In Seattle she’d visited several well-established restaurants in order to review their kitchens. Wanting to know and see the very latest in equipment was essential so that she could secure similar pieces for her own kitchen at the Curry. The funds afforded by the management were quite generous, and she’d returned to the hotel with wonderful treasures, as well as a few carefully memorized recipes.
Chefs were not known to give out their secrets, but Margaret had a keen eye and good memory. It hadn’t been hard to watch the dishes being created as she was told about various equipment. Neither was it hard to sit and sample a meal and guess what ingredients went into the dish. It was something of a gift she had. Her family had always praised her for her tasty creations. Back when she still had a family.
Her husband had told her there was no finer cook in all the world.
But he was gone now. Taken by the same influenza that took the rest of her dear family.
She tied a ribbon to secure the braid and sighed. Life was so much harder without the people you loved to stand beside you and offer encouragement. Folks at the Curry had taken the place of her family, but even there Margaret kept a tight guard on her heart. She didn’t want to get hurt again by losing anyone.
Cassidy was the biggest exception to the rule of keeping people at arm’s length. Margaret chuckled. She loved that girl like a daughter. They shared many wonderful conversations about life. Cassidy believed in a loving God, which had been a complete contrast to how Margaret saw Him. Especially after losing all who were dear to her.
Oh, Cassidy prayed for Margaret regularly and hoped that she might one day embrace God as Cassidy did. And while Margaret had to admit she had softened on her views and yielded some of her anger, she was still quite afraid to put her trust in anyone. It was the reason she would never again allow herself to fall in love.
Love was just too painful.
She pulled back the covers and sighed. This was the loneliest time of the day for her. No one to talk to. No one to listen to. Although her husband, Theodore—Teddy—would have said she did precious little of the latter.
“This is foolishness.” With a sigh, she put out the light. “I won’t give myself over to brooding. It serves no purpose.”
She climbed into bed and hugged her pillow close. “No purpose at all.”
A knock at the door made her jolt up in bed. “Who is it?”
“It’s Cassidy.” The sweet voice floated through the door.
Margaret jumped out of bed as fast as her aching body would allow. When she opened the door, she blurted out, “Is everything okay?”
A huge smile blossomed on Cassidy’s face. With a twinkle in her eyes, she pulled a towel-covered plate from behind her back. “Of course, everything is okay. You worry too much.” She walked into the room. “I just thought it would be nice to try this new chocolate torte I made, and we can catch up on what’s going on.” With a whisk of her hand, she uncovered a beautiful and very chocolatey-looking treat. The grin on her face made Margaret laugh.
“You are just what I need, Cassidy Faith. You do beat all. . . .” Margaret shook her head. All the brooding grief she’d allowed earlier diminished. “When I’m feeling blue, you know exactly what I need.”
“A hug?”
Laughter bubbled up out of her. Full, unabashed laughter. It felt wonderful. How did this girl always have so much joy? “You know I could always use a hug. At least from you—we wouldn’t want the rest of the staff to think I’d gone soft.”
“No, of course not.” Cassidy bit her lip, obviously in an attempt to stifle her giggles.
“Exactly. But what was I going to say?”
“What?”
“Chocolate. A woman always needs chocolate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
MARCH 12—FRANCE
Jean-Michel rubbed down his right leg. It ached today more than usual. But they’d also had colder temperatures than normal for this time in March. Whatever the case, the ache radiated throughout his body and up into his heart. It was well into the night, but he hadn’t been able to sleep.
So much loss. He never expected to be burying his father at such an early age. But as much as the grief threatened to overtake him, he had to at least think of Collette. Father had kept her ensconced in their home amidst friends, parties, and beauty. It wasn’t that she hadn’t known sorrow or that there were darker things in the world, but she had been taught those things weren’t as important as being lighthearted and seeing the good.
Collette’s pleas for a trip raced around in his mind. He’d done his best to keep his true feelings to himself at supper that evening as she prattled on about the Dubois’s trip to America. But her excitement didn’t do anything to spark an urge to go. Everywhere he went, the nightmares seemed to follow.
Perhaps that was it. Maybe a trip abroad wasn’t such a horrible idea. America didn’t have the traces of the Great War around every corner like Europe did. Maybe there was hope to find a way out of the dark fog that surrounded him. Otherwise, what hope could he give Collette? She deserved to have her only relative be present and part of her life.
He leaned back onto his bed and propped up his bad leg. The voyage was sure to be difficult with his leg—ships were hard enough to navigate on rough seas when you had two good legs—but he could at least give it a try for her. Life would never be happy for him again, but he would put his best effort forth to at least ensure Collette was taken care of. Father would want that.
He also wanted Jean-Michel to pursue God—whatever that meant. But Jean-Michel didn’t think he could. How could a loving God allow all the atrocities in this world? No.
That request of Father’s would have to go unheeded. For now, he would focus on Collette. She was the only one who had a hope for the future.
Exhaustion tugged at him—like gravity sucking him down into the mattress. He laid an arm over his head. He needed sleep.
He was so thirsty. “Water . . . please . . .”
