Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  No one answered. Merle re-dialed but still no answer.

  Merle washed two pans and tried again. Same result. She called Troy Lester and got his voicemail. What the hell was happening? Anxiety ratcheting she returned to cooking, removing the sheet cake carefully from the jelly roll pan and slathering on the almond icing. Another long perusal of instructions, a deep breath, and she rolled the log, removing wax paper as she went. Placing it on a large platter she set it in the garage to cool.

  She vacuumed and dusted the living room and dining room, consulted with Francie about the cheese and Stasia about the food for the evening. The families always got together on Christmas eve to exchange presents. Merle was determined to keep all the traditions going while they still had kids at home. Francie was still single unbelievably, but said she was bringing a friend. The sisters were intrigued but wary.

  *

  Two hours of cake decorating ended with a passable version of a yule log, fork marks indicating bark and green icing holly on the side. Merle quickly cleaned the kitchen and tried Amanda again. This time an answering machine picked up. Clifton’s voice: gruff and unwelcoming. Merle tried to sound eager as she invited them to Christmas dinner tomorrow and apologized for the late notice.

  At four o’clock on the dot the troops began arriving. Stasia and Rick lived nearby and had so many people and platters of food they brought two cars. Their three kids each had a friend and each carried presents to put under the tree or a plate of picture-perfect hors d’oeuvres. Stasia in casual holiday chic with a green cashmere sweater and velvet pants carried in two gallons of egg nog. Rick managed the box of liquor. The party had officially started.

  Arranging the food around the dining table Stasia admired Merle’s bûche de noël. “My god, Merdle. I had no idea you did cake decorating.”

  “Me either. I’m exhausted.”

  “Speaking of exhaustion where is that French hottie? Don’t tell Rick but —” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been having some naughty daydreams.”

  Merle laughed. “Bad girl.” She looked around the living room, teenagers draped on chairs, adults gulping egg nog and wine. Annie and Callum had made a surprise appearance and were staying over. Francie was passing cheese samples, still working on her import business idea. Her friend turned out to be a tall, silent man whose name everyone had forgotten. He sat by the fire, sipping wine, looking reasonably content. The only sister missing was Elise who had planned a ski trip this week. Everyone else looked relaxed and happy, merry with food and drink and family.

  No Pascal. No Tristan. She looked at her watch: nearly 6 p.m. and full dark outside. Where were they? Merle tried to shrug nonchalantly: “No idea, chérie!” But if they didn’t get here soon she would sic the neighbor’s gigantic blow-up Santa on them.

  “Wine, Merdle. Lots of it.” Stasia said, grabbing an empty wineglass for each of them. “What’s the holidays without a little over-imbibing?”

  Pascal and Tristan blew in, laughing, arms full of packages, a half hour later. Stasia placed a warning hand on Merle’s shoulder, a reminder to smile and enjoy the party. Merle felt her blood pressure rise into her temples and sit there, throbbing. She swallowed the rest of the wine in her glass and went to take their coats.

  “Sorry we’re late, Mom,” Tristan said, dropping the shopping bags in the hall. “The train got delayed, then cancelled, then finally the mom-car didn’t start.”

  “The battery,” Pascal added. “It is a dead duck.”

  “Pascal bought a new one from the Triple-A guy.” Tristan looked out into the living room. “Hey, everybody, merry Christmas!” He lunged toward the food, waylaid by his cousin Oliver. A mock punching ensued.

  Merle turned back to Pascal. He didn’t even have a winter coat, just the leather jacket. His neck and face were raw with cold, his nose white. “I’m so sorry about the car. Thank you.” She was always so quick to blame him. Why was that? She touched his hand. It was icy. “Can I make you something hot to drink?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “If it is very strong, yes, of course.” He pecked her on the cheek then stepped back. “We are all right, with the late? Your party. I am sorry.”

  She smiled. How could she resist this man? She expelled a breath and told herself to be more trusting, to use her intuition for a damn change. She knew Pascal, in a way that most people don’t know others. She had seen him in action, saving her house, saving her. He was one of the good guys.

