Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “Oh, I know,” said Kath sympathetically. “Even with stopovers at Heathrow and—where else, probably Boston?—it’s an exhausting trip. You must be very tired. Let’s collect your luggage and then I’ll take you to my home, where you can rest and refresh yourselves.”

  Although Christophe had not attempted another public, soul-shattering kiss, neither had he completely released her. Instead, he stood with one arm tucked firmly around her waist, as if to declare possession for all and sundry.

  “I must admit, that is a tempting offer, my Kate. But first, if you will tarry one little moment—we have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? What, here, now? Well, of course, I’m anxious to see it.”

  Smiling with every expressive inch of his face, he turned slightly. “Chantal?”

  Her smile matched his in ease and radiance. And a hint of mischief. “Oui, Papa.”

  With little effort, she leaned forward to slide the footrests out of the way, first one, then the other, enough to place both feet flat on the tiled floor. Then, elbows planted firmly on the armrests, she stood. Slowly. Carefully. But with fierce determination.

  She took a step forward. And another. And another after that.

  “Chantal!” Kate, awed and inspired and brimming over in tears, hardly dared breathe. “Chantal, you’re walking, all on your own!” Just as the child approached, Kate reached out to fling both arms around her in an ecstasy of delight. “Oh, you wonderful girl, you, what a miracle!”

  Both Bernadette, still guarding the empty chair, and Christophe were equally moved. His hand encircled hers and squeezed. “It is thanks to you, my dear Kate. The funds you allocated to our local hospital—about which you kept such remarkable silence—were put to good use. As you see, Chantal has tolerated surgery and therapy more advanced than any thus far. She has been practicing to walk since then, wanting to show her good friend Kate how well she can do.”

  Deeply touched, Kate was fishing in her handbag for tissues. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’ve become such a waterworks. Chantal, what an accomplishment. I am so proud of you!”

  “The chair is a necessity at times, still,” her father explained. “Especially here, with so much space to traverse. But she grows stronger every day. I expect,” he finished up with a wink for the child, “to see her entering a marathon race in the near future.”

  “Oh, Papa,” she blushed, safe in the circle of Kate’s embrace. “You tease once again.”

  Kate looked from one to the other with overflowing heart and a deep and abiding affection. Bernadette, who had found her own handkerchief to ply against sniffles; Chantal, a girl of so much heart, spirit, and courage; and Christophe, he who would complete her, body and soul.

  “My family,” she murmured. “Come on, I have a car waiting. Let’s go home.”

  *

  It wasn’t until Wednesday, nearly two full days after her visitors’ arrival, that Kate was able to take them proudly on a full tour of her magnificent home. Having survived a brutal, halfway-around-the-world flight and too much jet lag, their initial few groggy steps across the threshold had resulted only in a quick late lunch and bath, an even quicker desultory unpacking, and an utter collapse into the sweet fresh linens of their respected beds. The rest of Monday passed by, and the night; Tuesday mid-morning brought some semblance of normality with a stirring of exhausted bodies and a murmuring of sleep-roughened voices.

  Christophe was first to emerge, from his well-appointed guest room on the second floor—although clearly not into full consciousness. Nor as his usual natty, dapper self. Kate’s heart gave an actual leap of joy when he came padding into the kitchen where her coffee maker had just finished brewing. The aroma was irresistible; no wonder he had been drawn out and about by its tendrils.

  “Well, well, good morning,” she greeted him, turning from the red oak cabinet with cup in hand. “And look at you.”

  He managed a sheepish grin. From rich tousled chestnut hair to unshaven face to wrinkled and rumpled pajamas to sexy bare feet, he presented a pirate’s raffish appearance. And was so unutterably attractive, in fact, that she suddenly went weak in the knees and had to clutch at the counter for support.

  “You have taken this trip twice already, to my country and back again to yours,” he pointed out. “I wonder that you deplaned on either end without having an ambulance standing by. Is that fresh coffee, my dear Kate?”

  “Coffee and croissants, Chris. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, I shall.” He approached, drew her into his warm, slumberous embrace, and kissed her with a desire and a thoroughness that proved he was more awake than she had realized.

