by Donna Ball
He reminded her of a certain type of CEO she had occasionally come into contact with in the course of her job . . . the ones who knew, from the day of their birth, that they would always be in the ninetieth percentile and who had followed a predictable path to that point. They had finishing school manners that were so impeccable they seemed genuine. They never told crude jokes or smoked cigars at board meetings. They were attentive and concerned hosts. When they entertained you on board their yachts they did not spend the day ogling your ass. Sometimes those men would ask Sara out, and sometimes she would accept. When they made love their hands were always cool.
The waiter served something delicious with leeks and crisp cabbage in a sweet red sauce, and a warm evening breeze made the torchlights sway and the candles sputter. The first course was replaced with a creamy soup. Sara caught the reflection of torchlight on dark water at the far end of the terrace, and she inquired, “What is that lake?”
Ash followed her gaze. “That’s not a lake,” he said. “It’s the moat.”
And there it was, the elephant in the room. The point of their meeting.
Sara put down her spoon, and sipped her wine. “Of course. We’re in a castle, after all.”
“It’s an affectation, really,” Ash said. “Châteaux of this era weren’t built for defense.”
“What were they built for?”
“Ostentation. Or, occasionally, summer homes for the court.”
Sara said, “Ah.”
The waiter poured white wine, and whisked away her empty glass of red. The soup was replaced with fish. Sara stared at it, her hands in her lap.
Ash lifted his fork and smiled at her. “The trick,” he said, “is to take only a taste or two of each dish. There are four more courses on the way.”
She said, “What are my options?”
Ash touched his napkin to his lips, sipped his wine, and leaned back in his chair. “The first, and perhaps simplest, would be to do nothing. Over time we could arrange for you to buy out my shares at a reasonable profit and you would take sole ownership. Once that’s done you could proceed with the restoration, lease the land as a vineyard, open the place to tourists, whatever you like. A good many Americans have had excellent luck with similar projects.”
“Do you mean . . . live here?”
“Not necessarily. You could hire a management firm.”
“It sounds expensive. And complicated.”
“It can be. But there are many variations on a theme. Winkle has prepared a very detailed report for you on several different scenarios. I suggest we review that together in the morning.” He picked up his fork again.
“I’d rather you just tell me. Now.”
He tasted the fish, chewed thoughtfully, and took his time reaching for his wineglass. “The other option, of course,” he said, “would be for you to sell outright. You hold the controlling interest; you’re within your rights to do so. You would buy out my investment with your profit, and walk away with a tidy sum.”
Sara sank back in her chair, relieved. “Yes,” she said. “I like that one. That’s the one I think I’ll do. How much—how much do you think it’s worth?”
Ash’s eyes were masked by the deep shadows, and a spark of candlelight glinted off his uplifted glass as he replied mildly, “Between six and ten million, appraised. Of course that doesn’t necessarily determine what it would fetch.”
He spoke the numbers easily, as though they were in his everyday vocabulary, which of course they were. The only time Sara had ever used the word million was in reference to someone else’s money; never her own. She actually felt dizzy for a moment.
She took a drink of her wine without tasting it. The waiter came to remove the fish and gave her a disapproving look. She managed, “Would that be euros or dollars?”
“Euros. Of course, there is a lien against the property of something over a million.”
“To you?”
“Correct. And any buyer would have to be advised that the cost of restoring the property would run something close to fifteen hundred euros per square meter.”
She was still trying to convert euros to dollars in her head. “Is that a lot?”
“Only if you have three thousand square meters to restore.”
She gave up on the math. “Bottom line?”
“It would cost very nearly as much to restore as it’s worth. Private buyers with that kind of capital are few and far between. It could be on the market for quite some time. Meanwhile, you’ve still the exorbitant expense of maintenance.”
Sara was beginning to wish the waiter had stopped refilling her wineglass after the first one. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said carefully, “that I own a property worth millions of dollars, but could conceivably end up in debt?”
“I’m afraid so.” His tone was sympathetic. “That’s why so many of these old places pass out of the families that have owned them for centuries. They’re simply impractical to maintain.”
Sara thought about that for a time. Then she said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to buy me out?”
He chuckled in the dark. “I’m afraid my holdings portfolio is already quite plump with châteaux in the Loire.”
“Couldn’t I just sell my share to someone else?”
He sipped his wine, his eyes still shadowed. “Inadvisable. There is, however, another alternative. We could form a partnership, you and I, and lease out the rights to the property on a long-term basis to a corporation—a hotelier for example—who planned to develop it over time. Or we could form an investment group and do the same ourselves. Either way, the venture would take the burden of maintenance off our shoulders and pay a very handsome annual return.”
The waiter placed a plate of sliced lamb, redolent of rosemary and garlic, before her, and poured yet another glass of wine. She shook her head slowly. “I was in the business world for a long time. Long enough to know that’s not how I want to spend the rest of my life.”
“I would handle the entire matter for you,” he assured her smoothly. “All you’d need do is cash the checks.”
She picked up her wineglass, regarding him with barely disguised skepticism. “Said the spider to the fly.”
