The Frenchman's Slow Seduction

by Flora Lanoux

  Tenderest pledge of future bliss,

  Dearest tie of young connections,

  Love’s first snowdrop, virgin kiss!

  There’s no talking to Michelle; she won’t respond. When Liz approaches, I give her my seat.

  “How did you know?” Michelle asks Liz.

  “I looked into your eyes. Only people who have found and then lost their love have that look. He’s waiting for you dear. I can feel it. You have no reason to carry that sadness within you any longer. There are wonderful days ahead of you with lots of bonnie wee bairns.” Michelle gives her a wide-eyed look. “Oh yes, your life is about to change dramatically. Now, why don’t you tell me about those butterflies?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why are there so many butterflies around you?”

  Stunned, Michelle says, “He told me that when we first met he felt the wings of a thousand butterflies as they flew by.”

  “Seems to me you’re being given a message then,” Liz says. Then she turns to me. “You’re not far from being with your intended either, Rachel. You and Michelle are very closely timed in your fate lines.”

  “How did you alter the poem you recited for me?” I ask.

  “It’s really lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, but in your case it’s laddie.” She heaves herself up from her chair. “Well, I’m off to get some punch. Come on, Verna. It’ll be to your liking. I’ll put some vodka in it.”

  At five o’clock, Michelle and I drive to her apartment. Since I promised to phone Reynaldo at six o’clock, I tell Michelle what happened the previous night. Angry, she begs me to let her call him to kick some over-the-phone ass. If there’s a bump in the middle of the road, Michelle is one of those people who think you should speed up and fly over it rather than drive around it.

  “It won’t be any good coming from you,” I tell her. “I have to be the one to tell him off and mean it.”

  Looking fierce, she says, “You have to be careful of men like him, Rachel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They can confuse you. They exude all this sexuality and passion, but it’s not really for you, it’s for them. They screw passionately because it’s another thing they want to be good at; it defines them. And they define themselves by the women they screw. Here’s the rub: they don’t form emotional attachments. It’s only a lot of panting and sweating, moaning and groaning, with nothing behind it. They don’t have any problem walking away and screwing someone else with just as much passion. They can hurt you if you don’t know how to take them. They’re great for a one-nighter, but that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry, Michelle, I’m not interested.”

  But she is worried. “I’m going to stick around while you talk to him,” she says. “I’ll feel better that way.”

  Taking a deep breath, I hope my heart will beat less hard, but it doesn’t. Determined to get the unpleasant task over with, I pick up the kitchen phone and make the call. Michelle hovers around, drinking fruit punch. Reynaldo answers on the third ring.

  “Hi, Reynaldo. It’s Rachel.”

  “I’d recognize your voice anywhere,” he says, his voice husky.

  “Reynaldo, I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want you phoning me or coming to my apartment.”

  “Whoa, slow down. What’s the matter? I thought we had fun together.”

  “We went out twice, Reynaldo. That’s all. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  “Why, Rachel? What did I do wrong?”

  “You wouldn’t let go of me last night. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I was just excited to see you. I was just kidding around.”

  “Reynaldo, I’m serious, don’t call me and don’t come to my apartment.”

  “Come on, Rachel. Let’s get together and talk. Why don’t you go out with me for dinner tomorrow? I can pick you up at your place at six. We don’t have to make any decisions tonight.”

  Galled by his arrogance, I shout, “Lookit, Reynaldo, I’m sure you’d be an incredible fuck, but I’m just not interested!” and then slam down the phone.

  Shocked, Michelle chokes on her fruit punch and spits out a large mouthful in my direction, covering me in a splattering of red droplets. Looking into one another’s equally astonished faces, we burst out laughing. It’s only when I recall something my mother said that I have slight misgivings about my outburst: “Never mention anything to do with sex to a man, Rachel, not even jokingly. He’ll start thinking of you in a different way; it’ll instantly turn him on.”

