by Feliz Faber
Francis dropped his gaze to the floor, and Will grabbed his arms tighter, felt the answering press of fingers. The physical sensation helped; he’d counted on it. He stood on tiptoes so he could lean his forehead against Francis’s.
“Thank you for telling me this,” he said in a low voice. Francis leaned into his touch, sighing.
Will’s conscience choose just that moment to flash him a picture of Habib’s face, and he almost flinched at the hot jolt of shame that pierced his insides. If he’d known then how Francis felt about him….
It couldn’t be changed, it was in the past, and it would only hurt Francis if he brought it up now. Perhaps one day, if the time was right, he would confide, but not right now. His next words were to Francis just as much as to himself.
“I trust that won’t happen again. Next time, just talk to me, okay?”
He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Francis’s head moving against his own in a nod, and pressed a short kiss to his lips. Will dropped his heels, moving closer to catch Francis in his arms again. “Us, remember?” he said into Francis’s chest. “As for me, we’re good.”
For a few minutes, neither of them moved. “Thank you for letting me stay last night,” Francis whispered after a while.
“Thank you for asking,” Will replied, equally low. He stepped back and gave Francis a lighthearted smile. “Though I’d have expected to wake up to a kiss instead of an empty bed, at the very least.”
“I had to make some phone calls. Didn’t want to disturb you. Though I didn’t plan for you to wake up while I was gone,” Francis said, sliding his hands up and down Will’s upper arms in a warm caress. “My most sincere apologies.”
“I’ll need more than that to forgive you,” Will said, urging him close again.
This time, it was Francis who pulled back first, albeit with obvious reluctance.
“As much as I hate saying this, we better get dressed if we want to be in time for breakfast.” He jerked his head at the window from where the chuggle of a diesel engine could be heard.
“Don’t care if we’re late.” Will placed both hands on Francis’s shoulders and pushed firmly, making him stumble backward. “I got you right here, right now, and I intend to make the most of it.” He pushed again with more force, and Francis plunked onto the mattress with an undignified squeak that became a blissful sigh as Will lay down on top of him.
“We’ll have—” Francis started, but Will put a finger on his lips.
“Wanna chat or fuck me?” He emphasized his question with a sultry roll of his hips that made Francis arch up against him with a muttered curse. Will chuckled. “Thought as much. Get going, big man.”
THE kitchen was almost empty by the time they finally made it there. Only Nic and Arlette were still sitting at the table, putting their heads together over some scraps of paper the likes of which Will had seen on his first morning here. Mme. Kim was already doing the dishes, but she waved any apologies away. “Sit, sit. I’ll have breakfast ready for you in a minute.”
Mme. Kim set two bols with café au lait down on the table, beaming at both of them. “I’m so glad you could stay, Mr. Yeats. And Mr. LeBon, it’s so nice to have you with us again. How are your parents?”
“They’re fine, thank you, Mme. Kim. They send their regards.”
“Oh, that’s nice, thank you! I’m looking forward to meeting them again in August.” She scurried to and fro between table and cupboard, chatting on. “I saved some croissants for you, and here’s strawberry jam….” She stopped to take a closer look at Will. “Are you well, Mr. Yeats? You look a bit pale today.”
He winced as all eyes turned to him. “I’m fine. Just a little headache—I forgot to bring my ibuprofen’s all.”
“We’ve got some here, if you want,” Nic offered.
“Thanks, but really, there’s no need for that.” Will nodded at his bol. “That’ll do,” he said, desperate to put the matter to rest.
Nic quirked an eyebrow at him. “All right. If you say so,” he said, then turned back to Arlette.
Will answered Francis’s concerned look with a silent “Really, it’s nothing” gesture. Francis placed a hand on Will’s thigh under the table. They didn’t talk, only shared the occasional glance or smile as they sipped their coffees. Nic looked up briefly, traced Francis’s arm with his eyes to where it disappeared under the table, and turned away again, the corners of his mouth curling knowingly. Will didn’t mind.
All that mattered was that Francis’s hand stayed where it was.
