The Handyman

by Susan Finlay

  “Sorry I didn’t answer your call, earlier. I was on my way back to the troglo.” They sat on the sofa and he continued. “I’ll tell you more about what’s going on later, once I know more, but for now, I wondered if you could help me find Paulette’s first son, Andre Rabaud. R-A-B-A-U-D.” Isabelle, surprised by the revelation, just stared at Josh. “He was born the 10th of December, 1945.” Josh remembered the spelling of the last name, having noted it was Paulette’s maiden name when he was looking through all those old papers in her storage boxes and trunks.

  “How did you find out his name and birthdate?”

  “Paulette told me. He was born either in a convent or near it, I gather, in Apremont-sur-Allier in Burgundy. Any idea where that is?”

  “I’ve heard of it. We can search online for more information about the town and the convent.” She hesitated, thinking. “Only, that was a really long time ago. Those old records might have been destroyed. Even if they weren’t, they’re probably sealed.”

  “Sealed forever? Isn’t there a statute of limitations? A set number of years for them to stay sealed?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t really say.”

  “Okay, if we can’t get government records, then what do we do?”

  “Maybe we can travel there and speak with someone, perhaps one of the nuns, see if any from that time are still living? Paulette is eighty-eight. Unless they had some really young nuns, it’s unlikely there will be anyone left who knew her and even if we find someone, they are not likely to remember. They may have kept records in the convent, though. That would be our second-best option.”

  Two hours later, Josh’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. Vanessa.

  “Excuse me, Isabelle. I need to take this call.” He rolled his eyes and whispered, “Vanessa.”

  She looked up from the computer screen and nodded.

  Out in the hallway, the door open only an inch, Josh answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” Vanessa asked. “Madame Laroche told me you’re looking for me.”

  “We need to speak in person,” he whispered.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Where are you? Up at the old lady’s house? Is that why you’re whispering?”

  “No. I’ll meet you at your hotel in ten minutes.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll be here.”

  Josh pushed the door open and said, “I have to go now, Isabelle. Do you mind continuing without me?”

  “It’s no problem. See you later?”

  He nodded agreement and started to close the door, then reopened it and rushed over to Isabelle, kissing her on the lips for the first time.

  She cocked her head, eyes wide with surprise.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said.

  She smiled, cheeks growing red, as he turned and rushed out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JOSH STARED AT his ex-fiancé, naked, lying on the bed, smiling, and obviously enjoying his shock. Crap! He should have known she would pull a stunt like that. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself. Don’t let her get to you. Think about Isabelle. When he opened his eyes, his fists clenched at his side, he said, “Dammit, get dressed, Vanessa. We need to go to the clinic now. I want to speak to the doctor myself and hear from him or her that what you told me is the truth.”

  She pouted, that French pout that she’d learned from her mother and from the girls at the French boarding school she’d attended. To think he used to find it appealing. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “You still don’t believe me? I showed you my pill packets.”

  “Those don’t mean anything. I not that gullible.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. You always used to trust me.”

  “Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you slept with my father. I’m not like my mother or your parents, who look the other way and pretend everything is fine. Now, if you want me to believe you’re pregnant, get dressed and go to the clinic with me. Let’s talk to your doctor.”

  “My doctor isn’t in this town. We’ll have to travel to Paris.”

  “No way. We’ll go to the local clinic.”

  “Oh, all right.” She got up and dressed slowly, deliberately making sure he got a good look at her, but he turned around and went into the hallway after a minute.

  When she came out of the room, she said, “We don’t have to do this. The clinic is probably closed already, anyway.”

  “It’s not. I checked their hours before I came here.” He knew there was only one medical clinic in town. He’d gone there once, when he first arrived, to inquire about Paulette’s condition. They told him they couldn’t give out any information on a patient without the patient’s approval. After that, he’d called the hospital. They told him the same thing.

  He started walking down the stairs, but stopped when he noticed she was still in the corridor. “Aren’t you coming?”

  She raised her hands in the air. “Okay, I give up. I made up the pregnancy. But I did it for us. We should be together. We should have a baby. Don’t you want that?”

  “Not anymore, Vanessa. I’ve changed and I don’t love you anymore.”

  She pursed her lips, red in the face, then said, “Okay, I’ll go home. But you should know that what you’re doing is killing your father. He’s devastated that you won’t forgive him. He’s even threatened to kill himself. At least go back and see him.”

  “Yeah, right, like I should believe anything you say, and since when do you care about anyone but yourself?”

  Her eyes filled with tears for the first time since Josh had seen her in Mythe. “I’m not the monster you seem to think I am. I’ve made mistakes, and I’m sorry for those, but I’m not lying to you. I wish I’d never come between you and your father. I would take it back if I could.”

  Josh looked away. What was her game now?

  “Your mother called me last night and asked me to convince you to call your father, to forgive him, and try to repair your relationship.”

  “If that’s true, why wait until now to tell me?”

