Sexy in the City

by Alexia Adams, Galen Rose, Samantha Anne, Carolann Camillo, Nicole Flockton, Iris Leach, Olivia Logan, Nancy Loyan, Stephanie Cage (epub)

  • • •

  Angelique was frightened when the Reverend Mother summoned her into her office. She wasn’t called before her very often and wondered if she was being punished. Perhaps it was for her singing in the Basilique? Wasn’t it good enough? She couldn’t think of any other reason. She had tried to be an obedient child.

  After hesitating at the door, she entered the dimly lit, paneled study. Sister Claire sat behind her sturdy oak desk. Her soft hands were clasped tightly together, resting on the smooth desktop. She smiled, wrinkles forming at the corners of her lips. At the sight of Angelique her eyes sparkled. By the contented expression on the nun’s face, Angelique knew something important was on her mind.

  “Please come here, my dear,” Sister Claire beckoned with her confident yet mellow voice.

  She approached the desk. Her eyes met those of a middle-aged couple who stood nearby, toothy grins indenting their homely faces. She stepped back, wanting to distance herself from these people. A shiver raced through her body as if someone had opened a window and let in the afternoon breeze. She rubbed her hands together. Something was wrong.

  “Angelique, I want you to meet our special guests, Monsieur and Madame Davidson,” Sister Claire introduced.

  “Enchanting,” Mrs. Davidson said in a nasal tone and a bucktooth smile that resembled a horse. She half expected her to neigh at any moment.

  “What a pleasure it is to meet you,” Mr. Davidson said, offering his bear-like hand.

  She refused to accept his handshake. She scrunched up her face, staring at his hand that was as furry as his arms, neck, and the stubble on his face.

  “Come now, child,” Sister Claire said. “Monsieur Davidson is going to be your father.”

  “Father?” she asked, taking a step back. “I don’t understand.”

  “We want to adopt you. We always wanted a little girl,” Mrs. Davidson said in broken French.

  Adoption? This odd mismatched couple who couldn’t even speak fluent French wanted to adopt her? Though it was a moment she had fantasized about her entire life, Angelique couldn’t smile. She couldn’t feel the giddy excitement she thought such a moment would bring. Instead, she trembled with foreboding.

  Maybe it was the way the Davidsons inspected her with a glint in their eyes as if she were merchandise for sale. Perhaps it was the scent of cheap floral perfume wafting from Mrs. Davidson and the smell of stale cigars from her husband. These were not the type of people she had pictured as her parents. She felt neither chemistry nor warmth in their presence.

  She glanced at Mrs. Davidson’s gaudy, red dress and Mr. Davidson’s tight, hounds tooth suit and felt nauseous. This was a dream turned into a nightmare.

  “I don’t need a father and mother now,” Angelique protested. “You are not my real parents and I won’t live my life pretending you are.”

  “Honey, you’re the child we’ve always longed for,” Mrs. Davidson said.

  “No!”

  “Angelique,” Sister Claire reprimanded, and turning to the Davidsons added, “She’s never like this. I assure you, she is a most obedient child. We just neglected to prepare her for this.”

  “We understand,” Mr. Davidson said with a smirk. “Hey, if I was in her shoes I’d feel the same way.”

  Mrs. Davidson knelt down to Angelique’s level and said, “Honey, Mo and I want you to have a real home and in return we’ll have a real home, too. You really need a family and we need a child.”

  “No! No!” Angelique shrieked, racing out of the office, slamming the door behind with a booming tremor.

  Chapter 3

  2013

  After more than a dozen telephone calls, e-mails and texts, Brian felt lucky. His contacts at Lincoln Center and at Carnegie Hall had owed him favors so they provided him with confidential information. He discovered the couple who accompanied Angelique was Morris and Edwina Davidson. They were British, childless, and had traveled the world with the singer.

  “Brian, I’d be careful,” his contact in security at Lincoln Center warned.

  “Why?”

