Henri plucked a small baguette out of the basket.
“Mmm, it’s warm,” he said. “You have to try this.”
She picked up a piece. “I wonder if she baked it herself?”
“Probably.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to bake bread.” Margeaux tore the crusty roll in half, slathered butter on the hot surface and watched it melt into the tender white crevices. “It just seems so homey.”
She swallowed the bite, but rather than devouring the rest of the baguette, she set it down on her bread plate and stared out the window.
Home. Though she’d done an adequate job of supporting herself over the years, she’d never really made her places feel like home. After her mother died, then especially after her father shipped her off to boarding school, every place seemed so temporary. She’d moved around a lot, looking, searching, but never connecting.
The closest she’d come to feeling at home was not in a house, but when she was with Henri.
His arm was resting on the table and on impulse, she reached out and put her hand over his. The gesture didn’t seem to faze him. In fact, he lifted his hand and laced his fingers through hers. His palm was warm and his hand felt strong and safe around hers. The action seemed so natural, it was as if they’d been doing it for the past sixteen years.
Had her father really been gone a week? It seemed like another lifetime. As she held Henri’s hand, she gazed out the café window and pondered the situation that had kept them apart for too many years.
The cold day was coming to a close. A couple walked by arm in arm with a cloth grocery bag brimming over with what she imagined were the ingredients for their dinner. Two young boys bundled in coats and scarves rolled by on skateboards. A horn honked somewhere in the distance, across the way, an old, stooped woman stepped out from the shop across the street to sweep the stone walk in front of her establishment.
This place was home to these people.
Sadness, weighty and dark, loomed over her. Even though her apartment was back in Austin and her father’s house, which was soon to be her house, was back in St. Michel, neither of them felt like home.
She glanced down at her hand in Henri’s and thought, this is what I miss; this is home.
Pleasantly full and a bit drowsy, they made their way back to the house hand-in-hand. Henri felt as nervous as a teenager on a first date—unsure of where to look or what to do, other than to keep holding on.
Funny, he’d always been the one to take the lead with women. This new role of stepping back and following her lead was…different, but it felt right.
“I can’t believe how much colder it is here than in St. Michel,” she said. “I’m freezing.”
She slanted into him as they walked, and he slipped his arm around her, pulling her in close. They walked home that way, under the light of a huge harvest moon.
When they finally got back to the house, they carried their bags to separate rooms and exhausted, they agreed to get a good night’s sleep so that they would be rested and ready for whatever tomorrow’s visit to the orphanage might throw at them.
Their rooms were right across the hall from each other. As they said good-night, Margeaux lingered in the doorway, looking like an angel in her white nightgown.
“Would you sleep in here with me?” she asked. “Just hold me?”
Margeaux must’ve slept the sleep of the dead, because after she and Henri lay down on the bed, she closed her eyes for what she meant to be just a minute, and the next thing she knew bright sunshine was streaming in through the lace curtains on the windows.
She sat up in the four-poster bed and blinked at the light. Sometime during the night, Henri must have pulled the quilt over her, but he was gone now.
She felt a little silly having asked him to sleep with her, but not sleep with her. He was a good sport. But she hoped she hadn’t tested his good nature too much.
He’d been a perfect gentleman. The thought made her wish she could have a re-do of last night, because this morning she wished she would’ve awakened to his face on the pillow next to her. She could imagine making love to him right here, right now in this big four-poster bed.
“Henri?” she called, but her invitation was met by silence that was broken only by the distant sound of a ticking clock somewhere in the house.
She pushed away the covers and glanced around the room. It was small and bright. The walls were painted simple white and adorned with paintings similar to the ones in the living room. But the bedroom walls were remarkably clutter-free. The room was furnished with an economy of furniture: a mirrored dressing table with a delicate stool, an overstuffed chair in the corner and a bench with a cushion at the foot of the bed.
Her gaze fell on the packet of sealed envelopes. She scooted to the edge of the bed and picked them up. There were ten white letter size envelopes bound together with a rubber band. The instructions on them said to open them at the end of the week spent at St. Mary’s Orphanage.
She slipped one from the bundle and held it up to the light. The stationery was fine ivory linen that didn’t give away any clues.
She was going to play the game her father’s way. So, she pushed it back into the collection and returned the stack to its larger holder, setting it aside for now.
She set her feet on the cold floor and shivered as she walked to the window and pushed back the curtains. It was another sunny day. The window looked out on the front of the house. The yard was artfully landscaped with plants that seemed to be holding up under the cool weather. There was a birdfeeder hanging from a tree and a birdbath, but it didn’t have any water in it. The hedge was tall enough to screen out the street—even though yesterday it seemed to be a sleepy road.
That’s when she saw Henri come through the gate with what she hoped were two cups of coffee and a bag of something for their breakfast.
Shivering, she stepped away from the window before he could see her, and pulled clothes out of her suitcase and dressed in haste.
She wanted Henri, but she needed coffee. Not only to warm her up, but to help her think straight. It was time to get her head together so she could get to work.
