Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “Ohhhhh…” a drawn-out breath of regret, as Kate shifted luxuriously in his arms. “That pesky clock.”

  “Pesky, indeed. Unrelenting, however, as well. Kate.” Christophe paused, turning her to cup both hands around her face. “Earlier I mentioned kismet. Do you feel this, also, that you and I were meant to be?”

  “I do. I really do. And I’ve been hoping…well, that this would happen. But I was afraid that, once you knew my past, you would send me on my way.”

  Would she ever grow tired of seeing this man’s goodness and affection through his heartwarming smile?

  “This is what I have learned, my Kate,” he told her quietly. “All of us have been affected by life in some way. Depending on the circumstances, some merely touched for the better—or, in some cases, the worse—others deeply scarred. If we are fortunate, we find someone to help us through. I was fortunate once, and I never thought to be so again.”

  “Your wife,” Kate murmured.

  “My wife, Gabrielle. When my child was born, with such devastating injuries, I feared I had sunk to the bottom of my existence. But when my beloved wife died, shortly after, I nearly lost my mind. Without the support of my family and friends—including your dear grandmother, Francesca—I do not know how I would have survived the blows. But life is a trade-off, is it not? What is taken away as crushing loss, with one hand, can be given back as a path to strength and courage, with the other. Should one allow it to happen thus.”

  Her eyes were shining with sympathetic tears.

  “Each of us has a cross to bear, mon cher,” Christophe finished up, with a tender caress of her cheek. “And who can say which load is heavier? I would never dare criticize you for an experience—no, an ordeal—that you have survived, and survived so well, that has helped make you who you are. I love you, Kate Waring, with all that is in me, and I pledge you my everlasting fealty.”

  This was Romance with a capital R. Only a gallant Frenchman could put words together so elegantly, to mean so much, to touch the heart. And yet, the depth of feeling in those words encompassed not only romance, but staying power. She knew she could trust him implicitly. With Christophe she was safe. With Christophe she had found her home.

  Overwhelmed, Kate gave a little involuntary shiver.

  “Ah, yes, I think I am much the same,” he agreed, chuckling. “And now, my dear Kate, we must scramble. Or we shall both be standing on the tarmac, waving goodbye to your plane.”

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  “And I want to give particular, special thanks to my administrative assistant, Barbara Sutton; to Lisette Fielding, my operations manager; and to Gigi Colette, my marketing director,” Kate said, at the beginning of what would become a lengthy staff meeting.

  Enthusiastic applause around the conference table, and a few unrestrained high fives and hoots and whistles from male counterparts. All three women, who had risen at their employer’s insistence, sank back into their seats with nods of acknowledgement and smiles of relief.

  Kate, too, was standing, to address the stalwarts of her enterprise. She had put aside her fun and flirty retro dresses to array herself once again in businesslike attire: today, a short-sleeved summer suit in pastel blue and unbusinesslike scallops at jacket and hem.

  “As all of you are aware,” she continued, smiling, “I was called away on a personal matter; first, to Boston, then to France, where I ended up taking an extended vacation.”

  “Vacation,” chuckled the irrepressible Gigi. “More like a leave of absence, boss lady.”

  With a shrug, Kate agreed that was more to the point. “At any rate, these very capable women took over the reins of Cachet while I was gone, and I want to acknowledge their efforts. They did such an admirable job that I’ll be tempted to take off more time in the future.”

  “Only if you take all of us with you,” someone at the table’s far end called out. “I’ve always wanted to see gay Paree.”

  A wave of laughter rippled around the room. Such a feeling of ease and informality had always marked the relationship between Kate and her employees; usually, anyone was free to speak his or her mind at any juncture. Today, however, a noticeable lightness of spirit and new accessibility characterized Kate’s attitude. Those in attendance could be seen exchanging significant glances and satisfied smiles. Whatever had taken place during her sabbatical was certainly of great benefit. Look at that great hair style. Look at that glowing skin. Look at that enthusiastic, expansive expression!