No one heard him. There were too many others in the tent injured like he was and not enough medical personnel.
But he couldn’t wait any longer. “Please . . . somebody please . . . I need water!” The words ended on a cry. But he didn’t shed any tears. His eyes and face were covered in grit and sand.
A young boy—didn’t look any older than twelve years old—came to his side. “Sirotez lentement, monsieur. Sip slowly.”
Jean-Michel nodded, but as soon as the cool liquid hit his lips, he wanted to gulp it all down. The lad held the cup back and forced him to take it slower. After more perusal, Jean-Michel recognized the young man as one of their young soldiers. Why on earth did they have mere boys serving? Is this what was left after the Great War? The thought made him want to vomit.
Everything came back in an instant. Fear wrapped its ugly self around his gut.
The water boy turned to leave, but Jean-Michel grabbed his arm. “Where are my friends? George and Luc?”
“I don’t know, monsieur. But I’ll go ask.” He pulled away.
Jean-Michel tried to sit up, but he couldn’t. Desperate to find his friends, he turned his head every way possible to search and scan the room but saw no sign of them.
His heart picked up speed and a deep sense of dread filled him. “Non!” He thrashed on the table. “Non! George! Luc!”
An officer he hadn’t met ran over and shoved his arms and legs down. “Langelier, calm down or your leg will open up again and bleed the last of your life out onto the sand.”
He didn’t care. “What happened to the two men who dragged me out? Please, you must tell me.”
The officer shook his head.
“What? What does that mean? You don’t know where they are?”
The man straightened slowly. “I’m sorry. They were shot rescuing you. They are both dead.”
Bolting up in bed, Jean-Michel felt the sweat drip down his forehead. Every time he fell asleep, some terrible memory of the war would surface and take him back to
that awful day. He hadn’t been able to save anyone. Not the ones burning to their deaths . . . and not his two friends who’d come to save him.
Would he spend the rest of his life reliving the horrors? Why didn’t God come and save him? Or those people? Or George and Luc, who declared God so merciful and loving? They were so much younger than he and full of life. They should have lived. A merciful God would have saved them. A God of love would never have allowed war in the first place.
Jean-Michel shook his head. “I can’t do it, Papa. I can’t seek this God of yours. He is a heartless judge—without feeling—without mercy. He leaves us to make our own way—or die.”
So many had died and God hadn’t been there. Or if He was, then He was even crueler than Jean-Michel believed.
The following morning, Jean-Michel sat in the dining room, drinking his coffee and wondering where the energy to deal with his young sibling would come from. Twenty cups of coffee couldn’t even begin to prepare him. Collette would soon burst into the room in her girlish excitement, inundating him with requests—detailing ideas for a trip. Jean-Michel sighed. He didn’t have the vigor to deny her. But if he could put her off until he talked to Dubois himself, then maybe he could come up with a suitable plan. At least, he hoped so. The lack of sleep wore him out and made rational thought difficult.
Ten minutes later, Collette danced her way over to him and hugged his neck, kissed his cheek, and smiled. “Good morning, brother. Did you sleep well?”
“Good morning to you too. I slept fine.”
“You are lying to me. I can see the bags under your eyes.”
He shrugged. “Well, then, why did you ask?”
She tilted her head at him and smiled as she placed her napkin in her lap. “So . . . have you decided about the trip?” Even though she might have been trying to look nonchalant, he knew better.
“I’ve decided that yes, we will go, but not too soon. I need to speak to Dubois and do some planning, so don’t expect to be leaving on the next boat.” He lifted his cup to his lips again, hoping that it had been enough to appease her.
She bounced on her chair like she had when she was a young girl. “Oh! That’s wonderful. I don’t mind waiting. Just the thought of the trip makes me excited, and I will need to prepare as well.” She took a sip of tea and looked back to him. “But you will let me know soon?”
“As soon as I am able to make the plans.”
“Thank you, Jean-Michel.” She got up from her chair. “There’s so much to do.” With a wave of her hand she headed for the door.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Non.” She flitted back over to his side and kissed his cheek. “I must call Mrs. Hébert and arrange for a new wardrobe, and my friends will no doubt want to throw me a going-away party—so I must help them plan it.” As she left the room, she continued listing off things she needed to do.
“Well, at least that will keep her busy,” Jean-Michel mumbled and went back to his coffee and newspaper.
Channing—their trusted butler—entered with a tray. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you, Channing.” He lifted the stack of mail—most were condolences. Cards and notes had flooded in since the death of Pierre Langelier became public. Channing thoughtfully provided a letter opener as well, and Jean-Michel took it off the tray, contemplating how he would ever manage to handle all of the replies. Perhaps he could borrow one of the secretaries at the factory to help.
“I will need the car to visit Mr. Dubois a little later.”
“I’ll have the new driver bring it around. What time should I tell him?”
A letter caught his eye. “Hmm? Oh, in about an hour.”
The name Harrison in the corner caused his chest to tighten. Could it be?
Jean-Michel looked up and noticed Channing was gone. His hand trembled as he considered what might be inside the heavy envelope. He decided he didn’t want to risk being interrupted and made his way upstairs to his bedroom. Once he was safely behind locked doors, he tore into the packet.
