Chapter Fourteen
The bus pulled in later than expected, and it was almost five in the evening before I heard the faint whine of a motor coach in the courtyard. I was in my appartement, and Marie Claude had sent me a quick text they were arriving, but I was already on my way to greet them.
Henry came out of the bus first and spread his arms wide when he saw me.
“Lucy! Darlin’, you look gorgeous!” he exclaimed as he wrapped me in a bear hug.
His arms felt so good around me, and I felt a quick start of tears that took me by surprise. As he stepped away, I brushed them with the back of my hand, but he saw.
“Oh, Lucy,” he said. “Don’t. I know how hard it was, but it’s all good now, right?”
I nodded and moved aside as David stepped out. He grinned and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “So good to see you,” he said, then held out a hand as the first of Henry’s tourists came off the bus.
They were all older, all well dressed, and seemed genuinely excited to be checking in to an honest-to-god château dating back to the 1700s. They oohed and aahed in the courtyard, pointed to the stable appartements, grinned over the cobblestones, and, with Henry’s enthusiastic encouragement, told me how much they loved the place before they even got into the lobby.
Henry sure had primed them right.
David and Henry already had the room assignments and were carrying up the luggage from the bus as the guests waited to check in. They all seemed perfectly content to carry their tote bags and duffel bags. I knew that Henry only allowed one suitcase per person, and it had to be small enough to qualify as an airline carry-on, so the suitcases were all parked outside of the rooms by the time everyone was checked in. Claudine swept in and, in halting English, welcomed them all to her family’s hotel and wished them all a pleasant stay. There was actual applause when she was done, and as I watched them all start up the grand staircase, I leaned over to Marie Claude.
“These may be the best-behaved guests we’ve ever had,” I murmured to her.
She nodded. “You may be right. I’m starting to appreciate American guests more and more.”
“They’re awed by the history. France is a very old country. This hotel may be the oldest building some of these people have ever slept in.”
She nodded. “Philippe says the same thing about Canada,” she said.
“And how are you two getting along?” I asked, trying to sound totally disinterested.
She sighed. “I don’t know. I feel very sad about Eliot. I wish he would have stayed. I thought he loved me more than that.”
I watched her face. Her eyes were full of tears, but she smiled bravely. “After he left, I thought, Now there is nothing to stand between Philippe and me. Now, we can be together. But then, I feel sad again.” She took a deep breath. “Love is very confusing sometimes.”
I nodded. “You’re right there, Marie Claude.” I had not seen much of Philippe, or Bing, for that matter. They spent most of the daylight hours on the third floor, only coming down at night to sit in the garden after going into town for dinner. Every morning, Philippe had breakfast with Claudine in the salon, where she had taken to having her espresso and croissant with the guests.
But after a few days, some of the more outgoing members of Henry’s tour group took notice of the father and son.
After the very successful Frenchified southern barbecue, Evelyn Butterworth detached herself from her husband and asked if that “rugged older Frenchman” lived at the hotel. Marie Claude had managed to put her off by pretending to not understand the question, sending the determined and obviously not-all-that-happily-married Evelyn after me.
“Lucy, dear,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning over the counter. “That older gentleman, with his son? The ones that sit out in that lovely garden of yours every night? Does he live here? I mean, are he and Claudine…?” She raised her eyebrows, giving me a very significant look.
“He has his own suite,” I told her. Then I lowered my voice and added, quite suggestively, “As do I.”
“Oh.” She pulled back, looking disappointed. “Really?”
I nodded. “Really.”
“Oh. Well…” She sighed and looked back at the stoop-shouldered Mr. Butterworth. “How disappointing.”
Talk about jungle drums. The next morning, as they were boarding the bus for a day trip to Saint-Malo, Henry motioned to me.
“Is it true? About you and that delicious artist chap?”
I pulled back and stared. “Chap? You mean Bing? Henry, are you kidding me? Is that your Cary Grant imitation? And where did you hear that?”
He shrugged. “Every tour is the same. As soon as they run out of historical trivia to talk about, they zero in on each other. Or the staff. And Evelyn has already developed quite the reputation.”
“For what?” I asked, fascinated.
He raised his eyebrows. “You should have seen her in Paris. With a waiter. Of course, now that I know her husband a bit, I completely understand, but for a woman her age, well, you’d at least expect a certain amount of discretion.”
I stared after her, slight and smiling, vaguely pretty with snow-white hair and pale blue eyes. “Oh my.”