  “The Davidsons are her guardians and protectors. Their security is tighter than Fort Knox. Anyone who tries to penetrate their circle is either shown the door, beaten or threatened. They have money and power and they aren’t afraid to use it. To the authorities they seem like caring people intent on keeping the singer safe from harm. If they can’t keep you away legally, they will do so illegally with dire results. This is one story I’d forget. If you value your career and life, leave well enough alone.”

  A warning might scare off most reporters, but Brian wasn’t one to frighten easily. Surviving coup attempts in foreign lands, dodging bullets, charges by wild boars were all in a day’s work. He thrived on the danger that was a part of his business and a part of his life. A singer and her secrets would be no more than another occupational challenge.

  E-mail also arrived from an old friend, an intelligence officer at Scotland Yard in England, in response to Brian’s inquiry. Morris and Edwina Davidson hadn’t lived in England for twenty years. In London, theirs had been a life filled with records and jail time for petty theft, crooked pyramid schemes, and games to obtain easy money from the infirm and the ignorant. They had been nothing more than small time scumbag swindlers.

  “So they found their pot of gold,” Brian said aloud. He took a sip from a mug of strong black coffee as he read over the e-mail at his kitchen table, which also served as his desk.

  He had a hunch. Brian went online and opened it to a map showing England, the English Channel, and France. He placed his forefinger on the screen tracing an imaginary line from London to France. The journey could be traveled through the Chunnel or by boat.

  Small time crooks would probably choose the fastest and cheapest route out of the country, probably a ferryboat trip across the Channel to Calais, France. From Calais they could have traveled to Brussels or, maybe, Paris? He imagined himself a criminal. Which route would he take? Paris was so famous, it beckoned with opportunity. Sam Greenberg was going to have a fit when Brian Andrews requested some expense money for an extended business trip to England and to France.

  • • •

  He boarded the hovercraft in Dover for the thirty-minute journey across the English Channel at its narrowest crossing to Calais in Northern France. Calais was the busiest port in France, its ferry business dominating the town. An industrial town of lace and textile mills, Calais was the old gateway to France before the Chunnel.

  Brian strolled through the center of town, checking a local map on his cell. It was an interesting place, an island surrounded by canal and harbor basins. He admired the architecture of the Church of Notre Dame and its perpendicular Gothic style. How would things have been fifteen years earlier? Probably the same, he surmised. He walked past an outdoor café and was drawn in by the pungent sweet scent of fresh seafood.

  After a fine meal of Sole Meuniere, Camembert, and Crème Caramel, he began to question people about Angelique and the Davidsons. Though everyone heard of the singer, no one knew about her early life or was familiar with her handlers. He proceeded to plan his route, one that was purely conjecture. If he were a small time swindler entering France . . .

  • • •

  Brian drove through the Monet-like countryside in his zippy little Fiat rental car. An indigo dusk was settling in as he entered the sleepy town of Saint Omer. Quaint yellow brick buildings and narrow streets were reminiscent of the town’s Eighteenth-century past. After reserving a room at the Saint Louis, the local hotel, he walked to Le Cyne for an early dinner.

  Dining in France was special. Unlike restaurants in the States, the French created an aura of romance with food and wine. Brian enjoyed the slow and quiet pace, the refinement of the waiters and the elegance of the presentation. Even at the most inexpensive restaurants, vases of fresh cut flowers were centered on linen tablecloths. Dishes were real china and the tableware heavy and weighted. Glasses were of cut glass or crystal. Dinner wa
s a full course meal begun with an appetizer and ended with cheese and fruit. The wine was always exquisite. After his meal, he sat sipping his glass of Burgundy.

  Though his French was halting, he knew enough to ask some questions and to understand answers if the person spoke slowly.

  “Garcon,” Brian addressed the waiter who placed the check on his table. “Have you ever heard of Angelique?”

  “Angelique? Everyone has heard of Angelique. She is a legend here,” the waiter answered, waving his arms for drama.

  “Did you know Angelique was discovered here?” a haggard elderly man from a nearby table interrupted, puffing on a pungent cigarette.

  Brian turned to face him. “Really?”

  “She made her singing debut at the Basilique Notre Dame.”

  “At the church?” Brian cracked a smile. He always smiled when he was on to something.

