Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  Eventually he called a temporary halt to their auto tour and steered his way toward the outlying France-Bordeaux Airport.

  Kate looked her surprise. “An interesting place, certainly, but not quite in keeping with the history and detail of the architecture so far. Is there something here you have to show me, Chris?”

  “Indeed, yes. Have patience, if you will. A moment more.”

  Adroitly he maneuvered his sporty Peugeot across various lanes, alongside, amazingly, a small flourishing field of grapevines, to reach an open parking spot near the terminal’s front door.

  Another quizzical glance from Kate. “Are we staying? Visiting? Taking off?”

  Surprisingly, he sent her a wink. An actual wink. Then, even more surprisingly, he leaned across and kissed her cheek. “You will come inside with me, yes?”

  “Inside. Yes. Of course.” Completely kerflummoxed, she gathered up her purse while he slipped out and whisked around to open her door.

  Although this was but a weekday mid-afternoon, and dreary with overcast and scudding clouds, at that, foot traffic moved on, in, and around as a steady flow. Passengers disembarked from arriving flights; more passengers boarded for departure; workers, droppers-off and pickers-up, and others milled about this marvel of glass and steel.

  Christophe firmly wove her through the crowd and steered her into a small café far more charming than might be expected in some modern airport building. Flowers and light abounded, as did cheery red and white checked tablecloths and a bulging rack of wine bottles ready for serving.

  Suddenly assaulted by the yeasty fragrance of fresh bread and hot coffee, Kate drew in a deep appreciative breath. “Chris, I must admit I’m getting hungry. Could we—”

  “Here,” he said from a few steps away, interrupting her.

  Uncharacteristic. Throughout their burgeoning relationship, he had proven himself to be the most courteous of men, tactful and discrete at all times, concerned, compassionate. Frowning a little with perplexity, she turned. “Here, what?”

  He was beaming. It was an expression she had not yet seen, until today; as if the sun in all its glory had burst through rain clouds and sought out his face to reflect upon.

  “Chris?”

  “Kate. My dear Kate.” He was standing beside a matronly woman, plump and gray-haired, wearing a cardigan of indeterminate age and somewhat schlumpy garb. “Please let me introduce to you a retainer of the family, Bernadette Duval. And this—” He moved aside, indicating with the sweep of one hand his hidden agenda: a young girl of surpassing loveliness, seated in a wheelchair; “—this is Chantal. My daughter.”

  *

  Feeling bruised, yet oddly numb, Kate huddled in her seat during the return trip to Toulouse, overcome by a far different mood than the lightheartedness of just a few hours before. Even the clearing sky and a magnificent sunset couldn’t quiet jangling nerves or soothe a suddenly sour taste in the mouth.

  Not that any of the three with whom she shared quarters had anything to do with this sense of unease. Far from it. Each, with impeccable manners, spoke considerately and with animation, drawing her into the conversation whenever possible. She was neither excluded nor disdained.

  No, this was her own particular cross to bear, this impression of being off-kilter somehow. She had waited, almost with dread, for the other shoe to drop. Now it had.

  “And Professeur LeBeau was kind enough to excuse me from summer classes a week in advance, due to the arrival of your telegram, Papa,” Chantal was chattering away in the Peugeot’s rear seat. “Thank you for retrieving me; I have been pining for home.”

  “More likely for those special bonbons that Jocaste is always happy to create for you,” chuckled Christophe.

  Chantal giggled, as happily and easily as any ten-year-old, and bounced a little. “That may be true, mon pére, because she is the best of cooks. But of course I am happy to see you, as well.”

  They had taken a table in the little airport café and spent an hour or so over belated lunch. Which also included the cautious, tentative movements of getting acquainted. As a courtesy, Chantal spoke in her accented, charmingly acquired second language; Bernadette, however, who spoke little English, merely smiled and, as employee, remained mostly silent but vigilant as to the care of her charge.