“She had zeroed in on—what did you say his name was? Bing?—immediately. And she is apparently very disappointed that he’s not readily available because of his involvement with you,” Henry confided.
“Well, as long as it doesn’t affect our Yelp rating,” I murmured back, waving to the libidinous senior as she climbed aboard the bus. “But no, we’re not involved.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d keep the fantasy alive, for his sake. And it will keep Jonathan away,” Henry continued.
“Jonathan of the gray goatee?” I asked.
“Yes. Twice he’s asked me if you’ve been known to, I believe the expression he used was, ‘shtup the clientele.’”
I drew back. “Really? How old is he, anyway? Seventy? Isn’t he a bit old for shtupping?”
Henry grinned. “Men are never too old,” he said. “And I’ve seen the inside of his carry-on. He packed enough Viagra to service every whore in Marseilles.”
I thought back. Yes, Jonathan had flirted, but not just with me. Marie Claude mentioned something, as had Simone after yesterday’s breakfast, and the maid Ines. “What a dirty old man,” I muttered. “Has he never heard of sexual harassment? Doesn’t he know he can’t do stuff like that anymore?”
Henry laughed. “Men like him think they can do whatever they like. And you can’t blame him for trying. You’re still quite a looker, you know.”
I poked him in the ribs with my elbow. “Henry, don’t ever change.”
“Not if I can help it, darlin’.” He waved his arms. “Let’s hurry this up, folks. It’s a beautiful morning. We don’t want to waste it.”
I watched them go with a twinge of envy. I had made the trip to Saint-Malo myself, in late May. There had been a break in the work because Raoul had fallen behind, and I had a day with nothing to do. I had wanted to spend it in bed, napping and reading, but Claudine had mentioned Saint-Malo, an ancient pirate stronghold, and talked up its high stone fortifications and sandy beach. It was a day trip, quick but lovely, and I walked along the same water that lapped the coast of England, miles and miles across the channel.
I waved as the bus turned out of the courtyard. They would be there for six more days but had an overnight in Nantes planned for the next day, giving us all a bit of a breather. They had been, all in all, a delightful group, patient and easy to please. I knew that some tour groups could be a real horror show, but Hotel Paradis had made it through the summer crush with flying colors.
Claudine was behind the desk as I came back into the lobby.
“Are they gone for the day?” she asked.
I nodded.
“We could use another tour like that one,” she said. “We could use several.”
“I’ll work on it,” I told her. “These tours are booked months in advance. No one is going to call us up and reserve for next week. But Henry will get the word out. How about your connections?”
She made a face. “What connections?”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, Claudine, wasn’t that the minister of—wait—tourism that sat here a few weeks ago, knocking back hundred-year-old wine and looking smug?”
“Oh. Him.” She made a face. “Yes, I suppose I can give him a call.”
I glanced around at the empty lobby. “I’m going to run up to Bing’s for a second. I’ll be right back down.”
She shrugged and gave me an unreadable look. “Take all the time you need.”
Up in Bing’s studio, he was not at his easel but at his laptop, Philippe looking over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I called when I saw them. “I’m interrupting. I’ll come back.”
Philippe straightened and waved. “No, I’m the one who should be going.” He put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”
He went past and down the steps. I watched as Bing closed his laptop.
“I’ve come to warn you,” I said. “Evelyn Butterworth has got you in her sights.”
He looked delighted. “Really? And which one is she? That tall one with the improbable red hair?”
I shook my head, smiling. “No.”
He managed to look disappointed. “Oh. The gray pixie cut? She looks like there’s a bit of life left in her.”
I shook my head again. “Nope. White hair. Blue eyes. Her husband is the short, bald gentleman with the stoop.”
“Her husband?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Should I be flattered or worried for my life?”
“You’re safe for now, I think. I insinuated that you and I were, well, an item?”
He sat back, one arm draped across the back of his chair. “Aren’t we?”
I was struck dumb.
He cocked his head. “Well, aren’t we? Let’s face it, Lucia, even though we tend to circle each other like cats when we’re together, there’s also a certain attraction. You don’t really think I’ve been trying to improve my behavior just because I’ve finally recognized the error of my ways, do you?”
“Improve your behavior?” I blurted. “What improvement is that?”
He looked hurt. “You haven’t noticed? I have been making a concerted effort to not nitpick and criticize your work.”
“Maybe I haven’t noticed because you’re never around anymore while I’m actually doing any work.”
He stood. “Well, forgive me if I’ve stopped painting walls to actually paint something else. This is how I make my living, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But I haven’t seen any improvement in your behavior. You still think you’re always the smartest person in the room.”
