by A W Hartoin
Chuck pulled the lead guitarist aside. In a second, there was smiling and nodding. They gave Chuck an acoustic guitarist and I got shooed off the small stage. Then Chuck took center stage, his natural spot, and played the score from Chocolat, my favorite movie. I knew Chuck played. I didn’t know he was good, like really good.
But wait, there’s more. He played with the band through songs by Prince, Green Day, and Metallica. I drank another beer, a record for me, and danced with strangers. My cheeks hurt from smiling and from the multitudes of kisses that were bestowed upon me. It was a perfect night, a perfect happiness. But the whole time, I kept thinking it would end and the happiness would vanish like Elias on the bridge, like it was never there at all.
But it didn’t vanish. It changed. At one in the morning, we left Aaron sipping kirsch with Andre in Blend and went to the Rue Montorgueil apartment. Chuck unlocked the door and went silent as we checked to see if Poinaré had broken in, just in case. He hadn’t.
Please say something. Anything.
“I guess that’s it. Good night,” he said.
Not that.
“Er…so everything isn’t changed,” I said.
“It is.”
“If you’re going in there”—I pointed at the tiny bedroom—“and I’m not, it’s not fixed.”
Chuck touched my cheek. His hand trembled slightly, but he didn’t pull away, letting me feel the fear. “I don’t want to taint what we have.”
“I love you, but it’s already tainted.”
His hand dropped and I grabbed it, not letting go. “I thought you said you went to the therapist when you came back.”
“I did.” He wasn’t lying. I could see that.
“Did you…tell the truth?” I asked.
He tried to get his hand back. Nope. Not letting go.
“Did you?” I asked.
“Mostly.”
“But not totally?”
Chuck didn’t answer.
“It helps to talk. It helped me. It’s still helping me.”
He leaned on the hall wall. “I’m not telling you. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Then don’t tell me everything. Tell me something. Enough to help me understand. Why was it okay when we got together at Cairngorms Castle and not now?”
“I wasn’t thinking then.”
“And you started thinking?”
He nodded.
“About what? What is it?”
He shook his head. So I told him a story, the story Mom told me when I wanted to quit therapy for a second time after I killed Richard Costilla. After I was born, Mom had postpartum depression. It was pretty bad. She kept thinking she put me in the oven. She could see what it did to my little body. She could smell it. She got to the point where she locked me in my room and threw the key into the garden, so she couldn’t get to me. Mom slept in the kitchen, on the floor next to the stove with the oven door open to make sure I wasn’t in there. Dad found her there at three in the morning and persuaded her to tell him what was going on. As soon as she told him, it got better. Mom said it was like putting down a lead weight that had been nailed to her hands. She went to a therapist and it was over in a few months.
“That’s different,” said Chuck. “Hormonal. She only thought she put you in the oven.”
“So you actually put someone in the oven?” I asked, getting more nervous by the second.
“Not me personally. I…”
I hugged him and wouldn’t let go. “Put down the weight.”
So he told me. Some of it. Not all of it. Thank goodness. I wouldn’t have dealt with it as well as he had. Chuck’s undercover assignment might be the worst in history. He knew what he was getting into. Or rather, he thought he did. Chuck went into the world of child porn. He saw things. He heard things. Things he couldn’t forget. When he touched me, he saw them again.
“I let it happen.” Chuck broke away from me and ran to the bathroom. The sound of his vomiting echoed through the hall. I stood there listening, nauseated myself. I never imagined that was where he was. I thought it was drugs and maybe he saw a dealer get murdered. This was so much worse.
When he finished, I got him out of the bathroom and into my bed. He didn’t fight it, which surprised me. I tucked him in and pulled up a chair, sleeping there while holding his hand.
The smell of poitrine fumée woke me the next morning. It was bacon, one better. The smell called to me, but I couldn’t get out of the chair. I had eight cricks in only one neck. I texted Serge while I was waiting to loosen up. He was at the Orsay, cataloging a new exhibit, but he was happy to give that up to come over and help me go through Elias’s art. He’d come at noon, but I’d have to get moving first. Eight thousand and one texts were waiting for me from Mickey Stix. He’d seen a video of me singing and thought it was time for me to come back. DBD was willing to pay in a big way for me to sing. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye, but the bill from Madam Ziegler hadn’t come in yet, so I told him I’d think about it.
