by Susan Finlay
After dinner, Isabelle called Josh from her hotel room. “Would you like to stroll through the town with me? You could take photos. We can try to locate the street where Charles lives. That way, Paulette won’t have to walk all around town tomorrow. The poor dear’s exhausted from the little bit of walking we did today and fell asleep almost immediately.”
“Good idea. I’d love to. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”
With his camera hanging from a strap around his neck and Isabelle at his side, Josh cautiously strolled along the cobbled streets. He vowed to himself that he wouldn’t trip again, so he kept his steps slow and steady.
The houses were stone, mostly all faced in white limestone, as they were in Mythe, but their roofs were all made of pink or orange rounded terra cotta tiles, many of which were broken or covered with moss. Some of the walls took on a gray or yellowish hue, Josh assumed due to their very old age. He stopped and snapped a few photos, zooming in and centering on specific dwellings and structures, unique tiles, flower-potted window boxes, character archways, and ancient wooden signs. Turning around, he spotted an old church at the top of the hill. He snapped several pictures of it, first without zoom to capture the setting and then close-up shots of the church in case they didn’t walk up the hill.
“I really love this place,” he said. “I could see myself living here, or for that matter practically anywhere in France. History, gorgeous scenery, laid-back lifestyle. My only problem would be the language.” He grinned, and Isabelle laughed. God, he loved her laugh.
She turned onto an alleyway. At least that’s what it looked like to him.
They halted suddenly as two bicyclists zoomed past and disappeared, the passageway proceeding under two tunnel archways, turning slightly and then continuing further down a steep hill.
Josh prepared his camera, snapped a picture, and strode quickly down the hill. “This is amazing. What do you think is above these tunnels?”
“More streets, I imagine. Remember when we crossed a short stone bridge a few minutes ago? That was one of these.”
“Oh, how cool.”
“Look up there,” she pointed to the roof of a house. “Do you see the stork? It has a nest there.”
Josh gaped. An honest-to-god stork and its nest. Wow! He snapped two more photos, then zoomed in. He could even see the bird’s face and the mother’s two baby storks. After he got the photos, he turned the camera and showed them to Isabelle.
“Oh, my goodness. That’s amazing. Oh, they look so sweet.”
Josh decided he liked the way her voice lilted up a notch when she saw something very cute.
The street turned again and went back up a hill. From there, they turned onto another road. The street name was posted on a plaque in the stone wall of a house.
“Oh see, that’s the street we’re looking for.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse. “House number 112.”
A minute later, they stood in front of the house. Josh held his breath a moment. “Should we ring the bell now?”
“Paulette will want to be here when we do.”
“You’re right. Okay. We’ll wait.” He just hoped she wouldn’t fall to pieces if they had another wrong Charles.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PAULETTE TRIED TO keep her face blank when the woman, Madame Therese Lapierre, told them Charles didn’t live there any longer. She said they’d moved two years ago, but then she had moved back here six months ago when she’d filed for a divorce. Paulette wasn’t about to let everyone see how disappointed she was; not after telling Josh and Isabelle yesterday that even if they didn’t find him, she was thrilled to get a trip and that nothing was going to spoil her last holiday. “Can you tell us if this resembles your ex-husband?” She held out a photograph of Charles when he was fourteen.
The woman, who looked to be around sixty, stared at it. “I don’t know. I didn’t know him when he was that young, and I’ve never seen any childhood photos of him.” She pulled her eyeglasses out of her apron pocket and put them on. “Well, I guess it’s possible. Something about his smile seems familiar. But that might be all boys of that age.”
Paulette translated for Josh.
“Ask her where he lives. Does she know his current address?”
Paulette asked and Therese said, “He lives outside the village in one of the old magnaneries.” Apparently seeing Paulette’s confusion, she added, “A magnanery is a type of farm. Years ago detached houses were built especially for breeding of silkworms. Many of the farms are still in use today.”
“And your Charles owns one of these farms?”
“Oui. That’s part of why we divorced. The fool wanted to try his hand at the business. Said he could make money at it. I wanted no part of farming. Disgusting, those cocoons and worms. When I realized what was involved, I left.” She shuddered.
“Where can we find his magnanery?”
“It’s four kilometres from here, south along the main road on this side of the river.”
“Can you drive us there?”
The woman’s mouth gaped open.
“We’ll pay you. I brought cash.”
She smiled. “Oh, all right. Let me get my sweater.”
Paulette translated the conversation for Josh, and he just turned and exchanged looks with Isabelle.
Hmph. Judging by that look, they thought she was being pushy asking the woman to drive them to her ex-husband’s house. Well, if she hadn’t, how were they supposed to get there? They didn’t have a car. She supposed they might have tried to find a taxi, if there even was one in this town, but she was old and running out of time.
Isabelle nodded at Josh.
He said, “Okay. Please thank her for us.”
Paulette did, and then remembered the money. She took a wad of Euros out of her handbag and handed them to the woman.
The woman, now all smiles, stood at the base of the stairs. She yelled upward. “Francoise!”
A younger woman—a teenager, perhaps—stomped down the stairs. They whispered together.
