by Donna Ball
“Shall I ring her up for you, then, sir? You have been away for some time.”
He looked carefully for some sign of accusation in her demeanor, and found none. “I sent her a kimono from Japan.”
“You are a devoted son.” She made a note on her pad. “You’ve a rather light week, all in all, as you weren’t expected back so soon. Regarding the trip to the country . . .”
“Shall I tell you what would make you even more perfect than you are at the moment? You may take this by way of a performance review.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“If you could manage, now and then, to at least pretend to be marginally taken by my charm.”
“I shall certainly keep that in mind. Now, there are one or two other matters . . .”
“I suppose,” he said, resigned, “I have to meet with her.”
“If you are referring to your mother, it would be the civilized thing to do,” agreed Mrs. Harrison.
He scowled. “I’m referring to Daniel’s wife. What is her name, anyway?”
Mrs. Harrison gave a slight lift of her brow and informed him, “Madame Orsay.”
Ash said, annoyed, “Well, I can hardly call her that, can I? That’s Daniel’s mother. Besides, I seem to recall she didn’t take his name when they married.”
He stopped then, shaking his head briefly against the shadow of pain that crossed his eyes. “Damn,” he muttered. “I should know her name. I should know the name of the woman who married my oldest friend.”
Mrs. Harrison took up another notepad, turned two pages, and informed him, “It’s Sara, sir. Sara Graves.”
“Sara,” he repeated, bringing himself back with an effort from the melancholy place his thoughts had taken him. “Yes, that’s right. I remember now. Excellent. Get the number where she’s staying, will you? Perhaps I can persuade her to move the meeting to next week.”
“Shall I tell your mother to expect you, then, sir?”
He gave her a quelling look. “You may set up a video conference in half an hour with Carlos Antigua in Brazil and Alexandra DesChamps in Switzerland. And then . . .” He sighed. “Ring my mother.”
He started toward his office and Mrs. Harrison said, “Also, the former Mrs. Lindeman popped by.”
Ash paused with his hand on the handle of his office door, waiting, as it were, for the other shoe to drop. And so it did.
“She’s waiting in your office now. Shall I bring tea?”
He gave her a long and steady look. “You,” he informed her, “are an evil, evil woman.” He started to open the door, hesitated, and turned back to her. “Do not,” he said distinctly, “under any circumstances, bring tea.”
Michele Orsay St. Cloud Dupuis—the former Mrs. Lindeman—was Ash’s constant reminder that youthful indiscretions did not necessarily fade with youth. He had married her when he was twenty-three, against the advice of his father, his mother, and his best friend, Daniel, who also happened to be Michele’s cousin. He regretted the impulse almost immediately, but it had taken him more than two years to divorce her. He had been paying for the mistake, in one way or another, ever since.
“Michele.” He closed the door behind him and opened his arms wide in greeting, though the gesture, and his tone, were noticeably without warmth. “What an absolute delight to see you.”
The walls of Ash’s office were painted a deep gray; the furnishings a postmodernistic mixture of white leather and lime green, with black metal sculptural accents in the lamps and tables. A nine-foot-square glass desk floated in the center of the room, and an enormous Rothko, brilliant in oranges and greens, dominated the opposite wall. It was a perfect backdrop for the exotic beauty of the creature who made herself so perfectly at home behind the glass desk—bold, brilliant, and uncommonly expensive. Ash’s tastes were, if nothing else, consistent.
His ex-wife uncurled her long, bare legs from his leather desk chair, tossed a length of straight, fire-red hair over her shoulder, and sauntered into his arms. She smelled as thoroughly, immaculately gorgeous as she looked. “Mon cher,” she murmured, air-kissing his cheek so as not to smear her perfect lipstick. “You are a heartless liar.”
“So I am.” He held her shoulders briefly to navigate his way around her, feeling a little claustrophobic in the embrace of her perfume. “What brings you to London, then?”
She tried her seductive smile, cat green eyes slanting up at him as he moved behind his desk. “Why, I came to see you, of course. Do I need another reason?”
“For your sake, I certainly hope so.” He sat down behind his desk in the chair she had just vacated, folded his hands across his chest, and regarded her evenly. “Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, could we get on with it? I’ve just returned from abroad and I’ve a mountain of work to get to, so if you could just tell me what you want, I can say No, you can have your tantrum, and we can both move along with our days.”
She switched to a pout, trailing her pink-painted fingernail along the curve of his desk. “You are a cruel man, mon cher.”
“I believe we’ve established that.” He glanced pointedly at his watch.
“I rang your mobile dozens of times while you were away.”
He inclined his head. “Clever of you.”
“And always I get a recorded voice, never your own.”
“Which is one of the many benefits of modern technology.”
“And never do you bother to ring me back.”
He glanced again at his watch. “I may have mentioned, my love, busy day.”
She dropped the seductive air and cast him an impatient look before flinging herself into the stylish lime green chair that was arranged at an angle to his desk. “Et bien sur,” she said, spreading her hands. “You force me to be direct. I have for you a proposition.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Of a purely business nature, dare I hope?”
Her slitted eyes glittered, evidence of the effort she made to control her temper. That alone intrigued him.