  But the doubts crept in. What was he doing with the French government? Medium-tall, dark hair: the description from Troy Lester fit him to a T. But was it him? And how long before he filled her in on his real mission in the U.S.?

  Callum arrived with a large whiskey, thrusting it at Pascal. “Medicinal, you know.”

  Pascal took the glass and looked again at her, tipping his head in question. “Okay, chérie?”

  She took his free arm. This wasn’t the time for questions or arguments. It was Christmas Eve and he’d flown across the damn Atlantic to spend it with her and her family.

  “You didn’t miss the pièce de résistance.” She led him to the dining room where the bûche de noël had a place of honor in the center of the spread. “Voilà!”

  *

  Nearly midnight. Merle wiped down the kitchen counters and filled the dishwasher with the last of the serving plates, taking time to hand wash to silver spoons and forks that she only used at the holidays. They would be needed tomorrow for dinner with her parents. Pascal had insisted on cooking. She had no idea what that would entail and it worried her a little. Harry had never cooked a dish in his life. But Pascal was another animal, wasn’t he?

  She gazed into the dark yard. The moon high, glancing off patches of snow and frozen puddles, making slivers of light dance in the breeze. Pascal came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and pressed into her back. She leaned back against his neck and he kissed her ear.

  “Stop now, chérie. It is late.”

  “Almost done.” She set a spoon on a dish towel and plunged her hands back in the tepid water.

  “That is the answer of life, is it not? Almost done. Any time you choose, there is always that, almost done, when you want to stop working, stop trying, stop —”

  “Breathing?”

  He turned her then, not caring that her hands dripped onto the floor, onto their socks, his jeans. He put them around his back and circled her waist with his, drawing her close. “What is this? You are sad tonight?”

  “No.” She tried to smile. Was she sad, was she thinking of death, of Harry, of things that were almost done or definitely completely done? She shook her head. It felt like feathers. Too much wine. “Just tired.”

  He grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “Then stop.”

  “I still have to wrap presents. You too I think.”

  “Mine are ready. Under the tree.” He nodded toward the living room. “Take off that apron and come see.”

  Most of the presents were gone from under the Christmas tree. They had exchanged gifts, mostly for the kids, earlier. The room was dark, the fire just a few red embers in the grate. The tree was still lit with white lights, a happy sparkle in a nighttime world, a reminder of the light that would come back when winter was done. Merle had always loved Christmas, the magical tree, the sentimental ornaments collected over the years, the special sparkly things that made her feel young and silly for the way she adored them. Pascal sat her down by the fireplace, facing the tall spruce she’d picked out and had delivered the week before. Decorating it wasn’t as much fun as when Tristan was small but it still had its pleasures. She smiled, watching a glittery ball slowly turn and flash.

  He stood before her then, with a small red box with a white bow on his open palm. It was square, jewelry-sized. Her heart flipped and she blinked up at him. He wouldn’t. Would he? She didn’t like surprises like that. She wasn’t equipped like Annie or Stasia to act pleased and flattered if she just felt bushwhacked. He wouldn’t do that to he
r. He knew her.

  “For you, chérie.” He sat down next to her as she took the box. “I wanted to wait until everyone was gone to bed. I thought Annie would stay up all night.”

  “You shouldn’t have, Pascal.” Her voice sounded strange, croaky.

  “It is not so much. Open it.”

  She tore off the paper. Inside was a velvet jeweler’s box. She lifted the lid, a hard knot in her chest. When she saw the pendant, a fleur-de-lis in amber and amethyst on a gold chain, she let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. A necklace. Not a ring, not ‘so much.’

  For a moment she was disappointed. If he had made the decision for them both wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it make the future certain, make him permanent? She did want a future with him, didn’t she?

  The moment passed and she smiled into his doubtful face, making the worry between his eyes go away. “It’s beautiful. Is it from France?”

  “Bien sûr.” He waved a hand. “Where else would one find such a lovely?”

  “I haven’t wrapped yours yet,” she said, taking the necklace from the box. It was large with lots of gems, a bit showy for her style but she loved it anyway.

  “I can wait,” he said. He took the necklace from her and fastened it around her neck, admiring it against her chest. “I couldn’t wait for this, for you to see it, to see it on you. You really like it?”

