Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  In the plane’s main cabin, Baby sits in his usual window seat, his phone in hand, earbuds in place—heaven help us, he’s discovered audiobooks.

  “You hungry?” he asks, popping out his earbuds. “We had sandwiches.”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  “Did you moisturize the grafts this morning?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I wiggle my stiff fingers in front of me. “Still not quite ready to sign that hand-modeling contract.” And I haven’t even considered touching a violin. Soon. Not yet.

  Henry and I take our seats. There’s plenty of space on this trip—now that we don’t need to travel with security. Montague is staying behind to help Nutesh with some business around the estate, and there’s no way Lucas would leave Sevda’s side—he teases he’s her seeing-eye dog. And the ring that appeared on her left hand a few weeks ago would indicate that she approves of him in that role indefinitely.

  My stomach feels funny with the drop in altitude. But out the window, the sprawling green landscape below doesn’t feel scary or menacing.

  I can hardly wait for this plane to unseal and let me out.

  A car waits for us at the hangar. It’s nice to disembark like a normal person—no riot shields, no guns, no fear.

  Our driver smiles as she closes our doors and then slides in behind the wheel. “Did you have a pleasant flight?” she asks.

  “Yes, thank you,” Baby answers.

  “Well, you’ve landed at a perfect time—everything’s still green and it’s not too hot. Not like it’ll be in August.”

  I don’t want to make small talk. I just want her to drive.

  I wrap my delicate gloved fingers around my mother’s key that still hangs from my neck as we leave the airport and merge onto the busy freeway that will take us to our destination. I haven’t been on an American freeway for a while. Feels too fast. Folks are a little slower in France.

  Twenty minutes later, we take our off-ramp and head west. “Almost there,” the driver says, as if the GPS lady hadn’t already announced that fact.

  The low rolling hills zooming past are alive with their spring coats, their view impeded only by the staccato placement of fences that mark off individual properties.

  Our driver slows, her right turn signal on as she pulls off the highway and eases up the gravel driveway, rolling her window down to press the intercom before the huge white gates. The warm outside air flows into the air-conditioned car, along with the fresh scent of long grasses and wildflowers, and of hay.

  Henry drapes his arm over my shoulders, his smile contagious. “Almost there, my Genevieve.”

  The voice on the other side welcomes and buzzes us through, the gate ambling open to grant us entry to the rolling fields, bordered by wooden ranch fencing, the green split in half by the narrow asphalt ribbon we’re driving up. Once we crest the hill, three massive red barns come into view, people in matching uniforms of red shirts and beige zookeeper pants and utility gloves doing the many jobs that come with running a place of this stature.

  The driver barely has the car stopped when my door is open and I’m running.

  Because I can hear her. And she knows I’m here.

  Gertrude always was so good at telling time. If they told her I was on a plane to come see her in her new California home, well, then I’d better get inside before she tears the place apart.

  When Baby and Henry catch up, I’m already in with my babies, and Gertrude is trumpeting and snorting, her trunk smothering me; Houdini—he’s gotten so big!—sniffs and snorts and throws his hay and buffets into me, fighting for space to give me all the slobbery kisses.

  “He’s been waiting a long time to do that.” Dr. Philips approaches the wide-open enclosure—much like their space back in Eaglefern but instead of the scary jail-like bars, the “fence” is plastic-coated steel cabling stretched between wide-set steel posts. He and Baby exchange a solid handshake, followed by a manly hug. Philips then shakes Henry’s hand before climbing through the fencing.

  I throw myself into his arms, already sobbing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say. He hugs me back, and then a look around shows that Henry and Baby are getting in on the tears, though Baby clears his throat and squeezes his fingers into his eyes, reaching down to pet Houdini who stretches his trunk to grab at Baby’s wrist.

  “What?” he says, lifting an eyebrow at me.

  “They’ve settled in so well,” Philips says, wiping the corner of his eye with a gloved fingertip. “Ted and Cece come every day to see them, so that’s helped. They’ve taken a place just up the road.”

