Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “What, that you feel comfortable enough to join me au naturel, so to speak, that I might see the real you?” Smiling the killer smile that was beginning to do dangerous things to her insides, he reached for her hand across the table. “I am only flattered. Did you have a good time today?”

  “A wonderful time.” With a sigh, she stretched sandaled toes that were enjoying this reprieve from too much activity. “Occasionally on my own, while you’ve been working, I’ve visited some of the recommended sights of Toulouse. There’s the Théâtre du Capitole.”

  Christophe nodded. “The Opera House.”

  “And the Church of the Jacobins.”

  “Indeed, yes; where Saint Thomas Aquinas is buried.”

  “And, of course, I had to go inside Médiathèque José Cabanis and browse around.”

  “Our magnificent library. Absolument. A must-see, I believe you would call it.”

  “And then,” she waved one hand, all-inclusive, “I’ve just wandered the streets of your Toulouse, Chris. Absorbing the atmosphere, enjoying the architecture, sipping cold drinks at a little café here and there.”

  His admiring gaze roved over her, as if to appreciate the way softened light sparked glimmers in her golden hair and created intriguing shadows at her cleavage. “You have become quite the explorer, my Kate. Imagine the tales you will take back to your own native city.”

  “Ah. Speaking of that…” After a sip of crisp Sauvignon Blanc—for Dutch courage, perhaps?—she confronted the situation head-on. “Unfortunately, Chris, I’m afraid I must start planning my return home. As my associates have begun reminding me, I’ve been away far longer than I expected, and there are matters at the office demanding my attention.”

  One more in touch with the modern world might have suggested, “Lay it on me.” Christophe, a gentleman of formal breeding, merely raised his brows and said, “Pray, go on.”

  Another sip, and she could explain about the myriad of problems besetting the business owner of a chain of spas, and how they must be dealt with. “So far, my excellent staff has been able to keep up with everything. But odds and ends are beginning to pile up, and I’ve put too much responsibility on Lisette and Barbara. It’s time I get back into harness.”

  “A most unflattering picture,” he murmured. “And one which makes me question your true dedication to this enterprise you’ve created.”

  “Oh, I’m dedicated, all right. Cachet is my baby.” Kate glanced up with a smile as their server approached to offer a plate of fig and olive tapenade. “Thank you so much, that looks delicious.”

  The conversation of fellow diners swirled around them, ebbing and flowing, with sporadic bursts of laughter and a subdued tinkle as china and cutlery were employed. White-shirted black-trousered waiters moved easily through the crowd, followed by the maitre d’ wandering about to check on his patrons. It was a busy, happy, noisy place, just the sort to relax in and enjoy at the end of the day.

  “Our fall advertising campaign is in the works right now,” Kate went on companionably, after cutting into and tasting her appetizer. “Mmmm. Oh, Chris, do have some of this; it’s absolutely heavenly! So I must oversee that, speak with our agency, make final decisions, and so on.”

  “What a lot of responsibility to take on your slender shoulders, dear Kate. I’m not surprised you finally kicked over the traces and left all of that momentarily behind.”

  “True, to a point. But now it’s coming back to haunt me. There are radio and TV contracts to arrange, and print ads to approve. Every year I go through this, and I must admit that it can sometimes seem overwhelming. And yet, Christophe, I do love my work, overall.” The excitement of remembered passion had painted a spot of color over each cheekbone and brightened her eyes to the burning blue of a gas flame.

  “I see that. Tell me more.”

  Their discussion continued through the serving of a salad, an entrée, and a dessert, then the inevitable silver salver of coffee. Christophe asked intelligent questions, offered intelligent advice. He was surprisingly knowledgeable about her world. Nor was his, as owner of the small but thriving law practice, backed up by a healthy supply of family money, entirely alien to her. Of all other range of similarities drawing them together, the strongest was this meeting of the minds.

  “You will be pleased, I think, to hear the news I bring to you tonight.”