  “Mmmmm,” she breathed into his ear, when he finally let her go. “I think I could get very used to this.”

  “Mmmmm,” he agreed, nuzzling appreciably at her cheek. “And I, as well, mon cher. However, not today, if you will forgive me. I came down for sustenance but I must admit to weakness of the flesh; more sleep, I beg of you!”

  A trifle disappointed that their private tête-à-tête must be postponed, Kate still managed to chuckle. “Your wish is my command. Be off with you, Christophe Beauchene, and take your breakfast along.”

  So it wasn’t until the following day that her guests woke fully and completely to put themselves together, thus rejoining the land of reality. Kate had had her Jill-of-all-trades, Marlene, set up a tray of food and hot drinks outside each of the three bedroom doors, for comfort and convenience. Now, bathed and freshly dressed—indeed, back to his old stylish self—Christophe came down the stairs just as Kate materialized from her study.

  She paused to smile up at him from the newel post. “Nice. Although I miss the p.j.’s.”

  “Do you, then?” Jauntily he swung down beside her for another welcoming kiss. Strange how each one felt better than the last, and promised more enticements. “I suspect that, at some point, the p.j.’s—or lack thereof—might be arranged.”

  “Promises, promises,” Kate whispered breathlessly.

  “Bon jour, Papa,” interrupted a drowsy voice from the hall, as its owner came toward them. “And to you, as well, Kate.”

  “Good morning, Chantal. I hope you’re all caught up on your z’s.”

  Briefly Kate wondered if the time might come when the child would accept a warm hug and affectionate cuddling from someone not a family member. She had not yet dared be so familiar as to approach. Not yet. Hopefully soon. She remembered her own lonely, neglected little-girl days, and how much she had missed a mother’s love; close as she was growing to this twosome, she longed to offer some of the same. And, if possible, have it returned.

  “Z’s?” she questioned, looking up from her father’s embrace.

  Kate’s fingers itched to reach out and smooth the flossy hair. Smiling, she replied, “Just teasing. It means sleep.”

  “Ah. An Americanism.” She brought that out so quickly, and so proudly, that the two adults exchanged delighted grins.

  “Absolutely correct,” said her father, ruffling the hair that Kate longed to caress. “And where is Bernadette, ma petit?”

  “She has taken up residence in the shower, Papa. She told me she plans on staying there until there is no more hot water. Is it, perhaps, time for dinner, Kate? I think I have missed a meal somewhere during the flight here.”

  “More like breakfast, Chantal. Or brunch. Let’s go into the kitchen and see what we can find to cook up or scramble or toast.”

  Kate was somewhat clumsily seeking out a sauté pan and spatula when Bernadette appeared. Clucking like a rueful mother hen, she gently moved her hostess aside to begin expertly assembling a breakfast worthy of the name. Soon, eggs were bubbling fragrantly in a pool of melted butter and crêpes were crisping as only a French crêpe could.

  A casual meal, eaten in the kitchen, serves as a great leveler of rank. Pressed, Bernadette joined the rest at table, and soon a lively discussion ensued. More details were divulged as to the never-ending flight from France, the
bits and pieces of American scenery glimpsed through their Boeing 747’s window, the enchantment of their destination.

  Chantal was especially taken with the marvelous expanse of decorations and the gigantic Christmas tree, all lit up even during daylight hours. Politely, tactfully, she did not even inquire as to what lay underneath: packages of varying shapes and sizes, done up in gold and silver wrapping paper, glittering turquoise bows, and personalized tags. That would probably come later.

  Eventually, Kate invited them to tour the house, as she had been longing to do once everyone was again awake and alert. Bernadette professed herself deeply moved by such luxury of her room and bath; Chantal was delighted by the comfort and mobility for use of her wheelchair, even if that were more occasional accommodation now instead of necessary dependence.

  “And you, Chris?” she asked over her shoulder as they began ascending the grand staircase.

