When I stepped out of the bath, I was reminded this was winter. Immediately I felt a chill that was foreign to my sunny California acclimation. Wrapping the large fluffy white towel around my glistening skin, I needed to hurry and get dressed. I ran to my suitcase. Luckily I didn’t have far to run. Nevertheless goose bumps were flashing quite noticeably across my skin.
Behind me there was a hissing gurgle. I turned to eye the old water radiated heater coiled against the south wall. I gathered my supplies and stood in front of the heater as I slathered my skin in lotion. Not wanting to leave the glorious heat, I stood in front of the radiator until my buns felt toasty. I hopped over to the wall sink, brushed my teeth quickly then pulled out some new designer jeans from my suitcase. Next, I pulled out one of my sister’s cream colored sweaters and quickly put it on. I wiggled my hips to get into the jeans. I stared at the image in front of me. She had wide eyes, as if a different person looked back from the mirror. This person had shapely legs, tight curves, and hips. I saw my breasts. My breasts actually made themselves known through the sweater, not being covered in an ugly sports bra and two large oversized layers of shirts. Beneath this sweater was a lacy bra that lifted and defined what I had, instead of pressing and confining.
I combed my fingers through my curls then added some frizz controlling gel. My curls were prominent but controlled as I styled them. I recalled how my sister would style my hair so I followed that exact pattern. I sat down at the mirror and began to mimic my make-up application like my sister had done many times when we completed one of the many, many makeovers. I smiled ruefully with the thought. I was once again an oversized Barbie, only this time I wasn’t only the Barbie, but the person making me into the Barbie. I’d be my own creation.
My usual pale face was still my face, keeping the shape, but I was in vivid color. My lips were glistening wet with rosy luster. My cheeks were defined and blushed. My eyes were done in a smoky eye shadow that highlighted the deep shades of emerald green, and my long lashes looked even thicker with the application of mascara. Could it be possible that my own face was fascinating? For once I wasn’t hidden behind the wild curls or the oversized pop-bottle glasses.
I slipped on my knee high boots, placed my coat and scarf on, and headed out of the confines of my room. With an uneven breath I stopped at the front desk of the hotel.
“Bonjour!” the pale faced man greeted with a large toothy smile. He was an older gentleman but handsome in an exotic kind of way.
I almost froze, but took in a breath and lifted my chin. “Good morning,” I returned.
“May I be of assistance, ma beauté?”
“Ma beauté? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He smiled. “My beauty.”
“Oh, I…” I seemed to lose the ability to speak for a moment. He called me, my beauty. I needed to consider his words.
“Joli blush,” he said then paused. He must have figured I didn’t understand what he was saying. “Oh, uh, you have a pretty blush.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I sat my purse up on the counter, pulled out the picture of the chateau, and laid it down on the countertop. I kept my eyes firmly upon the photograph. “Do you know this place?”
He picked up the photo and seemed to study it for a moment before laying it back down onto the counter.
“Oui, I know of this place.”
“Is it near here?”
“Oui, twenty minutes south.” He paused for a moment. “I am not,” he placed his hand to his chin, “how do you say… convinced this place is for you.”
“Why?”
“It is a place of many pleasures.”
“Pleasures?”
“Oui.”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.
“This is why I am not convinced you should be seeking such a place.”
“I am looking for a friend of mine. I believe he is staying at the chateau in this picture.”
The man made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Ah, la, la … this would probably be,” he agreed.
“Do you know of anyone who may be able to drive me to this place?”
“Go to the Café Louis. Ask for Marcelo. He gives tours. This place is on his tour.”
“Marcelo,” I echoed.
With a nod he said, “Oui.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“The friend you are looking for, he was…” the man gestured with his hand to his head, “nuts for leaving you.” He picked up the photograph once more, glanced at it then set it lightly into my hand. “Bonne journée, ma belle.”
I placed the picture into my purse and headed out the door of the hotel. I felt my head spin for a moment, but focused on what I needed to do. No time for a panic attack. Besides, the village was pretty, not overly crowded, and I needed to find Marcelo at the Café Louis.
I studied the signs as I looked down the snow-covered cobblestone. All of the buildings held rustic, old world charm. Some looked hundreds of years old. It was like walking into another time. I raised my hand to my nose, to lift my glasses. The habit of sliding my glasses up my nose made me giggle. Thank God I did not need my ugly glasses any longer.
I walked, passing shops that were closed and some that were open. I passed a sweets shop then backtracked. I stepped inside to grab a pastry and ooh, I thought, perhaps a hot cocoa. The shop smelled wonderful. Like fresh baked bread, fruit, and chocolate. My mouth watered. It took me a moment to convey what I wanted since the lady who worked there only spoke French.
“Hot chocolate,” I said, making a gesture of lifting a drink to my lips.
“Chocolat chaud?”
“Yes, chocolate.” Gesturing to drink again.
“Oui.”
Yes. That word means yes.
“Yes,” I said. I wished I’d been smart enough to have taken a foreign language elective in high school, specifically French.
The lady smiled wide, making her chubby cheeks into the picture of the Campbell’s soup kid as she nodded.
