Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “And there was your own life here, as well.”

  “Yes. With so many responsibilities, not just to myself but to all the people I employ. I came home, and I worked, and I thought. I thought long and hard, Chris.”

  “Did you, my Kate?” Once again his tender gaze glided over her, as sweet and delightful as a physical caress.

  “Money is good only if it’s given away. It shouldn’t be hoarded, or tucked into a bank vault. It needs to be used. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  With the help of her corporate attorney, she had set up a charitable foundation, from which all other donations would be made. Hers was the final decision as to which one, and for how much. But her favorites so far included: a scholarship fund for indigent students desperate to receive an education, a shelter for battered women and their children, an environmental group named The Greenery bent on restoring and preserving various polluted sites, and a network set up to support abandoned and abused animals.

  “All very worthy causes, Kate,” Christophe said with such heady admiration that a flush immediately crept up to warm her skin. “I am so pleased for you, and for what you plan to accomplish. And I can think of no greater joy than this, that you expend your funds to assist in easing the distress and hardship that others must endure.”

  “Oh, Chris, then you do approve?”

  “Approve? My darling Kate, how could I not? What you are doing is exactly how our scriptures and the dear God above tell us to do. Your generosity, your kindness, your spirit—” Over a wellspring of great emotion, he paused, then took a breath to continue tenderly, “—with all that, I have no doubt you will accomplish miracles. You will certainly change many lives for the better.”

  Kate sighed. A full, cleansing sigh of utter contentment. “I didn’t get the help I needed, while I was growing up in such—such unfortunate circumstances. You can’t imagine how happy it makes me, knowing that now I can give that help myself.”

  “Ma Cherie,” he whispered then, “your grandmother would be as proud of you today as I am.”

  “I have heard your every word, you know,” said Chantal suddenly from the keyboard. “My back may be turned, Papa, and I may be drowned by my sonata, but I have heard everything.” She turned slightly, to add, over her shoulder, with a grin, “Since I know what is to come, might I suggest that you retire elsewhere?”

  “Ah!” muttered Christophe, in apparent pique. “Precocious child. She knows what is to come, does she? Well, we shall see about that!”

  Perplexed, Kate glanced from one to the other. “Chris, what on earth is she—”

  “Eh bien.” Just like that, he rose, jerked at his shirt with what might have been, in some five-year-old, a miff, and pulled Kate to her feet. “Let us leave her to Bach and Haydn. Surely you must have a room more private than this?”

  As he kept hold of her hand to drag her unceremoniously away, Kate let out a giggle. “Well, imagine that. Here we have a real flesh and blood human being, after all, instead of some storybook hero.”

  “But of course I am not some storybook hero,” he told her peevishly as he swept along into the hallway. “As neither are you some storybook heroine. Because otherwise I might worry that you would—that you would not—”

  He had finally come to a stop, almost skidding into the newel post.

  “Would or would not what, Chris?” she asked gently.

  Wrapping his fingers around both her wrists, pulling her closer, he whispered, “Accept my proposal of marriage, Katherine Waring.”

  As a bower of romance, this selected spot at the foot of the stairs lacked much in amenities. No trails of wisteria blooming fragrantly overhead, no birdsong to sweeten the senses, no sight of the distant sea as backdrop or rainbow to scatter iridescent blessings upon a captivated couple. Not even a true feeling of privacy, right out here in the open for anyone passing by to overhear.

  Still, a brilliant shaft of sunlight had cut between drifts of fog and slanted through the large landing window to touch them with radiant gold.

  “Yes,” Kate said.

  “Yes. Yes?” His grip tightened, even as his eyes darkened and his mouth brimmed up with joy. “You are saying yes?”

  “I am saying yes!” she managed over a flutter that mixed shaky laughter with tears. “You adorable ninny, how often do I have to repeat it?”

  “A thousand times, if possible, or even more,” Christophe began to babble in words choked by excitement. “I love you, mon cher. I shall love you till the end of time. And I want you as my wife. Where does not matter at the moment, nor when—although I would like our wedding to be soon—and, naturally, I should like to return to France with you by my side, but that can be discussed at some—”

  “Chris. Chris.” Laughing aloud now, the only way she could stop his spate of words was to lay her fingers across his lips.

  Then ensued a lengthy, soundless, ardent pause, during which both exchanged a silent communication that criss-crossed every barrier to bind hearts and souls together.

  “You may kiss me now,” Kate breathed.

  And so he did. Fully, fervently, and feverishly, until Kate was reluctantly forced to push him away.

  “Later, yes?” he managed to press.

  “Later—maybe…”

  “Ah. The proof is in the pudding, I believe you Americans like to say. So. Proof!” Reaching into his trouser pocket, he whipped out a small blue velvet box and offered to her.

  The ring held a sizable center stone of glorious, wondrous blue, graced by several smaller diamonds on both sides of the sapphire.

  “This belonged to my maman,” said Christophe fondly, as he slid the beautiful thing onto her finger. “Too large, of course, and needing to be resized. That I had done several months ago, waiting for this very moment.”