  Stairs were still difficult for the recovering child; she was leaning on the banister with one hand while her father hovered beside her for support. He looked up with a smile. “You have seen to our needs with much thoughtfulness and consideration, mon cher,” he approved. “I have almost everything I could ever want in the quarters you have given me. Almost.”

  Kate stumbled slightly.

  Bedrooms, bathrooms, sitting rooms, alcoves, window seats, halls. The range of colors and design of fabric were to Kate’s taste entirely, with a certain California lightness and coolness suitable for a house on the Bay. Here and there her little party paused to look appreciatively out at the lush gardens, shriveled now and sere with what passed for winter, and at the wisps of fog not yet burned off by morning sun.

  “So different,” Christophe murmured, enjoying the sight of exotic shrubs and trees never seen in his own native France. He reached one hand over for hers, entwining his fingers and holding tightly, significantly. “Yet so much the same, all over the world. You agree, yes?”

  “I agree, yes.” A pause, as hazel eyes met burnished blue, in a flash of understanding. “Shall we go back downstairs? I have something to show you. A surprise. How are you holding up, Chantal?”

  “Holding up,” she repeated gravely, turning back toward the stairs. “Well enough, I hope.”

  Ten going on twenty, this solemn child. Probably due to all her painful and difficult experiences, and being left so often in the company of adults. Kate wondered whether, with her poor deformed leg, she had often been able to play with other children, to learn what it was like to be a child herself.

  Once again arrived safely on the first floor, Christophe left them briefly in the foyer to retrieve the wheelchair. “Enough exercise for now,” he told his daughter firmly, when she objected. “You thought to hide your fatigue, ma petit, and the fact that you are feeling some discomfort. Now you shall rest a bit. There, sit. Yes, sit, I say.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chris.” Kate was horrified by her own obtuseness. “I shouldn’t have dragged you up and down those stairs. They’re killer, I’m afraid.”

  “Non, non, take none of this upon yourself, my dear. Chantal likes to test the limits of her endurance. And mine.”

  “Well, maybe this will help make up for it,” she suggested, and led her three guests into the music room.

  Chantal’s loud gasp, and her astounded shriek of pure joy, repaid Kate a thousand-fold for her research and her work. “A harpsichord, Papa!” she shouted. “A harpsichord!” Flinging caution to the winds, she pushed her way out of the confining chair and walked as quickly as possible toward the instrument. It was sitting in grandeur in a pool of incoming sunlight, preening its red wood and décor like a satisfied cat.

  “But, my dear Kate—”

  “Mademoiselle—”

  “Oh, Kate, it is beautiful, beyond compare!” The girl was already at the bench, trailing her fingers over the keyboard to coax free a sweet tinkling sound. She turned with a face lit up enough to rival the foyer’s Christmas tree. “May I—may I try it, please?”

  “Of course you may try it, Chantal,” Kate said softly, in tones rounded by love. “It’s yours.”

  “Papa?” The last question, for permission.

  He sighed and shook his head with disbelief. “Oui, my child. Certainly. And we shall sit down and listen.”

  Elwin Donahue had chosen well, Kate realized dreamily a little later. This was a fine—no, a superlative—musical instrument, with exceptional tonal quality and design. And Chantal was making the most of it.

  Recognizing a family togetherness moment if she’d ever seen one, Bernadette had taken this time to slip away to the kitchen, where she prepared a tea tray for the two adults and then disappeared into her room. Kate and Christophe, meanwhile, were seated side by side on a blue-and- yellow patterned loveseat, letting the lovely sound of Mozart’s best piece swell out to fill the room and their consciousness. For a brief time, they were content just to enjoy, to hold hands, to smile at each other and at the child who had lost herself in her music.

  “Very shortly, you know, I shall need to stop playing a man of leisure and dress myself once again in business affairs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, can you have forgotten so quickly the supposed reason for my visit?” he gently chided.

  “No supposed about it,” she retorted on a touch of tartness. “And, if you’re so anxious to get started on our plans for a Cachet spa in France, then by all means we can get to it. Shall we try for Friday?”

  “We should most certainly try for Friday. I look forward to that, and to seeing where you work.”