“Sadly,” she murmured, “that is all that remains for us, yes?”
He said nothing. He could see the muscles in her lovely, oft-retouched jawline tighten as she waited for his reaction, and received none.
“Chéri,” she said at last, and there was a distinct edge in her voice now, “enough foolishness, eh? If it is business between us, then business it shall be. I am interested, as you know, in Rondelais.”
“Then you’re in the wrong office. Winkle is handling that matter.” He reached for the single-page agenda Mrs. Harrison always printed out and placed on the corner of his desk each morning. It was a redundancy left over from the time of his father, since his agenda was instantly e-mailed to his home computer and his mobile phone before he even got out of bed in the morning, and he had memorized it before he left the flat, but it was a tradition he liked. It also came in very handy at moments like this, when he lost interest in a conversation and simply wanted something to do.
“I understand the matter will be settled very soon, n’est-ce pas?”
“Very likely.”
“I would like to help you bring the situation to a happy conclusion.”
He tossed the agenda aside and sank back in his chair, letting his impatience begin to show on his face. “Could you kindly get on with it? This isn’t even original, Michele, and I really am out of time.”
She lost all pretense of being pleasant. When she abandoned sultriness, all that was left was a face with too many harsh angles, and eyes as hard as granite. She said, “Daniel’s little American has no claim to Rondelais. All you need do is persuade her to abandon her interest in my favor, and all of our problems will be solved.”
“Your problems will be solved,” he replied. “Mine will be only beginning. What is your fascination with that old place, anyway? Believe me, it’s far more trouble than it will ever be worth.”
“It is my home!”
“It was Daniel’s home,” Ash pointed out patiently. “It never has been and never will be yours. But al
l other considerations aside, what in the name of all that is holy would ever make you think I’d want to go into partnership with you?”
She gave an impatient flick of her wrist. “Do not be difficult, Ashton! You know the property has been a—what is that word? A bird around your neck . . .”
“Albatross?” he suggested, trying not to smile. Sometimes she could still be quite enchanting, even when she wasn’t trying. Mostly when she wasn’t trying.
“Exactement! An albatross about your neck for years, and nothing would make you happier than to be done with it. While Daniel lived nothing could be done, but if the two of us go into partnership, we can attract investors, we can leverage our shares, we can use the property as collateral . . .”
“We could sell at a profit,” he suggested. His tone was thoughtful, his expression carefully neutral as he watched her.
“There, you see, we think alike, you and I!” She beamed at him, pleased.
“So much for your great attachment to your ancestral home,” he observed.
“It is more mine than yours!” she snapped back. “Or hers!”
He shook his head a little, laughing softly. “Michele, Michele. After all these years, you still haven’t learned how to manage me. Never overplay your hand, my dear. It’s boring.”
“Very well.” She carefully rearranged her features into a cool semblance of pleasantness. “I will try not to be boring.”
Tucking one foot beneath her, she leaned forward in the chair, affording him another waft of her perfume, and an unabashed view of a long and slender thigh. “You are clever; I am clever. We think alike, and we have the courage to do what needs to be done. We would be good in business together, cher.” She gave him a small and secret smile. “As we were good together at so many other things.”
He took up a Montblanc from the chrome stand on his desk and began to twirl it absently between his fingers, his expression implacable. “I wonder what Daniel would think of your proposal. Or his parents, for that matter.”
“What do I care what anyone in that family ever thought? Daniel was a careless fool who never deserved his good fortune. And his little American whore . . .”
“Have a care, madame,” Ash warned, his eyes growing cool. “You’re talking about the woman Daniel married.”
“Daniel, Daniel!” She threw him an angry pout. “I think sometimes you loved him more than me.”
He pretended to consider that. “You don’t want me to think too long about that one.”
“She is a rich American!” Michele continued, giving a contemptuous toss of her head. “What use has she with property in France? She will let it out to Japanese tourists and have rock concerts on the lawn and build a car park in the garden!”
“Perhaps,” agreed Ash. “Or perhaps she will find the same uses for it you have. On the other hand, she may take one look at the place and adore it. You know how absurdly romantic Americans can be about old houses.”
“Then you will persuade her differently,” said Michele, leaning in close again with those green, greedy eyes. “This is what you do so beautifully, is it not? You make people think what you wish them to think, and want what you wish them to want.”
He returned a wry half smile. “In a word,” he acknowledged. “But even if I were the slightest bit interested in your scheme, there remains one problem: I work for the other side. It would be completely unethical of me to try to persuade a client of a course of action I know to be against her best interests.”
“Posh!” She gave another one of those uniquely French and highly expressive turns of her wrists. “Ashton Lindeman works for Ashton Lindeman, and I know this to be true. You have big talk about doing what is the right thing but in the end everyone does what is right for you. That is what makes you brilliant.”
“Flatterer.” But he could not resist a small smile.
“No more games, then, darling. You know Daniel would have sold the place a dozen times over if the legacy had allowed it, and now that he is gone his widow will do what she likes.” She gave an elaborate French shrug. “She will want to be rid of it, of course. I will make her a very . . . reasonable”—the smile that accompanied the word was smug, as though it were already fait accompli—“offer, and you will point out that it would be far more costly for her to attempt to maintain the property than to sell it at a loss. This is true. This is in the best interests of your client.”