He took a step closer. “Sometimes I am,” he pointed out. “Like right now. I know that you and I have something going on between us. Let’s face it, when we’re alone in a room together, there are sparks. When are we going to act on them?”
“Sexual attraction does not make us an item.”
“Ah, so you admit to the attraction?” He was even closer now, and I swear I could feel the heat of him from a foot away. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I snapped. “I’m not going to fall into bed with you just because I think it will feel good.”
“I don’t blame you. But what about the rest? You know it would not be just about sex.”
I did know, and that was what kept me away. Yes, he drove me crazy sometimes, but he also legitimately challenged me, made me think, made me look at the world through a different lens, made me laugh …
“I made up the story to Evelyn so she would leave you alone. That’s all.”
His face softened. “Lucia, aren’t you even going to try?” he whispered. He reached out both hands and gently took hold of my arms, pulling me toward him. I felt the rough linen of his shirt as my arms went around him and felt the cool brush of his lips against mine, and a hundred different feelings sprang to life at once, all glowing and shouting, Yes!
“I can’t,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t, I can’t…” I stepped away from him, my face burning with heat and want and determination.
He backed away. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.
I walked down the narrow steps with my hand pressed against my lips, as if to hold the coolness there forever. And when Claudine saw me, if she noticed my flaming cheeks or heard the pounding of blood in my chest, she didn’t say a word. She just sniffed, handed me the reservations list, and smiled.
“You’re right about dear Guillaume,” she said. “I will give him a call. I think the minister of tourism for the entire country of France may have a bit of influence. Now that I see we can handle this, I will see what he can do for us.”
I was grateful for the distraction. “Did you really doubt that we could take care of a tour group? Claudine, I’m disappointed in your lack of faith.”
She grinned. “I always have faith, Lucy. But I am a practical woman. Now, after the past few months, I have seen what we can do. So, my faith is much stronger.”
I felt a surge of pride. Yes, we had done a great job throughout the summer. Yes, we could handle a group. We could handle anything.
The only thing I knew for certain I couldn’t handle was Bing.
When the call came, I just stared at my phone. I knew the number. It was Darren Whitman, the federal agent who had been in charge of the case against me. He had been a calm, determined man who, even after the government failed to find any evidence of my involvement in the theft of millions of dollars that Tony Fielding had engineered, pointed a finger in my face and whispered, “I know.”
He didn’t know squat. What could he possibly want now?
I took a breath and steadied my voice. “Agent Whitman. What the hell do you want with me now?”
“Ah. Ms. Gianetti. Still charming as ever, I see. How’s France?”
“Fine.” Full stop. If he wanted to chat, he’d have to work for it.
“Ms. Gianetti?”
“Still here.”
“I have some information you might find interesting.”
“Oh?” I had grown to hate the sound of this man’s voice, so smooth and sure, even when he had nothing of substance to say. I heard him breathing. Was he waiting for me to say something else? Ask about the weather? Inquire about the kids? Sorry, Agent Whitman. You made the call.
Finally. “We’ve found Tony Fielding.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I’d been leaning against the counter in the lobby of the Hotel Paradis. It was midafternoon here, meaning it was early morning in the States. I put my hand out against the smooth mahogany to steady myself.
“What?”
“We found Fielding. He’s been living in a village in Wales. Someone in the local pub recognized him and called the local authorities, who notified us. He’s being held and will be extradited in the next few days.”
In Wales. A few hours from France. Just across the channel. I cleared my throat and tried to sound like the news meant nothing, hoping he couldn’t hear the pounding of my heart across the Atlantic. “That’s good,” I said, pleased that my voice didn’t crack.
“He’s made a statement. He has claimed all responsibility for the theft. He swears you were not involved.”
“But you knew that already, didn’t you? By the complete lack of any evidence against me?”
“It’s good to get verification,” he said, without a hint of embarrassment in his voice. Or apology. He had dogged me for months, prying into every single facet of my life. I knew I was innocent, but he always made me feel that the one little thing he needed to put me in prison for the rest of my life was just at his fingertips.
“We also have the money,” he said.
I blinked, and my mouth went dry. “The money?”
“Yes. He had it stashed in accounts all over the UK, and in Switzerland, but he’s given all the necessary information, and we should be able to recover about ninety percent of what he took.”
“And you’ll give it back?” I asked.
I heard him snort. “Can’t wait to get your hands on all that cash?”