“My granddaughter said she would drive,” Madame Lapierre said in English. “I’ll go with you.” She sent a warning glare at Josh.
Oh dear, was she worried he would attack her granddaughter if she didn’t go along with them? That young man would never do something like that.
All five of them crammed into a tiny nondescript French car that was parked behind house number 121.
Josh made his body as small as he could, but still took up too much space. “Wait, Madame Lapierre, can we switch places? I’m worried I’ll break Paulette’s bones.”
Paulette started to translate, then realized Therese had spoken in English a few minutes earlier. Well, why didn’t she tell me earlier that she knew English? Humph.
The woman got out of the front passenger seat and stepped to the back, waiting for Josh to get out. As he walked around her, she again stared at him, clearly saying, ‘I’m watching you’.
As the woman sat down, Paulette leaned toward her and said, “Josh-you-ah is a fine man. You can trust him. He looks big and tough, but he’s a sweetie.”
The woman crossed her arms.
After a brief distance the car stopped, everyone got out and walked toward a large stone house.
Paulette studied the young girl for a moment. Her facial features looked a lot like her grandmother, but her hair was blonde and straight, reaching down to her slender waist. She could understand why the grandmother worried about men around such a pretty girl.
Paulette stopped and clutched her chest, having a sudden panic attack, what if it is him? Will he want to see me? Did he hate her for bringing Franco into their home? For not protecting him better?
She took a few steps forward and stopped again. What if it isn’t him? What if I have to go home and give up? Merde. She hadn’t wanted to find Charles until Josh insisted. With her hopes raised, she didn’t know if she could take the disappointment if this went awry.
“Paulette, is somet
hing wrong?” Isabelle asked. “Do you need to sit down and rest?”
“I’m all right dear. Just give me a moment. Go on ahead please.” She raised her chin and stared straight at the house, gathering her nerve, and took a deep breath to calm her thumping chest, afraid to go any closer.
The door opened. A tall man with white-streaked brown hair—well, actually more white than brown—stood in the doorway. Paulette couldn’t hear what he and the woman said to each other, as she was standing too far away from the door. The others were grouped at the door with the ex-wife.
The man said something louder, but she still couldn’t make out the words. He stretched taller, maybe on his toes to see over his wife and the others, his eyes scanning the area.
The eyes stopped when they reached Paulette.
She gasped and clutched her chest again. Such white hair, scraggly, a good amount of stubble above his lips and on the lower part of his face. It was hard to imagine this old stranger might be her son. Her Charles hadn’t even started shaving back when she’d seen him last.
She squinted her eyes, wishing she was closer to him, yet unable to get her legs to move. This old man couldn’t be her Charles, her little boy, the young man who’d packed his duffel bag and left, terror written on his face. Not possible. She wouldn’t accept it.
“Maman, is that really you?” she heard him ask.
CHAPTER TWENTY
VANESSA MYERS STRODE into the Pierpont Hotel, pausing in the lobby on her way back from eating breakfast at the café down the street. She’d overheard a group of women gossiping about Josh in the café, talking about him having left town with the old woman and the bakery clerk. Just a friend. Hah! More like a little tramp, if you ask me. She could stick around until he got back, but it was such a boring little town. She tapped her chin with her index finger. Go or stay? Not much to do in this one horse hovel, other than sit in the cafés and listen in on conversations like she’d just done this morning, or shop in their tiny boring stores. Of course if she did manage to find anything suitable to buy, she would have to buy another suitcase, having left her bigger bags in her Paris hotel room. Decisions, decisions. Or, she could go back to Paris, leave this squalor behind, and phone Josh from there. Once he got her news, he’d certainly take the first train back, wouldn’t he?
The hotel owner, the old man she’d met yesterday when she arrived—a Monsieur Laroche—nodded and smiled at her. He’d been friendly every time she’d seen him. Of course, men usually were friendly to her. It was his wife who got snippy with her when she’d asked for directions to the troglo where Josh worked. “Monsieur Laroche, I’m trying to decide whether to stay a few more nights. Would that be a problem, do you think?”
“Not a problem at all, Mademoiselle Myers. You can even stay in the same room you’re in. May I go ahead and extend your stay?”
Hmm, it would be easier to stay here. If she told Josh in person, she could see his face, get his reaction, and know she’d won him back. Congratulating her shrewd decision, she smiled at the owner. “Splendid.” She swung around, her purse swinging across her body, and strode to the door, high heels marching loudly on the old marble floor. She pulled open the door, then turned slightly to look back at Monsieur Laroche. “Can you point me in the direction of your best fashion shops?”
After getting directions, she marched out into the bright sunlight, pulling out fashionable sunglasses from her purse. She would keep herself busy until Josh returned. Then she would reel him back in. Nobody dumped her. Nobody. If anybody was going to get dumped, it would be Josh. Preferably after they married. Daddy and Mother had taught her well.
Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to a shoe store and surveyed the rows of shoes. Hmm, not terrible.