He laughed softly, leaning forward into the light. “I have references,” he assured her, “from only the most highly placed flies.”
She released a weary breath. “And I have a headache.”
“You see now why I wanted to wait until after dinner to discuss this. Do please at least taste the lamb, my dear, before I have an irate chef to deal with as well.” He lifted his glass to her. “And tell me what you think of the cabernet. It’s a bit peppery for my taste but it’s quite popular in the region.”
She sipped the wine. “Peppery,” she said without inflection, and returned her glass carefully to the snowy tablecloth. Her head was swimming with facts and figures, and the dizzying plunge from multimillionaire to practically impoverished. What she really wanted to do was forget the entire conversation, but there was one thing she had to know first. “What,” she asked, “did Daniel do with a million dollars? I mean, euros?”
Ash did not answer at once. It might have been because he didn’t understand what the question referenced, or simply because he was swallowing the bite of lamb he had just taken. Sara knew his type well enough to suspect he was, in fact, trying to decide how to answer.
He placed his fork, tines down, on the edge of his plate, used his napkin, sipped his wine. His easy, forthright gaze, however, never left her. “Daniel, as you know, was somewhat improvident. The cash amount he received from my investment shares was considerably less than a million euros, but part of the contract was that I would continue to pay the taxes and other necessary expenses as they accrued. That has mounted up over the years. Of course we do what we can to offset the expenses by letting the place out now and again for special events—someone actually shot a film here last year, I believe it was—but the balance sheet is rarely even. The firm has kept a full acco
unting, naturally,” he added, “which you’ll want to have your own experts review before any documents are signed.”
Sara was suddenly weary to the bone. All she wanted to do was finish her dinner, drink absolutely no more wine at all, and go to bed. She said with a sigh, “That sounds like a perfectly fine arrangement. Maybe we should just keep things as they are.”
His smile was sympathetic. “Or perhaps you should give yourself a bit of time to get accustomed to the situation. This has all been a great deal to absorb at once. Things will look clearer to you in the morning, I’m positive.”
Sara gave him a weak smile, and picked up her fork, at last, to taste the lamb. But by that time it was cold.
SEVEN
Dawn arrived as a touch of gold on the windowsill, painted its way down the rough, white plaster wall, and began a slow, seeping flood across the floor. By the time it reached the puffy silk duvet under which Sara lay, she was fully awake. Yet she stayed there for another moment, sunk in feather bed luxury, listening to some strange bird chirp its heart out outside her window, and watching the ancient room slowly fill with muted light. Overhead, a canopy of gold silk. Beneath her, the gleam of sun-bathed marble. All around her, the fragrance of flowers. She thought, with an odd and wondrous contentment, I am sleeping in a castle. Then she thought, Good God. I own a castle.
She had called Dixie close to midnight the previous night, before she went to bed. She had said nothing about millions, and had described the charming Mr. Lindeman in only the vaguest of terms. “Slick,” she had said, groggily, “but nice. And kind of cute, in a very British sort of way.” Dixie had kept saying, “A castle? You own a castle?” And Sara, fighting the effects of too much wine and a throbbing headache, murmured something about taxes and entailments. Then Jeff got on the phone and wanted to know whether they should call her “your highness” from now on.
Afterward, she tumbled into a sleep that was completely untroubled by dreams, and awoke to find that what she thought she had dreamed was in fact a reality.
She pulled jeans and a cotton sweater from the wardrobe where the maid had hung them, thinking how forlorn her few possessions looked in such elegant surroundings. She quickly applied makeup, caught back her hair in a ponytail, and made her way downstairs. Following the route Ash had taken her last night, and with only a few wrong turns into dark and forbidding-looking rooms, she found the kitchen.
It was a big, windowless space that had been tiled in black-and-white marble and seemed to have been designed exclusively for catering. A butler’s pantry covering most of one wall held what looked like a service for one hundred—bonewhite china with a discreet silver rim, glasses of every size and description, serving platters and bowls. There were two old-fashioned-looking white refrigerators and a giant butcher’s block in the center of the room. The industrial-sized stove had eight gas burners, and the fuel tank was mounted on the wall a few feet away. A mammoth collection of copper pots and pans was suspended from the ceiling. The space beneath the counter was covered with a plain linen curtain, and rather than built-in cabinets, there were tall wooden cupboards, like pieces of furniture, in which she found an array of canned and dry goods.
There was a bowl of fresh fruit on one of the worktables, and she found a round of cheese in a cloth-covered bowl on a shelf, and next to it a loaf of soft bread wrapped in a colorful linen towel. After some searching, she discovered a black metal contraption that might be an espresso machine, but try as she might she could not find any coffee.
“Try the freezer,” suggested a voice behind her, and Sara whirled.
Ash Lindeman lounged in the doorway behind her, looking drowsy and slightly rumpled in jeans and an untucked shirt. He glanced up from examining the screen of his mobile phone to add, “For the coffee. You Americans are really quite helpless without your breakfasts, aren’t you?”