I felt a rise of anger that I hadn’t experienced since the last time I’d talked to this totally unsympathetic and arrogant man. “That pension fund represented years of savings for hundreds of employees who were counting on that money for their retirement. I’d only been there eight years, but some of those people had started with Tony ten years before that and had put the whole of their trust in him. They were devastated by the loss. And the investors? They believed in him. He made them believe. It’s not just about me, Agent Whitman. It was never just about me, despite what you thought.”
He was silent.
So was I. I needed to absorb this. Tony, living in a village in Wales. He’d talked about that, of going somewhere away from everything, a quieter, simpler life. A life without having to make countless decisions every day. No television or cell phone, no distractions at all. Where he could just be.
I had laughed when he’d described it. He had reveled in the spotlight, loved dropping the names of the rich and famous, took every photo op that came his way. I could never reconcile the man he so obviously was with the man he claimed he wanted to be.
“It will take a judge months to decide who gets how much money and when,” Agent Whitman continued. “I just wanted you to know. If you come back to the States, I can probably arrange for you to see him.”
“And why would I want to do that?” The words fell out of my mouth without my having to think about them. Whatever my heart may have still held for Tony, my head knew exactly the right thing to say.
“He asked about you. That was one of the first things he wanted, to talk to you. He wanted to ask your forgiveness.”
“Well, he’d be wasting his time.” I felt my heart start to race. “What he did was unforgivable.”
“Oh.” For the first time since I’d known him, Whitman sounded surprised. “I just thought, well…”
“You really shouldn’t do that, Agent Whitman. Think, I mean. Especially when it comes to thinking about what I might know or say or do. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
More silence. “Have a good life, Ms. Gianetti.”
“You, too, Agent Whitman.” I turned off the phone and set it, very gently, down on the smooth wooden counter.
Tony would go to prison, maybe for years, or maybe not. He was a smart, rich, well-known white man. That breed didn’t usually spend time behind bars. Not that it mattered to me. Now that the initial shock was over and I readjusted my thinking around the fact that, for the first time in over two years, I knew where Tony was and what he was doing, I felt a calm detachment.
It didn’t matter.
He didn’t matter. Whatever thread I had been unconsciously clinging to for all those months had snapped, and I had a feeling of sudden and complete freedom. There was nothing left. Nothing holding me back. Now, for the first time, I could see my way toward another path.
I looked around the empty lobby. I could hear Marie Claude back in the office, her nails clicking on the computer. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. My mind was racing, and I felt so many different emotions all at once: anger, sorrow, relief, sadness, regret …
I went upstairs to the attic.
To Bing.
I could hear music as I went up the last flight of stairs. Bluegrass music. A fiddle and a banjo and … what was that? A mandolin?
I stood at the foot of the stairs and called up, but with the music, I knew he couldn’t hear me, so I climbed to the top of the stairs.
He was working. He stood at the bank of windows, his back to me, his brush flying across a large canvas full of soft pinks and greens. Was he painting from memory? No, I saw a large photograph pinned to the side of the canvas.
I watched him work. He nodded in time to the dancing fiddle. Then he stepped back, tilted his head, and set down his palette. He stepped back even farther, ran his hands through his hair, and nodded.
“Bing?” I called.
He turned sharply, and his eyebrows flew up. “Lucia? Is anything wrong?”
“They found Tony,” I blurted.
He fumbled for a remote control and the music stopped. We stared at each other.
“Tell me,” he said.
I crossed to the windows. I tried to stop my hands from twisting together. “He was in Wales. He’s being extradited. And they found most of the money.”
Bing grabbed my clenched fists and led me to one of the overstuffed chairs. I sat, and he sat on the low table in front of me. “That’s all good.”
I nodded. “Yes. It is. And he apparently made a statement exonerating me.”
He still held my hands, and he squeezed them. “That’s very good.”
I was still nodding. “Yes, I guess it is. I just—” I took a breath. “I don’t know what to do with this. It’s so much. After all this time. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”
His hands were warm and rough. There was oil paint smeared across one of his forearms, and I stared at the brilliant blue against his skin.
“He wanted me to forgive him,” I said quietly.
Bing’s eyes were steady. “And? Would you?”
“No. It wasn’t just me that he betrayed. There were people who had worked for him for over twenty years. Who had helped him at the very beginning. Who had put all their faith in him. What he did to me was nothing compared to what he did to all of them.”
“What he did to them was different,” Bing said. “It was money. Sure, it was trust, but it wasn’t about love. If he wanted you to forgive him, it was because of love.”