Claude stuck his head in through the back door. He called out a greeting to Will and Francis, then gestured at Arlette to get up and come. The young woman shuffled her papers together, kissed her mother goodbye, and left with a parting nod at the others.
“Where is she headed?” Will asked.
“Morning gallop,” Nic answered. At Will’s questioning look, he continued, “Racing day makes no difference in the morning routine, Will. Arlette only stayed behind so I could go over the track conditions with her. Louis called them in earlier. She’ll ride a high-class horse today. That merits some extra precautions.”
A sniffling sound came from the direction of the sink where Mme. Kim was standing, up to her elbows in soapy water. Nic got up and went to her, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “I know,” he said. “She’ll be alright. They both will be.”
“Ah, ma petite fille,” Mme. Kim murmured, taking a dishtowel and drying her hands before she reached for a plate. “Don’t mind me, Nic, I’m just being a silly mother hen. I should be accustomed to it by now, I really should.”
“I know, wouldn’t I? After all, I’m just as bad, even after so many years.” She gave a hiccupping chuckle as he squeezed her shoulders. “But we love them anyway, don’t we? And if it helps, we’re awfully proud of your girl, Louis and I.”
She wrinkled her nose at him even though she still smiled. “As you should! Though don’t let her hear this. I don’t want her to grow a big head.” Nic squeezed her shoulders again before he returned to the table.
A short while later, Mme. Kim finished her work and left. Nic brought out a folder with some papers inside and slid it at Francis. “If you don’t mind… I’ve got something here I’d like you to look over for me. It’s about Dauphine and the accident. Apparently something in the German police’s accident report gave the insurance company pause, but I have problems deciphering their legalese.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Francis said, opening the folder.
Will didn’t think the other two men even realized that they switched to French as they pored over some official-looking documents, they were so caught up in the matter immediately. They barely looked up when Will carried his and Francis’s dishes to the sink. But when he sat back down, Francis’s hand sneaked back to his thigh and stayed there.
Letting his thoughts wander to the background noise of their voices, Will startled when Nic suddenly barked a curse. “What’s it now?” he asked.
Nic slammed the folder shut, forcefully pushing it away. “Negligence, bullshit! I won’t have them wiggle out of this that easy!”
“Calm down, Nic.” Putting a hand on Nic’s forearm, Francis explained, “The police report indicates that the hook on the bail wasn’t broken, and now the insurance company claims that the bail must’ve been open all along, which means the horse wasn’t sufficiently secured. They’re docking their payment based on gross negligence.”
“That’s bullshit! Jacques would’ve noticed it somewhere along the way if the bail had been open. No, I won’t have that,” Nic growled. “I’ll bring this matter to court if necessary. They won’t get away with this shit!”
“Calm down,” Francis repeated. “As far as I can see, they’re only stalling. Wait until we talk to Jacques. Who loaded the horse in the first place anyway?”
“I did!” Nic started. “I closed the bail myself….” he broke off, looking puzzled. “Didn’t I, Will?”
“No,” Will said slowly
. “That was when we heard about Louis’s accident, wasn’t it? The hatch was still open, that’s why we had to take my car, but… the bail is this rod behind the horse, right? Then I’m sure I saw Jean-Yves put it in place, ’cause that’s when I thought it safe to go near the horse again.”
“There!” Nic said, pointing a triumphant forefinger at Will. Francis looked thoughtfully between them.
“Are you sure, Will?”
Considering, Will cocked his head. “Well, I didn’t see him close some hook or anything, not that I thought to watch out for it, but I’m sure the rod was down. Yes.”
Francis shoved a pad and a pen at him. “Write down what you saw.”
While Will set about doing Francis’s bidding, Nic asked, “What does that mean, Francis?”
Francis took a breath. “Your men, Nic—were they aware that I wouldn’t demand immediate damages from you?”
“I don’t know, we normally don’t share business….” A hissing noise as Nic sucked a breath between his teeth. “You think…. No, Francis. That’s just impossible. No.”
