Obsidian Faith

by Bev Elle

  "I'm sure you must be thinking that this meeting has come from out of—what is that baseball term you Americans use?"

  "Left field?" Stephen supplied.

  "Exactly... " her voice was husky with emotion.”I cannot believe that I allowed my husband to deprive me of this joy."

  Madame Masson spoke in ambiguities but seemed harmless enough, so he would humor her in whatever purpose she had in mind. He'd get a fabulous meal from the type of restaurant he only patronized when he tried to impress a woman.

  Perhaps sensing his unease, Madame Masson offered her assurance. "I promise, Étienne, I may be advanced in my years, but I am in possession of all my faculties. We will come to the business of this meeting soon, but first, let us get to know one another, have a meal together and I will tell you why I have sought you out."

  "I know it's after the fact, but my condolences on the passing of your son. He was brilliant, and the direction in which he moved the business was a true inspiration to me."

  Her eyes misted, and she dabbed them with her napkin. "I wish my François would have had the opportunity to hear you say that."

  Stephen felt like a cad for reminding her of her grief, but he wondered if they were speaking of the same man. “François?”

  “Our family referred to my Étienne by his middle name,” she explained.

  "My apologies, Madame. I know his death must still be difficult for you. By today's standards, he was still a young man."

  “Oui. A mother lives with the possibility that her child might precede her in death, but prays all the while that it will not be the case. I am thankful for the fifty-four wonderful years he was with me.” She cleared her throat delicately and took a sip of water.

  By the time they ordered, Stephen learned that Madame Masson had been born in Marseilles, and had met and married Nicholas François Masson when she was just seventeen. Nicholas had been fresh out of college and a lion ready to devour the world. His two companies and hers were the seeds that created the original conglomerate, but their son, François, was the mastermind behind Masson Enterprises as it existed today.

  “What was your son really like?” Stephen asked as he tasted his first course, veal sweetbread crosnes. Madame Masson looked surprised, so he felt obliged to explain his interest. “I was somewhat of a huge fan in college. He was the subject of my graduate case study, but you can only get so much information from periodicals and the internet.”

  Madame Masson’s eyes lit up in delight. “François was quite the precocious adolescent, but driven to achieve, and proved to be as shrewd a businessman as his father. He excelled in sports and was quite a passionate champion for the less fortunate. Later in life, he was branded as a fun-loving Casanova by the media, no matter how philanthropic and well-meaning he actually was. He lost someone very dear to him as a young man. I don’t believe he ever got over her.”

  Stephen noted her discomfort and offered his empathy. “Things that happen in early relationships can definitely color a man’s perspective.”

  “You speak as one who’s lost in love? You’re such a handsome young man, and quite charming. I can hardly believe that a young woman would be stupid enough to let you go.” She took a sip of wine.

  “Oh, you’d better believe it.” Now it was his turn to be uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. “You have a daughter who heads one of the business groups, correct?”

  “Yes, Nicoletta is Vice-President of the Wine and Spirits Business Group. The Lefevre Winery and French Hops Distillery was my dowry, so to speak. Nicoletta fell in love with the vineyards when she was in her teens. It’s been her life’s work. One of her sons has taken an interest in the business and will most likely succeed her.”

  “Has it always been so easy to get the younger generations to embrace the family business?”

  Madame Masson laughed and lapsed into French. “Non, mon cher... ,” then self-corrected. “My eldest granddaughter is married and has two young children and no head or desire for business. Thankfully, she married a young man who is a great provider. My grandson, Arnaud, who is about your age, used his trust fund to found a dot-com about five years ago.” She rolled her eyes. “I do not see the appeal in managing a product that you cannot see, but he’s doing well, so that should be all that matters, n’est pas?”

  “Yes, it is.” The waiter delivered their main course, and Stephen admired the dish Madame Masson had suggested for him. “So, how does the American offering of French cuisine compare to what you’re accustomed to?”

  Madame dabbed her mouth with her napkin and gave his question a bit of thought before she answered. “As a French restaurant on foreign soil, it is exceptional, but nothing compares to authentic French food prepared with love in one’s own home.”

  “I feel exactly the same way about my mom’s cooking. When I was away at Harvard and then Wharton, I missed it so much.”

  Her interest seemed piqued as he mentioned his mother. “What was it like for you growing up, Étienne?”

  Stephen told her about growing up in Chicago, playing little league, polo, golf, and piano. Barely breaching the upper middle class, his parents were masters of living within their means. The only areas in which they'd splurged had been their children's educations, from elementary to post-secondary. They had all gone to private schools, which boasted the finest academic curriculums and extra-curricular activities available.

  He swallowed a bite of sole. “I had a happy childhood as childhoods go. My parents always worked. My dad’s a physician, and my mom taught Elementary School for a few years, until she realized she’d much rather write children’s books so she could be home with her family. She was modestly successful at it, enough to gift each of us with trust funds when we came of age.”

  “Are your siblings as successful as you are?”

  “Maybe moreso. My brother, Gavin, is a law partner in a relatively prestigious law firm here in town, married with two sons. My sister Elise, also married, has a son and daughter and manages the Arielle Chantilly boutique on the Magnificent Mile not far from this hotel.”