  At the conclusion of the meal, during which Kate had been witness to an obviously deep-held bond between father and daughter, Christophe had carefully installed the girl in the back seat of his car. The wheelchair, a lightweight, compact affair now empty of its passenger, was neatly and magically folded into the trunk.

  Not so much Bernadette, who was forced, with a little mutter of protest, to squeeze her bulk into a less-than-spacious area beside young Mademoiselle Beauchene, while Christophe courteously settled Kate in the front.

  And here they were, now, entering the outskirts of Toulouse.

  During occasional spates of silence, Kate wondered if she were actually feeling the effect of mild shock. This churning in her middle, this odd tingling of nerves to her outermost being, these cold clammy palms and this slight buzzing in her ears—could so much be reaction to news that had been kept from her, all this time?

  She was dealing with almost a sense of betrayal. Why had he not told her that a child took up a vital part of his life? Was there a wife hidden away somewhere, as well? Or, God forbid, a mistress?

  How many other secrets had he tucked into the background that she didn’t know about?

  Foolish, silly, naïve Kate. Not such a worldly person, after all, despite so many years of living in the underbelly of L.A. She had gotten soft. Spoiled by a more comfortable existence. In meeting Christophe Beauchene, she had been too quick to trust, taken advantage of too easily. Kate could almost hear Lisette’s cool advice from across the sea: “Look for the fly in the ointment, Kitty. And there’s always a fly in the ointment.”

  And that thought arrowed right back to her own situation. How dare she criticize this man for being less than strictly truthful when she herself was burdened by a clandestine history that she dared share with no one?

  “You are very quiet over there, my Kate,” said Christophe, as he maneuvered through the messy aftermath of a minor accident, and around the corner. “Have you taken flight once more?”

  “Oh. Um. Well. I guess I’m just—a little tired…”

  “Certainly, I can understand that. This has been a long day for you, hasn’t it?” Compassion warmed his voice enough to dampen her lashes with weak tears.

  “Yes…possibly. A lot going on…”

  After quickly checking the rear-view mirror to see that Chantal was involved in animated conversation with her companion, he confided in a lower tone, “My intent was not to cause you distress, mon cher, but I’m afraid I may have handled things badly. I should like to explain more details to you. Will you come with us to my home, that we might have dinner together?”

  A trickle of reassurance oozed into her middle, and she pulled together a smile. For God’s sake, buck up! she wanted to berate herself. You’re a business magnate and a small corporate mogul. If you can’t handle this little setback, what can you handle?

  Of course, given the fact that this situation was unlike any other she had ever encountered, it was not surprising, then, that her reactions were so decidedly female instead of hardheadedly pragmatic.

  Across the darkening interior he sent her his winning grin. “That hesitant look I see—does that mean you accept?”

  “I accept. However, I must insist upon an early evening,” she told him firmly. “I really am tired, and I really truly must make plans for my return to the States.”

  He reached out, capturing her hand to twine his fingers through hers. Warm. Supple. Strong. “Then I must do my best to dissuade you, Kate Waring.”

  Christophe’s home, a gatehouse modest in size and scope, still held a bit of the fairy-tale feel about it, with an old cobbled stone exterior grown over with vines, overflowing flower boxes at front windows, and a
welcoming paved courtyard. And, amazingly, a turret attached to one corner. These Frenchmen did appreciate their turrets.

  Clearly Jocaste had been given plenty of warning about a special homecoming meal this evening, for their dinner, served with typical French flair in a lovely, intimate dining room, surpassed even those of some restaurants. Since Bernadette was, respectfully, eating in the kitchen, that left only the two Beauchenes and Kate to partake of a fine pinot gris, a selection of bread and cheeses, Coquilles St-Jacques, salad with buttermilk dressing, and Blanquette de Veau. Conversation flowed easily and comfortably, with the focus being on Chantal’s schooling, her subjects, her grades, and various activities.

  “My daughter attends an exclusive facility in Strasbourg, Alsace, far to the north,” explained Christophe, with a fond, proud glance her way. “Much as I miss her presence, the educational opportunities are excellent, and I would be much remiss were I to keep her here, instead.”