Francis pursed his lips. “Is it so unreasonable to think of sabotage? Accidents happen, I’ll give you that, but considering all the unfortunate incidents over the past five years, your bad luck is coming to test my faith in coincidence. And allowing for this much, is it really so unthinkable that Jean-Yves—or even Jacques—might have had a hand in it?”
“Not my people,” Nic shot back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “Jacques was with us right from the beginning, I’d put my shirt on the man. And Jean-Yves—him I’ve known for half my life. He would never harm a horse, take this from me. Neither of them would, for God’s sake!”
Francis put a calming hand on Nic’s. “Place and opportunity, my friend,” he said, softly.
“But what about motive, Francis? Jacques is in hospital, and Jean-Yves—hell, he single-handedly kept La Thillaye running when old Desmin fell ill. No, if there’s foul play at all, it’s not those two. Or any of the others, for that matter. I know my people, Francis.”
“Do you ever really know someone, Nic?”
Will had finished his writing and looked up just in time to catch a tightening of Nic’s lips, a sad smile on Francis’s face as the two men stared at each other.
He dropped the pen on the tabletop with a soft clatter. “I’m done,” he said, his voice ringing loudly as if La Thillaye’s comfortable kitchen had suddenly turned into a church.
The spell broke. Nic sat back, and Francis nodded a thanks to Will as he stowed the paper away in the folder. “You’re probably right, and I’m making a mountain out of a molehill here. Still, better safe than sorry,” he said to Nic.
The trainer sighed. “I agree.” He stood, carried his coffee mug to the sink and started rinsing it. “We’ll talk to Louis about this. But not now, not before the races. Tonight.” He shut the faucet and turned. “Shit, no, you won’t be here then, will you? When is your flight?”
Francis rose from his chair, holding out a hand to Will. “Early Sunday morning. If you don’t mind having me over for another night.”
Such a casual remark, such a simple gesture, and still it had Will floating to Francis’s side on a wave of joy.
Nic cleared his throat, looking their huddled-together forms over with an unreadable expression. Eventually he smiled. “Let’s hope your current conspiracy theory has a similar outcome….” He shook his head. “Of course you can stay. Both of you, as long as you want.”
Seventeen
MEN in suits and coats, women in pelts and hats, and children in their Sunday best milled about beneath streaming banners and between flower pots with daffodils and tulips, turning time-honored Le Touques racetrack into a colorful fairground that buzzed with excitement. Even the weather gods showed an understanding. The sun sat undisturbed in a solid blue sky, a light breeze chasing dirty-white clumps of clouds off its face. And above all, the ever-present seagulls shrieked their indignation about being expelled from their roosting place on the lawn.
Taking it all in from his vantage point on the grandstand steps, Will firmly held on to his racing program, which fluttered in the wind.
“Quite a crowd for an off-season race,” Francis remarked, stepping up to him. “But you should see it during summer season. The place is packed then, and they have flowers everywhere. My mother loves it. Though my personal favorite is the polo tournament at Clairefontaine in August.” He winked. “The players, you see? They’re cute.”
Will made a face at him, and Francis chuckled. “We’ll check them out together next time, promise.” Too late, Will realized that the statement painted a goofy grin on his face, and he quickly righted his features, glad that Francis’s attention had turned to the racing program by now.
“Let me see what we have,” Francis said, tracing the pages with his fingertips. “Only four races today. The first would be Arlette’s, see? The star next to her name indicates she’s an apprentice. Next is a maiden race— those tend to be unpredictable, but I think I’ll place a bet on Louis’s ride anyway. The horse’s supposed to be a mudder. Then Prix Castel, field of twelve—wow, that’s big—and then, Prix CODE Stakes Handicap, field of six, class three, doted fifty-thousand….” Meeting Will’s blank gaze, Francis broke off, grinning sheepishly. “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”
“That’s almost as bad as legalese.” Will returned the grin. “Though don’t bother translating, I think I got the gist of it. Arlette rides in the first, and Louis the three others? And the last is the main event, the important one?”