  “I figured I could do that after we made up. Don’t you see? If we were back together, it would have been natural for you to consider forgiving him, too.”

  “Huh? What you mean is you were being selfish as usual and making sure you got what you wanted before you helped someone else.”

  She shrugged. “You know what the flight attendants say on your father’s flights: In case of an inflight emergency, pull down the oxygen masks and place them over your own mouth first, then place them over your children’s faces.”

  Unbelievable. Josh marched down the stairs, disgusted, shaking his head, and didn’t look back.

  ISABELLE STARED OUT the window, watching a group of black and white cows graze in a pasture, none of them bothering to look up as the train rode by, apparently familiar with the rhythmic click-clacking of the wheels on the track. She’d always loved that sound, soothing somehow. When she was four or five years old, she remembered falling asleep peacefully on her father’s lap whenever they rode the train. Perhaps that was why she liked the sound, reminded her of sleeping on her father’s lap. Those were the best times in her life. The train slowed and was about to stop at the next station. She turned her head, admiring Josh’s profile. He was studying something on his phone, but then turned it off, stuffed it in his pocket, and looked around.

  “Is this our stop?” he asked.

  “No. We have another thirty or forty minutes. You can go back to what you were doing.”

  “I’d rather talk, if you want. Tell me about your family. You haven’t talked much about them.”

  She stared back out the window for a moment. Would Josh think poorly of her if he knew her family’s demons? She closed her eyes. If he was going to stay in Mythe, she supposed he would hear it from the locals eventually. If he wasn’t going to stay, then it didn’t matter what he thought. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to face him again.

>   The train squealed and lurched, momentarily, jostling passengers, then resumed its click-clacking.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. What were they like?”

  She nodded, took a big breath, and let it out. “All right. My parents were Jean-Pierre and Marianne Bernot. Papa’s greatest joy was making chocolate. He always reminded me of a little boy playing in the mud and making mud-pies.” She smiled. “Maman was the pastry chef. They made a good team and taught me what they knew.”

  “Did you work with them in the bakery?”

  “I would help out in the summers, from the time I was a little girl. When I was seventeen, Maman showed me some of the accounting records, too. She told me someday I might take over running of the shop.” She paused, looking a bit sad, then resumed. “I don’t think she knew how soon that would be.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ve never told anyone, Josh. It’s hard to talk about.”

  “I don’t want to pry, but you can trust me.”

  She looked down at her hands, her fingers intertwined. “Papa wanted to buy my older brother, Henri, a motorbike, but Maman was against it. They fought over it for weeks. Henri needed transportation to his job in a nearby town. Maman said he could take the train like most people. Papa said that boys needed to learn to drive. She said he should get him a car, then, not a motorbike. She’d heard horror stories about them.”

  “What did Henri want?”

  “You know, I don’t know if they ever asked him. One day, they left together—father and Henri—early in the morning on the train and returned late in the day, both of them on Henri’s new motorbike. Maman was furious. She didn’t speak to Papa for days. A week later, Henri was in a terrible accident. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve relived the scene when the gendarmes came to tell them.”

  Josh pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Isabelle.”

  He held her for a few moments quietly until she pulled away and resumed. “For a couple of days, my parents closed the shop and we all sat at Henri’s bedside. Then they reopened, sending me to run the shop by myself, while they stayed with Henri. That was during the summer, and Henri was in the hospital for many weeks. He finally came home and spent the rest of his life in his bedroom in a special hospital bed.”

  Josh squeezed her hand.

  “My parents fought all the time after the accident. They blamed each other.”

  “I can see your mother’s point since your father bought the motorbike, but why did he blame her?”

  Tears streaked down Isabelle’s face. “She had gotten into a big argument with my brother that day and he had stormed out of the flat, got on his motorbike, and drove off in a rage.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “I don’t know. No one would tell me. I was at a friend’s house when it happened. I only heard about it later, when my parents fought. A few weeks after Henri came home, they went crazy. I had closed up the bakery and was working on the bank deposit when I heard shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard gun shots from our house above.”

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. A woman holding the hand of a small child wobbled past them and went into one of the lavatories. Someone in a nearby seat coughed.

  “I froze, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I knew. I didn’t need to see them. The sound of those shots made the whole world stop.”

  Josh hugged her again, patting her back as she sobbed.

  When she could talk again, she said, “I . . . I screamed for help and then ran up the stairs, nearly breaking my neck in the process. Two shots. Only two. Which of the three of them was shot, I didn’t know. I thought probably my brother. Papa owned a hand gun. Maman didn’t know how to use it, but Grand-père had taught him how. Do you know at that moment I briefly hoped my brother was the one who was shot, because his life was ruined and he’d confided in me he didn’t want to live.”

  “That must have been horrible.”