  “Ah. And Bernadette is—?”

  “My nursemaid, as a child,” put in Chantal, with so much adult gravity that Kate couldn’t help smiling. “Now that I have grown older, she travels with me, to help with the things I cannot do, and keeps me company.”

  “A treasure,” her father said lightly. “She has become more family friend than retainer, has she not, ma petite? May I offer you the cheese tray once again, Kate?”

  When the cook returned to clear away the remains and offer chocolate mousse all around, Kate thanked her profusely for a wonderful dinner.

  “Ah, merci, mademoiselle,” said Jocaste, blushing like a teenager. “Is nothing, yes?”

  “Nonsense,” Christophe firmly corrected her. “You have outdone yourself, Jocaste, and we appreciate your providing us with such a memorable feast. I think we should like coffee in the salon now, if you will.”

  Once they were settled, Kate did her best to stifle a yawn. Not only was it discourteous in the extreme, but she wanted to take in the ambiance of her surroundings. And at least stay awake until it was time to leave.

  “What a charming room, Chris,” she said, looking around with pleasure. “Not exactly what I had pictured.”

  With today’s rain, the evening air had drawn in cooler than expected, prompting Jocaste to light a fire on the magnificent hearth. Dark leather couch and matching chairs, several crewel-work pillows, an afghan draped carelessly over a small bench, one square table holding a chess set ready for use: all colors and warmth and fabric that appealed to the senses.

  “Indeed. And how was that?” Pouring coffee, he handed over a delicate porcelain cup.

  “Oh—I don’t know. Much more formal. Tapestries, and delicate furniture.”

  Christophe, busying himself with the silver service, laughed. “A museum, then. Hardly flattering, my dear Kate. One must live in these rooms, after all. Chantal, poppet, do play something for us, won’t you?” he appealed to the child, who had rolled silently over the wooden floor in her wheelchair.

  “I shall be delighted to, papa. Have you a choice?”

  “Non. You are the expert; I leave that to your discretion.”

  In one darkened corner of the room stood what Kate had not yet noticed—a harpsichord, an aged yet lovely instrument more ornate than most, created in baroque style. Unself-consciously, with a maturity beyond her years, Chantal settled herself and her chair, selected a piece, took a moment to become oriented. Then, fingers curved sweetly over the keyboard, she began to play.

  And, with the notes, magic flew in on flickering fairy wings.

  A Sonata by Bach, first of all. Next, something by Händel. François Couperin’s Piéces de Clavecin.

  Kate was held spellbound, breath caught fast and every movement stilled.

  Finally, during the tinkle and flash and flare of sound, she dared whisper, “But—the child is a genius.”

  Christophe, who had been watching his daughter with a smile, turned slightly. “So her instructors tell me. I myself have little judgment in the matter, which means I must rely on those with experience. This, you see, is the reason I have sent her away to school, for her talent.”

  “Chris, this is absolutely astounding. Chantal is a prodigy. You must be so proud of her.”

  “I am, indeed, and thank you for your kind words.” Through the ebb and flow of the music, so full and lustrous that it seemed every note might need to be physically tasted for complete enjoyment, he stirred sugar into his coffee cup. “An inheritance from her mother.”

  “Her mother.”

  “Oui. My wife, Gabnelle.”

  “Ah. And is she—away—?” Kate paused delicately.

  “I’m afraid so.” Christophe leaned forward to take her cup for a refill. “Gabrielle died in childbirth.”

  Kate drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Chris. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Bien.” He shrugged; not in nonchalance but in resignation. “What will you? I have come to terms with it, and moved on, as a matter of course. Life demands that we move on, does it not?”

  “Yes. Especially with a baby to consider.”

  The shadow that had crossed his face instantly disappeared, replaced by an expression of quiet joy. “Especially so. And, as you may have guessed, that baby, mon petite Chantal, is the wonder of my existence.”