  Good humor restored, she patted his knee. “Good. Then comes the weekend, and I’ll take you and Chantal sightseeing. Okay?”

  “Bien,” he agreed, unruffled. “Sightseeing I shall truly look forward to. Also, to give you fair warning, Chantal has planned an entire itinerary of places she would like to visit.”

  Kate grinned. “Your wish is my command, Vicomte. Only not so many cathedrals and museums as you toured me through in France.”

  Companionable silence reigned for a while, even as the arpeggios soared in mezzo piano or forte piano. From the background came a muffled sizzle and snap from the fire, and the distant sound outdoors from some yardman plying his tools upon a wayward hedge.

  “This is—quite extraordinary, Kate,” Christophe murmured to her, during a lull. “Such a wonderful thing you have done. Neither of us will ever be able to thank you enough. Or ever repay you.”

  Another smile, this one less Madonna-like and more mischievous. “Oh, Chris, I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way,” she almost purred.

  He grinned back at her. “I have never been one to resist a challenge.” In one motion, he swept their joined hands upward to press a kiss on the back of hers. “Enough for now, my Kate. I shall save the rest for later.”

  “Mmmm. As long as that’s a promise…”

  “Truly, though, you have made both of us very happy, Kate. Were it this alone, bringing here and making available such an incredible harpsichord…but then, besides that, there is the marvelous trip with which you have gifted us…and, more importantly, the funds you provided—it has been a medical miracle, indeed, for my daughter, to allow her the joy and freedom of such improved health…”

  Christophe stopped, as his throat closed up over the words of gratitude. His eyes were shining; with tears, she realized suddenly, deeply humbled and awash in sympathetic tears herself.

  What would his reaction be, the thought came swiftly, unbidden, when Chantal opened one of her Christmas gifts to discover notice of the scholarship, endowed to her school, in her name, for her education and that of many others? Would he be annoyed by the sense of too much required gratitude? Would he consider her generosity overdone, demanding in some way?

  Mozart’s melody had segued into something by Beethoven, drifting through the air as lightly as multicolored butterflies, as Chantal, completely and absolutely absorbed, winged her way from one note to another. It was a lusciously cozy
moment. Enough fog remained adrift in the late morning atmosphere to make the music room’s gas fire a sweet, warm counterpoint to the day, and the soft buttercream walls and exquisite landscape and seascape paintings provided a haven of security. Here, any visitor felt, all was safe, all was well; no harm could befall.

  “You know my history, Chris,” Kate finally said quietly into the waterfall of liquid notes that seemed to bathe its occupants in peace and calm. “You know how poor I was, how desperate I was to survive. Well—” considering, she brushed that aside for a minute. “Maybe not all the details. But I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I can imagine. It is a hard thing, to subsist on so little. Especially when it seems the world is against you.”

  “Even after the first Cachet spa opened,” she went on, accepting his words for the empathy they offered, “things have been tight, financially. And with each new branch—I haven’t been operating on a shoestring, exactly, but I’ve had to be very careful. No unnecessary outlays, watching the budget, keeping the overhead down as much as possible.”

  He had moved to slip one arm around her shoulders, clad today in casual printed cotton that exactly matched the blue of her eyes. “While I have not had the experience of managing a large business, I do understand the difficulties involved. And the occasional penny-pinching, yes?”

  Simply by his presence, this man provided the reassurance, the support, the couple-ness that she had been seeking for so long and nearly given up on ever having. Kate smiled at him.

  “So, you see, when my grandmother died, and left such a monumental fortune to me, it was hard to even take in, at first. I felt like a kid in a candy store. All this money, now mine, to do with as I wanted! I could buy expensive clothes, or travel, or move to a mansion, or—well, whatever.”

  Christophe’s fond gaze swept slowly over her face, drinking in every feature. “And what did you decide upon, my Kate?”

  “I decided I needed perspective,” she told him frankly; “I needed to get away from you, and lovely France, and all the enticements. If I’d stayed past my allotted time there, I might have stayed forever. Like—like Odysseus, you know, being called by the sirens. So I had to leave.”