“He never loved me,” I said. “He never could have done what he did if he loved me.”
“People make terrible mistakes all the time with the people they love,” Bing insisted.
“Why are you trying to make him a better man than he was?” I asked.
Bing squeezed my hands again. “Because of him, you don’t trust yourself anymore. Because you chose to love him, you think you will never be able to make any real decisions about who you let into your life. And I want you to be able to love again.”
“Why?” I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he smiled.
“Because I think you could love me.”
The room was very quiet. I could hear the faint sound of birds coming in through the open window and the sound of my own pounding heart, but that was all. Bing was still, sitting across from me, smiling gently, still holding my hands.
“You drive me crazy,” I finally said.
“I’m sure I do,” he conceded. “I can be a terrible pain in the ass at times.”
“Why is that?” I was genuinely curious, but also playing for time. Here was something else I didn’t know what to do with.
He shrugged. “It’s just my nature, I suppose. I grew up in a house where no one wanted to make decisions. If I wanted anything, I had to kind of bully my way forward. Unfortunately, when I became an adult, not many people pushed back.” His smile broadened. “I actually enjoy it when you push back.”
“So, because I don’t take your crap, you think I could love you?”
“No. But I know you’re attracted to me. I know I’m attracted to you. I think we get along. We’re a good team. We have the same values, and we enjoy each other’s company. That’s a good beginning, don’t you think?”
I nodded. As I looked at him, I felt myself falling forward, into the deep kindness of his eyes, and I wanted more than anything to kiss him. “How can we know for sure?” I whispered.
“We can’t know for sure. That’s the point. You have to go on faith, and you lost yours.”
“So, you want me to believe that loving Tony was the right thing to do because then I can love you?”
“Yes.”
“How should we start?” I asked.
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
I leaned forward then and kissed him, and once our lips touched, it was like a dam burst, and weeks of circling and sparring and glances and glares tumbled together into a wave of wish and want that blocked out everything else. I felt like I was drinking him in, and once I began, I could not get enough.
We stood, our mouths never separating, and I could feel my hands against the smooth cotton of his shirt and then the smoother silk of his skin, and fingers fumbled as clothes dropped away.
Our lips parted only to speak, breathless fragments.
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t stop.”
“Oh my God.”
“Is that good?”
“I have condoms … Wait…”
“Can I?”
“Should we?”
We somehow made it across the room and fell behind the wall of lace that surrounded the bed.
We were too rushed. I knew as we came together that we should have taken more time. We fumbled and panted like teenagers. What I would have wanted was to explore, experiment, ask more questions. But he must have felt the same way as I did because in the minutes after we were done—much too quickly—he laughed.
“That was not as successful as I would have liked.” He rolled over on his side, looked down at me, and laughed again. “I usually don’t apologize to women afterward, but…”
I snorted. The only satisfaction I felt was a feeling of finally. I nodded. “Yeah. I think that we probably could have done this better.”
He let out a deep breath. “Thank God it wasn’t just me,” he said and laughed again. He fell back and reached for my hand, holding it tightly and bringing it to his lips. “I had envisioned a much subtler seduction.”
“Oh? Did you really think you’d have to seduce me?”
“I wasn’t sure. But I had planned on candlelight and soft music. Wine, of course. And possibly peeling grapes.”
I giggled. “Peeling grapes? Very old-school, don’t you think?”
He rubbed the back of my hand against his lips. “I am actually a very old-school kind of guy. When I proposed to my wife, I got down on one knee. And I sent flowers the day we divorced.”
“Good to know. At least I have something now to look forward to.”
We lay side by side in silence, and the afternoon sun was almost gone, casting shadows on the bed.
“If I were twenty years younger,” he said at last, “I’d reach over, and we’d start all over again, much more slowly. But as it is, would you like to walk? We could get some dinner and exchange our favorite sex horror stories.”
“Do you have many?” I asked.
“Not as many as I probably should for a man who’s been unattached for most of his adult life. I sometimes think I was too cautious about sex.” He rolled over on his side again to look at me. “What about you?”
“I probably have too many,” I said with a grimace. “Lots of very attractive men come and go when you work in the hotel industry, and I was single for most of my career.”
“How refreshing,” he said and kissed me gently. “But no slut-shaming. I promise.”
“I would hope not. This is the twenty-first century, after all. And France.”
“Yes. And France.” He stared down at me, and his mouth began to twitch. Then he started laughing, and I joined him.
It was a very good beginning.