CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rachael – 31 December 2016
“DRINK MORE CHAMPAGNE,” I said, pushing the tinted blue flute closer to Jared.
“I don’t really like champagne. It gives me a headache.”
“Too bad. Drink.” He stared at me, as if trying to gauge whether I’d back down. In the end he tipped back the glass, frowning all the while.
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s in the letter?” Jared asked, a few minutes later.
I looked over at his flute; he’d hardly touched any of the delicious liquid. I decided to drink his champagne as well. We sat in my father’s living room, listening to my sisters and daughter squealing over pictures and cake. It was still early in the night, I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d actually gone out to celebrate New Years’ Eve. We probably wouldn’t know what to do.
“I don’t think so,” I said, answering him.
“You don’t think, what?” my father asked, confused, as he strode into the room. His boyish face was ruddy, and his eyes were bright from the wine we drank earlier.
“Nothing,” I replied, glaring at Jared.
I couldn’t explain my reluctance to share the letter. In a way it felt as though it belonged to me, even though it didn’t. It technically belonged to my father and his brothers, as my grandfather’s heirs. Something had held me back for months.
I wasn’t sure if I trusted them. They were good men, but they still had a few of their parent’s ideas about what a properly lived life looked like, and David’s hadn’t been proper by any stretch. And after our less than cordial conversation a few months prior, I didn’t know how angry he was with me. I wish he’d just forget about it and move on, like the family always did … no one apologizes, we just pretend it didn’t happen, and then wonder why people explode with bottled up anger and hurt.
But I needed to figure out David’s life. I needed to give his memory, his ghost (did I believe in those?) some measure of peace. I’d found the Sorbonne, I’d found Gilbert de Granville, I had Catherine’s name, and I had the letter. I knew more than anyone else, and I only wanted answers. I didn’t care about judgments.
“Are you still trying to trace David, then?” my father asked as he squirmed in beside me on the sofa.
“I am.”
“And I can’t say anything to dissuade you?” he said.
I gave Jared a quelling look and said, “I’m just curious that’s all. You said he came back different. That all his life he’d been secretive. I just want to know what he hid.”
“She found his business partner, an aristocrat named Gilbert de Granville,” said Jared.
I smiled at him; he’d even gotten the beautiful French pronunciation right.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was the one who swindled David,” I replied. “He’s the reason why David came back penniless.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. He wasn’t prosecuted for that particular crime.”
“That particular crime?”
“I spoke to a woman in France, Gilbert had swindled her grandfather out of a lot of money. He was prosecuted for fraud and embezzlement in the late 1990s.”
“I didn’t know …”
“I understand your reluctance about this, Dad. I know you’re worried about what I’ll find. But that generation is almost all gone. There’s only one sister alive. There’s no one left to be embarrassed.”
“It isn’t that …” he said slowly. He chewed his lip and leaned forward to set his flute on the coffee table. It clinked dully as he fell back against the green and white striped sofa with a sigh.
“I suppose there are things David would have wished to forget, things he wished he could have hidden forever. But I have this feeling–there’s a reason I’m doing this. I’m right on the edge. I’m so close to saving something,” I said. I left the room, on the pretense of going to the bathroom, and locked myself in.
31 December 1978
THE CHRISTMAS RUSH HAD died down. David walked the frost-lined boulevards of Paris, heavily suited against the cold. He strode to the nearest market, determined at least to find some champagne to toast the New Year, even if it was alone. The streets were quiet; weeks of parties and celebrations and large dinners and mounds of rubbish had left Paris sluggish. It was preferable, he thought, to crammed sidewalks with pushy locals and clueless tourists.
He climbed the narrow staircase back to the apartment and dropped the bags onto the counter with a clatter. The champagne tipped and the paper bag spilled. David shrugged and pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his coat. He strode to the window and struggled with the frost-lined hinges.
He leaned out and took a long drag. How fitting that Catherine was out of town with her parents. His eyes fell on the invitation that was propped against the kitchen counter. It had come last week, on the tail end of two months of traveling for Catherine and months of waiting anxiously by the phone for him. She’d only been in Paris a few times to supervise the renovations on the restaurant and never stayed the night, always jetting off for the next meeting.
The cigarette went out long before he moved from the window. He furiously worked the cork out of the bottle of champagne, and took it to the couch. He nursed the alcohol, swirling around in his mouth, enjoying the popping of bubbles as it slid down his throat. His head rolled back and he closed his eyes, praying for oblivion. Every breath, every blink, every drop of water in the pipes he could hear.
The phone went off like a cannon blast. David fell off the couch and barely caught the bottle before it spilled all over the floor.
“Bonjour?”
“David?” the voice on the other line was worn. It cracked on the second syllable of his name. It was as brittle as the ice on the windowpanes.
“Lois?”
“Mom … Mom just passed away,” she choked.
“What?”
“She passed away, this morning, barely a half hour ago. She had been sick for the last couple months. But she’s gone. She’s just gone.”
