Lenai Despins
BLACK FROST WINTER
Copyright © 2020 by Lenai Despins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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In loving memory of Sid, who had the brightest smile of them all.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
EPILOGUE
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About the Author
Also by Lenai Despins
CHAPTER 1
“How many people do you think are making love in the city of love right now?” Carrie asked, craning her neck for a better view out the plane window.
Paris glowed like a swarm of fireflies through the darkness below. Alexia leaned back, allowing her friend to stretch closer to the plexiglass. Carrie’s breath fogged a perfect O on its surface.
“I think a better question is how many people are making love above the city of love right now.” Alexia motioned to the seat in front of them where Deborah was lip-locked with an attractive French man.
“I think it’s his accent,” Carrie remarked with a grin.
“Doubt she’s even heard it.”
Their snickering floated down the aisle, reaching Amy as she returned from the bathroom. One look at the promiscuous happenings in her row was all it took for her face to scrunch like she had just bitten into a lemon.
“Hey, that’s my seat! And gross! Do you have to make out with every guy you meet?”
Deborah’s tongue was too tied to respond.
Amy snatched her bag from underneath her assigned seat with the trepidation of someone reaching into a snake pit—not entirely sure what she might come in contact with. To her apparent relief, the excavation was successful. With her belongings in hand, she plopped down in the spare seat next to Carrie and Alexia.
“Can’t she save it for the hotel room?”
“Sure,” Alexia replied. “But she wouldn’t earn her badge for the Mile High Club if she banged him on the ground.”
Right on cue, Deborah untangled herself from the Parisian in a flurry of flying red curls. Straightening her blouse, she capered down the aisle toward the lavatory, pausing only to toss a seductive wink back at her most recent love victim. The Parisian hurried after her, tripping over his feet as he went. He bolted through the bathroom door faster than Alexia thought humanly possible. It closed with a bang.
Amy snapped her head from side to side, furiously searching for a flight attendant to put an end to the abomination happening on their watch. None were in sight. She slumped back in defeat, expressing her exasperation with a loud sigh.
“Why am I even friends with her at all?”
Opposites attract was the only explanation that came to Alexia’s mind, because Deborah and Amy were without doubt on polar ends of the personality spectrum. Deborah was as wild as her hair, living by the motto that rules were made to be broken. Amy was as straight-laced as they came. To her, rules were the glue of a happy, functioning society. She abided by them like the needle of a compass abides to the north. Yet, despite wanting to claw each other’s eyes out most of the time, there was the odd occasion when their relationship came together in unexpected, inexplicable, and completely utopian ways. Amy was the Yin to Deborah’s Yang. They balanced each other.
Watching Amy fume, Alexia kept the insight to herself, getting the hint that the question was rhetorical. At least she had Carrie to keep her sane, even if her friend existed on a different plane of consciousness. Nothing fazed Carrie. She only saw only what she wanted to see, heard what she wanted to hear, and steered clear of situations she didn’t want to get in the middle of. Situations like this one. Mentally detaching herself from the scene, Carrie turned her attention to the in-flight magazine parted open on Alexia’s lap. Without warning, her finger came down hard and fast on the glossy page.
“Hey, that’s your event! Are you mentioned?”
Not waiting for a reply, Carrie grabbed the magazine and riffled through the five-page article.
“Alexia Brooks representing the American Ballet Company. Look at that, you’re famous!”
Alexia snatched the magazine back, a flush brightening her cheeks. “I’m not famous. The whole cast is mentioned. Besides, Chloe’s the real celebrity. Over half the article is dedicated to her. Not that she doesn’t deserve it. You don’t get the title of world’s best ballerina for nothing. I still can’t believe I get to dance with her.”
Alexia leaned back in her chair, basking in daydreams. Ever since she’d received the news a month ago she’d been pinching herself. Only twenty dancers in the world had been invited to take part in Le Réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre, a special New Year’s Eve performance in Paris, organized by the International Ballet Alliance. And she was one of them.
Carrie knitted her eyebrows together as if recalling something from the far corners of her memory. “What’s Chloe’s last name?”
“Monet.”
“Monet? As in the famous painter, Claude Monet?”
Alexia rubbed the corner of the page absently. “Don’t think there’s any relation, but it would explain her talent.”
Silence fell over them as Carrie coiled a strand of ash blonde hair around her pinky finger, a habit she’d developed when deep in thought.
“Even so…that name sounds familiar.”
A disgruntled scoff made them both jump. They turned in its direction. Amy’s arms were folded across her button-down shirt, which was somehow still wrinkle-free after the ten hours they’d been travelling since leaving New York.
“Am I the only one with any brains around here?”
Alexia bit her tongue, letting the insult slide so Amy would continue, eager to soak up any information she could about her idol.
“Chloe Monet. How is it I’m the one that’s remembering this? I swear sometimes you live in la la land Carrie. Your mom knows her mom. Juliette Monet. She hosted the art auction we went to a few months back.”
