The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  “The way she sounded on the telephone, I knew she was in trouble. I was prepared to go and get her. When I heard that she died in a traffic accident just a day or so after I spoke with her, I thought that she had done something to make it happen.”

  “Maggie!” Bébé came inside, cheeks pink from the cold. He gave his father a perfunctory nod; clearly, Gérard wanted something more from him. “You’re in. Freddy’s dumping out to catch his breath and Chris wants to play on the guy side.”

  I thanked Gérard for his honesty. He kissed my cheek and held my arm, keeping me from running off before he had a final word.

  “Whatever else my sister was,” Gérard said, looking deep into my eyes to show his sincerity, “she was smart. I should have listened when she told me that my plans for the estate would only cause dissension. The family doesn’t need to worry any longer. Except for repaying what I owe them, I’m finished with my scheme for the estate.”

  “Probably wise,” I said.

  “Maggie?” Bébé said, urging me to go with him. He heard what his father said. They exchanged a long look before Bébé turned away.

  Outside, I kicked off my shoes and socks, rolled up my sleeves and pant legs. I grabbed Bébé by the hand. “If I’m in, you’re in.”

  Casey put me in the middle as setter, Bébé was sent to the back corner for the other team. David served, a fast, low ball. Jemima, playing net, slammed the ball, sending it into Bébé’s mid-section so hard and so fast he didn’t have time to get out of the way, much less hit it.

  “Hey,” he shouted, scooping the ball up off the sand.

  “Heads up, Chuck,” Jemima said; his given name was Charles.

  “Don’t call me Chuck, Puddleduck.” Bébé slung the ball under the net to Casey.

  “You’re not my baby, Chuck,” Jemima said, and turned away. Lulu high-fived her, grinning.

  Casey served, another low, fast ball. Philippe jumped, spiked it back over the net. Again, Jemima slammed the ball straight at Bébé. He dove, tried to get under it, landed on his belly in a spray of sand. The ball rolled away.

  “Eye on the ball, Chuck,” Jemima chided, snapping her fingers. “Eye on the ball.”

  Bébé got back to his feet, really pissed, thoroughly embarrassed, and side-armed the ball back to Casey.

  Casey served, David blocked it at the net. Jemima’s hands were there, sent it straight back. Philippe intercepted, sent the ball whizzing toward Kelly. Kelly retrieved it, set it for me. I managed to get the ball over the net, barely.

  “Mine,” Bébé called, and passed it to David at the net. David slammed the ball into the sand on our side of the net.

  “Point for men,” Philippe shouted. “Service, men.”

  “Substitution.” Kelly raised her hand. “Thumb jam.”

  Jemima turned toward the spectators, “Mummy, you’re in.”

  I thought that Gillian, decked out in a pink velour warm-up suit and matching pink sneakers with a Sherpa vest to complete the outfit, would decline. But she jumped right up, shed the shoes and vest, rolled up her trousers, and came in. Surprised us all. Turned out, she was pretty tough, and very quick. Didn’t flinch at all when one of her acrylic nails flew off when she hit the ball. And when she hit it, she blasted it.

  Jemima kept up the pressure on Bébé. She rotated to the service position. As she bounced the ball on her left palm, she called out to Bébé, “Hey, brother, in honor of our new-found California cousins, I’ve decided to call you after one of their finest wines, Two-buck Chuck. Cheap generic plonk, I understand. Barely drinkable. Service!”

  She smacked the ball with deadly accuracy. He retrieved it this time, but only with heroic effort, wincing as its speed stung his hands. He set it for Robert.

  Robert had decided, correctly, that I was the weak man on our team. He hit the ball, I dove for it, got a face full of sand but managed to keep it from touching the ground. Gillian sent it over the net where it landed just inside bounds, a line drawn in the sand.

  “Time,” I called, getting to my feet. Mouthful of sand, sand in my eyes, I staggered to the sideline. I pulled up my sweatshirt to wipe the sand away, but the shirt was so sandy it only made matters worse.

  “Don’t rub.” One of the men took my hand, wiped it off and put a linen handkerchief into it. I knew the voice, but thought my ears must be full of grit as well. “Lean your head back, let me flush your eyes.”