  "Ah, both great careers. Your sister has exquisite taste. Arielle Chantilly is one of our clothing lines." Madame Masson said with genuine interest.

  "Yes, it was one of the lines added after I did my case study at Wharton."

  "We acquired it about six years ago," she confirmed.

  "My sister likes the changes that were made by your company.”

  ”That’s good to know.” Madame Masson repositioned the napkin in her lap. "Are you not attached, Étienne? You didn't mention a significant other, or children. Only those of your siblings."

  "As a matter of fact, I'm engaged to Darcy Vale, a model with whom you might be familiar. She's been on Masson Enterprises' payroll a time or two."

  "Why, yes. She's been the face for our fragrance and jewelry lines. A beautiful girl that one, but she doesn't strike me as the type who would settle down, take care of a husband and have babies. But then, what do I know? I'm a septuagenarian, and this is the twenty-first century."

  Stephen didn't know why, but that statement made him feel like he'd been scolded by his grandmother. In fact, Madame Masson reminded him of his dad’s mother, grandma Kitty Cranford.

  He indulged her with a smile. "Maybe we work because I'm not the type to settle down and be taken care of, and I like my nieces and nephews just fine, thank you very much." Stephen noted they’d been served a Lefevre Chardonnay, and held up his wine glass in a toast.

  Madame Masson touched her glass with his and laughed a hearty laugh. "Touché."

  Stephen did not refuse dessert. One thing about gourmet restaurants that he both loathed and loved was their serving sizes always left room for dessert.

  "Now, to business," she said without ceremony. "I have a proposition

  "I'm listening," he said with a smile. The excellent food and expensive wine had made him amenable. Besides, Madame Masson was a great hostess.

  Madame Masson fixed her grey ey
es on his. "I would like for you to come to the reading of my son's will in France next week. I believe I will be in a position to offer you an assignment in Paris that will begin the process of grooming you to replace François. I'd like to think that my Nicholas and François, were they alive, would approve of this move."

  Stephen's jaw dropped. "I don't understand," he said. "I'm an Executive Commodities Broker, not a CEO."

  "However, you have an undergraduate degree from Harvard and a Masters in Finance from Wharton. Not chopped liver by way of business degrees, as you Americans would say."

  "Wait," he said, his brow furrowed. "Why would you want me, a virtual stranger, to attend the reading of your son's will and head up your company, for that matter?"

  "Go talk to your mother and father, then come see me again,” she said in a cryptic tone. “I'll be flying back to Paris on Sunday in the company jet. I'd like you to go with me. The will reading is next Wednesday. Once you've spoken with your parents, I hope you'll wish to communicate again. I'll let the desk know that you're expected."

  Stephen fought hard not to frown in his increasing confusion. “Madame, I’ve been making decisions without my parents’ blessing for a decade. Why is it so important for me to have their approval?”

  “It’s not their approval I’m asking you to seek as much as their disclosure.”

  He was slightly taken aback by her serious tone and smiled to soften his response. "So, my questions are to remain unanswered for now? That's hardly fair."

  "What would not be fair is for me to tell you what only they have a right to. Go, talk to your parents, Étienne." There was a note of finality in her voice, and who was he to argue with a seventy-two-year-old billionaire?

  Stephen couldn't wait to have that conversation with his parents. He was ready, if it would help him understand why Madame Masson had propositioned him to accept an assignment at Masson Enterprises. He let the top down on his car as he headed back to his condo, hoping the crisp Chicago night air would clear his head.

  He'd heard the rumors after Masson passed away. The family was purported to have launched a search for a long lost heir to Étienne Masson's fortune—a love child he'd fathered by an American woman.

  Fuck! Does Madame Masson think I’m the heir?

  Surely not, he thought. He was Douglas and Anne's son. He had his mother’s eyes and hair and was just as stubborn and meticulous as his father.

  If he were Masson's biological son, his mother would have to have cheated on his father, because he was the youngest of the Cranford children. Anne Cranford didn't seem to be the type to cheat, but neither did someone else he'd known.

  Stephen looked at his watch; it was ten o'clock and if he knew his parents, they weren't in bed yet. His dad was probably reading a medical journal while his mom was watching the news. He picked up his cell phone and hit their home number on speed dial. His mother answered.

  "Mom?" Stephen called much as he had when he was a kid coming home to an afterschool snack; he half expected to hear the admonishment to get his homework done and practice piano before he went out to play.

  He could hear the smile in his mother’s voice. "Stephen, you've been too much of a stranger lately. I thought we were more important than that extremely expensive paper you peddle over at Flagler."

  "You know you are. It's just—well—Darcy was in town over the weekend, and—"

  "Enough said, son. You two don't get enough couple time. I don't know how you manage to keep a long distance relationship going, to tell you the truth."

  "It's a challenge we're both up to, I guess. Hey, can I come by? I really need to talk to you and Dad about something."

  Her voice was gentle. "You know you're always welcome to come home."

  "Okay, see you in twenty minutes."

  ~vPAv~