“You guys met Chloe’s mom?” Alexia’s voice rose at the end like a mouse that had been stepped on.
“Don’t give me that look,” Amy snapped. “We invited you, but you ditched us for some ballet thing.”
“Well you failed to mention it was being hosted by Chloe Monet’s mother! I wouldn’t have missed that for the world!”
“Jesus, would you listen to yourself?” Amy asked. “You’re like obsessed with someone you haven’t even met. And I wouldn’t be putting her on any pedestals if I were you. Her mother alluded to Chloe having some behavioral issues.”
Releasing her finger from its spiralled cage of hair, Carrie dropped her hand
in her lap. “Oh, that was Chloe’s mom. Yeah, I remember now. Thick French accent? Drop-dead gorgeous?”
Amy nodded wearily like she was being forced to listen to the idiotic ramblings of a child. “Yes, yes, very good.”
“But Chloe wasn’t there, right?” Alexia’s question was mixed with prayer, unsure if she’d be able to cope with learning that her friends had met Chloe before her.
“Of course not. You think her mom would have been talking about her otherwise?”
Alexia exhaled and dropped her eyes back to the headshot of Chloe, which was blown up so large it covered half of the page. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant French twist, and her upturned eyes carried a genuine smile. No bad-egg vibes detectable here. The rest of the family was probably jealous of her success.
Alexia didn’t search for further reassurance. After all, she would be meeting Chloe that very night. The entire cast had been invited to a welcome function. A “get to know your fellow dancers” evening, prior to the first rehearsal. Alexia glanced at her phone, which she had preemptively set to Paris local time. 6:47 p.m.
Thank you, Mr. Pilot. Right on time.
If she could get to the hotel by eight, she’d only be fashionably late to the event. That wasn’t such a bad thing. It might boost her chances of catching Chloe’s eye when she arrived.
Her planning was cut short when Deborah returned from the toilet. Her red bra was peeking out like two crescent moons above the neckline of her top, which was in desperate need of rearranging. A triumphant smile was highlighted by her bright and very smudged lipstick as she strutted back to her seat. The Parisian tailed behind in a delirious daze.
Amy rolled her eyes and mumbled, “I cannot wait until we get off this plane.”
* * *
Butterflies tingled every nerve in Alexia’s body when she stepped off the plane, unsubdued by the bitter wind. She was used to freezing temperatures, after all. New York and Paris rested at similar latitudes. Although Paris had one special and rare advantage that year—snow. A thin pearly blanket of it covered the tarmac on either side of the runway, glistening under the bright airport lights as Alexia skipped toward the gate, carry-on bag swaying behind her in the bounce.
“Hurry up, you guys,” she called back to her friends, even though she knew it was impossible for Deborah to move any faster in her five-inch high-heeled boots.
Charles de Gaulle was packed to the brim with a seasonal crowd. Alexia shouldered through the masses, too excited to care about the disapproving glances being shot in her direction. Her friends only caught up when she stopped at immigration.
“Everyone looks so put together,” Amy commented with a favorable nod.
Alexia’s mouth dropped at the hinge. Amy praising anything was as rare as catching the pope curse. Finally pausing long enough to take in her surroundings, Alexia circled her gaze. Amy had a point. And an understated one at that.
Put together? These people turned the airport into a set of an extravagant perfume ad. Hair was styled with the latest en vogue cuts, fancy scarves were draped from fragranced necks, and jackets were tailored to petite frames. Had she stepped through to some parallel universe where everyone actually took pride in their appearance? The confident tilt of their chins suggested so. Alexia ran her fingers through her golden brown hair, smoothing its state of disarray.
“Here,” Amy offered, passing her a travel brush from its designated compartment in her handbag.
Alexia accepted it with a sheepish grin.
“Give it to Debs after.”
Deborah hadn’t heard, preoccupied with blowing kisses to her mile-high partner across the luggage belt.
“Don’t you feel the tiniest bit guilty that you used that guy to join some perverted club?” Amy asked, crossing her arms.
Without any discernible remorse in her tone, Deborah replied, “Nope.”
* * *
Alexia’s excitement took to new heights when she disembarked the connection train into the heart of Paris. It was as if she’d been whisked back in time. The buildings seemed locked in the Renaissance era—flawlessly maintained tributes to the past. Each wall was a work of art, sculpted with extra care around the balconies and window sills. Rounded roofs lined their tops, forming a soft transition for the observing eye. On ground level, gothic street lamps reinforced the time-warp illusion, so convincing in their antique appearance that Alexia wondered if they were still fuelled by fire. Their welded rods curled at the top into miniature black crowns.
No inch of the city was too insignificant to overlook. Arrested in that thought, an understanding developed for the trait that made the French so esteemed. It was their care for the smallest details. From the position of their chins, to the presentation of their street lamps. It seemed they were privy to a secret unknown to the rest of the world; it was all in the details. Details that came together to create an immaculate whole.
