa provide any real sense of relaxation, despite the best efforts of an experienced masseuse. She merely endured, wanting to finish the session and return to her hotel as quickly as possible, in order to contact the most recently acquired of detective agencies.

  A telephone call restarted the process which had, actually, never really ended. Promising prompt results with this new lead, the detective took down every scrap of information Francesca had been able to gather.

  “I have a facial recognition program on my computer,” he told her. “It will help if you could email a photo to me, so I can run it through the system.”

  “Facial recognition? Email? System?” repeated Francesca, feeling overwhelmed.

  “Well, yeah. Just snap a picture with your phone, and then you can—”

  “Young man.” Across nearly three thousand miles of open air space, her voice rattled with shards of ice. “I am eighty years old. Thus far, I hav
e lived my life without benefit of using any of those contraptions you’ve mentioned, and I intend to go to my grave equally without their benefit. I’m sure you must have other means at your disposal.”

  A pause for the clicking of a keyboard, the soft hum of a motor, a mild burst of music. “Okay, sure. I’m just checking to see if she’s got a website going. If so, I’ll pull up a photo from there. I’m on it, Mrs. C. Yep, there it is. Hey, she’s a looker, isn’t she?”

  As it was, though her friend, pressed by family matters, needed to return East, Francesca ended up staying an extra several days while she waited for information. Even in this modern age, with all sorts of technological wizardry available, some things just took time. Especially digging into and solving a forty-year-old mystery.

  Soon enough she had her answer. Kate Waring proved to be the only child of her only child, Léonie, now deceased nearly a quarter of a century.

  Before she was able to act upon this bittersweet knowledge, however, and arrange a meeting with her newly discovered granddaughter, her frail body collapsed. Due in part to the rigors of its invasive and incurable disease, due also in part to the shock for which she was completely unprepared, Francesca was of necessity taken by private ambulance to private plane. Winged back to Boston in seclusion, she had directed her attorney to assemble the packet of documents kept in waiting these many years in hopes of just such a moment.

  She had died, reported Timothy Lord, of Counsel, in a storm of tears and regret for never having even spoken to her last living relative, let alone without the chance to welcome this girl into the bosom of her family. Such loss. Such unmitigated, unimaginable loss…

  *

  “Are you comfortable, Miss? Another pillow? Something else to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine, really.”

  With a nod, the flight attendant moved on down the aisle, checking on passengers, providing service, answering questions or needs—all with a gracious, if patented, smile.

  Ascent had been smooth and uneventful, leveling off enough into rich opal-blue skies that Kate could relax and decide how she wanted to spend the next few hours. Working on her laptop? Dozing in her seat? No. After some few minutes of silent debate, she pulled a paperback from her tote and settled back with a sigh. How rare, to steal some time from a demanding career, and fritter it away on an absolutely trashy novel!

  “Heading to Boston for business or pleasure?”

  She was next to the small window, with the center seat empty on a plane comfortably full but not crowded. Withdrawing reluctantly from the pages in which she had just begun to immerse herself, Kate glanced at the aisle seat’s male occupant.

  Late thirties, she guessed, or early forties; black curly hair glinting with silver and long-lashed dark eyes. The luxurious gray suit and well-bred air could not quite counter the calculating look in those sexy eyes or the slightly avaricious twist to the handsome mouth.

  “Business,” came the succinct reply. Not falling-down friendly. Not outright rude. Just cool and to the point. In her lifetime of providing visual and physical pleasure, she had dealt with far too many individuals of this caliber.

  “Me, too. My company is expanding their range, and I’ve been chosen to set up a branch office. Dean Pettigrew.” He reached across the empty space between them to extend his right hand.

  Ignoring the offer, Kate re-opened her book. “How do you do? You’ll forgive me if I forego conversation during the flight, Mr. Pettigrew; I find reading helps me avoid air sickness.”

  Not a complete untruth, but it seemed to serve. Looking disappointed by the almost visible frosty air, the would-be Lothario, left hand with its wedding ring carefully tucked away, sank back into his seat.

  Kate buried herself in the pages of her story but then found, not surprisingly, that after a while her thoughts began wandering. Back to that packet of life-changing information from Francesca Carrington, and the letter that had resolved so many mysteries.

  It was likely that Kate would never discover all the reasons why her mother had turned away from the security of home and hearth to disappear into America’s Southwest. It was likely she would never discover the identity of her father, what had driven him from his family, even what had brought her parents together in the first place. Had they even been married? Or possibly he was just a one-night stand, which was all that the self-destructive Léonie had attracted during her daughter’s brief six years of life.

  Obviously Léonie, given her tragic history, should never have procreated. So the blame for Kate’s miserable existence could be laid to her mother’s door. Knowing what she did now, Kate could mourn all that had been torn away from her by such recklessness, such selfishness; she could be filled with regret and acrimony for what might have been, had she but been raised in the heart of a loving, caring family.