She checked the time on her cell phone: seven-thirty. Just enough time to eat, shower and get over to the orphanage to meet Père Steven for their nine-o’clock appointment. No time for anything else that might tempt her to spend the morning in bed.
She made her way into the kitchen where Henri was putting the bread and pastries out on a plate.
“Well, good morning.” He sounded cheerful. “Did you rest well?”
There didn’t seem to be any traces of resentment or weirdness in his voice. Relief flooded over her.
“I did, thank you. How about you?”
“Like a baby.” He smiled. “Coffee?”
“You’re my hero.” She accepted the cup he offered, and their hands brushed. The skin on skin contact made it suddenly very hard to breathe. Yet she didn’t know why. They’d held hands last night and, well, they’d been much more intimate than that all those years ago.
Suddenly it was very clear to her that she didn’t want to be just his friend. She didn’t want to walk the same line between friends and lovers and have him not want to venture far past friendship.
She was forming the words to say About last night…when he looked at his watch and said, “We’ll need to leave here in about forty-five minutes to make it to St. Mary’s by nine.”
He was right.
No sense in bringing it up now. Especially not before an appointment with the priest. Somehow it seemed improper.
St. Mary’s of the Universe was a gorgeous, rambling shambles of a sixteenth-century castle situated on the outskirts of Avignon on acres of rolling land. From a distance it looked fairy-tale perfect. Or, at least that’s how it looked through the viewfinder of Margeaux’s camera.
In the direct sunshine when the wind wasn’t blowing, it was warm, and she was tempted to stay outside and hide behind the lens of
her camera. This was such a photogenic old ruin. She could easily give up an afternoon photographing it.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” Henri said, apologetically, “but it’s nine o’clock right now.”
The two of them approached the large wooden doors, each adorned with an open-mouthed lion’s head.
Margeaux snapped one last shot of the brass guardians of the door, before she stepped over the threshold into the world where her father had sent her. The castlelike atmosphere made it look like a scene from a Harry Potter book. Teenagers hurried past, presumably on their way to class since most of them carried notebooks and backpacks.
These poor kids were here because they were unwanted; they didn’t have anyone else in the world to claim them. Her heart clenched, and she felt a sudden kinship with them, even though they didn’t notice her. They just hurried on by.
She wanted to take photographs, but now wasn’t the time. She drew in a deep breath, and smelled nutmeg, eucalyptus, decay and something she recognized, but couldn’t quite put her finger on…maybe it was the smell of despair.
They followed the directional signs to the administrative offices, where they were met by a woman who seemed too harried and frazzled to have time to help them.
“We have a nine-o’clock appointment with Père Steven,” said Margeaux.
The woman glanced up at them, then at her watch.
“Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a row of chairs along the wall where a boy waited. He balanced his elbows on his knees and hung his head as if he shouldered the weight of the world. His body language screamed that he was in trouble and he knew it.
As they approached the chairs, he scowled up at them, not really connecting with either of them. He looked about fifteen, dark curly hair and penetrating chocolate eyes. Something about the kid made Margeaux’s breath hitch. Then she realized, if she squinted her eyes, he resembled Henri as a boy. The same tall, lanky build, similar coloring.
Her heart ached. This was what their son might’ve looked like.
When the boy’s gaze met Margeaux’s directly, he looked away and resumed the too-cool-for-school posture he’d had when they walked in.
Margeaux couldn’t stop staring at the kid. She knew she should be more discreet, but she couldn’t help it. Especially since the boy wasn’t paying any attention. He seemed to be caught up in his own problems, which seemed to be significant once a man wearing a priest’s collar opened the door to an office and glanced out. He had a kind face and thinning hair. He was significantly older than Margeaux and Henri but younger than her father.
The stern secretary gestured toward Margeaux and Henri with an obviously irritated flick of her wrist.
“Père Steven, there is your nine-o’clock appointment. But I must insist that you deal with this situation first.” She pointed at the boy with her nose.
“Matieu?” The priest’s voice was gentle compared to the woman’s. “Is there a problem?”
When the boy didn’t answer, Père Steven looked at Margeaux and Henri and said in an equally pleasant tone, “Good morning, I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting, but will you please pardon me for another moment?”
Margeaux smiled, and Henri said, “That’s not a problem. Take all the time you need.”
While Henri was speaking, Margeaux angled the camera which was in her lap ever so slightly so that it pointed toward the boy, whose face was visible in profile. She pressed the shutter release button.
The boy’s head whipped toward her, shooting a dubious glare first at her and then at the camera. He must have heard the camera’s click when she snapped the photo.
Her heart thudded. If he asked she’d simply tell him it was an accident and she’d delete the image if he was really bothered by it. But before he could say or do anything, Père Steven said. “Matieu, please step into my office.”
As the boy stood, he kept his suspicious gaze on Margeaux’s camera. She wondered what he’d do if she snapped another—because this was the angle at which he most resembled Henri—but the boy seemed to already be in enough trouble. She didn’t want to add to his problems by antagonizing him.