  In an earnest mood, as now, he reverted to informality: pushing back the cuffs of his immaculate linen shirt, thrusting the fingers of one hand through his temptingly tumbled chestnut hair. A typical Frenchman, in so many ways; yet a gallant Everyman, in so many others. He would, Kate guessed, feel at home anywhere, even in the foggy fastness of her beloved San Francisco.

  Absorbed by her introduction to and immersion in this whirlwind tour of central and southern France, she had not, thus far, allowed herself to feel much physical attraction to her solicitor. Past history, and unhappy memories of her dealings with the male sex, had too often intruded on burgeoning emotion, complicated as well by their business relationship.

  That was beginning to change. With earlier barriers slowly starting to lower, Kate was being nudged lightly but firmly toward her own womanhood.

  She had already enjoyed the benefit of Christophe’s intelligence and compassion. Now,

  involuntarily, she was noticing the physical about him, finding every newfound trait incredibly arousing. The way a smattering of crisp brown hair curled out from the open vee of his collar and across the back of each capable wrist; the quirk of a recurrent, easy smile from his sensual mouth; the sense of power and pure masculinity in a frame so esthetically covered by well-worn garb.

  Kate drew in a shaky breath. Suddenly she wanted more than these daily meetings, pleasurable though they were. Much more.

  “You are still here with me, Kate, are you not?” His amused voice broke into her thoughts. “Or have you actually gone a million miles away, as it seems?”

  “Uh—yes.” She gave the effect of shaking her head, returning to reality. “I am here, Chris. Sorry. Just—um—woolgathering…”

  “And who could blame you, on such a heavenly night? Although—” he paused to peer up at the darkened sky, “—I do believe lightning flashed off in the distance, a bit ago, and I did hear an echo of thunder. Perhaps rain for us, later on.”

  “By then I’m sure we’ll both be safe under our respective roofs. Anyway. You were saying—?”

  “I am aware that, much as you have enjoyed your sojourn in the south of France, the delay of your legal work has been of much concern. That will be in the past, however. I am happy to report that your grandmother’s will has now finished with probate, and both her estate and funds have been released to your discretion.”

  Setting down her near-empty glass with such haste that what was left sloshed up to the rim, Kate let out an excited exclamation. “Oh, Chris, that’s wonderful news. That means I can finally visit my grandmother’s childhood home, see where she grew up and understand her family history.”

  “You can, indeed,” he assured her with a smile. “It will give me great happiness to take you there, that you might make this connection to all Madame Carrington held dear. Tomorrow morning, shall we say? At ten o’clock?”

  With their meal finished, they dodged a few raindrops in a return to the Hotel Poitier. There, in the hallway outside her room, he hesitated, but he did not kiss her good night. He even inexplicably held back from the traditional peck—or air-peck—on each cheek, so beloved by tradition.

  Still, Kate floated inside to the lounge area on the wings of buoyancy and hope. Whatever prevented Christophe from carrying their relationship further, she felt confident that matters would be resolved soon.

  The expansive Château Broussard lay a half-hour’s drive from the city limits of Toulouse, slightly northwest into the region of Gascony, ringed by intermittent summer-green forests, the rolling fields of local farms, and a few vineyards. It was reached, this 15th Century Renaissance estate, past a smal
l, colorful village, then via a graveled road leading between a double row of maple and beech straight to the residence itself.

  “Not quite Versailles…” murmured Kate, tongue in cheek, as the bold little Peugeot approached its destination.

  Christophe shot her a look, then grinned. “No,” he agreed. “Not quite.”

  “But, Chris!” She leaned forward, peering through the windshield with delight. “Look! It has a turret! An actual turret!”

  The grin widened. “I do believe, my dear Kate, that you are correct. That is, indeed, a turret.”

  The outside of the four-level château stood as a monument to history and beauty, turret and all. Privet hedges and rambling red rose bushes encased the stone walls in the front, bordering a pond whose serene blue waters reflected above and beyond. To the back lay a large open lawn, complete with sizable pool and patio under the dappled shade of giant oaks—downy, cork, English, and Sessile. A meandering river served as partial moat.