  “That’s always a possibility,” she informed them. In a casual tone, as if the matter were of no account. “Especially since I’m hoping to open a Cachet spa there in the near future.”

  Bombshell # 1, and it took everyone by surprise. She heard startled gasps, and incredulous “Ohhh’s!” and a wave of excited comments.

  Grinning, she waited until the hubbub had died down before continuing. “At the moment, I’m considering which city will be best to set up shop. Once a location has been selected, the ground work will be laid for a place as special and as rewarding as what we have here in the States. And, of course, I will need someone to oversee all the work, and a few employees to get things going…”

  The deliberate trailing off of her voice was like tossing bread crumbs onto a path for birds to follow and pick up. More clamor ensued, as a number of current staff members wanted to volunteer for the awesome task she had envisioned. Paris. Just imagine, Paris!

  “Now, we’ve already discussed how well our Grand Opening went in Santa Rosa. The other stores are doing just as well. As we know, there are a lot of stressed-out people in this world who appreciate the chance to de-stress. And our spas provide that for them. I’m very pleased with our financial picture, and I’m pleased with the improvements and upgrades we’ve put into effect. Any questions or suggestions from anyone?”

  The room was silent, although several staffers occasionally made notes on their handouts.

  “Gigi and her team have been working on our fall marketing plans,” Kate went on.

  With a more casual feel to the meeting, she resumed her seat at the head of the conference table. Crisp, clear white, as was most of the office furniture, lending its own sense of ambiance to the muted green walls.

  “They’ve put together the usual print format, and ads for the radio. But—something new this year—we’ll be trying out some television ads, as well. Also social media and the internet, via our very own website.”

  Bombshell # 2. It hit with not as much force but just as much interest, eliciting whispers of approval and a couple of soft whistles.

  “We want to emphasize the comfort of each spa, the way every visitor is catered to and pampered, the various different approaches we offer, whether it’s aromatherapy or candlelight baths or a hot stone massage. And—here’s the main thing—we’d like to make our facilities more available, and more attractive, to male customers. So that will be in addition to what we already have going.”

  “Oh, great idea.” “Sure, why not? Guys need to relax, too.” “I’d really like to see my man lathered up for a bikini wax.” This last was accompanied by a giggle.

  Kate paused for a few sips of cucumber water and a scribble of notes on her pad. “You may have heard rumors about the reason I made such a quick trip to France,” she continued. “Here’s what happened. My long-lost grandmother, one whom I had never met due to family complications, recently passed away, and she handed down to me a lovely house near Toulouse.”

  Bombshell # 3. This one left everyone silent, open-mouthed, and expectant for more. They were not disappointed.

  Clearly but concisely, Kate explained about the circumstances of her inheritance, of how, unfortunately, fate had intervened to keep her from ever knowing Francesca Carrington.

  “I spent time with her solicitor while I was there. After closing out the estate, I decided to invite him here, in a few months, to work with me, and all of you, on plans for that Parisian spa I mentioned. His name is Christophe Beauch
ene, and I hope you will give him a warm welcome to our country.”

  Bombshell # 4. For a minute, no one spoke, absorbing this latest in the round of salvos.

  Finally, Gigi’s comment lightened the mood of uncertainty. “If he is as gallant as I hear many Frenchmen are, Kate, then I for one will greet him with a kiss on both cheeks.”

  On that note, one of smiles and shrugs and favorable comments, the meeting broke up.

  “So tell me more about this fabulous Frenchman,” slyly suggested Gigi, after everyone had filed out and Kate remained behind with her friends.

  She had leaned back in her chair, looking up warily as if surrounded by vultures waiting to pick her bones clean. “Why do you think he’s fabulous?” she countered.

  Even quiet, composed Barbara couldn’t hold back a grin and a twinkle at that. “Oh, Kate. Because you so obviously do. Since you got home a week ago, there’s hardly been a sentence out of your mouth that hasn’t mentioned his name. All of us can see how smitten you are.”

