To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  Grandpère was immediately apologetic. “I apologize, Madame—” He quickly corrected himself. “I apologize, Juliette. If I had known you had returned, I would have asked your permission before poking around.”

  She waved that away. “You are our guests. You are free to go anywhere on the grounds or in the house. My wish is that you think of it as your home now.”

  “But it is,” Cody blurted. “Or, I mean it was. Grandpère used to live here. This is where he was raised as a boy.”

  She spun around. “No! That cannot be. This was once your home? I knew you were from the village, but not ... I cannot believe it. That is wonderful. All the more honor for me.”

  Grandpère nodded. “It was. I was born in the upper east bedroom. And this barn was my favorite place to play as a boy.”

  “But why did you not tell me?” she cried. “I would have let you stay for free.”

  Grandpère laughed. “You have already given us a wonderful discount, and that is enough.”

  She dismissed that with a toss of her head. “The first two weeks are free, Monsieur Jean-Henri LaRoche, and I will hear of nothing less.” Then she shook her head in amazement. “Your boyhood home? I cannot believe it.”

  And then, with our encouragement, Grandpère explained about the half wall. He told her the whole story of how he and Louis had watched the American plane shot down, and the events that followed.

  To my surprise, she seemed deeply moved. “Those were terrible times. Terrible.”

  “Were you alive during the war?” I exclaimed. Then I immediately blushed. “I’m sorry, Madame Dubois. I ... I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She laughed merrily. “If you think I am not old enough to have been alive during the war, there is no need to apologize, Danni. I’ll take that as a compliment. But actually, I was born in 1940, so, yes, I lived during the war, though I was very young.”

  “You do not speak with a French accent, Juliette,” Grandpère said. “Are you not French by birth?”

  “Very perceptive, Monsieur LaRoche,” she said, clearly impressed. “No, I was born and raised in England. But I have lived on the Continent now for many years. France is my adopted country.”

  “You’re seventy-one?” Cody exclaimed. “Wow! That’s almost as old as Grandpère. He’s seventy-seven.”

  “Cody!” Mom cut in, her face coloring. “Please.”

  But Juliette was eyeing Grandpère more closely. “You hold your age very well, Monsieur. I would have guessed you were not yet seventy.”

  “Merci,” he said with a laugh. “Either your eyesight is failing or you are overly generous with the truth. But, please, call me Jean-Henri.”

  She smiled demurely. “Perhaps.” Then, almost shyly, she added, “I think we shall get along very well together.”

  I looked at Mom in amazement. She nodded. She had seen it too. Juliette was actually flirting with Grandpère. I nearly laughed out loud. This was an unexpected twist.

  Juliette went on. “I hope that you are not disappointed in what we have done with the château. It needed much work.”

  “Au contraire,” he answered. “I am very pleased to know my former home has been given a new life. We look forward to a delightful time here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Le Petit Château, France

  October 5, 2011

  Freedom! Yippee! Hallelujah!

  After nearly ten days in our bonds, we have been unchained. Our shackles no longer hold us. Clay called this afternoon. After consulting with Joel, they have agreed that we no longer have to be restricted to staying right around the château. He didn’t tell us this before, but Interpol had one of their operatives waiting for us when we landed in Strasbourg. He is now living in the village, posing as a biologist from the University of Strasbourg doing a study of the forests surrounding the village. He has reported that no one is watching us, no one has taken an interest in us, and no one has made any inquiries about us. So Clay thinks we are safe to start roaming farther abroad. Sweet!

  Don’t get me wrong. I adore Le Petit Château. It is lovely and perfectly charming in every way. But the only place we’ve gone is into the village and back. Not that that’s bad. It’s been wonderful to have that time together as a family. Grandpère has talked about his childhood and told us things that even Mom didn’t know. And walking through the village with him was like stepping back seventy years.

  Clay said that the FBI issued a statement to the media the day after the fiasco with Cierra Pierce. They said that due to the release of confidential information, our family was being placed in a witness protection program and would not be available for further comment until the trial begins early next year. That doused the media firestorm in a hurry, and, just as Grandpère predicted, the California surfers were soon off chasing the next big wave.

  They’re not ready to give us free rein to roam all over Europe, but we can go anywhere in France as long as we keep a low profile in the big cities.

  Another great thing happened today. I got to talk to Rick for the first time since we left. The FBI has been super cautious about our safety—and no one is complaining about that—so they’ve restricted our contact with home to texts, Tweets, and good old-fashioned letters (which we send to a P.O. box in Washington, D.C., and they forward them on home). The satellite phones Clay gave us are secure for texts and Tweets, but he wanted us to avoid phone calls for a while. With the Interpol report, he thinks we’re fine now.

  So the minute Dad told me that, I asked him if I could call Rick. It was sooo good to hear his voice again. And I could tell that even though there was a little strain between us, Mom’s right. Things are a little better. And now that we can talk two or three times a week, I think they’ll get better and better. However, when I started to apologize to him for what happened with Cierra—yet again—he cut me off. “I don’t want to talk about that, Danni,” he said, and it was pretty abrupt in how he said it.