PAULETTE WAS THE last to enter the house. She hadn’t spoken to Charles yet. He’d been busy, hugging and whispering to the young girl, Francoise, who had called him grandfather and kissed him on the cheek. He invited Paulette, Josh, and Isabelle inside and told his wife and Francoise they needn’t stay, that he would drive the others back when they were done with their visit. Paulette and Isabelle thanked them for their help and the two departed.
Oh, my God, it dawned on her. That was his granddaughter. If he was her Charles, then Francoise was her great-granddaughter. She’d never consider the possibility she had grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Not even when Josh had mentioned the possibility. She surveyed the living room, if you could call it that—wide-open and, and, what? Barnlike! That was the only word she could think of to describe it. Lots of equipment everywhere. Stainless-steel lamps, crates, and oddly, fireplaces in each corner of the room. Who on earth needed that many fireplaces?
“Won’t you have a seat?” he said, pointing to a ratty sofa and two chairs in the center of the room.
Merde, I thought my troglo was a mess.
“Excuse the mess. I moved in here two years ago and I’m trying to get this magnanery re-opened. I’ve been working in here, fixing the equipment, and what have you. Trying to learn everything I need to know, too. Much bigger venture than I realized.”
“Your ex-wife doesn’t share your enthusiasm for silkworms?” Isabelle asked.
“No-no. Definitely not. She thinks I’m crazy for trying. Retired from banking five years ago. Bought a business then, but it didn’t pan out. Now I’m doing something totally different. I’m my own boss. She doesn’t get that.”
“Banking?” Isabelle asked. She glanced at Josh, probably because his job had also been in banking. She translated the conversation for him, then asked Charles, “What did you do?”
“Loan officer at our local bank. Mostly helped other people finance their own farms, vineyards, and whatnot. I just figured, why not, it’s my turn now.”
Paulette nodded. Her husband had worked his whole life as a bartender in Mythe, when all he ever wanted was to run his own business. He’d hoped someday to buy some land and start his own vineyard, like her father had done. Her parents had lost their land temporarily to the Germans during the war, but got it back after the war ended, and she eventually inherited the vineyard, which Rene could have taken over, except that he died shortly before her parents.
She realized the conversation had gone dead and everyone was watching her, waiting for her to talk to this Charles, to find out for sure if he was her son. He seemed to think she was his mother. Paulette squirmed in her seat. Problem was, the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth.
Charles broke the silence. “I haven’t seen my mother in years. You look a bit like her, but a lot older. It’s hard to know.”
Merde. She hadn’t thought about how much she had aged, too. About how she’d changed over the past forty-five years. His voice had sounded unsure and tentative. He was as scared as she was.
“I—I haven’t seen my Charles since 1970. He was fourteen when he left home.”
He gasped. “That was me. I lived in a troglo in Mythe.”
Tears burst forth and rolled down her cheeks, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound. When she regained a modicum of self-control, she asked “Where did you go? I worried about you for forty-five years,” she said. “I didn’t know if you were still alive.”
“Remember the Swiss Francs you gave me? They gave me the idea to go to Switzerland. I lived in Zurich for ten years before coming back to France. I took a chance and went back to Mythe once. You were away—Portugal or some South American country. I don’t remember. Anyway, I stumbled upon this area several years later, met Therese here, fell in love and got married. Took a job at the bank and worked my way up.”
She let the tears flow freely, and moaned with the pain. “I missed you so much.”
He glanced at Isabelle and Josh, his eyes questioning.
“You can talk in front of them,” Paulette said. “They know about Franco. They’re trying to help me and they’ve promised not to say anything to anyone.”
His eyes filled with tears, now, causing him to look away.
>
Paulette wanted, more than anything, to hug him, but what if he pushed her away? She didn’t know if she could bear that.
Isabelle leaned toward Paulette and whispered, urging, “Go to him. He needs you and you need him.”
Paulette dried her eyes, stood and moved toward him, hesitant. He looked up, saw her, and stood. They met each other halfway, hugging and crying.
Charles said, “Did anyone ever find out what we did? Did they investigate Franco’s disappearance?”
Paulette stroked the back of his head. “No one ever questioned it. Not that I know. I’ve kept your secret and kept you out of prison. It was the best I could do to protect you. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better mother to you.”
He pulled back and looked down into her eyes. “My secret? Keep me out of prison?”
She frowned. “If the police found out you killed Franco, they might have called it self-defense, but I couldn’t take that chance that they wouldn’t. I did what you told me—I told everyone that the two of you left together and went to Italy.”
“Self-defense? What are you talking about? I didn’t kill him. You killed Franco.”
“What? It was you. I came home and saw all the blood in the kitchen. I found you in the storage room, near Franco and your pocket knife. I hid your knife in your dresser drawer.”
“No, wait a minute. That wasn’t my knife. My knife was in my pocket. The knife that Papa gave me, with a wooden handle and a deer carved into it. Don’t you remember that? The knife that killed Franco was plain, simple.”
She slapped her hand over her cheeks. “Oh, my God.” He was right. She’d forgotten what his knife looked like, but now she remembered Rene picking it out in the general store. He’d chosen the deer carving because he’d planned to take Charles deer-hunting when he was old enough.