  Or she could take a deep breath, feel gratitude for the strength that had brought her to where she was today, and go on forward into the sunshine.

  “Incredible!” Lizette had gasped.

  According to the routine they themselves had established, the four former roommates had gathered last week for their monthly luncheon at The Perky Parrot, a trendy upscale café offering Bahamian cuisine. Once their orders had been placed—three for jerk chicken salad, one for a spicy vegetable platter—Kate had described, in detail, the cataclysmic event of recent days: her unexpected acquisition of a grandmother, now unfortunately deceased.

  “Wow. This blows everything out of the water,” was Gigi’s astonished assessment, after a sip of some dark sweet rum drink. “Who’da thunk it? So—I wonder if the old lady left everything to you?”

  One shoulder, clad in immaculate carnation-pink silk, lifted slightly. “That’s anybody’s guess. After looking through all the information that was sent—various documents, some photos of my mother as a young girl, and my grandparents—I’m still feeling overwhelmed.”

  “And who could blame you?” Delphinium, who knew a little of her friend’s unhappy background, said loyally. “That’s a lot to take in, when you’ve always just assumed you were completely on your own.”

  “The real question is, have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Taken it in?”

  Thoughtfully Kate spread butter over a small slice of sourdough. “I don’t know. It seems like a fairy tale somehow. Before Mac, I had no one. Then eventually I met up with the three of you. You became my family. Now, there are—were—the Carringtons.”

  “Sounds formidable,” murmured Delphinium.

  “Quite possible. I’ll know more after—” she drew in a deep breath. “I’ve made an appointment to see Timothy Lord next week. No, don’t worry, Lisette, I’ll be here for the Santa Rosa Grand Opening. Couldn’t miss that. But I need to talk with my grandmother’s attorney in person, get more details, see what’s going on.”

  Gigi chased and successfully stabbed a lettuce leaf dripping in raspberry vinaigrette. “So sad.”

  “Sad? What’s sad?”

  “The whole thing.” She aimed her empty fork in Kate’s direction. “Just when the poor lady finally tracks down her missing daughter, and granddaughter, after all these years, she practically falls over dead without even getting a chance to talk with you. I’d call that pretty darned sad.”

  Silence around the table; not even the clink of cutlery or the snick of porcelain. Nor did the restaurant’s surrounding lunchtime chatter intrude.

  “You’re right,” Kate finally agreed, slowly and softly. “Sometimes life seems filled with nothing but sorrow and regret, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe so. All four of us have had a lot of rottenness to deal with.” Finished, Lisette moved aside her empty salad plate and reached for the splashy coconut and pineapple drink she favored. “And we’ve made it through, together. Here’s to friendship.” She lifted her glass in a toast, and the others followed suit.

  “To friendship,” each chimed in, with a smile.

  So here Kate was, now, wingin
g her way to Boston and another new chapter in her life.

  Her fellow passenger had sulked during the rest of the flight. Occasionally he had flounced about in his seat, trying to attract attention like a diva on parade, and at one point he had muttered something quite unflattering. “Rich bitch,” she thought she heard. She ignored that, as she had ignored his childish behavior thus far.

  At the airport, and disembarkation, he tried again.

  “You wanna go get a drink?” Pettigrew suggested, as they made their way through the boarding bridge into Logan. “I have some time to kill before—”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” Already distracted, Kate offered him a disarming smile even as she glanced around for directions for luggage pickup.

  “Well, then, how about a taxi? I can drop you off somewhere and then we—”

  “I’m sorry, I’m running late as it is. I hope you have a pleasant stay in the city.” Burdened by handbag, tote, and carry-on, she had already taken on a business mode and in no mood to be detained. With a little wave, she hastened on through the crowd, leaving her would-be cavalier in a silent fume at the brush-off.

  A convenient cab carried her, if not in style, at least at breakneck speed, to the nearby palatial Dunlap Hotel, where she was given an effusive welcome and escort to her room.

  Which had been chosen, sight unseen, via the internet. After a generous tip and several words of thanks for the steward, she glanced around, pleased by the room’s spaciousness and general air of cool harmony in the midst of early summer’s heat. A brief rest on the padded chaise, some freshening up, and she could visit the hotel’s dining room for dinner.

  There, in posh but comfortable surroundings of subdued blue and gold, she enjoyed the area’s specialty: a plate of seafood and pasta and a glass of crisp Sauvignon Blanc. All around her ensued the soft hum caused by fellow diners—conversation, servers, a muted clatter of china and cutlery.

  Not for the first time did Kate rather wistfully ponder the desire to see a friendly face across her white-clad table. As much humiliation and abuse as she had borne during her less respectable years, still, on occasion, sharing a meal with some decent and honorable male companion would be quite pleasant. Satisfactory. Perhaps even stimulating.