  Kate extended her hand to admire the glitter and glamour of what he had gifted. “The sapphire is my very favorite gem,” she told him shakily. “It’s beautiful, Chris.”

  “No more so than she upon whom it is placed,” he told her formally. “So now we shall make plans, yes? And then, like any good courting couple, we shall make love.”

  Caught completely by surprise, she gurgled a little. The words were so unlike his usual reserved and decorous manner—yet pleasurably so—that the image she had carried around with her since their first meeting twisted slightly, like a kaleidoscope, to present another facet of this most interesting and charming man.

  “I must say, you’ve gotten very bold.”

  “Oui.” He moved closer for what might have been a forbidden caress. “I have inherited that trait from my daughter.”

  “Chantal. Oh, my God, Chantal!” Suddenly she felt anxious, as if she must check with the girl immediately for her approval. “We must tell her that—”

  “Mon cher.” He interrupted her attempt to pull free by bending down to nibble her ear. “Chantal already knows. And she is, I assure you, delighted.”

  “Delighted. Are you really, honestly sure?”

  “I am really, honestly sure. It often seems that my daughter is of more experience in this life than either you or I. She has already made plans of her own for our wedding. Now. Can you be ready by April?”

  “April!” Kate gasped. “That’s only four months away. I can’t possibly be ready by April.”

  “A pity. April in France is a lovely time of the year. May, then.”

  “Absolutely not! Do you know how long it takes to put a wedding together?”

  He shrugged. “For this, one engages the services of a planner, yes? June it is.”

  “June! That’s still far too soon! Why, my dress alone will take months to create, and then there are all the other details, the flowers, the attendants, the cake, the photographers, the—”

  Christophe silenced her flurry of panic in the best way possible: with another thorough kiss.

  From the music room, which had remained remarkably silent all during this encounter, came the sudden stirring, passionate strains of Felix
Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  The notes of that melody were repeated, in full ringing chords that throbbed almost like some pagan drum, on a perfect flower-filled day made for kings and queens. Just at the moment, however, only sweet serenades floated through the air until it would be time for the bride to appear. Christophe had won his suit; the moment was late June, and the place was Rouen.

  He was waiting now, near the altar with four groomsmen—which group included Professor Elwin Donahue, dressed in unfamiliar formality but delighted to serve.

  Urns overflowing with magnificent spring lilac, fragrant roses, and lilies of all hues had been arranged with care by a persnickety florist. Once the ceremony was finished, every last one would be donated to local hospitals and senior citizen centers. A white runner lay on the center carpet, and every pew had been decorated with sprigs of greenery and satin bows.

  All was beautiful. All was fantasy. All was crème de la crème.

  In an anteroom reserved for use of the bride, however, all was not well.

  “I can’t walk down that aisle,” Kate bleated in a panic of nervousness.

  “Don’t be an ass,” plain-spoken Gigi told her. “Of course you can.”

  “No, no, I can’t go through with this. What on earth was I thinking?”

  Lisette reached over to straighten the floor-length illusion veil tipped with lace. “You were thinking that you deserve some happiness in life, with the man you love. So shut up and just put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t shell out megabucks for this dress just to watch you turn tail and run when the goin’ got tough.”

  “Go out there, in front of all those people, and promise all these vows that I can’t possibly keep? No way!”

  “Way.” Delphinium strong-armed her friend closer to the door just in case she might bolt at the last minute. “Go with the flow, kid. You planned it, now deal with it.”

  Baring her teeth like a cornered lioness, Kate glared from one attendant to the other. “You’re all in this together, aren’t you?” she accused bitterly.

  “Well, puss, somebody has to keep you on the straight and narrow. What’s up, anyway?”

  A moment passed before the admission reluctantly came. “I’m afraid I—I’m making a terrible mistake.”

  “No such thing. Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. What if—what if this is all wrong, after all; that I’m not supposed to be going through with this?”

  Mindful of the exquisite fabric involved, Barbara patted her boss’s trembling arm. “Look, Kate, you couldn’t be more ready for your new life. You and Chris have opened a brand-new branch of the Cachet line in Toulouse, with a great staff; you’ve set up housekeeping in both countries; you’ve taken all the necessary classes and converted to Catholicism; and you have an almost stepdaughter who adores you. What more could you want?”

  “Yeah. What more could you want?” echoed the other three.

  Tears sparked the brilliant blue eyes and glimmered on the mascara-ed lashes. “I guess—nothing more. Except friends like you, to see me through. Thanks, gals.”

  Lisette snorted. “No thanks necessary. We support each other. We’re best buds. Now, come on. Show us your game face and let’s get this show on the road.”

  The mermaid organza gown, complete with sweetheart bodice, chapel train, and ruffled skirt, fit Kate’s lush figure to perfection. Its swirls and ruches had been delicately hand-beaded all over with tiny bits of sparkle, that she knew in her heart were actually sprinkles of fairy dust. She glanced at herself in the mirror, made a final adjustment to the tiara, took a deep breath, and turned.

  “Okay. Ready.”

  Her bridesmaids, all in varying shades of soft blues and greens, began their procession toward the altar, where Christophe, made anxious by the delay, waited with barely restrained impatience.