Along with nods, in coordination with quite a bit of pointing, I finally obtained my chocolate covered pastry with my hot cocoa. Food and drink in hand, I chose a seat at a small wooden table by the window. Besides the lady behind the counter, I was the only person in the sweets shop, so I felt no hint of anxiety at the moment. As I took a sip of my cocoa, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I sat inside of an actual restaurant.
“Vous êtes américaine,” the sweet voice of a young boy rang out. I shifted to see him, standing at my table.
The little boy was maybe five years of age. He wore blue overalls with a blue plaid shirt. His face was cherubic with a large dimpled smile, and his hair was the color of white cotton that curled around his rosy cheeks. In his little hand he held a small toy fire truck, which he quickly placed on the table top and began to run it along the edge making vroom sounds.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you said.”
The little boy grinned, and ran his truck along the table.
A beautifully elegant and regal woman entered the shop. I didn’t mean to stare, I really didn’t, but I could not help myself. This woman had a presence that drew the eye. I noticed the woman was wearing spiked heeled leather boots of exquisite craftsmanship. They zipped up the side, leather forming to overtop her knee. Her black pants looked almost like riding pants, and hugged every curve of her voluptuous body. She wore a white fur coat with a white fur hat. Her hair was the color of raven, and flowed down the curve of her back in long spirals. Her face was exotic with a high flair to her brow, but beneath the arch of her brow held eyes the color of autumn. I also noticed her lips were the shape of a perfect lush heart and glistened deep shades of ruby.
“Vous êtes américaine,” the boy said again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“He is saying you are American,” the beautiful woman offered in a proper almost haughty tone. It was obvious she had a French accent; however, it played around the edges of her cadence
as if she’d been working many years to rid herself of the intonation.
“Oh, thank you,” I said. I watched this woman sashay gracefully to the counter where she began speaking in perfect fluid French to the rubenesque woman behind the glass encasement.
The little boy giggled, tapped my hand then ran off. He barreled through a swinging door that obviously led to the back of the sweet shop.
The beautiful woman took a seat with a coffee. She seemed to be waiting. She took off her coat, gloves and hat, and placed them meticulously onto the espresso colored chair to her right.
“Excuse me, but do you know where I may find Café Louis?” I asked.
The woman turned and looked at me. Her twinkling autumn eyes narrowed. Her gaze roamed over my face. I looked down. Of course it was an easy habit to tuck my chin and look down.
“There are many other places to find tasty food. May I recommend a better place?”
“Oh, I’m not going to eat. I am going to find a person named Marcelo.”
I lifted my chin to find the woman with a surprised expression upon her face.
“Marcelo? May I ask why such a beautiful woman would want to waste her time with a horse’s ass such as Marcelo?”
I giggled. “Um, I was told he provides tours, and I am looking for a specific chateau that I understand is part of his tour. I was told what I am looking for is located about twenty minutes south of here.”
The woman took a gentle sip of her drink. “Ah, I see. And what would be the name of this chateau you are looking for?”
“I don’t know. I only have a picture.”
The woman pulled out the chair beside of her. “Please, come sit, my petit. Tell me of this place. Show me the picture. I am greatly curious as to why you have found the courage to come here.”
How did this stranger know about finding courage to come here? I felt a strange sense of anxiety. The room began to blur. In an attempt to calm down, I closed my eyes for a moment. I counted my breaths only to find I was trying too hard to settle my heartbeat before I lifted my chin to look back up. As though this woman read every sign of stress and anxiety that I was experiencing, she spoke again in a gentle voice.
“It is all right, my petit. You have nothing to fear with me. You might even find we have many things in common.”
I gazed at this elegant yet rather intimidating woman, doubting very much we would ever have anything in common, but I took my shaky hand, found my cup of hot cocoa, and walked over to the table, where I took a seat. I wasn’t sure why, but I just felt a sense of need. I was compelled to join her, even though this beautiful woman was a stranger. A stranger, I pondered, amazed.
Chapter Eight
“My petit. It is love which has brought you on this journey.” The elegant woman kept her sharp eyes honed in on my face.
Was this woman a psychic or a sorceress? She was probably the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Definitely the most elegant woman I ever met, yet I was somehow obligated to speak with her. Answer her.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Ah…” the woman said with a slight smile, “love can make us do many things, and you have the look of a desperate love.”
“Desperate?”
“Oui, my petit.”
The beautiful woman picked up her coffee cup, gave a look of almost camaraderie from under her long lashes at me, then took another delicate sip of her beverage. Once she sat the cup back upon the table, she fixed her gaze upon my face yet again.
“Desperate love can be the worst kind of love. It makes us crazed. We yearn for the impossible, and seek out a way to make the impossible possible, do we not?”
This woman stroked a fingertip down the side of her coffee cup. I noticed a gold and ruby ring with the insignia JCR. Could this be the woman Reid was with? She was extremely beautiful, well spoken, elegant, bold…. My heart beat faster. There was no way I could compete with this woman. My stomach sank. Maybe coming here was a horrible idea?