  “Magnificent,” she said, over inheld breath, after he had parked the car. “Absolutely magnificent. I wonder Mrs. Carrington—” s stumble, and a regroup, “—I mean, my grandmother was ever able to leave this place.”

  Christophe flashed a glance in her direction. “Francesca had met your grandfather, mon cher,” he reminded her gently. “She was willing to go wherever he decided, because Charles was the love of her life.”

  Silence for just a moment. “Was she his?”

  He laid a hand over hers, as if in reassurance. “This, regretfully, I cannot know. Only trust that they were together until the end of his days. Come, let us continue our tour.”

  Inside, the château boasted a ground floor kitchen, a dining room, three reception rooms, a private salon, ten en suite bedrooms, a fully stocked library, a wine cellar also fully stocked, and a number of undesignated chambers on upper floors, ready for occupancy.

  Dust covers swathed most of the furniture in white canvas folds, but enough of walls and floors, windows and chandeliers, fireplaces and doorways lay bare to show the lush wonders and elegance of an earlier age. Much gilt was in evidence, along with brocades and tapestries of exquisite richness.

  “Incredible,” said Kate in awe, as they moved from one area to another. It hardly seemed possible that all this now belonged to her, an indigent child of the streets, friendless, kin-less, who had clawed her way out of poverty and obscurity to respectable levels.

  “Your grandparents visited here from their Boston home, several times a year,” explained Christophe, during the ascent to the second floor via a broad curving staircase of cool grained marble. “But the place has sat empty for some time. Fortunately, we have had a caretaker couple, René and Marie Augustin, engaged here, seeing to things.”

  “They live on site?”

  “Indeed, yes, in a spacious cottage on the grounds. We shall stop in to meet them, and introduce you, before we leave.”

  In the upper hallway, where sunlight slanting in through high windows cast dust motes into gold, she stopped him with a mere touch on the arm. “This—coming here, seeing everything—this makes it all seem much more real,” she slowly told him. “Before, my—my inheritance…well, that was just words on a sheet of paper. But, now…”

  As quick as thought, he took a step forward, bent his tall frame toward her, and brushed a kiss across the tip of her nose. “I quite understand, Kate. It is much to take in, is it not? But I have no doubt you will make a fine chatelaine of this fine estate. Shall we go see the rest of the grounds, and visit with the Augustins?”

  Over another intimate dinner that evening, in another of Christophe’s favorite restaurants—this one named, oddly enough, L’Escargot Rouge—they nibbled on a tray of cheeses, Pain de champagne, and Salade Aveyronaise while discussing their day at Château Broussard. In between sips of a fine red merlot, Kate marveled at the beauty and dignity of her heritage.

  “I would like to delve into its history, when I have the chance,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Surely there must be books on the premises that I could consult?”

  “Certainly.” Christophe had crossed one leg over the other and was idly swinging his foot back and forth. Not as a nervous gesture, but more of utter comfort and relaxation. “We can return, whenever you wish, for a further visit, to answer any other questions you might have.”

  “Oh, that would be…yes, I think I might…but the timing is so…” Under the glow of subdued indoor lighting, a look of distress crossed her face. “Chris, it won’t be necessary that I live there, will it? I mean, permanent residence isn’t a requirement of my legacy?”

  “Non, non, ma petit, not at all,” he soothed. The wooden chair creaked under his weight as he shifted position to lean forward. “The decision to come or go is not to be taken lightly. You will need to give serious consideration to your future, I think.”

  Biting her lip, she fumbled with her napkin in a sure sign of unease. “Only too true. I’m afraid I’m just feeling a bit—overwhelmed—right now. Too much has happened in too short a time, and I can’t take everything in all at once.”

  “Of course. And not the best sort of mood to determine any weighty matter. Perhaps a good night’s sleep will help you wrestle through the dilemma?”

  “Well, it couldn’t hurt.” She gave him a thin smile. “You’re right; that’s probably the wisest course.”