  He cupped the back of my head for support as he gently poured water over my eyes. When I could, I squinted at him, confirmed who this Sir Galahad was. When he was finished, I dabbed at my dripping face with his handkerchief and said, “Thank you, Jean-Paul. I didn’t see you arrive.”

  “I’ve been standing over there trying to figure out the game. What do you call it?”

  “We call it rough,” Bébé said, panting. “Maggie, you in or out?”

  “Out for the moment.”

  Lulu looked at the spectators. “Who’s in for women?”

  Robert called to his mother, the only available female, but Lena waved him off. She had no interest.

  Antoine rose, and pitching his voice high like a girl, called, “I am.”

  I took Jean-Paul inside to get him coffee and to get me cleaned up. He looked amazingly well put-together for a Sunday morning: tailored blue jeans, black cashmere polo, brown suede jacket as soft as butter. No question, he was handsome. I assessed myself: hair, still damp from my morning shower, the sweats I pulled on afterward no lovelier, bare face sweaty, lip puffed, and all of me liberally floured with sand.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I said after rinsing my hands in the sink. I filled a mug for him and offered him milk.

  “I was in the area, I wanted to stop by and give my condolences to your grandmother. She invited me to join the family for lunch and told me where to find you.” He stirred his cup. “I hope you aren’t disappointed to see me.”

  “Not at all,” I said, holding my arms out to the sides. “I dressed especially for the occasion.”

  He laughed, brushed some sand out of my eyebrows. “Lovely, as ever. Do you need ice for that lip?”

  “No thanks. That happened earlier.”

  Cradling his cup he asked, “Are you aware that the woods are full of cops?”

  “They followed me in.”

  “I had to show my diplomatic credentials to get past.”

  “There have been some nefarious goings-on.”

  “Yes?” He tipped his head toward me, looking at the lip, asking if whatever those goings on were responsible for the bump.

  Watching his face, I said, “You didn’t tell me that you had spoken with Isabelle in Los Angeles.”

  One shoulder up, a little frown—the answer should be obvious. “It was a confidential matter.”

  “Did you mention the matter to the police?”

  “I didn’t need to,” he said, touching his index finger to the tip of his nose and then toward me. “You gave the essential information to the very efficient Detective Longshore, and he made the appropriate inquiries.”

  I was shedding sand on the floor. I turned and looked at my trail, and then back at the lovely Jean-Paul. He had a goofy smile on his face. I was happy to amuse him, but wished for a slinky black dress and maybe a cigarette in a long holder to magically appear.

  “Will you excuse me?” I asked. “I do need to clean up a bit.”

  He took his coffee and went out to join the others.

  I went into the bathroom and surveyed the wreckage. Far more than a little freshening up was needed to transform the creature in the mirror into a glamorous babe, but I did my best. A few minutes later, feeling much better, looking maybe marginally more presentable, I went back outside.

  The game was still on, but it had changed in its make-up and character. The teams were now coed. I was told that Bébé, having declared “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” had selected Jemima first for his team. Jean-Paul was playing on their side. Team Casey was up by one
point.

  I took the empty chair between Kelly and Freddy and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Kelly, jutting her chin toward Jean-Paul, said, “Good for you.”

  “He has nice legs, doesn’t he?” I said, ogling the tanned ankles showing below the rolled-up jeans.

  “Among other things, yes.” She patted my arm. “Best of luck.”

  Lena leaned forward, reached past Freddy to catch my eye, and said, “You don’t waste much time, do you?”

  “Seize the day is my motto,” I said. “Because who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

  She smiled, uncertain, and sat back.

  At noon, the churchgoers arrived: the two grandmothers, Jacques and Julie, Ma Mère the abbess, and her young Chinese assistant. While the game continued outside, the bystanders were put to work inside setting up for lunch. Freddy and Gérard pulled a long table into the middle of the room, and food began to appear out of hampers, buckets, and the refrigerator.

  Antoine had gone out early that morning to meet the fishing boats when they came in with the tide loaded with fresh catch. He traded Calvados and Camembert with the fishermen for beautiful whole Dieppe sole, Atlantic lobsters and spider crabs.