  After I change into some of Michelle’s clothes, we order a pizza. When we’re on our second glass of wine, I ask Michelle why Liz’s poems made her cry.

  “Not tonight, Rachel. Some other time. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

  Chapter 8

  Our family lived in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, which people call the Soo. My mother’s family was French and not too well off. She used to say, “What we don’t have in money, we make up for in fun,” and she was right. She came from a family of ten kids, so I have lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Grams, Mom’s mother, was the matriarch of the family, the glue that held everyone together. Because Grams was musical -- she played the accordion and could play the spoons like nobody’s business -- she coaxed her kids to be musical too, which meant we had lots of musical soirees.

  When I left for the veterinary college at Michigan State University in East Lansing, I was only a four hour drive away from the Soo, so I saw Mom’s family a fair bit, but it wasn’t like the old days: Grams was gone.

  Now that I’m working at Mike’s clinic in Haslett, the people closest to me are friends and colleagues I met at college. I can’t remember the last time I went to the Soo.

  Oh yes I can. It was for my mom’s funeral.

  Work on Friday morning goes by problem-free. At lunch time, in celebration of the uneventful day, Tim and I go next door to Larry’s to eat. On our return, we find Mike talking to a bleached blonde with high heels, a pink skirt, a pink blouse, a rhinestone purse, and lots of make-up: a plastic woman. Staring at this real life facsimile of my childhood idol, I find myself admiring her grip on unreality.

  “Tim, could you get Ms Bellamy’s dog, Bambi, for her?” Mike says. “She’s out back.”

  “Sure, which one is she?”

  “You’ll know her when you see her.”

  I follow Tim out back.

  “Oh no!” Tim cries. “Please tell me it isn’t so.” He collapses into laughter.

  A large white poodle, lopped to topiary perfection, is wearing a diamond studded collar, several glitter ribbons on her ears, head, and tail, and a baby pink harness with a small backpack. But it’s the glitter toenail polish that pushes us over the edge.

  “Do you think dogs can feel stupid?” Tim chokes out.

  Bambi actually looks embarrassed.

  At five thirty, when Mike and I are alone in the clinic, he calls me into his office.

  “What’s up, Doc?” I ask, straddling him on a chair and strategically placing my hand to get his attention.

  “I want to make a birthday dinner for you at my place, and I want to invite Vanessa and Gordon.”

  My stomach tenses and my ardour instantly lessens. Standing up, I lean against his desk. “Is that really necessary? They won’t enjoy it.”

  “I really want to try it, Rachel.”

  I tilt my head back and sigh. “Mike, they hate me. Please don’t make me do it.”

  “Let’s give them another chance, Rach. I’m going to talk to them about how important it is to me that they treat you well.”

  Righting myself, I say, “Okay, but you owe me.”

  He smiles. “How about two Fridays from now, around six thirty?” My birthday is on the Sunday. Undeterred by my silence, he says, “I’m having them over for dinner tomorrow night, so I can make the plans then.”

  “Friday would be fine,” I tell him.

  With a gleam in his eyes, he gets to his feet and skims
a finger along my cheek. “I’ve got a charity fundraising meeting tonight. We’re going to The Blue Lantern around seven. Why don’t you drop by? We could spend the night at my place.”

  I shrug. “I’m going to stay here for a couple of hours to work on the conference stuff. I’ll see what I feel up to when I’m done.”

  Deflated, I go to my office. Sitting down at my computer, I check for emails.

  Dear Rachel:

  Did you take the autumn photograph? It immediately made me think of my childhood in France. Thank you. I was just given the agenda for the upcoming veterinary conference. Why did you not tell me that you and your colleague are presenting a paper? It would be a pleasure to pick you up at the airport. I would like to show you our research facility and the local area if this pleases you. Are the autumn leaves compensation enough for the winter ahead? Kind regards, JP

  I hadn’t expected Jean Paul to offer to pick us up at the airport. Talk about hospitality. His email reminds me of how lax I’ve been in making trip arrangements. I have to contact Lou Ann and Joe: their country practice is in Caldwell, Texas, just a half hour from College Station, and there’s no way I’d miss seeing them. We haven’t seen each other since graduation.