  For a few minutes both were silent, lost in their own thoughts while restaurant activity went on around them. Someone seated at a corner table called across the room to a new arrival; someone else dropped an earthenware cup that shattered, with a muffled crash, near the restaurant’s side door; another someone began humming in off-tune, unrecognizable notes.

  “I have a proposition for you, Kate,” Christophe finally said.

  Proposition. Did that word have the same meaning in France as it did in the States?

  “Yes?” she asked warily.

  He chuckled. “There is no need to look at me with such calculation. I merely wish to invite you to return north with me.”

  “North? But we just came south. Why would we need—”

  “For something—unexpected.” He offered a very Gallic shrug and a smile. “Our destination is more northwest, and not that far in distance. Only to Bordeaux, on the Bay of Biscay. So. Should you decide to accept, you shall enjoy more views of our beautiful countryside, and the seaside, as well. Might I tempt you, my dear Kate?”

  A long sip from her wine glass helped delay any answer. Torn now between two homes, two nations, two oh so different ways of life, how could she remain here much longer, when pressing business called half a world away? And yet, how could she say anything but yes to this charming, attractive man?

  “Yes,” she said at last, returning his smile. “Yes, Christophe. To Bordeaux.”

  *

  La perle d'Aquitaine, a city with the second highest number of historical buildings carefully preserved, giving precedence only to Paris itself, also served as wine capital of the world. Of the area’s undeniable beauty, Victor Hugo, during its 18th century golden age, once declared, “Take Versailles, add Antwerp, and you have Bordeaux.”

  Built on a bend of the River Garonne, blessed with an oceanic climate of warm summers and mild winters, this was a place of tourism, industry, and art. And therein lay its charm.

  An easy mid-morning hour’s drive along the scenic river had taken them past miles of the inevitable vineyards, bursting now with healthy green leaves, dusky grape clusters, and the promise of harvest; tilled and flourishing farm land; and scattered homes whose orange-tiled roofs lent a distinctively old-world air. They were accompanied by rain that alternated between light drizzle and a harder pelt of drops.

  With an eye toward the distraction of weather and traffic, Kate managed to carry on conversation during the trip. Questions, mostly, which he immediately answered. All but the real reason for this last-minute foray. At that, he merely smiled and refused to satisfy her curiosity.

  She finally g
ave up trying to tease an explanation from him and gave herself over, instead, to occasional silence. Soothing, in some ways, yet disturbing, in others. Part of her brooding concerned the status quo.

  An absolute assurance of financial security, to the end of her days. A tantalizing country, part of her heritage, whose delights drew her in to explore and absorb. A delectable man, offering companionship, advice, good company, and, perhaps, more.

  Suddenly her life seemed far too easy.

  Yes, fate might now be finally trying to atone for a miserable, painful childhood with more blessings than she had ever dreamed of. Still…would today’s happiness also soon fall apart? Was she destined to be taken to the heights, only to be plunged into the depths once again when angry gods decided upon more punishment?

  Behind these gold-starred moments lurked an ever-present specter of regret.

  Kate would probably always wonder what had driven her mother away from a life of ease and leisure, and just as probably would never solve the mystery. Thanks to Léonie’s flight—or escape—Kate had been prevented from growing up in the shelter and surety that is every child’s right. She had been cheated, and had suffered.

  Yet, she had prevailed over all obstacles. And here she was.

  “And where have you now disappeared to, my Kate?”

  Jerked back from past to present, she turned toward the sound of that infinitely kind, infinitely reassuring voice. “Oh…just thinking, Christophe. A million miles away.”

  Smiling, he reached across to lay his hand over hers. “As long as you return to me, mon cher, you may make as many trips to that faraway place as necessary.”

  A smattering of rain preceded their progress through the city traffic. Kate peered through the side window, enjoying her role of sightseer, while Christophe took them around and past the largest square in Europe, Esplanade des Quinconces; the Palais Gallien, all that remained of a 2nd Century Roman amphitheatre; Rue Sainte-Catherine, the longest pedestrian street of France; and too many baroque and gothic churches to keep track of.