Without warning, her smile drowned in a broken dam of emotion. An uninvited image had come to the forefront of her mind. It had risen from the depths of her subconscious—bold, beautiful, and tragic. His face was exactly as she remembered. Xander DuBois. Her first love. This country was his heritage, where his grandparents had immigrated from. His memory cast a gloomy shadow over the city, tainting it from the inside out. Grief twisted her heart as she continued on, but in a strange way, she welcomed it. Her emotions were all she had left of him.
Xander had changed her life in more ways than one. He had shown her what it meant to love, but had also helped her realize the extraordinary ability she possessed. One that she used to think was just in her imagination—Alexia could see ghosts, dead souls walking among the living. She knew this because Xander had been one of them. A supernatural entity that she had seen as a living, breathing being—alive as anyone she had ever known. It was a love story destined to fail. After she helped him solve the mystery of his death, she had to let him go forever.
Alexia raised her chin, staring longingly at the few stars that broke through the black film of sky.
Deborah’s voice called her back to earth.
“I can’t put my finger on why, but you kind of look Parisian right now, Alexia. Strange considering your choice of outfit. Anywho, I think this is us!” Her excitement shifted to apprehension. “Apartments de Toilets? Amy, what kind of crack den did you book us into?”
“It’s pronounced Apartments d’Étoiles,” she snapped in reply. “Hotel of the Stars.”
“Oh,” Deborah laughed. “That’s a relief. I was about to call dibs on sharing Alexia’s five-star hotel room. Guess I’ll limit my freeloading to the buffet breakfast then. Save me a spot at your table in the morning.”
Alexia shot back a look that said “get real.”
“Not happening. First of all, I only get one free breakfast a day. Second of all, you eat breakfast the same time I eat lunch.”
A wintry blast of wind ripped their attention from the argument.
“Enough chat,” Carrie said, retrieving a hat from her tote. “Let’s check in. I need a heater, stat.”
Alexia hovered awkwardly for a moment, racking her brain for how to best break off from the group. She decided a little white lie never hurt anyone.
“I think I can see my hotel from here. Guess I’ll meet up with you guys after rehearsal tomorrow.”
Disapproval swept over Carrie’s face.
“You’re not leaving us yet! It’s our first night together in Paris. Let’s go explore!”
Alexia’s mouth opened and closed like a broken garage door. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hang out with her friends. She was beyond grateful they had made this trip to support her, but that didn’t change the fact that she saw them every day. They lived together back home for crying out loud. And this was her first chance to meet Chloe Monet.
“I’d like to…it’s just we have this welcome function tonight and—”
Amy butted in. “The event you were complaining about last week? The one you didn’t
want to rush to after an eight-hour flight? I thought you found out it was optional.”
Curse Amy and her superhuman memory.
Alexia couldn’t argue. It was true, she had said that, but that was before it had been announced that Chloe Monet would be in attendance. And knowing that supplied sufficient energy to overcome even the severest case of jet lag.
“Yes, but I’m feeling fine now. Plus, I think it would be a good idea to meet—” She stopped cold, frozen by Deborah’s gaze.
If looks could kill.
“Alexia. You’re going to be spending all week with those girls. What’s one night of fun on the town with us? I can already tell you we are way more exciting. No offense, but your ballet friends are so…blah. No drinking. No parties. No fun.”
“I take offense to that,” Alexia snapped, even though she couldn’t deny there were few people in the world more exciting than Deborah.
Carrie went in for the kill, batting her big, blue eyes in a way that bore an uncanny resemblance to a starving cat begging for food. “Just one night, pleaaassseee?”
Alexia faltered in search of a reply, receiving no support from her friends who circled her with their hands clasped in prayer. Eventually, she muttered her surrender.
Carrie’s squeal of delight pierced the air. “I can’t wait! We’re going to have our first legal glass of wine together!”
“Speak for yourself,” Deborah scoffed, climbing the stone steps of the Apartments d’Étoiles. “I’m having vodka.”
“If it’s going to be one of those nights, I’m sharing a room with Carrie,” Amy said.
Deborah whipped her head back, fiery locks dancing in the flick. “I’m in the city of love. Every night is going to be one of those nights.”
“Here we go,” Amy sighed as she followed Deborah into the lobby.
The apartment was small, but chic. An emerald lounge set furnished the living area, accenting the cream walls around it. In front of the corner sofa, an art deco coffee table was piled high with tourist brochures. Two picture windows dominated the far wall, both adorned by French balconies. Through twisted iron bars, the Seine glistened beyond. The iconic river was as picturesque as the city. One glance quickly commanded Alexia’s full attention. The river was brought to life by golden city lights that painted its surface, and from a distance, it resembled a shooting star that never weakened or tired.
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