David dropped the receiver. It fell against the floor with a rattle. He stared, watched as it jumped this way and that before coming to a halt. Lois’ voice echoed up from the floor, calling and calling his name. He just kept staring. After a minute a soft beep beep of a dead line echoed across the kitchen like the hungry peep of a young bird.
David stumbled through the room and collapsed on the couch as memory after memory cut its way through his heart. Was it possible for pain to numb a body? David didn’t hear the first knock. It was light and hesitant. The second though, half a minute later was harsh, insistent even.
With a great effort, he heaved himself from the couch, returned the still beeping phone to its cradle, and made his uneasy way to the door.
“Catherine? I thought you were …” David stared at the gorgeous woman standing in the doorway.
“I’m come back early. I wanted to see you,” she said, breezing through in a flurry of red plaid.
“I’m … I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, lunging out and grabbing the champagne bottle and stowing it under the hat rack while her back was turned.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she said, twirling around.
“It is indeed a surprise.”
He had no qualms about saying so, though he was less than pleased that she thought she could walk back into his life without so much as a phone call.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she said.
They stood at opposite ends of the room and for a moment it seemed it was the world that lay between them, but Catherine rushed forward, threw her arms around his neck, and it all fell away. David melted into her. She was wearing a new perfume: Chanel probably. Her body pushed so hard against his; that he could feel the length of her, feel the heaving of her breast. She moved before he was ready to let go.
“I want to take you somewhere this evening, to celebrate the New Year. Who knows what it will bring,” Catherine said
.
He smiled and tightened his hold on her warm back.
“Where would that be?”
“A river cruise down the Seine,” she said.
“It sounds lovely,” he said. “But I’d like to spend a little longer here.”
THE NIGHT AIR FLUTTERED around the hem of Catherine’s sequined dress, making it tinkle with merriment. Her arm looped around David’s as they walked down to the quay, where a long, white river boat lay docked to the bank of the Seine. She chatted merrily to the strangers in line with them and laughed easily.
“We will have the best view of the fireworks tonight.”
The riverboat was beyond his estimation. It seemed more to be a floating restaurant than a mere boat. Waiters glided here and there with champagne and savory delicacies and petite fours. The deck swirled with women in glittering finery. A dance floor and band took great pride in the dining room.
After three glasses of champagne, Catherine excused herself to the bathroom and David hurried outside for a cigarette. The Louvre was just visible on the right. A thousand lights twinkled from its windows. Christmas decorations were still up all across the city. Here and there, in the windows of apartments, he could still make out a few Christmas trees with their green lights and large bright snowflakes.
The image of a very different tree, a short green ceramic one with holes for little plastic lights, and his mother pulling it with glee from the box flew across his eyes. The excitement of the night popped like a balloon. He leaned over the side of the boat, staring into the swirl of abyss that passed quietly underneath. Lois had never called back. His mother was dead. Gone.
“What on earth are you doing out here?” Catherine asked sidling up to him. She drew her arms tight across her chest as soon as she crossed the threshold onto the desk. “Ah, smoking.”
“You were gone. I snuck out,” he said, taking a last drag before flicking it over the side.
“It’s terribly cold,” she prodded.
“Yes, but it’s quiet.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
He’d spoken much too quickly and Catherine noticed.
“I can tell. I’ve always been able to tell.”
“It’s the start of a new year. There’s a lot to think about.”
“You shouldn’t be concerned with anything but which champagne to drink,” Catherine said with a laugh. She pulled on his arm and rushed back inside to the dance floor.
She was too happy; he couldn’t tell her, to ruin her night with death and misery. Her eyes gleamed with such passion and purpose that it felt criminal to bring her so low. For a moment, he wanted to forget, and keep forgetting all that lay in store for him tomorrow.
“Come with me,” he whispered into her ear.
He pulled her from the dance floor and down a hallway; two bathrooms lay at the end. Catherine tugged at his sleeve and opened the door to the women’s. It was no bigger than a closet. He fumbled with the lock and then worked at Catherine’s dress, pulling it up over her hips. He laid his lips lovingly on her neck and devoured the scent of her perfume and the delicate softness of her skin. Catherine flung her head back, and moaned loudly as he touched her.
“Shh …” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
31 January 1979
DAVID FORCED GEORGES OUT of the office so he could concentrate on the books. The year was off to a horrendous start. He spent as little money as possible but in his stomach constantly roiled from the stress of the company’s financial woes. Gilbert’s spending had spiraled so far out of control that there might not be money to pay rent. Though David had told Georges he needed solitude in which to work a miracle, all he wanted to do was drink. To drink in a space that wasn’t his minuscule apartment where all he could think of was Catherine.
He reached behind, to the bookshelf where he kept all his English-French dictionaries and textbooks for his clients, shifted a few books, and pulled out an old bottle of Ardbeg whisky and a small glass. The amber liquid swirled lazily. It was hypnotic. He held the glass to his nose; the whisky’s smoky aroma abruptly cleared his mind.