  “She was the child with the golden voice. She was our child, the town’s child,” the old man said with a sense of pride mixed with sadness. He extinguished the cigarette, grinding it in the glass ashtray.

  “Where did she come from? Where was she born?”

  Soon, the little restaurant was abuzz with patrons anxious to discuss Angelique. A portly woman rose from her chair and waddled over to Brian. With stocky hands on her broad hips, she faced him. Floral perfume wafted as she waved her hands and spoke.

  “I was there when she arrived at the abbey,” she began, a crooked smile beaming from her pocked face.

  “What abbey?”

  “The Benedictine Abbey of St. Paul in Arques,” the old man added.

  The woman continued, “The nuns found her in the woods, you know. She was a naked baby, abandoned. They brought her to their abbey and raised her as one of their own. Saw her as a sign from God. A gift indeed.”

  “Indeed.” The waiter nodded in agreement.

  “Our town has been blessed because of her,” the woman said.

  “Oui. No catastrophe has befallen us since she appeared.”

  “When did she leave?” Brian asked, wondering when Edwina and Morris Davidson entered the picture.

  “She left as oddly as she arrived,” the woman replied.

  “But she has taken her gift out into the world,” the old man added.

  The restaurant’s patrons raised their wine goblets in a toast. Brian lifted his glass and sipped. His hunch was paying off and the citizens of Saint Omer were opening the door. The rumors were turning into fact. The citizens of Saint Omer knew more about her disappearance than even they thought.

  Chapter 4

  France, 1999

  Angelique’s bag was packed, all of her worldly possessions contained in a compact tapestry satchel. Inside were her rosary, a Bible, a white robe, a couple of well-worn dresses, and a shred of pink blanket. The shred was the only remnant of her life before the abbey.

  Mr. Davidson grabbed the bag from her as they stood at the iron entrance gate to the abbey. This wasn’t the way Angelique had dreamed of leaving. Outside of the gates was a world unknown and strangers were leading her away. She had wanted to leave on her own terms. The quick finality of life at the abbey made her quiver. She was sickened by the way Sister Claire, the Reverend Mother, had given her away to these people as if she were a material object. She wasn’t even given a kiss or hug goodbye. Surely, she thought, if the nuns had considered her a gift from God, they wouldn’t have sent her away in such a cold and callous manner. She didn’t understand what was happening.

  Mr. and Mrs. Davidson made her feel uneasy, their manners suspect. They treated her like an object in a transaction instead of a longed-for child.

  Angelique entered the plush automobile with trepidation. She slid into the leather back seat, feeling small and alone as the Davidsons hopped into the front seat of the car, waving to the nuns who stood watching. Mr. Davidson revved up the engine and they were off.

  As the long automobile moved down the gravel road, Angelique glanced back over her shoulder at the high stone walls. She said a silent goodbye to the only home she had ever known. Tears rolled down her cheeks as the car drove down the winding road.

  “Finally.” Mrs. Davidson sighed as the car reached the paved highway.

  Mr. Davidson laughed as he floored the accelerator.

  Angelique gripped the back of the front seat as the car lurched forward.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “Italy,” Mrs. Davidson answered.

  “We’re leaving France?” Angelique asked, surprised.

  “The sooner the better.” Mrs. Davidson removed the pins securing her prim chignon, releasing her hair in gold and gray cascades. She snapped open her purse, removed a packet of cigarettes, and shook out one. With a disposable lighter she expertly lit it. After a long drag she let out a satisfied sigh along with the smoke.

  “Baby, we did it! We pulled it off!” Mr. Davidson said in English, thumping the steering wheel with his broad hand.

  “When do you think they’ll realize the money’s counterfeit?” Mrs. Davidson asked with a gruff chuckle.

  “When we’re long gone,” he answered and joined his wife in coarse laughter.

  Angelique couldn’t comprehend what was so funny. Her command of the English language was still limited. By the tone of their voices she knew something wasn’t right. The Davidsons had plans involving her, but not including her. Whatever they were, she guessed they were not to be in her favor. The bitter cigarette smoke wafting from the front made her cough and stung her eyes. The tears drizzling down her cheeks were more from a fear of the unknown gripping her heart.