  “Smitten,” repeated Lisette, testing it with amusement. “Is there such a word?”

  “Of course there is. And she’s been.”

  “Hmmm. Just smitten, d’you think, girls? Or more? Look, do I see a blush on those withered spinster cheeks?”

  A little annoyed, Kate was gathering up all her papers and materials into one haphazard pile. “You’ve gone over the edge, every one of you. Chris is—well, he’s just—I mean, you only have to meet him to see that—”

  “Didja sleep with him?”

  Given their background together, Kate could not now pretend to be shocked by Gigi’s earthy persistence. Nor could she even be upset. In the old days, their discussions had covered far more bawdy subjects than this.

  “Well, c’mon, Kate. Didja?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze. You can’t tell me that you and this very attractive, very charming man never once even—”

  “No. We didn’t.”

  “Oh, hell, I knew it,” Lisette muttered, turning away. “The guy is gay.”

  Kate made a big deal of smoothing her skirt and settling her jacket before finally giving in to their combined curiosity. “No, he isn’t gay. I can positively attest to that.”

  Disappointment shone on Gigi’s gamine face. “But, honey, don’t you think you should at least have taken the old car out for a test run before playing hostess with the mostest here in San Fran?”

  “We were too busy getting to know one another,” Kate informed her in a lofty tone. “And that was a nice change of pace, believe me.”

  Instead of being paid to hop from bed to bed, was her unspoken rejoinder.

  Barbara, as a happily married and settled matron, didn’t catch that. But both Gigi and Lisette did. Not surprising. The thought simply smacked of their shared experiences in the old days, and none of them cared to bring up past memories. Delphinium, still touring the countryside of Italy with her delightful husband, would have agreed.

  But Gigi was not to be deterred. Plunking down at the conference table, she propped her chin into the palm of one hand for a pleading, puppyish gaze. “All right, so that’s squared away. Now, listen, kid, ve have vays of making you talk. So give. Describe your Frenchman. In detail. Then I can have sweet dreams tonight.”

  *

  Kate had returned from her overseas sojourn feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. After taking several days to recover from a monstrous case of jet lag, of course. The first free morning, deep in a pearl-gray August, she put on a favorite silk dressing gown to pad slowly through her home, seeing each room with what seemed like new eyes. It was time to begin making plans for necessary changes before the visit from her French entourage.

  She loved this house. She had chosen it with care and furnished it with fine, elegant, but comfortable décor. She wasn’t about to move elsewhere. However, she could accommodate, according to the needs of a wheelchair-bound guest.

  Interior doorways had already been built wide and open enough; floors were of a continuous solid, smooth wood, and scatter rugs or obtrusive furniture could easily be shifted out of the way. A spacious sitting room on the first level, emptied of its couches, repainted, and fitted with bed and lamps, would serve as a charming boudoir for any young girl. There was even an adjoining room, conveniently made suitable for the use of Bernadette, her caretaker.

  Adjustments must be made to the nearby bathroom, of course: a shower, instead of the tub; a lower lavatory and taller facility, to let Chantal feel as independent as possible. Besides that, ramps installed inconspicuously at every main portal, hidden off to the side by rock walls or native plants, would allow the child maximum, essential mobility.

  All could be done, and finished before the holidays began. It was just a matter of timing. Besides also having plenty of financial resources, which, thanks to her grandmother, she did.

  Once dressed, once ready to begin her day, she took the list she had begun and enlarged upon, and called to leave a message for her usual contractor.

  Most important was the addition it would take some detective work to complete: choosing a harpsichord for the girl’s use.

  “Hello, may I speak with Professor Donahue, please? Oh—of course. It’s Katherine. Katherine Waring.”

  When one needs new shoes for a horse’s hooves, one goes straight to the source: a crackerjack blacksmith. Equally true, when one seeks to craft the lightest and brightest vessel in the bay, one interviews the master shipbuilder. In other words, consult the expert in his field. Elwin Donahue, Chair of Ravenswood University’s Music Department, could be considered a maestro of melody, a virtuoso of violin, a wizard of woodwind, a Matisse of motif, a savant of song.