  She nodded. “It happened in my parents’ bedroom. Blood everywhere. The paramedics and police arrived moments later. They took my statements, snapped photos, and carted away my parents in bags. I was left to console Henri who had heard the whole thing and was crying nonstop.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because of the problems I’ve had, but that pales in comparison. I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.”

  “I’m ashamed that I hoped my brother was one of the victims. That was terrible of me. Henri was young and barely got to live—at least he got a few more years after our parents died.”

  Josh nodded.

  “I still can’t believe that my father killed Maman and himself, but that’s what the gendarmes said. After the crime scene was cleaned up, I closed off our parents’ bedroom and never went back inside. I took care of Henri all those years, and now he’s died. I haven’t been back in his room, either. I know I need to do something with all of their clothes and other belongings, but I can’t.”

  “I can help you when you’re ready. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

  “You have your hands full with Paulette right now, and then you will probably go home. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know that I’m going back to the U.S. I’m thinking maybe I’ll stay in France. It’s something I’ve been considering. Haven’t made a final decision yet.”

  “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I was a freak or that you needed to take care of me. You have your own life and should go where you want, not let me or anyone else influence you.”

  He nodded. “First, know you are most certainly not a freak. And if I do decide to stay, it’ll be because that’s what I want for me.”

  A bell rang. Isabelle looked up at the display over the doorway. The words ‘Apremont-sur-Allier’ appeared.

  “That’s our destination,” she said, composing herself, straightening her blouse, and wiping tears from her face. “We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.

  Josh stood up and grabbed the bags they’d packed in case they needed to stay overnight, from the overhead.

  “I’m glad you told me about your family,” he said. “It helps me understand you better. Thank you.”

  She tried to smile. He was the kindest, gentlest person she’d ever met and he wasn’t judging her. So why did she still feel like a freak? Then it hit her: She felt she wasn’t good enough for him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “OH WOW, THIS is a charming little village,” Josh said. “I love the ivy creeping up the sides of the buildings. And look at those turrets and staircases.” He pointed over to the left. “Cool. Mind if I take a few photos?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t expect otherwise.” Isabelle tilted her head and smiled at him.

  How beautiful she was, standing there on the cobbled road, her hair done up in a medieval-type style. He snapped a picture of her and she blushed, looking shy. Another one. She turned around, then glanced over her shoulder. Snap.

  “Josh, stop that. You’re supposed to take pictures of the beautiful scenery.”

  “I am.” He smiled impishly at her.

  She shook her head, but he could tell she was not at all upset with him. “I’m going to go sit down on that bench over there, along the river, and study the map a few moments.”

  “I thought you studied it on the train.”

  “I did, but I need to refresh my memory.”

  He nodded, turned back around, and worked on deciding the best angles for a few more photographs of the village and its mansions, cottages, and chateau. The river front was shaded by a number of large willow trees, lazily overhanging grassy banks along the winding river. Behind that, the ground rose gently, low shrubbery covering much of the slope, but through the middle wound a cascade of stairs, broken by several intervals of flat, manicured stretche
s of grass and gardens. Though a couple structures populated the hill on either side, the village proper rested at the top of the staircases, with the village then climbing the hillside to what Isabelle said was the chateau and convent sharing dominion over the town and the top of the hill.

  When he finished his photos, he strode over to the bench and sat beside Isabelle.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Well, the convent is up on the hill near the chateau.”

  “Well, of course it is.”

  She gave him a funny look.

  “Sorry, it just seems everything in France is up on a hill.”

  She stood and said, “I hope the convent is still in use. Are you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  They walked across an arched stone bridge, linking the rail station to the village, marched up the staircases, Josh taking more pictures in the gardens, replete with stone statuary, fountains and several small bridges crossing minor drainage tributaries that ran through the grassy garden paths. Josh decided this area was a photographer’s heaven, but remembering Isabelle was being patient, forced himself to limit his enthusiasm. Besides, he smiled, those gazebos and pergolas ahead with wisteria draping over the tops forming tantalizing tunnels that he and Isabelle could stroll through together, promised to be positively romantic. Delicate fragrances from the rose gardens and other flowers he couldn’t identify tantalized his senses and completed the romantic picture. He longed to continue taking more and more photos, but didn’t want Isabelle to think he was obsessed, though he admitted he probably was at the moment.

  From the hilltop, the village fanned out around and below them. Taking in the scene at first, through his own eyes and then using his camera as binoculars, he changed the distance gradually until he was zoomed in on the roof of one of the houses. The roof tiles varied in color from red to black to almost white. He couldn’t be sure whether those were the original colors, or whether they were discolored from bird-droppings, mold, age, or other detritus. He slowly moved his camera to the next building and then the one after that, scanning from top to bottom. Yes, everything here looked ancient, and yet that oldness held charm and appeal he’d never found in the states. And for the most part, the structures seemed well maintained. Practically every window on every house—or so it seemed—contained a planter box filled with flowers. The buildings here, though also constructed of stone, were more yellow than in Mythe. A different kind of stone, he figured.