  Lou Ann! Joe!

  Trouble’s a brewing! I’ll be in College Station for the vet conference from Sept. 8 to 12. Please tell me you’ll be around! I’m dying to see you both. Lots of love, Rachel

  Then I answer Jean Paul’s email:

  Dear Jean Paul,

  Thanks for the kind offer. We’re renting a car, so we can manage from the airport. Perhaps we can meet at the conference hotel first thing Monday morning, before the conference starts. How about 8:30? We could make plans then. No, the fall foliage isn’t enough compensation for a bitter Michigan winter, but a fondness for ice skating helps. Yes, I did take the photograph. Rachel

  An hour into my work, I hear a cat going crazy out back and feel frightened. Frantic meowing and hissing is coming from a treatment room where we have a cat in isolation. I go to see what’s going on, but before I reach the room the meowing stops. Checking the inside of the room, I find nothing out of the ordinary, except an obviously upset cat. Albert is quietly perched in his cage. Five minutes later, the same scenario plays itself out: frantic cat sounds followed by silence as I approach. The third time it happens, I quietly creep to the room but stay in the hallway to listen to the hubbub. After a few moments, I peek into the room. Albert is leaning down towards the cat and growling; then he throws in a couple of muffled barks for extra excitement. The cat goes wild. Suddenly, Albert catches a glimpse of me.

  “You naughty bird,” I tell him. “What a bad bird.”

  He sways back and forth on his perch, upset to have his cover blown. I move him to the storage room.

  An hour and a half later, when I get home, I leave a message on Mike’s answering machine telling him that I won’t be over; then I call Bryan to tell him that I want to go biking on Sunday.

  “You’ll love it,” he says.

  “What are you doing home on a Friday night?” I ask.

  “Not much.”

  “Do you want to come over? I’m going for a walk.”

  “See you in twenty minutes.”

  As we end our call, I get thrown back to old times. Who says you can’t go back?

  Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. When I open my apartment door, Bryan holds out a reggae CD and a six-pack of beer.

  “My grandmother told me to always bring a little something when I show up at a woman’s door. Will this do?”

  We decide to walk the three-mile city trail that runs by my complex. The August night is wonderfully warm. When we get back to my apartment, I heat up some veggie rolls while Bryan goes into the living room to put his CD into the player; he has brought the hot sultry reggae that I like. Lounging on low-slung upholstered chairs, we drink, eat, and transcend.

  “We’re just missing a sun lamp,” Bryan says.

  I laugh. “I’ll work on it.”

  Michelle’s family is amazing. I still remember my first introduction to them and how amazed I was by the affection they showed one another and their friends. They always give you a kiss when they meet you and when they leave, and they’re always ready to give you a hug. After spending my first weekend with them, I found it contagious.

  Bryan stays until two. We’ve made plans to meet at Lupe’s Mexican Restaurant at two o’clock on Saturday.

  Chapter 9

  I was eleven when I made the decision to work with animals. I reckoned they were more civilized than humans, their behavior more honest. Sure, animals have their peculiarities -- but they’re driven by survival instincts, never maliciousness.

  Exhausted when my alarm goes off at seven, I drag myself to the Saturday farmers’ market. When I get back to the apartment, I’m loaded with groceries. Leaving the apartment door open, I go to the kitchen to drop off my goodies. When I head back to the front door, I get a shock: Reynaldo is in the entryway.

  “Reynaldo,” I say, a little breathless, “what are you doing here?”

  “I brought you some brownies that I made. I’m on my way to work. I wanted to say sorry for the other night.” After closing the door, he walks over and hands me a plate of brownies.

  Unsure what to do, I take the plate and head towards the kitchen. Reynaldo follows.