  “Yeah, we’re gonna stay with them,” I say, dabbing at my nose with the offered handkerchief. “They came to France, after everything . . . to make sure we were okay.”

  Dr. Philips nods. “Once we got Triad to loosen the legal noose, we moved Gert and the baby the next day. She’s used to traveling, so it was a smooth transition. Othello took a few more days, but he’s getting a little cranky in his old age,” the veterinarian says, smiling.

  “I can relate to that,” Baby jokes, tapping the pair of reading glasses hanging over the edge of his shirt.

  “The people here—they’re fantastic. We couldn’t have gotten any luckier,” Philips says. “And Nutesh’s generosity will keep this place going for a decade or more, or at least until you graduate vet school and can take over, yeah?” The vet winks at me.

  Gertrude about knocks me over with her trunk, stretching toward Baby. “Get in here, you,” I say to him. “She wants some love.”

  Baby steps through the fencing and wraps his arms around Gert. Then the waterworks he’s been trying so hard to stave off really let loose.

  And then it’s quiet for a few moments, just our emotional sniffs and the grunts and growls and bass rumbling of two happy elephants as we hug and kiss and scratch and feed Houdini from bins of mango and apple so he doesn’t tear our arms off. Even Henry comes into the enclosure, an addition Houdini is all too happy to welcome, especially when Henry kicks the giant soccer ball. Houdini’s trumpets of approval echo off the high ceiling as he chases after it.

  And then the sound barrier is broken by the bellow of a lion just down the way.

  “Yeah, he’s been waiting for you too,” Dr. Philips says.

  I kiss Gert’s trunk and promise her I’ll be right back. “I gotta go say hi to your brother.”

  Dr. Philips walks with me and explains that the back wall of Othello’s space opens into an expansive outer enclosure complete with splash pool and lots of enrichment. “They really have a great big-cat team here. And his new handlers have taken quite the shine to this old boy,” he says.

  Sure enough, Othello sits panting at his bars. “How could you not love this sweetie? Look at him,” I say, kneeling so Othello and I are eye to eye, my hands pressed flat against the bars.

  My old lion then chuffs and sniffs and licks, and then he’s up on his hind legs, his massive front paws on the bars as he reaches through for me. “They say an elephant never forgets—I think you’re part elephant too, you beautiful boy. Did you miss me? I missed you so much,” I say, my arms in the bars, my damaged hands scrubbing his thick mane and ears. “You’re such a handsome man, aren’t you, Othello? I love you, I love you, yes, I love you too,” I coo as he rubs his face against the bars, getting as close to me as he can.

  We hug and nuzzle, and he drops to all fours again, pacing back and forth before stopping to lick my hands pressed against his enclosure. He paces—I know what he wants.

  It’s time to run.

  I walk down to the far end of the bars, and then sprint back and forth, him easily keeping up on the opposite side. We run until I’m sweaty and out of breath and he plops down against the bars, panting and asking for a belly scratch.

  “I’ll go get his lunch, and you some water, yeah?” Dr. Philips says, walking back into the heart of the barn.

  I sit on the floor, leaning against the steel, rubbing Othello’s chest and chin until he drifts off, more t
ears spilling down my face.

  “After all we’ve been through, I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ending to this story,” I say to my dozing house cat.

  Henry’s voice startles me. “It really isn’t the end though, is it?”

  I look up at him, the blue-green of his eyes brilliant and bright. He kneels and leans over to kiss a tear off my cheek. “It rather feels like a beginning to me.” He pulls me into him, both of us on our knees as he kisses me.

  And when he does, he’s just Henry, and I’m just Genevieve.

  When our uncovered skin touches now, the only memories transmitted, the only electricity shared, is that which we create together in the moment.

  I tug at his curly cowlick that is growing in nicely, his hair back to its natural blond state.

  “I thought shaving it off would make it go away,” he says.

  “What? No way! It’s part of who you are,” I tease.

  “Like the fire that grows out of your scalp? I keep telling you... you are the flame.”

  I hold my hands out in front of me. “Less so now, it seems.”