  So, things are not all better, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s tons better than texting or Tweeting. He talked about school and what’s going on at home and told me that Mayor Brackston asks him all the time when they’re going to get to have our parade. I also asked him how the homecoming dance with Cherie Averill went. His answer was classic Rick: “It was fine.” And he would elaborate no further. But he did tell me that he called Jason Horne and explained why I wouldn’t be able to go.

  It was so good to talk to him again, but it was hard also. I’ve always been able to tell him anything, everything. Just be myself around him. That’s not back yet. And I know that’s my fault. I’m bossy and headstrong and stubborn and mouthy and ... I miss him. I feel so empty without him. Every night I pray that he will somehow understand and forgive me. Tonight was the first time I’ve had hope that it might come to that sometime.

  Oh, one good thing came out of that phone call. When I hung up, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I ran up to my room and threw myself on the bed and started to cry. When I heard footsteps in the hall, I blew my nose with a Kleenex and called out, “I’m all right, Mom. I’d just like to be alone for a while.” To my surprise, it was Dad who came in.

  Bless him. He didn’t say anything. He just lay down beside me and took me in his arms and let me cry it out. Finally, after enough tears to cause our water bill to double, we sat up. “You’re a guy, Dad,” I said. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Just what you’re doing,” he said. “Give it time. You’ve been best friends since you were ten. Friendships like that don’t just collapse. They just need time to heal.”

  “You really think it will?”

  “Absolutely, and maybe even something more. ...” He stopped, giving me the oddest look.

  “What, Dad?” I said, instantly giving him my full attention.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, Dad, You just can’t toss me that ball and then turn away. ‘So
mething more’ what?”

  With a soft smile, he just shrugged. “Dunno. You’ll have to just wait and see.” He kissed me on the forehead, held me tight for a few seconds, then got up and started for the door.

  I wasn’t about to let him off with that. “Wait. Here’s a hypothetical question.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s suppose this mysterious ‘something more’ you referred to just happened to become reality. How would you and Mom feel about that?”

  He laughed right out loud. “Are you kidding?” he said. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but your mother and I have been bribing Rick to be your friend since you were ten. We had to. You punched him in the nose, remember? You surely didn’t think all of this happened just by chance.” I guess my mouth dropped open about a foot, because he laughed again. Then he winked at me. “Luv ya, Danni Bug. See you in the morning.”

  I am sorely tempted to say much more about that, but I am able to restrain myself.

  So, back to Clay loosening the shackles. We had a debate about what we wanted to do first. What we finally settled on was awesome. Dad, Mom, and GP borrowed Juliette’s car and went into Strasbourg this afternoon, where they rented an eight-passenger van for a month. Mom thought that was a little big. Dad said he didn’t want us to travel like we were peas in a pod. Dad won.

  Tomorrow, we’re going to Moselle, which is a few hours to the north of us. That was where my great-grandmother Monique was born. It was also where she took GP and left him with her parents when she went to Paris to find my great-grandfather during the war.

  Next week, if the weather is good, we’re going to take off for a week, maybe even ten days, and go to Paris. In addition to the usual tourist sites, GP is going to take us to the building that used to be Gestapo headquarters in World War II. Since that’s my heritage, and after reading Monique’s account of her visit there, I am way pumped to see it for myself.

  After Paris, we’ll go north to the Normandy coast. GP wants to see the World War II sites, like the beaches where the Allies landed and the huge German shore batteries built along the cliffs. Cody is way hyped about seeing those. Knowing my ancestors were part of that history, including Grandpère himself, is totally awesome. I am way excited to go. Only wish that Rick was here to go with us.

  It’s getting late, but maybe a word or two about Juliette before I quit and go to sleep. Juliette Dubois is our landlady—I guess that’s what you would call her. Anyway, she owns the château and runs it as a bed and breakfast. We have other people staying here now too—a couple from Holland, who are older and on holiday for a month, and a family from the south of France with a boy who is twelve and a girl seven. Cody and the boy have become good friends already. And with that, suddenly Cody is interested in learning French, much to Mom’s delight.

  On that first day we met her, Juliette said she wanted to be friends. That has proven to be the case. We are really good friends now. She often joins us for our meals—and the cook is excellent, BTW. (Grandpère insists that there is no such thing as a bad French cook.) Juliette and GP have hit it off famously. It is fun to watch him when he’s with her. I think she’s pretty lonely and is glad for company closer to her own age. Me and Cody often go on walks with her around the estate or into the village. She’s just a really fun person. She has a quick sense of humor and makes us laugh a lot.

  She doesn’t say much about herself, but we have learned a few things. Her father was a pilot in England’s Royal Air Force and was killed in the Battle of Britain when she was still a baby. Her mother never remarried, so Juliette grew up in pretty humble circumstances. But she eventually met a banker from Paris and they married, which meant she was no longer poor. No surprise that she could attract someone like that. She has a picture of them on their wedding day, and she was beautiful. Still is, of course, but back then she was stunning.