“Right,” Francis beamed. “Come, let’s take a look at the horses. The others are already at the parade ring.”
Arlette’s horse stood in joint ownership of what Will privately thought of as a coffee party, a group of five matronly women dressed in various shades of purple and pink who’d probably used their respective deceased husbands’ civil servant’s pensions to buy themselves a touch of glamour in the shape of a well-pedigreed light brown gelding. Will watched from the opposite side of the enclosure as Claude paraded their horse past them.
Already in his riding attire, Louis stood between him and Francis, keeping up a running commentary about the horses, owners and jockeys present. He appeared even smaller in an oversized windbreaker, his legs in white breeches and thin two-tone racing boots sticking out underneath.
“They don’t care if he wins or not,” Louis murmured, indicating the coffee party.
Will turned. “You think?”
“Oh, they’ll be over the moon if he wins,” Louis answered, nodding across the parade ring with an affectionate smile. “But look at them. How much fun they already have.”
Chattering and fluttering with joyful excitement, they ladies barely managed to stay behind the fence as they followed the ritual of saddling, last orders, and leg-up between Nic and Arlette in wide-eyed wonder, commenting on every step.
“This is what they’re after. Not only the race, but the whole thing—buying new outfits for the occasion, socializing on the grandstand, drinking champagne in the owners’ lounge, rubbing shoulders with high society…. Even if their horse comes in last, they’ll have had their money’s worth of entertainment at the end of the day.” He gave Francis an impish grin. “Owners like them are the salt of the racing world, aren’t they, mon ami?”
“If you say so,” Francis answered with a slight huff that had Will bite back a grin of his own. “I wouldn’t know, since I’m in it for purely economic reasons, as you’re well aware.”
Louis snorted a laugh, which Will couldn’t help but join. Francis managed a frown for about two seconds before he cracked up too. “Oh, shut up, you two,” he said. “Let’s go find our seats.”
There was room for them in the trainers’ and jockeys’ section of the grandstand since Nic preferred to stand at the rails—a habit he’d maintained from his Kentucky days, as he explained to Will—and Louis had disappeared to the jockeys’ room to prepare for his own ride. The coffee par
ty installed themselves in the owners’ section, and Will had just as much fun watching them as he had following the preliminaries down at the track. As he shot surreptitious glances across, he caught a glimpse of another familiar figure; distinguished and well-groomed as usual, Jeremy Collins carefully made his way up the concrete stairs to the back exit. Meeting Will’s gaze, Collins nodded a greeting, which Will politely returned. He said he’d be here, Will thought, and his firm is sponsoring the main event of the day, after all. He only wondered briefly why Collins would walk away from the track right when the action was about to begin.
Once the starting gates fell open, though, Will completely forgot about frilly ladies and gray-haired gentlemen, and got caught up in the breathless excitement of the two-minute drama unfolding in front of his eyes. The field blurred immediately into a thundering mass of undulating bodies and whirling legs, the jockeys multi-colored flecks above shades of brown. The purple one was Arlette (How fitting, Will thought), and he passionately joined the chorus of voices that cheered her along as she wove through the rainbow of teetering backs and seesawing white butts, all the way to the lead where she stubbornly stayed until all was over.
“Strike!” Will shouted, threw himself at Francis, and planted a resonating smack on his lover’s lips. Immediately remembering where they were, he pulled back, but he didn’t get far; Francis held him by the shoulders, beaming.
“Liked it?”
Will could only nod. Francis leaned in for a quick kiss of his own. “As often as I’ve seen it, it’s always nice when the one you’ve backed wins.” He eased off, turning Will toward the rails. “Look at that. Sweet, isn’t it?”
Mme. Kim, who’d been white-knuckling her purse all through the race, had jumped from her seat and run to the rails—she even beat the coffee party there—where she caught her daughter in her arms. Claude handed the gelding’s reins to Jean-Yves and joined the Estur family hug. Nic stood by, beaming with pride as he bore the brunt of the happy horse owners’ compliments.