  The seafood was cleaned, drizzled with butter, seasoned with salt and pepper, and arranged in flat wire grilling baskets with thick slices of leeks, cloves of garlic and sprays of fresh fennel from Isabelle’s greenhouse, and then cooked over the driftwood coals in the firepit outside. When it was ready, everything was piled onto huge platters and served buffet-style from the kitchen counter with fresh rye bread, sweet butter, and green beans sautéed with butter and tarragon. There was a delicious cream-and-Calvados sauce on the side, and carafes of dry cider and crisp white wine to wash it all down.

  Conversation was lively during the meal, full of game replays and joshing about who did and did not do what, but the most interesting exchange was between Bébé and his stepmother, Gillian.

  As she pulled a succulent chunk of white flesh out of a lobster shell, Gillian said, “Bébé, the portrait you painted of your mother is lovely.”

  Bébé flushed furiously, and sat frozen, holding the bread basket, waiting for the punch line. Or, perhaps, the punch.

  “I may not admire the reason you painted it,” Gillian said in a neutral tone, “or the reason you hung it where you did, when you did. But it is exquisite.”

  “Thank you?” was the best he could manage.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  He put the bread down and waited for it.

  “Would you paint my daughter?”

  Bébé tilted his head, unsure whether she was serious or teasing.

  “Nothing as monumental as the portrait of your mother of course—we’d need to erect a cathedral to hang something so large,” Gillian said. “But something on a more personal scale.”

  Bébé recovered himself enough to be snide. “Something to hang over the sofa, perhaps color-coordinated to the draperies?”

  “No.” She parried his jab. “More like over the mantel. You know, to disguise the retractable panel that covers our flat screen when we aren’t watching Ab Fab reruns—they are my style gurus, of course.”

  Bébé turned to Jemima. “Is she putting me on?”

  “Yes, Chuck, she is.”

  “But not about the portrait,” Gillian said.

  “Would you sit for me?” Bébé asked his half sister, sounding doubtful, but curious.

  Jemima said, “As long as you understand that when Mummy says to paint me, she means for you to create a likeness on canvas, not literally to paint me.”

  Uncle Gérard had been watching this exchange like a spectator at a three-way tennis match, grinning. I wondered when he planned to make a general announcement that he had abandoned his development scheme. At dessert?

  Lulu nudged her uncle. “Do it, Bébé.”

  “I suppose you want one too, squirt,” he countered.

  “Oh, would you, Bébé?” Kelly chimed in enthusiastically. “I’ve been waiting for you to offer.”

  Bébé turned to Gillian and threw up his hands. “See what you’ve started?”

  “So, will you do it?” she asked.

  “When’s Christmas this year?” he asked.

  “When it always is,” I said, leaning forward to catch Ma Mère’s eye. “On the feast day of Sainte-Eugénie.”

  Ma Mère nodded, hid a small smile as she said, “To some, a very special day, indeed.”

  Antoine spotted Inspector Dauvin lurking outside—he was sticking close—and, rising, gestured for him to come in. “Join us, Pierre, eat.”

  Dauvin looked to Grand-mère for permission. She gestured to an empty chair and then to the spread on the kitchen counter. “Please, help yourself, Pierre.”

  Dauvin served a plate and scooted Lena and Antoine apart so he could squeeze a chair in across the table from me.

  I said, “You look tired. Will you get a break soon?”

  A slight leftward wag of his head said not. “And you?”

  I imitated his head wag. “After another glass of wine, I think I’ll go up to the loft and take a nap.”

  I saw Jean-Paul drop his eyes, smile; a lovely thought caught him by surprise. And me.

  “I will wait until tonight for my nap,” Dauvin said pointedly, looking around the table. “But tonight, I expect to sleep better than I have for over a week.”

  I waited for him to explain. But he didn’t. Instead, he asked Lena, sitting next to him, to pass him the bread.

  He said to her, “Robert and Philippe have grown like the rest of these weeds we call children since I saw them last.”

  Lena glanced down the row at her boys, smiling proudly. “They are getting so tall.”

  “Maggie,” Gillian said. “You should have Casey sit for Bébé, too. Maybe we could talk him into painting all of the children. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Dear Lord,” Bébé gazed heavenward, “they seem to have me by the balls, these mothers.”