He tapped the pen lightly alongside his nose, his expression contemplative. “What makes you think I won’t try to buy her out myself, if she’s inclined to sell?”
She laughed throatily. “Darling, that would make me very happy! Rondelais remains very close to the family, and I remain . . .” Her eyes narrowed in such a way that might have been interpreted as a threat, or a promise. “Very close to you.”
He regarded her thoughtfully for another long moment. “You,” he observed softly, and the note of admiration in his voice was not entirely feigned, “are a piece of work.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, with another upward, cat-like glint from those green eyes.
“No. Thank you. For a thoroughly entertaining”—he glanced at his watch—“twelve and a half minutes. However . . .” His tone became brisk as he stood up. “I’m sorry to say it has been a waste of time on your part. I’m not interested in your proposition, Michele, so, as I predicted from the outset, I’m afraid the answer is no. Do feel free to call again, though, when next you’re in town.” He crossed the room toward the door. “Good day.”
The expressions that warred across her face were too swift, and too volatile, to be deciphered in their entirety, but Ash knew her well enough to read each one. A lesser man would have been brought to his knees.
In an instant, with a strength of will that was classically Michele, she smoothed her expression into easy nonchalance, and uncurled herself from the chair with a long, lazy shrug. “Eh bien.” She smiled. “It was, as you say, worth the try. We shall live to fight another day, alors?”
Ash opened the door. “I look forward to it.”
She slung her bag—a bright yellow, crushable Prada—over her shoulder and sauntered past him. Just before exiting the door she paused, and turned a curious look on him. “This Mrs. Daniel, the American,” she said. “Do you intend to tell her about the brat?”
Ash’s expression remained as pleasant as ever, but he could not disguise the wariness that crept into his eyes. “I can’t imagine the subject would come up.”
She smiled, insincerely. “You are no doubt right.” Coming close to him, enveloping him in her scent, she placed a sharp-nailed hand alongside his face. She leaned in close, emerald eyes fixed on his, and brushed a quick, light kiss across his lips. “Au revoir, mon cher. Think of me.”
Ash waited until she had gone, then he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his lips. He walked into the outer office and stood thoughtfully beside Mrs. Harrison’s desk for a moment. “Do you know what my father taught me?” he said, at length.
She did not look up from her monitor. “Everything you know, sir.”
“Quite. More to the point, he had a saying he was fond of repeating: An ember that’s allowed to smolder overnight will oft be a blazing inferno by morning. You’d best cancel my date with the Swiss ambassador, and give my regrets to my mother. And clear my schedule for the week, will you? I’ll be leaving for Rondelais on the evening train.”
“Very good, sir.” One hand continued to type as, with the other, she offered him a slip of paper. “The young lady is staying at the Rosalie in the village. Here’s the telephone. She’s expected to arrive by five.”
He took the paper, tapping it absently against his hand as he gazed out the window at the rain. “Sara,” he murmured. “Her name is Sara.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned from the window to Mrs. Harrison with brisk resolve. “Let’s see what we can do about upgrading our Sara’s accommodations, shall we? Call in a staff, and get that chef— what’s
his name? The one who catered that affair for the museum we had there last spring.”
Mrs. Harrison raised an eyebrow but did not glance up as she jotted notes on her pad.
“Have them put her up in the Queen’s Chamber,” he went on. “Yes, that will do nicely. And flowers, mountains of them. Make the place look like a bloody church. Candy, champagne, the full VIP treatment. And get Winkle up here. Tell him to bring the file on Rondelais. I think I’d best handle the matter personally after all.”
THREE
There was not one single thing that Sara could look back on and say, Yes, that was it; that was what happened; no precipitating event or specific moment. After the party in New York, she flew back to Chicago, approved the final revisions on the Super Bowl launch campaign for New Blue Microbrew, and three days later woke up in her plush lake-view apartment to the horrifying, paralyzing awareness that she couldn’t do it another day.
She couldn’t make herself get out of bed. She couldn’t make herself get dressed. The telephone rang, and she didn’t care. Her cell phone rang, and she didn’t care. Her BlackBerry buzzed. She didn’t answer the banging on the door. For forty-eight hours she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and barely noticed the changing patterns of light and dark. She just didn’t care.
Exhaustion, they called it. Stress and overwork. Take a vacation. She would be fine.
Sara nodded and smiled her wooden smile and pretended to listen to all the careful concern and well-meant advice. But even as she boarded the plane for the coast of North Carolina, Sara knew that the only way she would ever be fine was if she never came back.
And she didn’t.
She moved into Dixie’s basement guest room. She took long walks on the beach. She played endless games of Chutes and Ladders with the twins. She started to laugh again.
She accepted a generous settlement package from her employer, and transferred her two suitcases and a garment bag to a one-bedroom 1940s rental on Ocean Avenue with hideous linoleum and yellow clapboard siding. She helped Dixie with the bookstore in the height of tourist season.