  Meanwhile, Timothy Lord, of her Boston legal firm, was waiting to escort the bride. He smiled, tucked her hand into the crook of her elbow, and they set off.

  Now the music burst forth from Notre Dame’s magnificent and historic pipe organ, to accompany her on the promenade to meet her groom.

  Music played by none other than her precocious, prodigious eleven-year-old soon-to-be stepdaughter, Miss Chantal Beauchene.

  The End

  Bonus Story 2: Leap of Faith

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  The hall literally sparkled; it was something from a fairy tale. Cameras flashed, gowns glittered, and an excited buzz of people filled the room. The place was filled with high-profile personalities, the kind who liked to show off their wealth by strutting around in the latest fashions and talking about the new properties they’d purchased the last time they’d travelled around the world.

  Seraphina Claire just happened to be one of the photographers at the party. She stalked the room, picking up on the emotions and discreetly snapping the moments. She got a shot of the hottest, “It” couple who seemed to be standing apart from the entire room, lost in their own sweet world of romance. A pang went through her as Max Winters leaned down and whispered something in his girlfriend Ima Georges’ ear that earned him a dazzling smile. What she would give to have sweet intimacy like that with someone.

  Click. Click. These were the photos worth seeing. The real stuff. Not the act they put on for the cameras. Turning away, she scanned the crowd for more worthy shots. Click. Click. She caught a daughter-mother moment.

  “Get any good shots?” the bartender asked when she took a break to rest her aching feet.

  “A few,” she replied, sipping her soda water.

  “Scandal worthy?”

  She threw him an irritated look. People tended to assume that since she was a photojournalist working mainly with celebrities, she was trying to get the dirt rather than show the good side. She loved her job especially because she could see the normalcy behind the rich façade and capture it perfectly.

  Seraphina’s eyes flitted from one couple to another, and the pang returned. Finishing the last of her drink, she grabbed her gear and headed towards the door. Someone had mentioned that a fortune-teller was present at the event. Maybe someone who saw into the future had more insight into her life and could shed some light on her desired happy ending.

  The crowd laughed good-naturedly as the host of the evening made another attempt at a joke. Cole St. John grimaced as he glanced around. He was bored out of his mind. To him this was yet another dreary society function requiring the wearing of the monkey suit and it was suffocating him. The place was cold, the people were lifeless and the niceties were nothing more than a pretense. He hated the very atmosphere of the place.

  He tried to avoid such parties as much as possible and preferred to be doing something more daring with his time. But recently his life had lost its usual vigor and that terrified him. Nothing seemed to excite him anymore. He had not even reached his mid-thirties but already felt tired. How was he going to survive when he reached the age of fifty or so, and completely bored out of his mind from living a rather dull life?

  “You poor thing,” cooed a tall, willowy model standing in front of Cole.

  He ignored her, unsure of what she was talking about and wondered how the gathering would react if he did something outrageous just then. Something outrageous had to be done to bring the slumbering party to life. Maybe if he drank the entire bar and then stripped to his underwear he could get this crowd moving.

  The model felt neglected and suddenly slid a bejeweled hand over his shoulder and squeezed, startling him to attention. It was just an attempt to cop a feel.

  “It must have been awful for you,” she repeated again.

  What must have? His eyebrows drew into a frown and he just said, “It wasn’t that bad.”

  It was her turn to frown at him and he wondered what topic they had been on. He quickly changed the subject and flashed his famous showroom smile at the woman who had in
troduced herself as Mila. “Would you like a drink?” He extricated his arm from her talon grip and motioned to a server.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” She let out a high-pitched giggle as she accepted the glass.

  Cole winced inwardly at the sound. “Of course not. Why would I do that now?”

  “Oh, you have full freedom to get me drunk. Just make sure I remember every moment afterwards,” she laughed and threw him a wink.

  Bold, he thought. He had been waiting for her to make the move for the past ten minutes. She had cornered him just as he left the men’s room after contemplating sneaking out the window like a frazzled bride who’d gotten cold feet and couldn’t face the crowds. The model had almost shyly introduced herself and then had babbled on about a rival at the party while he had supposedly lent a sympathetic ear. Now she was finally opening up about her true intentions.

  “Drunk or not, you will remember every single moment,” he flirted back, roving his eyes appreciatively over her form. She was good-looking and he was bored. He did not see why he could not have a little fun.

  Mila straightened her back, thrusting her breasts out and flashing him a naughty smile. “Before we move on to other plans, I saw a Fortune Teller’s booth just nearby. We definitely have to visit.”

  She had to be kidding him, Cole thought, cringing inside. Yet before he could utter a word of protest, he found himself dragged outside and towards the booth. Neon multicolored lights decorated the sign reading “Zelda, the Psychic” and below was a poster of tarot cards.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t be a skeptic. It’s fun, you’ll see!” She started to drag him inside when a harsh voice stopped them right outside the door.

  “Stop! Do not take a step forward.”

  Mila frowned. “Why?”

  “The woman behind you,” the voice from inside the booth continued. “She and the young man can step inside together. Leave the other outside.”