  In the kitchen, I put the brownies on the table and sit down.

  “You look tired, Rachel,” he says, and pushes the plate of brownies towards me. “Why don’t you try one? Cooking’s the other thing I’m good at.”

  Taking a taste, I would have to agree: he’s a good cook.

  Needing a moment to think, I get up and walk to the kitchen sink to get a glass of water. When I turn around, Reynaldo kisses me with such strength that I find it difficult to pull away. With his mouth next to my ear, he says, “You shouldn’t fight me, Rachel. We could have a really good time.” Just as my mind is racing to think of a way to get him to leave, he pulls away and says, “I’d better go or I’ll be late for work.”

  It takes me a full minute before I can move. It never ceases to amaze me what turns some men on. Rejection seems to throw Reynaldo into fits of passion.

  A half hour later, I leave for the clinic. Walking in the door, I walk into another life.

  The morning turns out to be crazy. There are lots of Saturday drop-ins. As I’m removing the last stitch from a bull-mastiff named Lucky, recovering from his second run-in with a car, Lucy walks up to me.

  “Can you come out front when you’re done, Rachel? Some people would like to see you.”

  When I get to the front room, I see a family of four holding onto a massive German shepherd with a thick metal chain. As the exuberant dog drags them around the waiting area, Lucy introduces us.

  “This is the Chong family and their dog, KoKo. They’ve just sold their restaurant and are moving out of country. They wanted to know if we could find KoKo a good home. They don’t want to bring him to the Humane Society.”

  It looks like the Chongs have all been crying. It’s not Mike’s policy to rehome animals, it would be impossible time-wise, but we all do it as much as possible.

  “Sure, we’ll find him a good home,” I tell the Chongs.

  Mrs Chong hands me the chain; then, tapping her hand against her chest, she bows. KoKo happily follows me out back.

  Half an hour later, Mike finds me in the X-ray room. “Rach, can you get a hold of KoKo?” he says. “He’s gotten out of his kennel and he’s running around the clinic. I’m with a client.”

  The delinquent is easily found; he’s in the waiting room sniffing a client’s cat. With ease, I usher him into the kennel room, but fail to catch him as he runs by me one way and then the other. When he backs himself into a corner, I rush to grab him, but he surprises me by rearing up on his hind legs; Tim shouts, “No, Rach, you’ll scare him,” but it’s too late, KoKo is falling towards me, his mouth open. Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the
mother of all bites, but feel nothing. When I open my eyes, I find KoKo’s face inches from mine, his paws barely touching my shoulders.

  “That’s some kind of dog,” Tim says, truly awed.

  “I’ve never seen any dog like him,” I say.

  Clinic finishes at one thirty, an hour and a half past closing time. As I’m wiping down counters, Mike slips his arms around me.

  “Why don’t I come over to your place after Vanessa and Gordon leave tonight?” he says, nuzzling me.

  “I’m going to work here on the paper tonight,” I tell him. “Then I’ll probably go home.” He turns me around and kisses me. As he starts to heat up, I pull away. “I’m meeting a friend at two.”

  “Rach, I need to spend some time with you. I’m going nuts.”

  Why do I find it so hard to look at Mike now?

  “Give me a call tonight,” I tell him.

  When I get to the Mexican restaurant, Bryan is already there.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I tell him. “Things were crazy at the clinic.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m looking forward to this. I haven’t had Mexican food in ages.”

  A waiter shows us to a table, and we order authentic tacos.

  After an unusually quiet meal, Bryan sits back in his chair and studies me. “What’s up, Rach?”

  I smile. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Maybe.”

  It feels great to have a friend to talk to. “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere,” I tell him. “Things stopped being fun, and I’m not sure why.”

  Bryan shrugs. “Then the solution is easy: backtrack to when things were fun, and work it out from there.”

  “Well, I had a lot of fun doing locum work when I got out of school. Then Mike offered me a job at his clinic. I thought it’d be great, but it isn’t.”