  Then they were standing and she was kissing him, warm inside his arms. “I love it,” she whispered, and meant it, no matter what that little voice in her head was warning.

  Nine

  Christmas day passed in a pleasant fog. Merle’s parents, Bernadette and Jack, came at noon with presents and entertained them with family stories while Pascal rattled and banged through the kitchen, preparing his feast. Merle had gotten the menu out of him and was stunned by his ambition. Five courses, including cheese and dessert. He had somehow procured fresh oysters and smoked salmon and duck and shopped for wine pairings. He showed Tristan how to open oysters, how to test to make sure they were fresh and wouldn’t poison you. There had only been three cut fingers.

  Half of Merle’s elaborate bûche de noël remained, maimed but still delicious and apropos. Pascal made kir royales for them all, deftly popping the cork on the champagne and drizzling the creme de cassis into the glasses. He served baguette slices with olive tapenade and smoked salmon in the living room. With no kitchen help but his own two hands Pascal served both the oysters and the main course at the same time, seating them at the dining table with a flourish that made Bernie laugh. She widened her eyes appreciatively at Merle, wiggling her eyebrows just like Annie did.

  Annie and Callum had taken off in late morning, back to the city. Annie had to go back to Pittsburgh the next day. Callum’s Wall Street job wouldn’t wait. This was their last day together for awhile. No one knew how their lives in distant cities would jibe after the wedding, not even them. At least, Merle mused, there wouldn’t be an ocean between them. She chastised herself for last summer when she had written Pascal off, not even informing him that she was in France. Things had changed a great deal.

  Side by side, Jack, in his favorite red plaid bow tie, and Tristan, in a tartan sweater his grandmother had given him, slurped down oysters, the boy’s first but apparently not last. His first reaction (slimy! salty!) was soon forgotten. Pascal showed them how to tip the shell into their mouths and get every briny drop. The duck with raspberry sauce was divine. They all exclaimed over his hitherto hidden talents. His older sisters, he said, had insisted he learn to cook.

  Merle cleaned the kitchen again. Pascal used nearly every pan and wooden spoon but it had been worth it. As the light faded from the yard, turning everything blue-green in the shadowy pines, the phone rang. It was Aunt Amanda.

  Merle gulped at her voice. She’d forgotten to invite Amanda and Clifton and felt guilty at her relief that Harry’s aunt didn’t even mention dinner, or Christmas even. She had something more serious on her mind. Her voice was tight, a nervous whisper.

  “That lawyer called,” she said. “The one with the creaky voice. He sounds a hundred years old!” Spoken like an eighty-year-old.

  “What did he want?”

  “They’re coming over tomorrow, ten o’clock. What do they want, Merle? Why don’t they leave me alone? Don’t they know I’m fragile?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. But I can come over. Do you want me to be there?”

  “Yes. No! It’s Clifton.” Her voice dropped. “I haven’t told him.”

  “What’s to tell? You don’t know what they’re after.”

  “Questions about Weston, they told me, just like you said. This was his house after all.”

  Merle stopped, her mouth open. “What did you say?”

  “You didn’t know? This was Weston and Emilie’s house. They left it to me. Sylvester and I raised Harry here. When he went off to college we moved back into our own house. Sylvester was very sharp, you know, a genius really. Made a fortune in color televisions. We loved our house and paid it off, so I kept them both.”

  Merle had never known Sylvester, sharp or not. He died in the ‘80s of some kind of cancer. “What happened to your house?”

  “I sold it so I could buy the condo in Florida. After I retired. I’m sure Harry told you.”

  Had he? Merle didn’t remember any of this, never paid attention to any of Aunt Amanda’s ramblings. She had always appeared to Merle as a silly woman, high-strung and prone to “tizzies,” now married to a burper from gator country from whom she kept secrets. When Harry was alive he shielded her from his aunt’s drama. There had been a few problems, she recalled, but couldn’t remember specifics. Bankruptcy? Nigerian scams? Real estate messes? It was a blur.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow, Amanda. In case you need me.”