A little annoyed, Sara opened the freezer compartment of one of the refrigerators and found a sack of coffee beans on the bottom shelf. “While you Brits, of course, can leap tall buildings in a single bound fueled on nothing but tea and determination.” She examined the bag of coffee with a small frown.
He smiled and pocketed his phone. “So the story is told. The machine grinds the beans,” he told her, taking the sack. She watched as he snapped together a few parts on the black contraption, poured the coffee beans, added water, and plugged the thing in. Within moments the room was filled with the sound of grinding and the aroma of rich, dark coffee.
“The staff won’t be in until ten,” he said, leaning against the counter as the raucous rattle gave over to the hiss and gurgle of brewing coffee. “I didn’t expect you up and about so early.”
She said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. My habits are early ones, as long as I’m in a familiar time zone.”
“Even though you were up most of the night catching up on your phone calls?”
He looked surprised, and then returned an endearingly abashed grin. “However did you guess?”
Sara found a small earthen pitcher of heavy cream, covered with an elastic-rimmed cloth cozy, in the refrigerator. “Let’s just say I know your type.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I had a type. I’m not certain I like that, actually.”
Sara took a plate from the pantry and a knife from the wooden block on the counter, and began to slice fruit. The pears were as soft as butter, the apples crisp and tart. She said, “How old is the castle?”
“It dates from the 1600s, I believe. Rumor is that Louis XIV had it built for one of his mistresses, but there has never been any proof of it. Bad luck, that. Otherwise, we might be able to have it listed.” He helped himself to a slice of apple and bit into it.
“Listed?” Sara took a mango from the bowl and, before cutting into it, brought it to her face to inhale the aroma. It smelled as clean as a tropical island, and her expression softened with the sheer pleasure of it. She was aware of Ash watching her, and she put the fruit on the plate and began to slice it. “What does that mean?”
“The government keeps a list of places with an especial historical significance, particularly those with ties to the monarchy. If a property qualifies, and only a few of them do, it would be eligible for a restoration grant.”
She stopped slicing. “Do you mean the government might pay for restoring the castle?”
“A rather large ‘might,’ I’m afraid. The firm looked into the matter for Daniel’s parents years ago. Very few properties qualify anymore, and for those that do, it can be a double-edged sword. The property owner is required to use the government’s architects and craftsmen, which can double the time and expense, and to meet all manner of other pesky rules and regulations. At any rate, it doesn’t apply to Rondelais, so there you are.” He chose a slice of pear and bit into it.
He seemed more at ease in the early-morning kitchen, more casual and approachable. She found she preferred this version of his charm to the very careful and correct form he had shown the previous night. She returned to the pantry and brought two plates back to the table. “You’ve certainly done your research.”
“It’s my job. Not so very different from what you did at Martin and Indlebright when you were trying to impress a client, now, is it?”
She was surprised. “I don’t remember telling you where I worked.” Then, before he could answer, she accused, “You Googled me!”
He looked offended. “You needn’t make me sound like a pervert. Besides, I didn’t Google you; Winkle did. I merely read your file.”
“I have a file?” Something about the mere sound of that filled her with dismay.
He took two cups from the pantry over to the coffee machine. “Information gathering is what we do, my dear. And it’s not as though we sought anything that’s not readily available to public access. Date of birth, marriage certificate, citizenship, length of residence, state of employment—these are all necessary to complete the forms for property ownership in France
.”
She continued to regard him suspiciously. “You certainly are . . . efficient.”
He handed her a cup half filled with rich black coffee. “Of course. We are an extremely well-regarded firm. Careful with that,” he advised her. “The French make their coffee strong.”
She tasted the coffee and grimaced. He filled the remaining half of her cup with cream, then did the same to his own.
“I thought you’d drink tea.” She tasted the creamy brew as she took one of the ladder-back chairs at the table. It was much more palatable now.
“There isn’t a decent cup of tea to be had in all of France.” He sat at the chair opposite her, and began to slice the bread she had set out. “Or Italy for that matter.” He shrugged. “One learns to pick up native habits in a pinch.” He transferred a slice of bread to her plate and unwrapped the cheese. “Tell me about North Carolina, Sara.”
She told him about Dixie and Jeff and the kids, and the bookstore, and the little island village that dozed the winter through and burst into a bustling, tropical-colored tourist town in the summer, about art festivals and concerts in the park and the sand that got simply everywhere. Even as she spoke, it all seemed so far away, almost as though she was describing a place she had read about, or seen on television, but had never really been. It was an odd feeling, which she didn’t have a chance to analyze, because then he asked, in his easy conversational way, what had caused her to leave Chicago. She surprised herself by telling him.
“I thought I was happy,” she concluded with a brief, puzzled shake of her head. Even now, she was baffled by how she could have been so wrong about who she was, and what she wanted. “Then I just woke up one morning and—I couldn’t move.”
When she glanced at Ash, he was frowning into his coffee. But the expression was instantly wiped away when he sensed her gaze on him. He sipped his coffee, his face pleasantly interested, and remarked only, “Happiness is a relative thing, I suppose.”