Ten minutes later the boy and Père Steven emerged from the office. Matieu lifted his gaze to give Margeaux and her camera one last glare before exiting.
“Did you deal with him sufficiently?” the woman demanded.
“Mrs. Cole, that will do. We have guests.” Père Steven’s tone was commanding enough to get his point across, but gentle enough to not be severe. The woman checked her posture then pursed her lips as she busied herself at her desk.
Margeaux and Henri got to their feet. Père Steven smiled at them. “You must be Margeaux Broussard. I’ve been expecting you.”
Chapter Seven
As Père Steven gave them a tour of St. Mary’s, Henri was struck by his compassion and enthusiasm for the children. He truly was their champion.
“I am responsible for about two hundred children,” he said with obvious pride. “We get by the best we can.”
As they returned to the office, it floored Henri that so many children were alone—well, not really alone, because they had Père Steven—but without at least one of their natural parents. It struck him that technically, he and Margeaux were orphans—adult orphans who had lost both of their parents. Henri’s father had passed away about seven years ago; before that, Henri’s mother had been tragically killed by a criminal that Henri’s father had helped bring to justice. While it was sad, at least his parents had wanted him. It was hard to look at these kids and think no one wanted them.
Even though Margeaux and her father had been estranged, it was becoming clear that Colbert regretted the years they’d been apart and was making it clear that the family bond was important.
Since they’d arrived at the orphanage, Henri had been analyzing everything, trying to figure out why Colbert had sent Margeaux here. Maybe the family bond issue was what he hoped Margeaux would take away from her time at St. Mary’s.
They still had a week to try and discover Colbert’s purpose. Who knew…it might even be spelled out in the letters Margeaux was supposed to read tonight.
In the meantime, he intended to keep his eyes and ears open for clues.
Later that afternoon when they returned to the house after spending the morning at St. Mary’s, Margeaux’s cell phone rang, and Pepper’s name popped up on the LCD screen. She was glad to hear her friend’s voice and was eager for a talk. Henri must have understood this, because he volunteered to go to the market to fetch supplies for their dinner, leaving Margeaux alone to talk to Pepper.
“Hello, darling. I’m calling to wish you an early happy Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving? Oh, my gosh!
Wait… It was Monday…Monday of Thanks giving week! How could she have forgotten? She’d been so busy. Sure, it wasn’t a traditional French holiday, but it was one of Margeaux’s favorites—it was her father’s favorite, too—and now that she remembered, she fully intended for Henri and herself to enjoy a traditional meal. Although, without A.J. to prepare the feast, this year might be interesting.
Margeaux took the phone into her bedroom and stretched out on the bed, settling in for a good catch-up session with her chatty friend.
“You’ll never guess who’s spending the holiday with us,” Pepper said.
“Who?”
“Guess! Oh, you’ll never guess. So, I’ll tell you. Your good friend Sydney.”
“My good friend? I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Oh, well, there was the tiny matter of Henri being in love with you. But you really should give her a chance. She kind of grows on you. And you know I don’t make friends easily. She’s fitting in wonderfully at Texron. But enough about her. What are your plans for the holiday?”
“Technically, it’s not really a holiday over here, but we do intend to feast on turkey.”
Suddenly, she was overcome with a fabulous idea. Even if she didn’t fully gras
p the reason her father had sent her to St. Mary’s, she was touched by the place, nonetheless. The troubled look in Matieu’s eyes haunted her. She glanced at the stack of still unopened letters resting on the dressing table. Her camera sat right next to them. She got up and retrieved it, flipping back through the shots she’d snapped that day until she came to the one of the boy in profile.
“You do know we’re in Avignon now, right?” she asked Pepper.
Pepper made noises that indicated she understood.
“My father has sent me here to see St. Mary’s orphanage. I still haven’t quite figured out why. But you just gave me a brilliant idea.”
Pepper laughed. “Yes, I do tend to have that effect on people. Or so I’ve been told.”
“I have some money saved up, and I want to use it provide a Thanksgiving dinner for the kids in the orphanage.”
“Oh, like a dinner party.”
“A very large dinner party,” Margeaux qualified.
“How large, hon?”
“Two hundred-ish, counting the kids and the staff.”
Pepper gasped. “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”
“Yes, actually, I’m beginning to believe I am. Do you think A.J. can send me some recipes?”
When she and Pepper hung up, Henri still wasn’t back. Margeaux got up and walked over to the letters. She picked them up and held them, but her instincts told her to put them down. She wasn’t sure if she was dreading the actual reading part or what she might learn after she began the arduous task. Her gut told her it was the latter. Reading had always been a chore, but it wasn’t as if she was illiterate. She could read and read well when she concentrated.
Since it was so quiet in the house, she decided that now would be as good a time as any to find out what her father hadn’t been able to tell her face-to-face.
The first couple of letters were dated around the time that she’d run away from the French boarding school—around the time that she’d miscarried. Her soul gave a little twist at the memory.
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