  “Never.” He takes my pressure-gloved hand and gently flattens it over his heart. “You will never diminish, magic or no.”

  “Tell me you love me,” I say.

  “I love you, Genevieve Jehanne Flannery.” He kisses the end of my nose.

  “I knew it.”

  Henry’s laugh pulls Othello’s head up, but he flops back down, still asleep. “Come on, then. We should go outside with Gert and Houdini. They’re asking for you.” Henry puts a hand under my elbow.

  “Absolutely.” I wrap my arms around his neck and touch my lips to his. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  ***LA FIN ***

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANK YOU TO FRIENDS, READERS, AND MY WRITING, EDITORIAL, AND agency team for all the support with both Sleight and Scheme. It’s been a long, arduous labor of love.

  Thanks to Nicole Frail and the team at Sky Pony for bringing the book to American readers—and to editor (and friend) Alison Weiss for acquiring these stories in the first place.

  Thank you to artist Sarah J. Coleman (@inkymole) for your insanely detailed artistry for the American covers of Sleight and Scheme. You are the mightiest of talents—I’m so glad this project made us friends! Thanks as well to Laura Klynstra at HarperCollins Canada for the elegant, evocative covers for Sleight and The Undoing. I wish I could forward you both all the positive comments I hear about these covers.

  Special thanks to Suzanne Sutherland and Jennifer Lambert at HarperCollins Canada for believing in these books for soooo long—words feel pitifully shallow when trying to convey the depths of my gratitude. Thank you times infinity.

  To Victoria Doherty-Munro at Writers House, thank you for keeping the faith and helping with my books over all these years.

  A shout-out to the team at Prószynski i S-ka and the awesome readers in Poland who post the coolest photos on Instagram of Prawda i Iluzja (Sleight). That cover—swoon! How I wish I spoke ALL the languages …

  Thank you to Catherine McKenzie who knows WAY more about writing books than I do. Fall 2018 at the Surrey International Writers Conference, we were chatting over drinks—correction: I was whining, and she was listening—about how hard this rewrite was going to be. After a few patient moments, Catherine looked right at me and said, “Use the magic.” Her three simple words were transformative. Like its own magical spell, straight out of the AVRAKEDAVRA. It worked. Thank you.

  Thank you to my darling Jane Omelaniec, for offering your unconditional friendship and quiet refuge at the cabin so I could work through the many drafts of both books.

  Thanks to the Best Book Club Ever, women who have become sisters to me: Alisa Clarke (thank you for the Kurdish help!), Eryn Dixon, Danyelle Drexler, Jacqueline Ewonus, Deanna Mackenzie, Kay Massey, Gail Mawhinney, Gill McCulloch, Shanie Rhodes, Michelle Rothery, Tammy Savinkoff, Yvonne Solway, and Liane Triff.

  To author and artist Sarah Glidden for her book, Rolling Blackouts: Dispatches from Turkey, Syria, and Iraq, which was a huge piece of my research puzzle. It’s tough to get accurate, on-the-ground information from this area—I cannot recommend Sarah’s book enough for anyone interested in the complex history of modern-day Mesopotamia.

  As well, thanks to the writers, researchers, and globe-trotters at Lonely Planet for the terrific work you do on your travel guides. I’d love to say I went to all these exotic locales to research this book—alas, the guidebooks provided the invisible stamps in my passport.

  Thank you to the folks who put dash cams in their cars and GoPros on their bodies and drive/walk around faraway places I’ll never get to visit so that my details were spot on. Pompeii really looks beautiful in 4K video.

  Thank you to Genevieve, Delia, Baby, Henry, Lucian, Alicia, Aveline, Nutesh, Xavier, Violet, Ash, Ted and Cece Cinzio, Montague the Mauled, Gertrude and Houdini, the world’s most lovable man-eating house cat Othello, and the rest of my cast for showing up when I needed you to do the heavy lifting.

  And most especially, thank you to my darling family—Gary, Yaunna, Brennan, Kendon, Nuit, and Rosie Cotton. Thank the gods your patience knows no bounds.