“Need some help?” asked Chuck from the doorway.
“Only in a huge way. I think my joints are frozen.”
He pried me out of the chair and straightened me up. It wasn’t easy, but he waved some poitrine fumée under my nose to get me moving. We had breakfast on the balcony, surrounded by red geraniums and Blackie appeared, twisting around my feet.
“So…” I said with much hesitation, “how’s that lead weight?”
“Your mother’s a wise woman,” he said.
“Don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He laughed a deep, resonating laugh and I realized I hadn’t heard it in months. A real laugh. Real and deep. “Then I’m telling her.”
“You just love to bother me.”
“I do.” His smile wavered. “Can I tell you something else?”
Uh oh.
“Of course,” I said.
“First, I want to say that I’m going to go to therapy and tell her what happened.”
“All that happened?”
“All of it.”
I sipped my latte and regarded him with trepidation. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
He rolled his cup between his palms, leaving moisture on the glossy black surface. “I saw Elias.”
“Before we saw him on the bridge?”
“In the apartment. Pretty much every day,” he said. “I take it you didn’t.”
“I dreamt about him, remember?”
Chuck brightened up. “I wonder why. Was he doing something significant, something meaningful to you?”
“He was with members of my family and some Bleds in Nana’s and he led me around an antique store here in Paris,” I said.
“Maybe Elias was trying to tell you something.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I’ve been watching a dead guy walk around, wringing his hands for a week. What do you think?”
“Well…if you think that means something…”
Chuck leaned forward. “What happened?”
“I saw Blackie.”
“Blackie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nana’s so-called cat from New Orleans.”
“Here? In Paris?” he asked.
“In Elias’s apartment.” I told him what Aunt Tenne said about the cat being a warning.
Chuck didn’t say anything and went to make us some more lattes. When he sat back down, he said, “I’ll buy that.”
“You will?”
“After this week, sure. But I think there’s more to it.”
Fabulous.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like I thought that cat only showed up on family property, your grandparents’ house, for instance.”
“I know. It’s weird.”
“I think Elias and Blackie are trying to tell you something,” said Chuck, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Of course.”
He leaned back and laughed. His voic
e echoed off the buildings, bouncing back to us in joy. “I thought I was crazy.”
“Oh, you’re crazy. You’re dating me,” I said.
“I’ll drink to that.”
We clinked mugs and enjoyed the lovely Parisian morning with no place to be and no mysteries to solve. At least, not for a little while. A couple of hours. Maybe.
THE END
A.W. Hartoin grew up in rural Missouri, but her grandmother lived in the Central West End area of St. Louis. The CWE fascinated her with its enormous houses, every one unique. She was sure there was a story behind each ornate door. Going to Grandma’s house was a treat and an adventure. As the only grandchild around for many years, A.W. spent her visits exploring the many rooms with their many secrets. That’s how Mercy Watts and the fairies of Whipplethorn came to be.
As an adult, A.W. Hartoin decided she needed a whole lot more life experience if she was going to write good characters so she joined the Air Force. It was the best education she could’ve hoped for. She met her husband and traveled the world, living in Alaska, Italy, and Germany before settling in Colorado where she now lives with her family, a Great Dane, a skanky cat, and six bad chickens.
Also By A.W. Hartoin*
Young Adult fantasy
Flare-up (An Away From Whipplethorn Short)
A Fairy's Guide To Disaster (Away From Whipplethorn Book One)
Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)
A Monster’s Paradise (Away From Whipplethorn Book Three)
A Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four)
Away From Whipplethorn Box Set (Books 1-3, plus bonus short)
Mercy Watts Mysteries
Novels
A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)
Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Two)
Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Three)
Drop Dead Red (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Four)
In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Five)
The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Six)
Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Set (Books 1-3, plus bonus short)
Short stories
Coke with a Twist
Touch and Go
Nowhere Fast
Dry Spell
A Sin and a Shame
Paranormal
It Started with a Whisper (Sons of Witches)