  He was also a former client.

  Working as she had in what modern crime stories would describe as the seamier side of life, or on the wrong side of the tracks, Kate had come into contact with a number of rougher types. One of those had provided all the paperwork and identification papers necessary for a name change—when the time was right. Rougher types, certainly, as well as those more notable. The more notable included, of course, Professor Donahue, a learned and lofty man, whose single carnal lapse into L.A.’s fleshpots had flooded him with an ocean of embarrassment.

  Most of the time, the good professor’s attention focused on his music and philosophy classes, with one foot barely planted in the real world outside of academia. Arriving in town to attend a convention, he’d been dragged along to The Teddy Bear Club by a crowd of rowdy fellow instructors—and several students—to celebrate his fiftieth birthday.

  He’d tightened his tie and straightened his wire-rimmed glasses only to look up, bemused, at the spectacle of a nearly naked young woman gyrating on the bar top practically in front of his nose. The poor man had almost fallen off his bar stool in shock.

  After the dance was finished, Kate, AKA Kitty, AKA Rosabelle, had noticed the hullabaloo as Professor Donahue had tried desperately to make an escape. With the Club’s mantra, “Keep the customer happy,” ever in mind, she had taken pity on the flustered gentleman. One quick cover-up of a robe over her luscious curves, and she could urge him to a semi-quiet, semi-private corner of the bar. There, they had surprisingly engaged in thoughtful conversation until it was time for her next number.

  Even then, Professor Donahue had decided to stay. Due, perhaps, to his own curiosity. Or, due to the fact that, perhaps, he had considered further talk with this exotic dancer might be some sort of social experiment. At any rate, it made for an interesting diversion.

  Out of the debris of the life she had left behind, Kate remained in contact with only one person: this shy, quiet, retiring good man, who eventually was able to break down barriers and become privy to her personal experiences. They had ended up as close friends; and, through the years, she never hesitated to consult with him on any matter.

  Today involved not only the choosing of a proper instrument for her music room—and her expected guest—but a sharing of her most recent news
and all that it foretold for the future.

  “Why, Kate, my dear, how wonderful to hear from you!” The Professor’s voice hummed over the line like a contented bumblebee. “Of course I’m free for lunch. Where shall we meet, and at what time?”

  The Flower Pot stood at a mid-way point, equidistant between the University and Kate’s corporate offices. A cool breeze was blowing in off the Bay, keeping summer temperatures pleasant, and the usual middle-of-the-day busy-ness along streets and sidewalks reminded her of the city she had left behind. Upon arrival, she found Elwin waiting, by the door, to greet her with a sunny smile and a gentle hug.

  “Right on time, as usual,” he beamed. “Here, I’ve gotten us a nice corner table.”

  After placing their orders for typical California light fare—avocadoes, bean sprouts, some sort of hummus, and the like—Kate asked her friend for the latest news in his life.

  Chuckling, Elwin scooped up a spoonful of cottage cheese. “Well, you may have noticed I’m getting older.”

  “I hadn’t noticed, no. But I’d have to say that’s true of all of us, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly. But I doubt that you yourself have retirement staring you in the face quite yet.”

  “No, for me retirement is quite a ways into the future.” Kate considered that while she stirred sugar into her tall glass of iced tea. “Does that mean you’re thinking about the possibility?”

  He shrugged one jacket-clad shoulder. Even in the dog days of August, Elwin rarely emerged into public wearing anything but a well-pressed suit, dress shirt, and natty tie. “Getting a bit long in the tooth, so the University president tells me. Now, if I had my way, I’d stay teaching and philosophizing until someone had to carry me away to the embalming room. But that day may be coming sooner than I realize.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Elwin,” she said with a frown. “I know how important your work is to you, and how vital your role is for those students. Tell me, is President Chase trying to force you out?”