“Tell me your name, my petit,” the woman asked.
“Trinity.”
“Beautiful name for such a beautiful young woman.”
“Thank you. And you? May I ask your name?” I managed to ask, and for some reason I felt myself move into a formality.
The woman extended out her hand in an almost regal manner. “I am Jacqueline Claudette Rousseau.”
I took her hand. It was petal soft and the smell of Jasmine wafted from my skin. “It’s nice to meet you….”
“Please, call me Jacqueline.”
“Jacqueline.”
“Now, show me this photograph you have. Perhaps, I may be of some assistance in your quest.”
I reached inside of my purse and with a shaky hand pulled out the picture of the chateau. I handed it to Jacqueline. A smile crossed over Jacqueline’s face. She handed back the photograph. I wondered if she even really focused on the picture since she didn’t seem to actually look at it.
“I know of this place.”
“You do?”
“Oui. It is the château le rêve. I am the owner.”
I imagined my face turned chalky white. I was going to have a full-blown panic attack. This was the JCR I was looking for, and there was no way in Hades I could compete with this woman for Reid’s affections. Not even if Hades froze over.
“You…” I lost my breath, clutching at my stomach.
“My petit. What is wrong?”
I managed to squeak, “Panic attack.”
Jacqueline turned in her chair and called, “J'ai besoin d'un sac!” Then turned back around to face me. “Breathe, Trinity.”
The lady from behind the counter came running up to the table with a white sack in hand and immediately placed it over my nose and mouth, holding it there. Memories of something being placed over my mouth with the feeling of being unable to breathe came flooding back. I closed my eyes as flashes of memory played out in a quick burst. Blood, smoke, floating. I balled up my fist, sucked in the air that was eluding me then blew it back out into the bag.
Moments passed. I continued to breathe into the bag. I was beginning to feel my breath return. I was also embarrassed, able to hold on to the bag myself.
“Good, my petit. Just relax and breathe,” Jacqueline encouraged.
I shook my head. Removed the bag. “I am fine now. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Why do you say you are sorry?”
“I haven’t had a panic attack in a while. More than likely because I wasn’t living until now.” I paused to look down at the table. The lady from behind the counter tapped my shoulder. I glanced up at her. The lady smiled, and her long black braid fell over one shoulder as she leaned in toward me. Jacqueline waived her off. “I should not have come here,” I continued.
Jacqueline’s expression looked intrigued. “What do you mean you were not living until now?”
“Fear. I fear almost everything. I was a ghost.”
“Tell me. I wish to hear this story, my petit.”
I looked up to see the autumn colored eyes of Jacqueline. They were filled with curiosity, but also filled with a haunting kindness, and a deep perhaps hidden pain of her own. It was strange, but something inside said tell her. So I did. I started at the beginning, how I almost died when the TwinTowers fell in New York City, how my life and my family’s lives were never the same. I told Jacqueline of all the time I spent in hospitals, the nuthouse, the weeks which turned into months of counseling, and my self-imposed seclusion from the world.
“You know what’s funny? Well, maybe funny is not the right word. Perhaps strange would be the better sentiment.”
“No, tell me,” Jacqueline said.
“Without much of an effort it’s easy to talk to people without a voice, travel anywhere without moving, learn anything without stepping foot into a higher learning institution, and buy anything without ever leaving your room. I completed high school, made purchases, and spoke to people I never really met. I only spoke to the
m through email or chat rooms. I researched any topic, read books, listened to music, booked a flight to France, but never left the confines of my room. With the Internet I could do anything without any actual face to face interaction. Heck, if I ever did decide to get my own place I could pay all my bills online, even have my groceries delivered without stepping foot from my home, without stepping foot into the real world. So I guess in a strange way, what most people see as modern technology or convenience became a crutch to lean on. It helped me become the ghost and kept me boxed in, allowing the outside world to only be within reach of my fingertips. It helped me do what was necessary, but until this moment I never truly lived a life.”
I told Jacqueline how we moved to California to be closer to my father’s family, my Aunt Jane and how I, my sister Bentley, and my mother moved into the guest house of the Addison estate. I spoke of the long drawn out legal battle my mother has been waging with the life insurance company. I talked about Reid. I explained how I met Reid two years ago, how I watched him, even loved him, and needed to do something to make him take notice of me. I spoke of the night under the moon, and when Reid left for France I started reinventing myself, the eye surgery, the working out, the jogging, the yoga. I spoke of the postcards, the photograph of the chateau that led me here. I knew it was a gamble, but I took that gamble. I spoke of regret, the inability to live with what ifs, so I took a flight from California to Paris, France with the hope of finding him, with the dream of making Reid take notice.
Jacqueline waived off the owner of the sweets shop more than once, even ignoring her cell phone when it rang. Once I was done talking, I felt lighter. Like I’d taken nine long years of pain and somehow purged it in two short hours.
Jacqueline reached out and took ahold of my hand. I did not stiffen and I did not try to pull away. There was something about Jacqueline.
“What if I told you I could help you, Trinity?”
“What do you mean, Jacqueline?”
The Good Sister: Part One Page 9