A smaller sealed envelope was inside a letter with instructions on the front.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU READ THE LETTER
As he unfolded the pages as instructed, he held his breath.
Dear Jean-Michel,
It has been at least five years since the last time we met. My sweet granddaughter Katherine brought you over to see me at the Ambassador’s Ball at the French Embassy and you were quite the charmer. The look of love you two shared made my heart sing. Since I’m not one for beating around the bush, I will get right to the point. Do you still love my granddaughter, Katherine?
Jean-Michel let his breath out in a whoosh. He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. No, she never did mince any words. But how could the woman ask that? Her granddaughter was a married woman! Too curious to judge the older woman’s morals, he read on.
I probably should go back and explain. My son, Mark—Katherine’s father—was a fool. And I’m allowed to say that because I was his mother. I loved him, and he was a wonderful man in many ways and did many great things for his country, but he was a fool. And a prejudiced one at that.
Had Katherine’s father died? Why would his mother keep speaking about him in the past tense?
I was quite shocked when he took the appointment to be Ambassador to France—knowing full well his feelings toward all things European. But he did seem to thrive and do an adequate job in his posting there.
Then Katherine fell in love with you. He was fine with you paying her attention, since your family was wealthy and of great position in France (which was significantly beneficial to him at the time), but he exploded—as you know all too well—when Katherine wanted to marry you. The thought of his daughter marrying a Frenchman, a foreigner, a European . . . well, it didn’t sit well.
What you may not know is that after he forbade you two to marry, Mark booked immediate passage for the whole family. He resigned his post and we exited the embassy in less than two days. He obviously sent quite a bit of communication as well, because as soon as we set foot back in New York, a young senator named Randall Demarchis was waiting for us.
Within the week, Mark had arranged for Katherine to marry the senator. With her heart broken, she didn’t much care about anything, and in a short time, they wed.
So that’s what happened. All these years, he’d had no idea why Katherine would marry someone else so soon. And the mysteriously anonymous wedding announcement delivered to him was no coincidence. It had angered and crushed him. The letter shook in his hand as he continued.
While I am not at liberty to tell the rest of the story, I will tell you this: that despicable man is dead. And I say, good riddance. Yes, you read that correctly. I don’t know the extent of what Katherine suffered, but she is lost and a mere shell of the girl we all knew and loved.
Her parents are also gone—killed in an automobile accident not long before her husband died—so Katherine has only me, but as I age, I worry more for her future. I fear I may lose her to her anguish. She has no desire to go on with life. That Demarchis monster wounded her deeply—mind, body, and soul.
Jean-Michel lifted his hand and covered his eyes. What had Katherine endured? His thoughts ran in too many dark directions. Non. He couldn’t go there. Lowering his hand, he knew he had to read the rest.
And so, my dear boy, I come to my request.
I have finally convinced Katherine to travel with me to Alaska. This summer, we will spend a few months at the Curry Hotel, in Curry, Alaska.
I’m asking you to come. No. I’m begging you, and if you know anything about me, you know that I never beg. However, Katherine’s life hangs in the balance.
You are still unmarried as far as I can conclude, and I’m quite certain you must still love my granddaughter. If I am incorrect, then please send the sealed envelope back. But if I am correct, then please open it to see that I have enclosed everything you need to join us in Alaska. I
’ve arranged everything first class for you to visit America and the great territory of Alaska. A steamer will take you to New York and then a train will deliver you to Seattle. From there you will catch another ship to Alaska and then board a final train to Curry, Alaska, where we will be staying. Your hotel suite is already arranged.
I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you love Katherine—please come. I believe it may be the only way to give her a reason to go on.
And so I leave you with the decision. I can only hope and pray that you join us in Curry.
Sincerely,
Maria Harrison
With a long exhale, Jean-Michel lowered the letter. He sat down at his desk and looked out the window without really seeing anything. The world had been gray to him for so long.
He’d never stopped loving Katherine. Even after he knew she’d married someone else, he’d tried to dissect her out of his heart, but it hadn’t worked.
They’d been separated by an ocean and an arranged marriage, so he’d gone off to the army to forget her. That hadn’t worked either. Now he had a bad leg and a dark past. What good would he be for her?
He glanced at the sealed envelope. He had to do whatever it took to save her. Didn’t he? He opened it to reveal various tickets—all first class, as Mrs. Harrison had promised.
But could he ever be worthy of her?
No.
He hadn’t been worthy of those poor women and children in Syria. He hadn’t been worthy of standing with his childhood friends on the battlefront. And he had a horrible feeling he wasn’t even worthy of being the man his sister needed him to be. How could he ever hope to rescue Katherine from whatever pit of despair she had been flung into?
He picked up the letter and refolded it with great care.
“I do love her, but my love cannot save her. It didn’t save her then, and it can’t save her now, no matter how much I might wish it to be.”
He tucked the letter and tickets back into the larger envelope. For a moment, he stared at the handwriting. Despite knowing what had to be done, Jean-Michel hesitated.
Out of the Ashes Page 4