  She and I have become especially close. She has two children, a son and a daughter, and three grandchildren. We haven’t met any of them yet, but she talks about them all the time. It is strange that we have hit it off like we have, her being seventy, and me only sixteen.

  One of the things I like about her is that she’s very honest. Sometimes to the point of being downright brutal. For example, the other day, Cody called something totally awesome. She waggled a finger at him. “Awesome is a word that should be reserved for things that are truly awesome. To call something which is trivial awesome is a contradiction in terms. And totally awesome is an unnecessary redundancy.”

  Cody, with his usual charm, said, “That’s a totally awesome concept, Juliette.” Which made her laugh. She and Cody get along really well too.

  But here’s another example. I always have the pouch with me when I leave the house. I had noticed her studying it several times, but the other day while we were getting some hay down for the two milk cows, she finally asked me about it. But the way she did it was pretty blunt. “Do you know what the French word gauche means?” she asked. Gauche is pronounced like “gohsh.”

  “Sure. It means awkward, kind of like a klutz.”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. It means that one is lacking in the social graces, that something is crudely said or done. In French, it literally means ‘left-handed.’ Since most of us are right-handed, it implies clumsiness, but socially more than physically.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly, not sure where she was going with this.

  And then she hit me with it. “So why do you carry that old purse around with you all the time?”

  I laughed right out loud. “What? You think it’s gauche?”

  She was immediately embarrassed. But she went on to say that the French had invented the concept of chic (pronounced “sheek”), and that she considered me chic in so many ways (which made me feel good). Because of that, however, she found it strange that I would carry around that old pouch all the time. And then she added, “In France, we have chic. And in America, you have what? Grungy?”

  I just laughed. By this point, I was getting used to the faint condescension for anything American that is common in Europe. So I ignored that and explained that the pouch was a family heirloom which I had received from GP and which had been his mother’s. She was instantly apologetic, but I assured her that no offense was taken.

  The next day she apologized again and I asked her if she wanted to see it. She did, so I let her hold it. She hadn’t noticed the four fleurs-de-lys on the flap, or the words Le Gardien embroidered there too. She seemed quite fascinated by it. When she handed it back to me, she smiled. “I was wrong. It is not gauche. It is quite appropriate that you wear it.”

  “But not chic?” I teased.

  She laughed. “No, definitely not chic.”

  Well, it’s nearly ten thirty and we’re leaving for Moselle early. Closing off for tonight.

  Le Petit Château

  October 7, 2011

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think French cows are more gentle than American cows?”

  He gave me a funny look.

  Mom laughed. “Are you serious?”

  I shrugged. “They seem like it.” We were in the barn, putting fresh straw in the stables for Juliette’s two milk cows. I reached through the slats and rubbed the nose of the nearest one. “These two are so gentle. And I love their big brown eyes.”

  Mom hooted. “You’re in a particularly odd mood today.” Then she snapped her finger. “Oh, that’s right. You talked to Rick again.”

  When I realized what had just happened, I laughed merrily. “What? You think their brown eyes remind me of Rick?”

  She gave me one of her looks. “Just an observation.”

  Actually, I was thinking of Rick, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with the cows. This was our third phone call in three days. Yesterday’s was better than Wednesday’s. Today’s was better than yesterday’s. I
was starting to sense what felt like the tiniest thaw in that wall of wounded pride. But I was forcing myself to be very cautious. Not get my hopes too high and all that.

  I looked at Mom and grinned. “They do look a little like Rick, now that I think about it.”

  Mom left a few minutes later to go help the cook with supper. Juliette had gone into the village and wouldn’t be back for another hour or two. While I finished with the hay, Dad went up to the loft to get some grain for the horse.

  “Excusez-moi.”

  I jumped and whirled around. There was a dark silhouette standing in the doorway. The hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly standing straight out. I fell back a step.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I took a quick breath, then another, forcing myself to calm down a little. “It’s all right ... uh ... you just ... um ... startled me.” Duh! He just said that.

  “I am very sorry,” he said in perfect English as he started coming toward me. I fell back another step and he stopped. There was amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “You must be Carruthers. The one they call Danni.”

  “I am,” I said, realizing that his accent was British. “Can I help you?”

  “I am looking for my mother. I could not find her in the house.”

  Dad appeared above us with a sack of grain on his shoulder. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Lucas McAllister. But everyone calls me Mack. You must be Philippe.”

  “Yes, I am. Philippe Dubois. Has my mother been talking about me?”

  “Only seven or eight times a day,” Dad said. “She went into the village. Said she’d be back about four. Was she expecting you?”

  “Ah, no,” he said. “Actually, I’m on my way back to Paris from a conference in Zurich. We finished earlier than I thought. So I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”

  He was fully inside the barn now and at an angle so that the door was no longer behind him. This allowed me to see him better. No question about it. This was the same man as the one in the picture Juliette kept on the fireplace mantel. He was tall, probably six two or more. His face was narrow and the features finely shaped. I guessed he was in his early thirties. There was no mistaking his resemblance to Juliette.