  With harpsichord tones now lilting across the intervening space as lightly as flower petals on a breeze, the young musician was obviously too absorbed by her presentation to overhear or heed the muted conversation behind her. Kate, sipping slowly at her coffee, waited.

  For weeks, Christophe had freely shared his distinctive, divergent world of culture and history with her. Now, he was finally allowing her behind the scenes, so to speak, into his personal realm. Into that private domain whose barriers kept so many outside. Kate was feeling honored and humbled by tonight’s lowering of those barriers, to let her in.

  Settling more comfortably against the back of his spacious leather chair, he brushed a speck of dust from his trouser leg and considered for a silent interval.

  “As you see, my daughter requires a wheelchair for her mobility,” he finally explained. “She was born with an orthopaedic birth defect, which has caused some deformity in the bones of her left leg and foot.”

  Hastily Kate sent a warning glance from the girl to her father. Just how much detail did he want to divulge, with the child so near by? Meanwhile, the lovely liquid notes trilled on and on, haunting, out of the belly of an instrument which had seemingly held them captive, through time, only to permit their release at this particular moment.

  He caught the glance, nodded, and smiled a little. “Chantal is ten, and a very precocious ten, at that. She is quite aware of what has been involved.”

  What was involved had meant several operations during her brief lifetime, routine therapy, medical supervision, and continuous aid and care from the very capable Bernadette.

  “Truly, that woman’s service has been invaluable,” Christophe went on in an admiring tone. “Not only that, of course, but then there is her devotion to my daughter. Exemplary, I assure you. Chantal’s progress is, in no small way, due to Bernadette’s efforts.”

  “And her prognosis?” Kate asked carefully, quietly.

  “Guarded. It is, as you understand, a matter of time and stamina. But we hope for the best.” In the shadowed light, in the golden play of melody wafting across the room as if plucked from an angel’s harp, he gave her his best smile. “May I offer you more coffee, my dear Kate?”

  *

  It could be safely presumed that Christophe lived a frugal life. Although he had once mentioned having received a small legacy from his parents, although he worked well and diligently at a modest law practice catering to modest clients, there very likely was not enough Beauchene income to support its outgo. The combined costs of an exclusive school for his daughter, ongoing medical expenses with no end in sight, and the financial support of various family retainers must be backbreaking.

  With the question o
f her future assured, thanks to the inheritance of the Carrington estate and its considerable holdings, Kate was giving the matter of Chantal’s care some sober thought. She had been deeply touched by the girl’s wondrous talent, unhampered by impairment. Such struggles to conform, such difficulties to overcome—Kate, with her own childhood upheavals, could understand and wholeheartedly empathize at how much those adversities might cost a sensitive child.

  Fortunately for Chantal, she was not alone, but enjoyed the support of a loving father and, apparently, an extended family.

  At any rate, would it be possible to set up some sort of scholarship fund for the young prodigy, to assure her own future, without offending Christophe? The last thing Kate wanted was to play lady of the manor, casually tossing out newly acquired largesse with a heavy hand. Especially toward the man who had done so much for her, who did not deserve to think he had suddenly become some charity case.

  But she felt a surprising affinity toward the child, and a great deal of interest in what might happen to her; she felt, oddly enough, called upon to do good with the resources that had been handed down to her.

  And wasn’t that, after all, what any reasonable, compassionate person should do with their abundance, acquired or earned?

  “Oh, Chris, once again you have walked my legs off!” Kate complained, but lightly and teasingly.

  They were seated in the quiet, calming ambiance of his brick-and-wood stippled salon, with Kate relaxing enough to kick off her sandals, bend her knees, and tuck both bare feet into the cool leather beneath her. Christophe had poured two small glasses of sherry, while Chantal, as always drawn to her harpsichord as metal filings are drawn to a magnet, was plying her keyboard with melancholy ease.

  Today being Sunday, the adults had taken Chantal with them to tour the Muséum de Toulouse, where they could steep themselves to their hearts’ content in natural history. A soft rainfall that had gone on since early morning seemed the perfect reason to spend hours indoors, absorbing culture.