  “Charles,” Ma Mère said, that quiet nun reproach that could shrink anyone’s balls to the size of raisins, even if one did not have a pair.

  Jean-Paul smiled at me with lights in his big brown eyes. He was having a wonderful time, very comfortable with that particular mob.

  I asked, knowing the answer because Gérard had already told me, “Do you have children?”

  “One son, he’s eighteen,” Jean-Paul said. “If I had known there would be so many kids here his age, I would have taken him from school and brought him.”

  “Next time,” Kelly chimed in. Damned American directness, assuming there would be a next time.

  “I look forward to it,” he said, dipping his head in a gracious little bow to her. Then he smiled at me, and corny as it sounds, he took my breath away.

  It was a beautiful feast. In keeping with local custom, there was a break before the cheese was served, the trou Normand it is called, the “Norman hole,” a rest period, an opportunity for a mid-meal glass of Calvados to perk up the appetite to continue eating.

  After lunch, while the youngsters took over cleanup chores, I walked outside with Jean-Paul. He slipped his hand through my arm and asked to be excused, saying he had a few people he needed to see that afternoon.

  “Thank you for a most interesting morning,” he said. “Do we still have a date for dinner tonight?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” I walked with him along the path toward the road’s end, leaning a little against his shoulder. “Not black tie, I hope. I left my pearls at home.”

  “Certainly not black tie,” he said with a charming chuckle. “It’s Sunday, so there aren’t many restaurants open. But I know a wonderful small place called La Neustrie in Pirou. It’s very informal, and very good. The food is typical of the region, and Sunday is poulet-frites, roast chicken with fries. I’ll introduce you to real French fries.”

  “After the meal we just ate, I’m not sure I’ll ever want to eat again, but I’ll do my best.”


  “I will appear on your grandmother’s doorstep at about seven.” He gave the bottom of his polo a shake, releasing a little flurry of sand. “With a clean shirt. How will that be?”

  “Perfect.”

  As we neared the ragged wall of gorse at the edge of the beach, he leaned in as if to kiss me, and whispered, “Don’t look, but you are being followed.”

  I turned, saw Dauvin about twenty feet behind us, and waved. I hadn’t been out of his sight since we left the house that morning.

  Jean-Paul said, “Shall I tell the restaurant that we are a party of three tonight?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But ask for two tables.”

  23

  Max strolled up to talk to Dauvin while I said good-bye to Jean-Paul. The two of them were deep in conversation when I joined them.

  “So?” I said.

  Max had a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Handsome fellow, your Jean-Paul.”

  “Tread gently,” I warned him. He could be a terrible tease.

  “I just thought it was awfully genteel of him to come by to meet your family.”

  “Uh-huh.” I turned to Dauvin, and with Max’s help asked him if there was anything new. There was.

  Sergei’s telephone turned out to be a little pot of gold, as it were. Connected to Sergei by telephone records, the Russian mechanic in Pacoima with the unpronounceable name began to talk, hoping to make a deal to save his neck.

  ’Ovich, the mechanic told Rich Longshore that he made a good living off stolen cars, but he was no killer. He was, however, late with loan payments to Sergei’s father, a far scarier entrepreneur than the son. Sergei offered him both loan forgiveness and some cash to set up a fatal car “accident”: he was supposed to send me over the side of Malibu Canyon Road.

  No guns, no personal contact, nothing to tie me to the mechanic, and debt forgiveness in the package—it seemed like a good deal. The man hired one of his stolen car suppliers, the gangbanger Chuy Cepeda, to do the actual deed.

  Chuy Cepeda didn’t mind the killing part, according to the mechanic. I wouldn’t have been his first victim, Rich told Dauvin, though I would be Chuy’s first “civilian.” Other than the occasional innocent bystander, to that point he had only taken out people from rival gangs, or so it was alleged. The thing about Chuy was, he was a professional car thief, and proud of it. When he got to Malibu and saw that candy store of motorized bling running along Pacific Coast Highway, he got distracted. The mechanic said he could hardly keep Chuy focused on the job at hand. And he admitted to being nervous when he had to actually identify the target, me, to Chuy.