  Mrs. Davidson turned back to glance at her and said, “She’s sort of cute. I just never thought our pot of gold would be a young girl.”

  “Hey, great things come in small packages.” Mr. Davidson snorted.

  “Why are we going to Italy?” Angelique asked, peering into Mrs. Davidson’s steely gray eyes.

  “What’s it to you? You go where we go,” Mrs. Davidson replied, exhaling smoke through her nose.

  “I haven’t a choice since you sort of adopted me. I guess that makes me your daughter doesn’t it?” Angelique asked, alternating between French and stilted English.

  “Our daughter?” Mrs. Davidson turned toward her husband.

  “Mom?” Mr. Davidson laughed so hard his flabby frame bounced in the driver’s seat.

  “Very funny. You don’t look like a dad,” Mrs. Davidson retorted.

  “I ain’t much of a dad, but I sure do know how to make money.”

  “Yeah, and the nuns got some of it.”

  “Yep, babe, that kid’s our ticket to the good life.”

  “About time, isn’t it?”

  Angelique sulked in the back seat. She gazed out of the side windows and absorbed the passing scenery. A world unknown to her opened up before her eyes. Seeing the pastureland and old towns were hypnotizing. Windmills created silhouettes across the flat plains. Stone cottages with thatched and slate roofs looked much like those depicted in Old Masters’ paintings, copies of which hung in the library in the abbey.

  As they continued down the Autoroute she saw signs pointing to Paris, a city she had dreamed of visiting. She pressed her nose against the window glass in hopes of a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. Childish glee and wonder fell to dismay as they took a route bypassing the city. Instead, they followed signs to Dijon.

  Angelique squirmed in her seat, restless and hungry. No mention had been made of stopping for rest and for food. She sighed deeply as the automobile bypassed the city of Dijon.

  En route to Lyon, they stopped at a service station for refueling. They didn’t leave the car. As nightfall came they continued on until reaching a roadside inn. Mr. Davidson secured a room for the night in a neglected, dingy inn with rotted clapboards and a sign lacking letters. The inn was so old and so rarely occupied, the owner was stunned when Mr. Davidson paid in cash and accepted the key.

  Mr. Davidson led his wife to the room as Angelique tr
udged reluctantly behind.

  “I’m hungry,” Mr. Davidson groaned, placing his hand on his wife’s ample behind.

  They laughed as they walked up the creaking steps, stepped on the rotting porch and unlocked the door to their room. They strolled into the dark room. Mr. Davidson pulled the cord to turn on a flickering bulb.

  Angelique hugged herself as she stood in the doorway of the musty room with its bare smoke-stained walls and sparse timeworn furniture. The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and sour odors and she suppressed the urge to gag. She watched Mr. and Mrs. Davidson pawing at each other, their lips and tongues devouring each other as their bodies pressed closer toward the rumpled bed. Their actions both intrigued and frightened her.

  Edwina Davidson pushed her husband away and glanced at Angelique.

  “Get her out! Get her out now!” Mr. Davidson ordered as he gazed, drooling like a hungry animal, at his wife.

  Mrs. Davidson grabbed Angelique by the arm and dragged her out on to the porch. She shoved her down. “You stay here. I’ll get you when we’re finished.”

  Angelique sat on the top step and watched Mrs. Davidson enter the room, slamming the door behind. Angelique could hear strange sounds coming from inside of the room. Floorboards creaked, rusty springs squeaked, moans were followed by piercing screams and an eerie silence. Tears streamed from her eyes. Angelique prayed to her God asking him why she had been placed with these awful people. What plan did He have for her?

  • • •

  The Davidsons left France with a sigh of relief and entered northwest Italy in the Province of Turin. Bypassing the industrial town of Turin they drove through the rural countryside. Rolling by irrigated farm fields they sought out a desolate gravel road leading to a dilapidated farmhouse, a casualty of World War II. They exited the car, dragging Angelique toward the rough-hewn wooden front door. A hunched elderly man greeted them with familiarity.