  *

  A humid wind blew in overnight, melting ice and making rivers flow down the streets of Levittown. Merle ran her wipers one last time before shutting off the mini-van across the street from Amanda’s cottage. She checked her watch. She was fifteen minutes early. She sat back to wait, sipping the lukewarm coffee in the paper cup.

  On the drive down she’d tried to figure out what this was about, why the lawyers and the French government were so dogged in their pursuit of such an old scam. They couldn’t really think there was anything left to plunder and re-patriate after fifty years. Weston had been gone so many years, no matter what his crimes. Could they have discovered something in the bones found in the stone pissoir in the Dordogne? That mystery would probably remain unsolved. Merle had her suspicions but there was little point to them at this late date. All the actors were gone now.

  No, it had to be the wine. Weston had a racket going, importing wine from France. It seemed like a lot of trouble, pouring out wine or making new labels or whatever. Did wine fraud work that way? Why not just sell the good stuff for a bundle? That had worked out quite well for Merle. She had no idea what Weston had been thinking, nor was she all that curious until now. Harry’s father was a non-item in his life, gone and forgotten.

  Pascal had taken the train back into the city again. She dropped him off like a proper housewife in her mom-car then headed to Long Island. What was he doing? Why didn’t he just tell her about the Weston Strachie investigation? His secrecy made her suspicious and distrustful which in turn made her feel small and mean. She didn’t like to feel that way. Not with anyone. But mostly not with him.

  She fingered the fleur-de-lis pendant around her neck, flipping down the visor mirror to admire it. He had exclaimed over the leather gloves and soft tartan scarf she’d given him. He was grateful and sweet but she hadn’t given him anything on this level. No personal token of affection was a plaid scarf.

  At five till ten Clifton appeared at the front door, dressed in blue workman’s pants and a Marlins sweatshirt, carrying what looked like a list squeezed in his fist. He started up his green Chevy sedan, backed out, and squealed down the street. Merle saw the curtains twitch and in a mome
nt Amanda came to the door and waved her in.

  “I thought he’d never go,” Amanda muttered, shutting the door behind Merle. “Thank god it warmed up. The man has the thinnest blood.”

  Merle had barely hung up her coat and wiped her shoes on the mat when the knock came. The lawyers were right on time.

  Ten

  Pascal d’Onscon leafed through a Paris Match that was four months old in the consulate reception, trying to be patient. The envoy, whose real purpose at the New York office appeared to be film festivals and pastry shop appearances, was having a second cappuccino with a very attractive divorcee. Annoying but very French.

  On the other hand Pascal was feeling rather pleased with the way his Christmas dinner turned out. He had rushed the potatoes and green beans a bit, there was some crunch to the beans but he liked them that way. You never knew how Americans would react to dishes you’ve been eating your whole life. The Bennetts were amiable people, not surprising since they raised Merle and her sisters. The mother had only winced during the raw oysters, blinking, horrified, as if he’d suggested raw snails. Oh, he should have made snails. That would have really wound her up.

  He wasn’t entirely happy with the white Bordeaux he’d chosen for the cheese course. No one seemed to care. The magret de canard was a bold move. He’d been worried about finding perfect duck breasts. Luck and an internet search had helped with that.

  All in all his sisters would be proud. He had sent them both photos from the kitchen and they exclaimed their surprise and pleasure at his efforts to please his special friend. That was what they called Merle. They said she was too old to be called his ‘petite amie.’ They didn’t approve of her, being older than him. That made Merle a voleur berceau, a cradle robber. His sisters had a natural but smothering interest in his love life. They had adored his wife, right up to the day she moved back to Paris with her music instructor.

  The heavy paneled door to the inner office creaked open and the expensively-dressed divorcee sashayed out in a tight black dress, her lipstick smudged. The envoy, Antoine Girard, looked the part of a diplomat in a gray pin-striped suit that fit close to his small frame. He wore cuff-links, Pascal noticed as he stood. A man who wore cuff-links was not to be trusted. Girard adjusted his designer glasses and let his eyes run over Pascal’s wrinkled black jeans, white shirt, and plaid scarf. The worn leather jacket he’d seen before.