“Got another of those?”
David smacked his head on the side of the glass. Gilbert was leaning casually against the doorframe, all smiles and bravado.
“Have a glass?”
Gilbert smiled, producing one from behind his back.
“You came prepared.”
“I like to,” he said, perching himself on the chair in front of his desk.
“Why are you here? We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
Gilbert poured himself a dram of the Ardbeg, threw it back, and then poured another.
“I was going to go over the books.”
David stiffened; his whisky suspended an inch before his mouth. “Why?”
“Isn’t that part of owning a business?”
“You’ve never showed any interest before,” David quipped.
“How times change.”
“They do indeed. I assume you were finally getting worried about the thousands of francs that you have withdrawn from our accounts.”
For a single moment, Gilbert’s mouth hung open but snapped shut before David could revel in catching his partner off guard.
“Has he been rooting around again? Well he’s over his head. The old man is a bit senile,” Gilbert said with a smirk.
“No one has been rooting around. It’s plain for anyone to see. We don’t have enough to cover our lease this month. It’s time for you to start repaying.”
Gilbert leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk. He smelled of stale sweat and cheap perfume and smoke. The combination curdled David’s stomach.
“If there are any discrepancies it’s because your charity case can’t input receipts properly.”
“You’ve gone beyond skimming from the top. You’re stealing …”
“And what do you plan to do about it?”
“I’ll start selling some of this furniture for a start.”
“You’ll find yourself in court,” Gilbert said. “It all belongs to my family.”
“It … what?”
“Yes, David, now tell me again what you are going to do.”
David had no answer. He reeled back in horror. How could he have missed that? Flashes of what this meant played on a reel in his mind, bile rose in his throat.
“Yes, I thought so,” Gilbert said, tipping back his glass. “Although I’m not unreasonable. The lease will be paid this month. I expect you’ll have to find a way to manage in the future. I am responsible for your clients, after all. If I go, they go with me. After all, I’m the one they like,” Gilbert said, helping himself to another dram of whisky. “Shouldn’t you get going? You don’t want to miss your woman’s grand opening.”
The smirk on Gilbert’s face melted away the last of David’s resolve. Everything Gilbert said was true. In the end, Gilbert maintained the higher ground and all the advantage. He had no other appeal to make; clearly the man had no better nature to appeal to.
David stood up, put the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk, and locked it with a key.
“Enjoy the rest of your scotch.”
“Enjoy watching me win,” Gilbert said caustically, still perched on the arm of the chair.
David stared at Gilbert’s back for a moment before making a break for the door. He tripped on the threshold in his haste to get outside and nearly tumbled into the gutter. He clawed at the neck of his well-worn white turtleneck, and brushed down the black suit coat. His head throbbed from whatever perfume Gilbert had rolled in before making his unwelcome appearance.
Flashes of Gilbert’s smirk and his veiled threats paraded through his mind as if on a reel. There was no escape. He had a month’s respite from money woes but the hammer would fall. He was expendable. The fear tormented him and by the time he had walked the mile to Catherine’s restaurant, he was shaking.
“There you are!” she said, hailing him fr
om the alley where she was bringing in a case of wine. “Help me with the rest of these, will you?”
David leaned down, slipped his arm through the bags lying on the pavement, and followed her through the kitchen door.
“I’m not doing a sit-down meal tonight,” she said. “Just hors d’oeuvres, desserts, and drinks. The hostess will be here so guests can place reservations. Tomorrow will be the big test,” she said in a rush.
Catherine flew around the kitchen, barking orders to her chef, checking on the food, and placing the wine on a table nearest the door.
“Where do you want these?” he asked, holding out the bags, as they cut into his wrist.
“Oh, give those to Hortense,” she said, waving her hand at a young woman clad all in black.
David handed off the bags of produce to a young woman and sat down in a far removed corner of the kitchen. A handsome man in a chef’s hat sidled up to Catherine, put his arm around her waist, held out a long wooden spoon, and in a husky voice, begged her to taste his sauce. David’s gaze narrowed on the chef’s hand. His fingers pressed hard on her back, creating ripples in Catherine’s silk shirt. David waited, concentrating harder on the idea of another man’s hands on Catherine, but the anger and jealousy refused to come. In their place was only an aching kind of sadness.
In all their years together had he ever put a smile on her face as was there now? He had to get out of the room, out of the line of sight of a man whose charms wove in spirals over Catherine’s excited eyes.
He pried himself from the chair and weakly returned Catherine’s glowing smile. The restaurant was unrecognizable from three months ago. Every surface gleamed and glinted in the light of four identical crystal chandeliers. Plush black upholstered benches lined the walls, which were tastefully decorated with paintings, most of them from Catherine’s personal collection. It was marvelous and just like Catherine had described in Rome. The rooms were full of flair and class, but an accessible kind, where everyone was comfortable and welcome.
Lives Paris Took Page 17
